softened by distance, into a not unpleasing music. Effie’s mind and heart joined in this music more than her uncle would readily have believed. She invariably laid aside amusements and light thoughts when it reached her; and sympathized all the better in the devotions of the company from their psalms being stripped by distance of all that appeared to her harsh and unduly familiar in their sentiments and language. She now instantly arose, leaving the worm to find its way back to its covert; but—straight before her—stood a man, peeping at her through the hedge. He ducked, the moment he saw that he was observed, and she could get no answer to her questions and remarks—“What do you want?—If you are looking for the ferry, it is just below, to your right hand.—If you want our people, you had better come round to the gate.” She retreated towards the house, to shelter herself under the sounds that issued thence. She had no fear for her safety while in such neighbourhood; but she pondered the probability of the garden being robbed. There was little in it at present worth removal; but she thought she should do what she had done before when left in the guardianship of her husband’s goods—sit up in the star-light, and look out upon the garden, till her uncle, who was an early riser, should be heard stirring in the morning. This measure she presently decided upon; and the decision brought in so many thoughts of chill, and drowsiness, and startings, and nervous fancies,—with all of which her watchings had made her well acquainted,—that when she went back to the arbour for her work and implements, she snatched them up as if a thief had been in hiding there, and fled home as if he were following at her heels. Uncle Christopher had just left the house with his guests, in order to ferry them over to their own bank of the river. Before putting the circle of chairs in their places, and depositing the hymn-book on its shelf, Effie closed and locked both doors of the dwelling. She had not been seated at her work a minute before there was a tap, and then a push at the door which opened into the garden. “Who is there?” “Effie, Effie, let me in!” said a low voice which thrilled through her. For the first time since her childhood, a superstitious terror seized her; and she sat staring, and neither spoke nor moved. The lattice was not quite fastened, and she saw it open, and a face appear within it which produced the same effect upon her as the voice had done. “O, are ye Cuddie, or are ye not?” cried she, shading her eyes from the candlelight, and gazing intently. “Yes, I am Cuddie,” said he mournfully, as he entered by the lattice. “But it is hard to believe you are Effie, so unwilling to let your own brother into your own house.” This was said,—not like the Cuddie of old, but so like her mother, that Effie no longer doubted.