Fast as the storm drops without, the tears rolled over her pale cheeks, while she sobbed as though her heart would break; nor did the kind old woman who hung over her, and caressed her poor aching head by pressing it against her maternal breast, attempt to check Alison's passionate weeping, which proved alike a safety valve to her brain and heart, till, worn out with all she had undergone for days and nights past, a heavy sleep came upon her. Old Archie hung over her for a minute ere he left her, and thought what a lovely face hers was to look upon, pale and exhausted though it was in expression. The forehead low and broad, the eyebrows dark, yet delicately marked; the waxen-like eyelid fringed by long lashes that lay lightly on the cheek; the rosebud mouth so full of sweetness and decision. We must hasten over this gloomy portion of our story, and get, with Alison, into the busy world once more, for her father's death led to many changes. In connection with that event, the real or fancied sound she had heard preyed deeply on her mind, and the only person to whom she could speak, brokenly and with quivering lips, on the subject--Archie Auchindoir--believed in the existence of the supernatural so thoroughly that he left nothing unsaid to confirm her in the belief. All people are now incredulous of everything, and to none other but Bevil Goring would she have spoken on the subject--and yet with her it had much of the superstition of the heart in it. Men of science assert that there is no evidence that the ordinary course of nature is ever interrupted. According to their theories, 'there never have been, there are not now, and there never will be, either miracles or opposition. Between the orthodox, who doubt modern supernaturalism, and the men of science, who are sceptics all round, the strange thing is that anyone should arise to express a belief which is so contrary to the spirit of our time, though we have by analysis and investigation laid our hands on many things hitherto sealed'--to wit, gas, electricity, the telephone, and so forth. Be all this as it may, we tell the tale as it was told to us, and hope the hound of Essilmont, if it bayed at all, did so for the last time. At Chilcote the first day of death stole quietly on. Prostrate with grief, Alison remained in her own room, leaving all that was to be done with the vicar, the doctor, and Archie, who, plunged in sorrow great as any could feel who shared not the blood of the dead man, hovered about her in a helpless kind of way, as if he would have striven to console--yea, almost to caress her. Was she not the child he had carried often in his arms? but, as he phrased it, 'he wistna what to do.'