"Elspat Henderson!" said Mrs. Catherine, angrily, "your learned daughter will be waiting on you for her breakfast. Go your ways down the stair, and, between this time and the morn, look me out the Psalm that gives a righteous reward to him that slanders his neighbor privately. I know well David, honest man, let his pen fall ajee when he wrote it 'him,' and no 'her'--and see that you coin no more scandal out of the ill mists of your own brain to rouse my wrath withal. You may leave the room, Mrs. Elspat Henderson--I have no further need of you." The cowed attendant withdrew, and Mrs. Catherine seated herself in stately indignation. By-and-by her face grew calmer, graver. The suggestion awakened a new train of thought, and roused anxieties and fears, hitherto, in the pre-occupation of her mind, never dreamed of. Anne Ross's light tap at the door came when she was deeply engaged in these, and Mrs. Catherine rose and opened it with some anger remaining in her face. "Child!" she exclaimed; "at this time in the morning--through the mist--and with trouble in your face! What is the matter?" Anne entered, and sat down to recover her breath, and re-arrange her thoughts. Mrs. Catherine closed the door carefully, and, resuming her seat, looked in Anne's face and waited. "There is nothing the matter, Mrs. Catherine," said Anne, smiling faintly; "that is--they are all well in Merkland, and I--I just wanted to consult you--to ask your advice." "Speak out, child," said Mrs. Catherine. "It is something not common that has brought you here this morning. Tell me what it is. Does it concern Archie?" "No, no," said Anne. "Something far more--I mean just a little matter connected with ourselves--I should say myself, rather, for neither Mrs. Ross nor Lewis know my errand, Mrs. Catherine--" "Child, speak out," exhorted her friend. "You will think it very foolish," said Anne, a sickly ray of hope breaking upon her as the time of certain knowledge drew so near, "I only wanted to ask you about Miss Aytoun's family. I mean--Miss Aytoun--Alice--is her father alive?" Mrs. Catherine regarded her for a considerable time in silence. Anne felt the long, firm look a death knell to her last hope, and returned it with a strange, callous steadiness, such as comes occasionally in the extremity of trial, imparting to the sufferer a fictitious strength. "Her father is not alive. Wherefore do you ask me, child?" The unnatural flicker of hope rose again. "Where did he die, and how? I beseech you to tell me, Mrs. Catherine!" "Anne," said Mrs. Catherine, gravely; "for what purpose do you seek to know? Wherefore do you question me so?" "Where did he die, and when, and how?" repeated Anne.--"Answer me, Mrs. Catherine--do not hesitate--I am prepared." Mrs. Catherine paused long before she answered.