Lady Nithsdale roamed about the vast and deserted halls; the un-read book dropped from her hands; the once loved spinet remained unopened; the needle, which she used to ply so rapidly and so dexterously, was still resorted to for occupation; but the flowers no longer grew under her fairy fingers, and the falling tears would often tarnish the colours of the silks before the leaf had yet assumed its form. She started at every noise: the changing cheek, the fluttering heart, the trembling finger, the faltering voice, all spoke the heart ill at ease. The long, long days wore wearily away; it seemed to her that each dismal winter evening closed in more slowly than the last. Her children were far away; she could not visit their couches, listen to their tranquil breathing, and beguile the hours in watching their unconscious slumbers. Her existence would have been less irksome had there been any duty for her to perform, any exertion to be made; but in this forced inactivity of body, while the mind was distracted with doubts and fears, she endured, not so much the pangs of hope deferred, as those of protracted disappointment. Watching the blazing logs on the hearth, and listening to the incessant whistling of the December blast, only varied by the rattling of a dry and withered stray leaf against the casement, she had sat through the early and lengthened twilight of a Scottish winter's evening. Glad of the excuse of fading light to indulge in the idleness of vague, dreamy, but most sad meditation, she had allowed the night to steal upon her unawares, till all without was darkness that might be felt, and the stone mullions of the oriel windows alone shone white in the fitful blaze of the wood fire. She was startled from her reverie by the sound of men's voices, and the tread of a strange and heavy foot. The attendants entering, explained that a peasant was without, who insisted upon seeing the countess. "It is the countess herself that my business is with," said the stout and rosy boor, who forced his way past the serving-men; "I was to come to the speech of the lady herself; and if you can certify to me that yonder she is, why I am ready enough to give up my packet; but I shan't let it go to any of you. How do I know what sort of jackanapeses you may be?" and the peasant grinned good-humouredly, with a twinkling eye, which led to the conclusion that he had not journeyed so rapidly, but that he had taken time to refresh himself by the way. He held a packet in his hand: "If it is true that you are that rebel lord's lawful wife, why, here's the letter I was to deliver safe into her own fair hands--that was, when she gave me the reward I have earned by a journey of some hundred and fifty miles." "Oh, give it me! in mercy give it me!" exclaimed Lady Nithsdale; and starting from her seat, she would have snatched it at once. "Softly, fair lady," cried the peasant, withholding it; "where is the reward the gentleman promised me?"