what he saw was a little white figure leaning out so far that its balance seemed doubtful, spreading out its hands, he thought, towards himself as he stood looking up. “My Willie! my Willie!” cried the voice; “is it you at last? Oh, he’s here, he’s here, whatever you may say. Willie! Willie! How could he rest in his grave, and me pining here?” Edgar rushed forward in the wildest alarm. The little creature leaned over the window-sill, with arms stretched out, and hair streaming about her, till he felt that any moment she might be dashed upon the pavement below. The cry of “Willie!” rang into the stillness with a wild sweetness which went to the listener’s heart. It sounded like the very voice of despair. “Take care, for God’s sake,” he cried, instinctively rushing into the little garden below the window and holding out his arms to catch her should she fall. Just then, however, she was caught from behind. The grandmother’s face looked suddenly out, ghastly pale and stern in its emotion. “I have her safe, sir, thanks to you,” said the serious Scotch voice, every word of which sounded to Edgar like a chord in music full of a hundred mingled modulations. “Willie, my Willie!” cried the younger voice, rising wilder and shriller; and then there followed a momentary rustle, as of a slight struggle, and then the sharp decisive closing of the window. He could see nothing more. But it was not possible to pass on calmly after such an incident. After a moment’s indecision, Edgar tapped lightly at old Sarah’s window, which was dark. The sounds upstairs died into a distant murmur of voices, and downstairs all was still. Old Sarah, if she heard, took no notice of his summons; but young Sarah, her niece, who was working in the next cottage, roused herself and came to the door. “It’s best to take no notice, sir, if you’ll take my advice,” said Sally, with a piece of white muslin wrapped round her arm, which shone in the moonlight. “It’s nought but the mad lass next door.” “Mad! is she mad?” said Edgar eagerly. “Poor lass! they do say as it’s a brother; but I don’t hold for making all that fuss about brothers,” said Sally. “T’ou’d dame, she’s a proud one, and never says nought she can help; and the poor wench ain’t dangerous or that, but as mad as mad, in special when the moon’s at the full. Don’t you take no notice, sir, for there never was a proud un like t’ou’d dame. T’ poor lass had an only brother as died, and she’s ne’er been hersel’ since. That’s what they say.” “But she looks like a child,” said Edgar, not knowing what to do; for already complete silence and darkness seemed to have fallen over the cottage. Old Sarah did not wake, or if she waked, kept still and made no sign, and the light had disappeared from the upper window. It was hard to believe, to look at the perfect stillness of the summer night, that any such interruption had ever been.