Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be!--nor like the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was impossible--no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame--but it deepened her repentance. "Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?" she asked as she entered Merkland. "Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne's in," said Duncan, preceding her leisurely to Mrs. Ross's parlor. "She's in her ain room--according to her ain fashion. There's nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a bird, ye may tak my word for't she'll no live ony way lang." "What do you mean?" exclaimed Marjory. "Is Miss Ross ill?" "Na. I'm no saying she's ill," was the cautious answer; "but taking lang flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to pingle her lane at a seam; I say it's a clear tempting o' Providence, Miss Falconer, and I have tell't Miss Anne that mysel." Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne's room. "Come in," said Anne. Marjory entered. The window was open--the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its thick fringe of foliage was parted here and there. Anne leant upon the window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim shores of the Forth in the still evening-time--the long, low, sighing of the waters--the desolate, gloomy house behind--the tall, gaunt figure stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand--these were before her constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be. She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed, thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not speak, she turned round. "Marjory, is that you?"