She had apparently been dead for some time, and Audry broke into uncontrollable weeping; her whole frame shook violently and it almost seemed that she would choke herself. Every one stood aghast. Even Mistress Mowbray felt something of the atmosphere of grief; she was the only one sufficiently unmoved to speak at all, but she said, “Poor little lassie, that was a hard ending. But, Audry dear, you must try and control yourself, you will make yourself seriously ill.” “I do not mind if I do,” the child sobbed in reply. “Oh, Aline, darling Aline, do not leave me, I cannot bear it,” and she flung herself on to the small still form on the old oak settle and they feared her heart would break. By this time every one was weeping, even the men-servants and Mistress Mowbray herself. But as Audry passionately pressed the cold wet features to her face, she suddenly cried out, “She is not dead. I am sure she is not dead, I am sure that she still breathes.” There was a fire in the hall, as the summer was getting on and the evenings were chilly up in the moorland district. In less time than it takes to say, a bed had been made up by the fire and warmed with a warming pan, and old Elspeth had tenderly undressed the child and put her in the bed, while some one else had brought some warm milk. Elspeth was bending over her and lightly rubbing the damp hair, half crooning to herself, “My bairnie, my bonnie bairnie, wake up, my sweetest, wake up once more.” Suddenly Aline opened her eyes and looked round for a moment, and then closed them again. She gave no more sign that night and it was an anxious time; but hope was strong. Hardly any one went to bed but Mistress Mowbray. Even the servants for the most part wandered about, coming every now and then to ask if there was any news. The child was a favourite with nearly all of them, as much on account of her gentle thoughtful ways as on account of her extreme almost supernatural beauty. Then there was that strange mysterious power that seemed to hold practically every one with whom she came into contact. There were, of course, one or two who felt her very presence was a sort of standing reproach and who disliked her accordingly, but such was the extraordinary sweetness of her disposition that some, even in this class, found themselves coaxed to a certain extent out of their worse into their better selves against their will. In the morning it was apparent that immediate danger was passed, which caused Mistress Mowbray to exclaim,--“Drat the bairn for frightening us all like that without any reason. How stupid of her to fall into the moat.”