“The wuman’s no worth yer notice, ’cep to haud oot o’ her gait, laddie; an’ that ye had better luik till, for she’s no canny. Dinna ye anger her again gien ye can help it. She has an ill luik, an’ I canna bide her.--Hae, there’s yer siller. Jean, tak in this fish.” During the latter part of the conversation they had been standing at the door, while Miss Horn ferreted the needful pence from a pocket under her gown. She now entered, but as Malcolm waited for Jean to take the fish, she turned on the threshold, and said: “Wad ye no like to see her, Ma’colm?--A guid frien’ she was to you, sae lang ’s she was here,” she added after a short pause. The youth hesitated. “I never saw a corp i’ my life, mem, an’ I’m jist some feared,” he said, after another brief silence. “Hoot, laddie!” returned Miss Horn, in a somewhat offended tone. --“That’ll be what comes o’ haein’ feelin’s. A bonny corp ’s the bonniest thing in creation,--an’ that quaiet!--Eh! sic a heap o’ them as there _has_ been sin’ Awbel,” she went on--“an ilk ane o’ them luikin, as gien there never had been anither but itsel’! Ye _oucht_ to see a corp, Ma’colm. Ye’ll hae ’t to du afore ye’re ane yersel’, an’ ye’ll never see a bonnier nor my Grizel.” “Be ’t to yer wull, mem,” said Malcolm resignedly. At once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up the stair and into the dead-chamber. There on the white bed lay the long, black, mis-shapen thing she had called “the bit boxie:” and with a strange sinking at the heart, Malcolm approached it. Miss Horn’s hand came from behind him, and withdrew a covering; there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold!--a fixed evanescence --a listening stillness,--awful, yet with a look of entreaty, at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew the heart of Malcolm. He saw a low white forehead, large eye-balls upheaving closed lids, finely modelled features of which the tightened skin showed all the delicacy, and a mouth of suffering whereon the vanishing Psyche had left the shadow of the smile with which she awoke. The tears gathered in his eyes, and Miss Horn saw them. “Ye maun lay yer han’ upo’ her, Ma’colm,” she said. “Ye sud aye touch the deid, to haud ye ohn dreamed aboot them.” “I wad be laith,” answered Malcolm; “she wad be ower bonny a dream to miss.--Are they a’ like that?” he added, speaking under his breath. “Na, ’deed no!” replied Miss Horn, with mild indignation. “Wad ye expec’ Bawby Cat’nach to luik like that, no?--I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ the wuman, my dear,” she added with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone; “I ken weel ye canna bide the verra name o’ her; but it s’ be the last time ye s’ hear ’t to a’ eternity, my doo.” Then turning again to Malcolm.--“Lay yer han’ upon her broo, I tell ye,” she said. “I daurna,” replied the youth, still under his breath; “my han’s are no clean. I wadna for the warl’ touch her wi’ fishy han’s.”