"Sit down upon that seat, and wait," said Mrs. Catherine, peremptorily. "I must see the ground of your hope myself, before ye sicken the silly bairn with what may be but a false sunshine. Give me the papers, child." The lamp was speedily lighted, and Mrs. Catherine seated herself to examine them. How different was the keen interest inspiring the strong face which bent over them, the eyes that traced their incoherent lines so rapidly, from the cold examination of Lewis. How different the conclusion. "The Lord be thanked!" burst from Mrs. Catherine's lips, as she came to the end of Norman's letter. "The Lord, in His infinite tenderness, be thanked for the comfort. Gowan, what are ye lingering for? Go to the bairn, and give her the good news. It is meet that I should be alone. Hear ye, child, go to the bairn." Anne needed no urging--she left the room instantly, and hurried up stairs. Alice's gay bower was dark--the fire burning dull and low: the very flowers drooping like their mistress. Anne passed through the opened door hastily, to the still darker and chiller bed-chamber within, where she could see the girl's slight figure lying on the bed. Alice was roused by the approaching footsteps, and said, as Anne drew near her: "Not now, Bessie; leave me, I do not want you now." Anne advanced, and gently drew the hidden cheek from the wet pillow. "It is not Bessie," she said: "it is I, Alice, Anne Ross, your sister." Alice raised her head. "My sister! Ah! you do not know." Her hair was thrown back in a momentary attempt at pride, and then Alice hid her face again in her hands. It was as Mrs. Catherine said; the gentle little heart could offer no resistance to this dull, dead weight of sorrow. "I do know, Alice!" said Anne. "Look up now, and do not weep. Lewis is waiting to see you. Mrs. Catherine knows he is here--Alice!" "Is it not true?" whispered Alice; "is it not true? You would not call me Alice if it were true. Oh! Miss Ross, tell me." "It is not true; we have found out that we were wrong," said Anne, soothingly. "Rise, now, and let me be your maid instead of Bessie, and you shall hear it all when you are able." Alice had half risen, and was already clinging to Anne like a child. "Tell me now; I am able. Oh! Miss Ross, why did Mrs. Catherine tell me that? why did you let her? I could not bear it. If it were to come back again I should die--I know I should die!" Anne smiled sadly. And yet it might have been so; the gentle and weak may droop their heads like flowers, and die; the stronger must live on, bearing undying griefs through long lifetimes: it is so appointed. Very sad was this plaintive, murmuring sorrow from lips so young. Sadder still was the conscious life of that other more perfect woman of the ballad: "I wish I was dead, but I'm no like to dee."