The next night, with his plaid wrapped as closely about him as before, and serving as a disguise, he passed along Oranside in the darkness, turning his steps to the Tower. He could not delay longer--already perhaps in the bitter pain of last night's trial, he had delayed too long, and in passing those wide-spreading fields and plantations, once his own, but in which now the meanest hind dwelling among them had more share than he, he felt that last night's trial might be indefinitely prolonged. He came to the Tower at last, and found it also gay and full of light. The hall-door was open, and within stood a knot of servants. The door of Mrs. Euphan Morison's snug room was ajar, and showed Duncan from Merkland, and Mr. Coulter's grave man-servant sitting comfortably by the fireside, while the Falcon's Craig groom, and Mr. Foreman's lad, and one or two younger attendants, stood among Mrs. Catherine's maid-servants in the hall listening to the music above. "Jacky, ye monkey, shut that door," cried Mrs. Euphan Morison, "Idle hizzies clavering nonsense, and decent folk like to get their death o' cauld. I wad advise ye to tak hame some o' that horehound-balsam wi' ye, Duncan--it's uncommon guid for hoarseness. I made it with my ain hand." Jacky darted forward to do her mother's bidding; and Archibald felt the girl's keen eye pierce his disguise in a moment.--She paused, looked at him. "If ye please, will I tell Mrs. Catherine?" "Yes--but wait, Jacky, let me go up stairs." Jacky went gravely forward before him, and drawing his plaid more closely over his face, Archibald followed her unobserved.--The girl led him to a small apartment which opened into that well-remembered drawing-room, and without saying a word, left him there. He sat down and waited. Ah! these gay sounds of mirth and music, how bitterly they mock sick hearts. A sort of hope had inspired him, as he felt himself once more in shelter of these stately walls, but now, within hearing of the sounds of pleasure and rejoicing, his heart again sank within him. There was no place for him--homeless and hopeless, there. As he listened, a simple voice began to sing--words chiming strangely in with his changed fortunes. "Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways, The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days Fade from our sight. A dimness steals upon the earth and heaven, Blended of gloom and light; Shuts its soft eyelid o'er day's azure levin, And shades with its soft tints the glories of sweet even To sober-toned night. "From his deep cradle the woods among His russet robes waving free, The Oran with his kindly tongue, Is travelling to the sea. He rushes to the ocean old, In sparkling wave and foam, And out into that trackless wold Bears the kind voice of home. Wayfaring man, far, on the sea Listen how he calls to thee!