"And so you had a pleasant journey," said Mrs. Catherine, kindly, when after half an hour which Alice had spent arranging her dress, half in awe, and more than half in pleasure, in the beautiful apartment called her dressing-room, they were seated at table--Anne Ross presiding over the massy silver tea-pot, and hissing urn: "and were not feared to travel your lane? Jacky, you elf! what call had you to open that door, and let in a draft upon us? The bairn will get her death of cold." "If you please, Miss Anne," said Jacky, resolutely holding the door of the outer room open, as she kept her ground. "Come in, ye fairy, and shut the door," commanded Mrs. Catherine. The girl obeyed, casting long sharp glances from under her dark eye-brows at the wondering Alice. "If you please, Miss Anne, my grandmother says--" "What, Jacky?" Jacky had paused to ascertain who it was that the young stranger was like, and muttered a private memorandum of her discovery before she went on. "It's the little picture in the west room--my grandmother says, Miss Anne, that Mr. Lewis--but she bade me say, Merkland--" "What of him, Jacky?" said Anne, rising hastily. "If ye please, Miss Anne, he came to Portoran in the coach with a young lady to-night." "Came to Portoran to-night!" repeated Anne, "then you must let me leave you immediately, Mrs. Catherine. I must hasten to tell my mother, if indeed Lewis is not at home already." "Away with you down the stairs, you elf," cried Mrs. Catherine, "and see if the horses are put up yet; and if they're not, let Simon be ready to drive Miss Ross to Merkland. Anne, doubtless you must go, but mind the bairn Alison is not used to such company as a staid auld wife like me, and be soon back again." "I will bring Lewis to see you to-morrow, Mrs. Catherine," said Anne, as she hastily bade Alice good night. "It must have been your brother who travelled with me, Miss Ross," said Alice. "He said he had been abroad, and knew Mrs. Catherine--and he was very kind. Will you thank him for me?" Anne Ross felt herself shrink and tremble from the touch of the small soft hand, the innocent frank look of the girlish face--the child of the slain man, whose blood was on Norman's hand.