"Was not in the least degree like what my son will be," said Mrs. Ross, stiffly, while Anne grew pale. "You will see that my orders are strictly attended to, May, and let Duncan come to me whenever we have had breakfast. Take your place, Anne." Discomfited by her abrupt dismissal, May took her departure, muttering between her teeth: "One would think it was a crime to speak a good word of the old lady's bairns! Well, if one but knew what became of him at last, I would like to see the man in all Strathoran like the young Lord." "Anne," said Mrs. Ross, somewhat sternly, as May withdrew, leaving Anne's heart vibrating painfully with her indiscreet reference; "was it to-day that Mrs. Catherine expected her visitor?" "Yes, mother." "And to-day you are engaged to go to the Tower?" "Yes," said Anne. "But I can send Duncan with an apology, if you wish it. I did not know that Lewis was likely to arrive so soon when I received Mrs. Catherine's note." "Send Duncan! no, indeed!" said Mrs. Ross. "There would be little profit in wasting _his_ time to save yours. Duncan is the most useful person about Merkland." "And I the most useless," said Anne, sighing. "It grieves me deeply, mother, that it should be so." Mrs. Ross threw back her head slightly, expressing the peevish scorn which she did not speak, and Anne returned to her tea-making; and so they sat till their joyless meal was ended: each the sole companion and nearest connexion of the other, and yet so utterly separated in all that constitutes true fellowship. The clear light of the October sun was shining on the waters of Oran, and its tinted, overshadowing leaves, when Anne emerged from among the trees that surrounded Merkland, and took her solitary way to the Tower. Her heart was heavy within her, her step irregular, her brow clouded. The great secret of the family had fallen upon her spirit with all the stunning force of a first grief, and vainly she looked about her for comfort, finding none. How many times had May's admiring mention of the "young Laird" called forth upon her lips a sad smile of affectionate sorrow for the dead brother whom she never saw. How often had she marvelled at the old nurse's stern summary of his end: "He died a violent death!" How often lingered with sorrowful admiration over his picture in the attic lumber-room! And now his name had become a name of fear! The stain of blood was upon him! A Cain! a murderer! Not dead! Anne's hasty steps passed quick over the narrow pathway, with its carpeting of fallen leaves. In what pain--what misery, must that blighted life have passed! Whither might that guilty soul have wandered, seeking, in crowd or in solitude, to hide itself from its own fearful consciousness, and from its angry God! In privation, in danger, in want in sin, unfriended and accursed, and alone, with none to speak to him of mercy, of hope, of Divine forgiveness! And this was her brother! her mother's son!