“Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?” said he, half mournfully. She did not spring to his arms, like the young wife at Stirling, but she kissed his hand affectionately, and called him “Angus!” “Olive!” said the father, when having embraced his wife, he now turned to his daughter, “Olive, my child! take care of your mother! I shall be at home soon, and we shall be very happy again--all three!” As they ascended the staircase, they saw him watching them from below. Olive so content, even though her father was going away. She kissed her hand felt to him with a blithe gesture, and then saw him go in and close the door. When the house sank into quietness, a curious feeling oppressed Captain Rothesay. It seemed to take rise in his wife's infectious fears. “Women are always silly,” he argued to himself. “Why should I dread any danger? The railway is safe as a coach--and yet, that affair of poor Huskisson! Pooh! what a fool I am!” But even while he mocked it, the vague presentiment appeared to take form in his mind; and sitting, the only person awake in the slumbering house, where no sound broke the stillness, except the falling of a few cinders, and the occasional noise of a mouse behind the wainscot, somewhat of the superstitions of his northern youth came over him. His countenance became grave, and he sank into deep thought. It is a trite saying, that every man has that in his heart, which, if known, would make all his fellow-creatures hate him. Was it this evil spirit which now struggled in Captain Rothesay's breast, and darkened his face with storms of passion, remorse, or woe? He gave no utterance to them in words. If any secret there were, he would not trust it even to the air. But, at times, his mute lips writhed; his cheeks burned, and grew ghastly. Sometimes, too, he wore a cowed and humble look, as on the night when his daughter had stood like a pure angel to save him from the abyss on the brink of which he trod. She had saved him, apparently. That night's shame had never occurred again. Slowly, his habits were changing, and his tastes becoming home-like. But still his lonely hours betokened some secret hidden in his soul--a secret which, if known, might have accounted for his having plunged into uproarious excitement or drunken oblivion. At length, as by a violent effort, Angus Rothesay sat down and began to write. He wrote for several hours--though frequently his task was interrupted by long reveries, and by fits of vehement emotion. When he had finished, he carefully sealed up what he had written, and placed it in a secret drawer of his desk. Then he threw himself on a sofa, to sleep, during the brief time that intervened before daybreak. In the grey of the morning, when he stood despatching a hasty breakfast, he was startled by a light touch on his arm. “Little Olive!--why, I thought you were fast asleep.” “I could not sleep when papa was going away; so I rose and dressed. You will not be angry?”