In the course of the day the forlorn crew of the "William and Mary," considerably revived by their night's rest and shelter, left Schole--with much gratitude expressed and unexpressed. William and Mary themselves proceeded, with their infant, to the house of the husband's father. The men dispersed to their various homes. Anne remained--only once again during that day she saw Christian. Then she spoke less incoherently, with something indeed of singular gentleness, and an endeavor for the moment to forget her individual burden, as though her heart began to yearn for the sympathy of this younger sister. Patrick was very ill; he could not leave his bed. The next day told the same tale, and so did the next--and the next again. The illness increased. The fever and agitation of that night had wrought their due effect upon the delicate, enfeebled frame whenever the desperate tension and rigid strength of its nervous excitement failed. On the fourth day, Christian, who all this time had watched unceasingly, called the medical practitioner of the little town to her brother's bedside. Anne saw him as he passed down stairs, and asked eagerly for his patient; the doctor shook his head--he could give no hope. Anne spent the greater part of the day in Schole, returning to Miss Crankie's only for the night. Now, when Patrick's illness had increased so alarmingly, she could only exchange a passing word with Christian on the stair, or at the door of the sick-room. She had pleaded vainly for permission to help her in her tendance of the sufferer: failing in that, she gradually assumed the management of the household matters below. She lightened Christian's hands, at least so far. A week after the shipwreck, Anne entered Christian's room--the high turret chamber from which so often she had seen the reflected light gleaming upon the dark waters of the Firth--to wait for her coming. It was a still, dim, balmy night, soft and melancholy. There was always a great attraction in that broad Firth at their feet--a kind of wandering freedom for the overcharged heavy hearts gazing forth upon it. The rounded window was veiled by an old-fashioned, faded curtain: within this there was a seat which Christian Lillie had occupied for more lingering woeful nights than we could count or record. Anne seated herself there, and looked out in the dim gloaming upon the silent land, and gleaming sea. By-and-by she heard the slow, sad footstep enter, and sat still, in expectation of being joined immediately--for Christian, like herself, continually sought these windows; continually calmed her sorrow in the wide tranquillity and balmy peace that lay around.