“Look up! look up! Granny--see the sky and the birds! Look up, poor soul, you midden die, no, no, not to-day, nor yet to-morrow; we’ve got place for more o’ the likes o’ you. You come round again, poor soul, you open your eyes. Lord! Lord! you midden die.” She said this in a kind, comfortable murmur, her hands laid on the old woman’s brow. Now supporting her head, now chafing her listless hands, as she lay where they had left her, by the water. And the great tears of love and pity ran from her eyes, falling on her tattered garments. Miles Coverdale waited till the last lingerer in that angry crowd had left the scene, and even after they had all dispersed, he stood lost in meditation. “Why do the heathen so furiously rage together, and the people imagine a vain thing?” he murmured, as he turned his steps towards the Manor-house. Then the children heard the heavy oak door shut behind him, as he disappeared from their sight. * * * * * Mrs. Inchbald ceased speaking, and there was silence for a space. Then someone asked-- “What became of the old woman?” and somebody else said, “Did she die?” Mrs. Inchbald replied-- “Look at the Nasmyth, and you will find the answer there, my dears.” The children rose, and crowded round the picture, looking at it with interested eyes. And what did they see? They saw a figure in a red cloak and a yellow kerchief, on the river-path leading to the pointed house. And they cried out severally-- “She’s still there!” “She didn’t die!” “I see her!” And if you look you will see they are right. CHAPTER XIX _Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea, Silver buckles at his knee, When he comes home he’ll marry me, Pretty Bobby Shafto._ _Bobby Shafto fat and fair, Blessings on his yellow hair, He’s my lover ever dear, Pretty Bobby Shafto._ OLD SONG. One afternoon you might have seen Clare running downstairs swiftly, her legs twinkling, like the water-wagtail’s as he spins over the lawn. For news spreads quickly in a household of children, and rumour had it that Mrs. Inchbald was sitting in the drawing-room, and an idea of stories was about. Clare met Bimbo here, and Dolorès there, and a little farther on she gathered Leslie, Beppo, and Collina; finally she swept up Robin and Mousie and Christopher, who followed in her wake, and together they all poured into the drawing-room helter-skelter, to see if this rumour were true. Mrs. Inchbald sat by the fire with her knitting, and Miss Ross stood by her side. Her long black dress fell in soft folds, and the firelight touched and was reflected in the loose coils of her dark hair. She looked supremely sad, as in her picture, only the quiet movement of her eyes as she turned towards the children, lent a greater animation to her face.