Anne wrote a brief note to Mrs. Catherine, announcing Patrick Lillie's death, and saying that her mission was now accomplished; and that in a day or two she would return to Edinburgh to explain the further particulars of this long mystery. The day was waning again; in weary sadness and solitude she sat in Patrick Lillie's study. From the kitchen she could hear the subdued voices of Marget and Jacky: above, the stealthy step of Miss Crankie, as she arranged the sad preliminaries of the funeral. The second evening had fallen since he departed to his rest; and where was Christian? A dark shadow flitted across the window. She heard a footstep enter, and pass quickly up the stair. Anne rose and followed. The footstep was quicker than Christian's, but it went steadily to the chamber of death. Anne paused at the door. The lonely dimness of the evening air gathered shadowy and spiritual round the bed, a dark background, from which that rigid marble face stood out in cold relief. A deadly stillness--a dim, brooding, tremulous awe--which carried in it a vague conviction of watching spirits, and presences mysteriously unseen, was hovering in the room. And kneeling at the bedside, her veil hanging round her white, thin face, like a cloud over the tearful pallor of a wan November sky, was Christian Lillie, the quivering smile upon her lip again, and the words of sad thankfulness falling from her tongue. "Ye are thanking God in His own heaven, Patrick, my brother; the justice is done, the cloud is taken away. Henceforward, in the free light of heaven, may Norman bear his own name; and now there remaineth nothing but to lay you, with hope and solemn thanksgiving into your quiet grave." Anne stood still; there was a long pause. Christian knelt silently by her dead brother's side, in darkness, in silence, in the presence of death, thanking God. At last she rose, and turned to leave the room. Anne's presence did not seem to excite any wonder; she took her offered arm quietly and kindly. "I have been very anxious," said Anne. "Ay," said Christian; "did you think I could rest, and that blight remaining on their name? Did you think there was any peace for me till all my labor was accomplished? Now--you heard me speak--Norman Rutherford may bear his own name, and return to his own country with honor and blessing upon him, in the open sunshine of day. My work is ended: I must but tarry for one look upon them, and then I wait the Lord's pleasure. His call will not come too soon." "You have taken no rest," said Anne, anxiously: "remember, there is one trial yet remaining. Let me get you some refreshment, and then try to sleep. This constant watching will kill you."