"She will not have anything of the sort to do," interrupted Lady Carse. "I shall go and do it myself. I told her, some time since, that whenever she quitted this island I would not be left behind. I shall do my own business myself, if you please." "That is well," interposed the pastor; "because I promised the steward, passed my solemn word to him, as a condition of my departure, that it should never become known through me or mine that Lady Carse had ever been seen by any of us. I entirely approve of Lady Carse managing her own affairs." Annie found means to declare solemnly to Mrs Ruthven her conviction that no such promise could be binding on her, and that it was her bounden duty to spare no effort for the poor lady's release. She was persuaded that Mrs Ruthven thought and felt with her; and that something effectual would at last be done. The children now most needed her consolations. "Do not be afraid," she said cheerfully to them. "I shall never forget you. I shall think of you every day. Whenever you see a sea-bird winging over this way, send me your love: and when I see our birds go south, I will send my love to you." "And whenever," said Helsa, "you see a light over the sea, you will think of Widow Fleming's lamp, won't you?" "And whenever," said Lady Carse, with a solemnity which froze up the children's tears, and made them look in her face, "whenever, in this world or the next, you see a quiet angel keeping watch over a sinful, unhappy mortal, you may think of Widow Fleming and me. Will you?" The awe-struck children promised, with a sincerity and warmth which touched Lady Carse with a keen sense of humiliation; not the less keen because she had brought it upon herself by a good impulse. The pastor and his family were presently gone; and without Lady Carse. The steward guarded against that by bringing Macdonald to fasten her into her house, and guard it, till the boat should be out of reach. Annie did not intrude upon her unhappy neighbour for the first few hours. She thought it better to wait till she was wished for. "Our pastor gone!" thought she, as she sat alone. "No more children's voices in this dwelling! No more worship in the church on sabbaths! Thus is our Father always giving and taking away, that we may fix our expectations on Him alone. But He always leaves us enough. He leaves us our duty and our sabbaths, whether the church be open or in ruins. And He has left me also an afflicted neighbour to comfort and strengthen. Now that she thinks she depends on me alone, I may be the better able to lead her to depend on Him." And she was presently absorbed in meditating how best to do this most needful work. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE LAMP BURNS.