It was too late, and all were too much excited by what had passed for Betty to broach the subject of marriage to her father that night, but she promised herself to do so early on the following morning. It was very cold, and Betty could not sleep; in vain she turned from side to side, in vain she drank water and paced her room, and tried all the devices known to the sleepless--all was fruitless; her pillow seemed to her on fire, and incessantly in her imagination she heard the galloping of horses so vividly, that she rose several times and went to the window; but the night was clear, and the moon bright, and all over the country lay one sheet of untrodden snow. She lay down once more, and about three o'clock was roused suddenly by a light tap, as of something which hit her window. She went to it hastily, and as she did so, another light pebble hit the panes. She opened the casement and looked out. Below in the garden in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, she saw standing a slight woman's figure. The figure held up a warning hand to be silent and come down. Betty was bold and fearless, she put on her clothes hastily, and went down. She went into the garden at once, and looked cautiously round. There was no one to be seen at first. She waited in some amazement, when suddenly she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and looking round, saw standing beside her Nora Ray, the young gipsy girl, looking more wild and elf-like than usual. "Hist!" said the strange child. "I have brought you a token from one whom you know so well. His day is over," she cried with a wild grin, showing all her white teeth. "The ravens are feasting on Wild Jack's tender flesh to-night. See here is the token; he gave it to me at the foot of the gallows with his own hand." With a sob Betty took it from the girl's brown hand--her own little serpent-ring that he had taken from her that night that seemed so long ago. "It shall never again leave my finger," she said. "God rest his soul." "You will cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, pretty lady," cried Nora. "He never failed to do so to poor Nora Ray, not he!" Betty quickly went into the house, gave her money, and let her out of the gate--the wild creature had come in over the wall--then she went slowly up to her room. She leant out of the open window, her brow burning in spite of the cold. Suddenly came on her ear the wild sound of Nora's singing, with its strange pathos like the sighing of the wind, or the cry of storm-tossed sea-birds. Betty clasped her hands, and sank on her knees, the sound made her shudder from head to foot. She stopped her ears with trembling fingers, but yet every word fell on them distinctly and would not be shut out. "Aye, call him, call him over the lea, Aye, well and well-a-day; Lover will never come back to thee Who loves and gallops away." CHAPTER VII. "How pale you are this morning, my child," said Mr. Ives to his daughter.