Sabbath night; a July night, sweet with summer stars and moonlight, and with no darkness in it: the water running soft with its quietest murmur, the thrush and blackbird beguiled to sing almost as late as the southland nightingale; the scent of the late roses coming round the corner of the house on the faint breeze; the stars clustered in a little crowd over the gaunt castle walls, and in the distance the three weird Eildons, standing out dark against the pale azure blue and flood of moonlight; a Sabbath evening with not a sound in it, save the sweetest sounds of nature, a visible holy blessing of quiet and repose. But the table was spread in the dining-parlor at Norlaw; there was a basket of oat-cakes and flour “bannocks” upon the table, in a snowy napkin, and butter, and milk, and cheese, all of the freshest and most fragrant, the produce of their own lands. Two candles made a little spot of light upon the white table-cloth, but left all the rest of the room in dreary shadow. To see it was enough to tell that some calamity oppressed the house--and when the widow came in, with her face of exhaustion, and eyes which could weep no more for very weariness, when the boys followed slowly one by one, and Marget coming in with the solemn, noiseless step, so unusual to her, hovered about them with all her portentous gravity, and unwonted attendance, it was not hard to conclude that they ate and drank under the shadow of death. The Mistress had not appeared that day, from the early breakfast until now; it was the only time before or after when she faltered from the ways of common life. When they had ended the meal, which no one cared to taste, and when the lads began to think with some comfort, in the weariness of their youth, that the day at last was over, Mrs. Livingstone drew her chair away from the table, and looked at them all with the sorrowful tenderness of a mother and a widow. Then, after a long interval, she spoke. “Bairns!” she said, with a voice which was hoarse with solicitude and weeping, “you’re a’ thinking what you’re to do, and though it’s the Sabbath day, I canna blame ye, but me, I’m but a weak woman--I could not say a word to counsel ye, if it was to save the breaking of my heart this day.” “We never looked for it, mother. There’s time enough! do you think we would press our plans on you?” cried the eager Huntley, who had been groaning but a few hours ago, at this compulsory delay. “Na, I could not do it,” said the mother, turning her head aside, and drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers, while the tears dropped slowly out of her tired eyes; “this is the last Sabbath day that him and me will be under the same roof. I canna speak to you, bairns; I’m but a weak woman, and I’ve been his wife this five-and-twenty years.” After a pause, the Mistress dried her eyes, and went on hurriedly:--