With but the slight difference, that, for an hour or two, these confused thoughts, remaining as active as before, took upon them the yet more fantastic garb of dreams; her mind continued in the same state of excited agitation during the whole night, and it was only when the chill morning began to break, grey and faint, through the dark clouds of the east, that springing from her feverish sleep and unhappy fancies together, Anne girded herself for the work that lay before her. To see Mrs. Catherine, and ascertain beyond doubt that Alice was the daughter of that Aytoun who fell by Norman's hand--that seemed her first step. To learn as fully and clearly as might be the particulars of the tragedy itself, and if possible, to get possession of Norman's letter to her father, which Mrs. Ross had mentioned, and which, with foolish procrastination for which she now blamed herself, Anne had shrunk from seeking. If she had but accomplished these necessary preliminaries, Anne hoped that her mind might acquire more coherence, and that she might be able to resolve what was best to be done, for making known the secret to Alice and Lewis--the two individuals most deeply concerned. Dressing herself hastily, she left Merkland, and took the path up Oranside, which led to the Tower. Anne was privileged to have admittance at all times, and knew that Mrs. Catherine was, comparatively, an early riser. The path was damp and slippery--the morning coming in, in clinging garments of wet mist, grey, drizzling and disconsolate, with blasts of thin rain, sweeping now and then in her face. Mrs. Catherine was seated in her small dressing room, which was immediately over "the little room"--and like it looked out upon the bare ascent of the hill behind the Tower. She was dressed, all but the large soft grey shawl which her stately attendant Mrs. Elspeth Henderson was carefully unfolding; and seated in an easy chair by the fireside, was having her usual half-hour's gossip with her "gentlewoman." "And so you think Anne Ross is looking ill, Elspat," said Mrs. Catherine; "it's my hope you and your wise daughter have no design upon the poor bairn. Mind, I will have no doctoring of my Anne. I believe Euphan Morison is crazy!--my best cow in the deadthraw with her abominations! I will not have it, Elspat, though she is your daughter. My household shall be poisoned with physic at the will of no woman." "Euphan walks according to her lights, Madam," responded Mrs. Elspat; "but if ye ask my opinion, I would say that Miss Ross needit spiritual physic, and no temporal: the bitter herbs o' repentance and grace, and no camomile and wormwood--though I hold with Euphan doubtless that the last are of service in their place."