"Canny!--you should look nearer yoursel," said Bessie, with laughing malice. "Never heed her," said Tibbie. "Sit into the table, and take your tea. She's a light-headed fuil--and ye can tell Johnnie Halflin that frae me." "Is Miss Anne gaun to bide in Edinburgh?" inquired Bessie, as they seated themselves at Tibbie's clean, small table. "No--she's gaun to the sea-side." "Eh, Jacky, where? we'll come out and see ye." "I dinna mind the name of the place," said Jacky, "but it's on the sea-side." "And what's Miss Anne gaun to do?" Jacky paused to deliberate. "She's no gaun to do onything.--She's just gaun to please hersel." "Ay," said the inquisitive Bessie, "but what is't for?" "It's maybe for something good," said Jacky, quickly, "for that's aye Miss Anne's way; but she wasna gaun to tell me." "But what do you _think_ it is, Jacky?" persisted Bessie, "ane can aye gie a guess--is she gaun to be married?" "No!" exclaimed Jacky indignantly, "Married! It's because ye dinna ken Miss Anne." "Miss Anne's just like ither folk," was the laughing response; "and there's nae ill in being married." "Lassie, there'll be news o' you, if you're no a' the better hadden in," cried Tibbie. "Set ye up wi' your lads and your marryings! Maybe the young lady's delicate, or she'll hae friends at the sea-side." To which more delicate fishing interrogatories, Jacky, who knew that Anne was neither delicate nor had any friend at the sea-side, prudently refrained from making any answer. The next day, Anne, accompanied by Mrs. Aytoun and Alice, set out for Aberford on a search for lodgings. Mrs. Aytoun had a friend, a regular frequenter of all places of general resort, whose list of sea-bathing quarters was almost a perfect one, and fortified by the results of her experience, they departed upon their quest, leaving Jacky in Bessie's care behind them, to dream at her leisure over that wonderful Edinburgh, whose stately olden beauty the strange girl, after her own fashion, could appreciate so well. Anne observed, with regret and sympathy, the gloom of silence that fell over the kind mother by her side, as they approached their destination. She observed the long, sad glances thrown through the windows of the coach at the country road, known long ago, when Mrs. Aytoun was not a widow. There were no other passengers to restrain their conversation, and when they were very near the village, Mrs. Aytoun pointed to a house, surrounded with wood, and standing at a considerable distance from the road. "Yonder, Alice, look--you were born there." Alice looked eagerly out. "You liked this place better than Aytoun, mother? Aytoun must have been very gloomy always." "Aytoun was a larger house than we needed, Alice--you have heard me say so--and I was in very delicate health then. I was never well while--" your father lived, Mrs. Aytoun was about to say, but she checked herself hurriedly; not even in so slight a way would she reproach the dead.