The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs of life came from within. But above me a lattice was opened to catch the morning air. I leapt to the ground and led Maisie round to the stables which I knew so well. The place was deserted; no serving-man was about; the stalls looked as if they had been empty for ages. A great fear took my heart. Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not whither. I fled to the door as though the fiend were behind me, and knocked clamorously for admittance. Far off in the house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and the opening of doors. They came nearer, and the great house-door was opened cautiously as far as possible without undoing the chain; and from within a thin piping inquired my name and purpose. I knew the voice for the oldest serving-man who dwelt in the house. "Open, you fool, open," I cried. "Do you not know me? The Laird of Barns?" The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand. "Maister John, Maister John," cried the old man, all but weeping. "Is’t yoursel’ at last? We’ve had sair, sair need o’ ye. Eh, but she’ll be blithe to see ye." "Is your mistress well?" I cried with a great anxiety. "Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in mind. But that’ll a’ be bye and dune wi’, noo that ye’re come back." "Where is she? Quick, tell me," I asked in my impatience. "In the oak room i’ the lang passage," he said, as quick as he could muster breath. I knew the place, and without more words I set off across the hall, running and labouring hard to keep my heart from bursting. Now at last I should see the dear lass whom I had left. There was the door, a little ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it. I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great. "Come," said that voice which I loved best in all the world. I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the old chair in which her father had always sat, wearing the dark dress of velvet which became her best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory. She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of joy ran to meet me. I took a step and had her in my arms. My heart was beating in a mighty tumult of joy, and when once my love’s head lay on my shoulder, I cared not a fig for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting; even now my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such moments be given to many men, there is little to complain of in life. "O John," she cried, "I knew you would come. I guessed that every footstep was yours, coming to help us. For oh! there have been such terrible times since you went away. How terrible I cannot tell you," and her eyes filled with tears as she looked in mine.