and wistfully pondering upon her own thoughts. “Some o’ the things were here when I came,” said Aunt Jean. “I was not so auld then as I am now--I laid them a’ away, Deseery, for fear the real daughter of the house should ever come hame; for this present Melmar wasna heir by nature. If right had been right, there’s ane before him in the succession to this house; but, poor misguided thing, fha was gaun to seek her; but I laid by the bits o’ things; I thought they might ’mind her some time of the days o’ her youth.” “Who was she?” said Desirée, softly: she did not ask so as to be heard by her companion--she did not ask as if she cared for an answer--she said it quietly, in a half whisper to herself; yet Aunt Jean heard Desirée’s question with her lively eyes, which were fixed upon the girl’s pretty figure, half kneeling, half reclining at her feet. “Fha was she? She was the daughter of this house,” said Aunt Jean, “and fhat’s mair, the mistress of this house, Deseery, if she should ever come hame.” The little Frenchwoman looked up sharply, keenly, with an alarmed expression on her face. She did not ask any further question, but she met Aunt Jean’s black eyes with eyes still brighter in their youthful lustre, yet dimmed with an indefinable cloud of suspicion and fear. What was in the old woman’s mind it was hard to tell. Whether she had any definite ground to go upon, or merely proceeded on an impulse of the vague anxiety in her mind. “’Deed, ay,” said Aunt Jean, nodding her lively little head, “I’ll tell you a’ her story, my dear, and you can tell me fhat you think when I’m done. She was the only bairn and heir of that silly auld man that was Laird of Melmar before this present lad, my niece’s good-man--she was very bonnie, and muckle thought of, and she married and ran away, and that’s all the folk ken of her, Deseery; but whisht, bairn, and I’ll tell you mair.” Desirée had sunk lower on her knees, leaning back, with her head turned anxiously towards the story-teller. She was an interested listener at least. “It’s aye thought she was disinherited,” said Aunt Jean, “and at the first, when she ran away, maybe so she was--but nature will speak. When this silly auld man, as I’m saying, died, he left a will setting up her rights, and left it in the hand of another silly haverel of a man, that was a bit sma’ laird at Norlaw. This man was to be heir himsel’ if she never was found--but he had a sma’ spirit, Deseery, and he never could find her. She’s never been found from that day to this--but it’ll be a sore day for Melmar when she comes hame.” “Why?” said Desirée, somewhat sharply and shrilly, with a voice which reached the old woman’s ears, distant though they were.