I have sometimes gone there myself--of course I am to be trusted--and have leant my arms on a window-sill, and looked down at dear Aline toiling away in the corner of the rose garden, which she has kept from returning to wilderness. I have seen the twins, too, sitting there demurely under Aline's eye with their lesson-books open on their laps, two pattern little damsels; till suddenly in a moment, Aline having forgotten them over her roses, they would slip from the stone seat, and, holding each other's hands, would steal through the sweet-brier hedge, and run, run, till they were far beyond Aline's call; thus keeping tryst, naughty little girls, with Hugh and Donald, who were trout-fishing or rabbit-snaring in the woods. Then my gaze would wander over the tree-tops to our dear Brandon, and on to Angry Mountain, fuming with clouds. I could see the towers of Castle Angry in the fissure the old bog-slide had left, there on its solid land, and the bog-holes and little rivers which surround it, so that it has to be approached by a causeway. When my eyes rested on Castle Angry, I would always shake my fist and frown, before withdrawing myself from my post of observation. Oona is our housekeeper now, and as stiff with the Kates and Pollys of the village, who are our clumsy but willing little handmaidens, as though she had a great staff of servants under her. Oona never forgets what the Brandons were in old days, and ignores as much as possible the sad change that has come upon the family fortunes. Even if we have only a skinny chicken and a pig's cheek and greens for our dinner, they are served on silver, and the old table-linen, darned to the last extent, is always beautifully snowy and shining, as its texture deserves. When we are alone Oona's manner to us is that of a nurse to her children, scolding often, petting again, and sometimes dictatorial. But before the little round-eyed servants she never forgets what is due to a Brandon, and her humility of manner towards us is no end of a jest, for we have always feared Oona so much more than she has feared us,--that is, we younger ones. Only to-day I was sitting with Aline in the boudoir, to which we have brought our griefs and misfortunes and peccadillos, ever since our dear mother died. I was just looking into the turf fire and prodding it up with a stick to make the sparks fly out of it, while Aline sat mending a pinafore belonging to one of the twins, and now and again smiling at me without speaking. Suddenly there broke into the silence of the little room,--where the smell of yesterday's roses blent with the sharp turf-smoke,--a loud wail. Aline sprang to her feet, but I made a signal to her to be quiet. "It is only Oona lecturing Polly," I said; "listen, and we will hear what it is all about."