spiritual presence which over-brimmed its mighty precincts--and the dead--the solemn sleepers who have lived, and do but wait to live again. But there were the faint village lights close at hand, and the orphan to be sought for there, who was committed to his care. So the old man withdrew from the grave of Lilias, to seek her child. The bearing of the Laird of Mossgray had in it so much of the graceful olden courtesy of the gentleman born, that it never failed to bring deference and attention. The very little inn which stood in the centre of the hamlet was not much frequented by strangers. Wandering pedestrian tourists of the student or artist class, to whom its humbleness was a recommendation, did sometimes refresh themselves in its well-sanded kitchen; but the ruddy landlady had scarcely ever welcomed such a guest as Mossgray under her homely roof. So she ushered him into a little boarded room, of dignity superior to the kitchen, though communicating with it, and dusted a huge old-fashioned chair with her apron, and stood curtseying before him, waiting for his orders, and secretly cogitating whether there would be time to dress a fowl for supper, or if the universal ham and eggs would do. But Mossgray was by no means concerned about supper. He was silent for a few moments, during which the comfortable hostess stood before him marvelling, and when he did address her, it was to ask whether she knew a young Scottish lady, a Miss Maxwell, who, he believed, lived in the village. The good landlady was a little shocked. What had the like of him to do with young ladies? but his grave face reassured her. “And that will be the poor young creature that lost her mother, a fortnight come Friday, it’s like?” “Yes,” said Mossgray, slowly, to steady his voice, “yes, she is an orphan--her mother is dead.” “Ay, sure; and I wouldn’t wonder a bit,” said the stout hostess, smoothing down her ample skirts, “if she didn’t bide long behind her; for a thin long slip of a thing she is, and no more red on her cheek than the very snow, and I’ve heard say that such like troubles run in the blood. There’s the Squire’s family down in the dale--you’ll know them sure, better than the likes of me--they’ve all followed one another, for all the world like a march of folk at a funeral going to the grave.” “And is Lilias--is the young lady affected with this disease?” exclaimed Mossgray. “The young lady did you say, Sir? Why, the poor girl had her bread to work for, like the rest on us--and a weakly white thing she was if there were ne’er another; but she thought herself a young lady sure enow, and what mun she do but go and be a governess, as they ca’ it. Her mother was a prideful body, to have nothing, and so was Miss; but I say, I’d sooner have my girl a dairy-maid any day, if Susan needed to go out of her father’s house for a living, which she doesn’t, thank Providence.”