'In going--unwillingly as I shall--to Earlshaugh, I don't know how the deuce I may get on with such an incubus,' said Roland thoughtfully; and now thoughts of the cold welcome that awaited him by the hearth that had been his father's, and their forefathers' for generations past, made him naturally think and feel more warmly and kindly of those with whom he was now, and more disposed to cling to the loving old kinsman who eyed him so affectionately, and the sweet, gentle cousin, every motion of whose white hands and handsome head was full of grace; and thus, more tenderly than ever was his wont, he looked upon her and addressed her, softly touching her hands, as he affected to sort, but rather disarranged, the wool in her work-basket; and, though the days were rather past now when he regarded with interest and admiration every pretty girl as the probable wife of his future, and he had not thought of Hester in that sense at all, she was not without a subtle interest for him that he could scarcely define. 'Give me some music, Hester--by Jove! I am getting quite into the blues; there is a piano in the next room,' said Roland, throwing aside his cigar and leading her away; 'a song if you will, cousin,' he added, opening the instrument and adjusting the stool, on which she seated herself. 'What song, Roland?' 'Any--well, the old, old one of which you sang a verse to me the other evening in the lawn.' 'Do you really wish it?' she asked, looking round at him with half-drooped lashes, and an earnest expression in her dark, starry eyes. 'I do, indeed, Hester--for "Auld Langsyne."' So she at once gave her whole skill and power to the Jacobite air and the simple, old song which ran thus 'The visions of the buried past Come thronging, dearer far Than joys the present hour can give, Than present objects are. I love to dwell among their shades, That open to my view; The dreams of perished men, and years, And bygone glory, too. 'For though such retrospect is sad, It is a sadness sweet, The forms of those whom we revere, In memory to meet. Since nothing in this changing world Is constant but decay; And early flowers but bloom the first, To pass the first away!' As the little song closed, the girl's voice, full as she was of her own thoughts, became exquisitely sweet, even sad. 'Hester, thank you, dear,' said Roland, laying a hand on her soft shoulder, with a sudden gush of unusual tenderness. 'The early flowers that bloomed so sweetly with us have not yet passed away, surely, Hester?' 'I hope not, Roland,' she replied, in a low voice. 'And I, too, hope not,' said he, stooping, and careless of the eyes of Sir Harry, who had been drumming time to the air on a teapoy, he pressed his lips to the straight white division between her close and rich dark hair.