“My name is Halbert,” said the stranger. “It is my father you mean, and I am like him, I hear.” Mrs Mense rose, and advancing to the young representative of the Graemes, looked earnestly into his face. The youth’s colour rose under the scrutiny, but the blush was accompanied by a good-humoured smile: the result was satisfactory. “Guid grant that it prove what it looks--a true face,” said the old woman as she turned away. “Take him up to the young lady--I’ll tell Mossgray mysel; but no--bide a wee, Janet, I’ll show the gentleman the road.” The penalty which he paid for entering the house by the kitchen door was the threading of various dark passages linked together by short flights of stairs. The old woman panted and lost her breath as she toiled on before him. “These stairs must weary you,” said Halbert, kindly; “had you not better direct me, and I will go on myself.” “Your father would have cared little for trouble to the like of me,” said Mrs Mense, emphatically; “and you’re a guid lad to mind; but I maun tell Mossgray mysel.” Lilias Maxwell sat alone, leaning upon a small table in the cheerful drawing-room. A desk stood near her, covered with notes of invitation which she had been writing for the great party which her guardian insisted on giving in her honour. She had finished these, and was sitting, thoughtfully looking at a book before her, which she did not read. She was thinking of what she could do to help forward the cause of Halbert Graeme. Just then the door opened, and Lilias started in surprise as Mrs Mense entered, followed by the young man, who, in his flutter of spirits, looked as he was--a remarkably handsome and prepossessing youth. “I’m gaun to tell Mossgray,” said the housekeeper; “and, Miss Lilias, this is Mr Halbert Graeme.” There was a little awkwardness at first, which the serene bearing and temper of Lilias got through perhaps scarcely so well as Helen Buchanan’s embarrassed frankness would have done; but they surmounted it, and talked about Halbert’s journey, while Mrs Mense laboriously panted up the old staircase of the tower, to the study of the Laird. The Laird sat among his books not very attentive to them--his mind had wandered to other things; and by the fire-place stood Charlie’s chair, still turned towards the light--towards the faint pale moonbeams which, dimmed, but not quenched, by the artificial light, stole in like something spiritual across the dusky wall. “Mr Adam,” said the old woman, advancing to the table in the strength of her unwonted agitation, “I have seen this night a face I never thought to see, under the rooftree of Mossgray, or with my old e’en again. I have looked upon the face of your cousin, Charlie Graeme.” Mossgray started nervously, and raised his head; that gray, pale, old man’s head, which to his faithful servant looked still young.