"And who said I would not, if it seemed right in my own eyes?" said Mrs. Catherine, indignantly. "Come here, Anne; you are not blinded with the sight of siller, as this youth is. Robert Falconer, the merchant (the third son of old Falcon's Craig,) is dead, and passing over his own near kin, that needed it (besides leaving the most part of his siller to hospitals, which may be was right, and may be not, I have not time to enter upon it,) the auld fool--that I should speak so of a man that is gone to his account--has left by his will a portion of siller, ten thousand pounds, no less, to me: me, that have no manner of use for it; that know not even what to do with it. I am thankful to you, Mr. Ferguson, you would learn me an easy way of putting it out of my hand; but I must consider, first, with your permission, whether I have any right to take it in." Mr. Ferguson, the Strathoran factor, smiled. "It is not often, Mrs. Catherine, that people receive legacies as you do." "No--neither, I am hoping, are there many left like this," said Mrs. Catherine; "but truly, gentlemen, that is no fault of yours, that I should fall upon you for it. Come back to me this day week, Mr. Ferguson; and you can come also, Walter Foreman, unless your father, who has more discretion, has the time to spare; and in that space, I will have taken counsel what I should do." Mr. Ferguson and the young lawyer took their leave; and Mrs. Catherine turned to Anne: "Heard you ever the like of it, child? To leave siller to me! You did not know the man; but Ralph Falconer, of Falcon's Craig, is his grand-nephew, and James Aytoun is also allied to him by the mother's side: and I, that am but his cousin, three times removed, and having my own share of this world's goods, and none to come after me--undoubtedly the man was crazy!" CHAPTER II. The October sun rose brilliantly upon ancient Edinburgh, throwing the strong radiance of its russet gold upon the noble outline and antique grandeur of the historic city, and shone joyously into a family room, where a small household round their breakfast table were discussing the journey which that fair-haired, smiling girl, half-timorous, half-exultant, was to undertake that day. The white hair upon the mother's placid forehead was belied by the fresh cheek and dewy liquid eye, from which time had not taken the brightness. Her son was entering upon the strongest years of manhood, with sense and intelligence shining in his face. Her daughter was a girl, just emerging from the child's mirth and unrestrained gaiety, into those sensitive, imaginative years, which form the threshold of graver life-- "Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood sweet." "But, mother," exclaimed Alice Aytoun, suddenly, "Miss Douglas will see at once that Bessie has not been my maid at home."