And I remember well what wondrous dreams glided before my eyes, in bright processions, peopling yonder far-away glades and noble trees with groups of fairy figures, more beautiful than ever dreamer saw before. I saw her pass over the threshold of Mossgray with her bridal grace upon her. I saw her dwell there in her gracious, growing womanhood, drawing all pleasant things towards her as flowers turn to the sun; and though my heart did indeed beat high with proud gladness, when I remembered that it was _my_ name she shed so sweet a lustre on, and that it was _I_ who stood beside her in all the shifting groups of my fancy--even that stood aside, as selfish rejoicings must always do, in presence of the supreme joy I had in herself. That she was--that in our dim world there shone this one especial star, as true, as pure, as gracious as the heavens--whose constant outcoming must be beneficence and love; whose constant meed--too poor a one for her lofty deservings--must be blessings and honour. I could not fathom the depths of my own happiness--I could but float upon its sunny stream. The next morning rose brightly in all the brilliant joy of June, and as early as I could venture, I set out for Greenshaw. The slight morning traffic of those quiet Fendie streets--the cottage wives, upon its outskirts, going about their cheerful household labour--the domestic sounds that came pleasantly from the wayside houses--I remember them with the sunshine of my own joy over all, giving harmony and finest keeping to the homely picture. At last I approached the well-known holly hedge. A woman stood at the gate looking down the lane; the parlour-blinds were closed; there was a look of excitement about the house, as if something unusual had happened. I hurried on, noticing _that_ in my haste, but too pleasantly expectant to think of it. The woman at the door was Mr Johnstone’s factotum--a sensible, matronly person, who exercised the more laborious duties of housekeeper, for which Lilias was too inexperienced and young. “Good morning, Margaret,” I said, as I came up and was about to pass in. Margaret stretched out her hand to stop me. “Oh, Mossgray!” There was evident distress and trouble on her face. A slight tremor of alarm came over me. “Has anything happened?” I said. “What is the matter, Margaret?” “Ower muckle--ower muckle,” said the housekeeper of Greenshaw, lifting her apron to her eyes; “oh, for onysake dinna gang in!--and yet he maun ken--there’s nae use trying to keep it frae him.” The last part of the sentence was spoken under her breath; I became very much agitated. “What is it, Margaret? Is Lilias ill? What has happened?”