“Oh, Miss Maxwell, what ails me?” sobbed the old woman, whose innocent romance had perished. “She says she’s Miss Lucy--and I canna deny’t--I _div_ ken the face; but she’s an aged woman! She has hair whiter than the like o’ me--and she says she’s Miss Lucy. Oh, Miss Maxwell, that I should have lived to see this day!” CHAPTER XIII. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it, Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, * * * * * Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.--OTHELLO. Adam Graeme and Hew Murray were sitting together in the large, low room in the Tower of Mossgray, which they both knew so well. Bishop Berkeley was still upon the table, but the visitor had no interest in the bishop; neither was he looking at the chymic tools or the instruments of science. He was casting long, loving glances into the dim corners of the room; the old fishing-rods, the superannuated bows and arrows, the ancient skates, they were all there, those worn-out tokens of the fair youth which was past. “And now, Hew,” said Mossgray, drawing one of those large, heavy, lumbering chairs to the unoccupied side of the hearth, “now, Hew, for this wonderful history. What have you been doing? where have you been?” Mossgray placed himself in front of the cheerful, glowing fire; on the other side stood the low carved chair, turned mournfully aside as if some one had risen from it newly. Its position had never been changed; it still stood where the pale sunbeams could touch it, but it was turned away from the living fireside circle; for the old occupant could never return to Charlie’s chair. Strangely pathetic sometimes are these dumb things about us--mournfully estranged and standing apart it touched the gentle heart of Adam Graeme. Hew paused to spread his hands over the fire. It was a peat fire, and the glowing intense red and homelike fragrance warmed the very heart of the exile. “Well, you heard I was robbed and killed, Adam,” said Hew; “and so I was--as near it, at least, as one could be, who is now so blessed as to be at home. Such things, you know, are not unusual in India. I was carrying rich presents. I had not a very sufficient escort, and the chances were all rather that I should have filled a hidden grave in the desert long ago, than that, even now, I should be beside you again. “I was very severely wounded. These Affghan fellows do not play at fighting; but I was not quite dead, as you see, Adam, and I was young. The old, martial Border spirit had excited me, I suppose, for I stood on my defence desperately, until there was nothing left but the feeblest spark of life.