“Nothing but the wind through the trees,” said Kate. “Ay, but _I_ did, and my ears are older than yours. She's riding through the river now; I hear the water splashin'.” Kate tried to catch the sounds, but could not; she walked out upon the lawn to listen, but except the brawling of the stream among the rocks, there was nothing to be heard. “D' ye see her comin'?” asked Catty, eagerly. “No. Your ears must have deceived you. There is no one coming.” “I heard her voice, as I hear yours now. I heard her spake to the mare, as she always does when she 's plungin' into the river. There, now, don't you hear that?” “I hear nothing, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Broon. It is your own anxiety that is misleading you; but if you like, I 'll go down towards the river and see.” And without waiting for a reply Kate hastened down the slope. As she went, she could not help reflecting over the superstition which attaches so much importance to these delusions, giving them the character of actual warnings. It was doubtless from the mind dwelling so forcibly on Miss Martin's perilous life that the old woman's apprehensions had assumed this palpable form, and thus invented the very images which should react upon her with terror. “Just as I thought,” cried Kate, as she stood on the bank of the stream; “all silent and deserted, no one within sight.” And slowly she retraced her steps towards the cottage. The old woman stood at the door, pale and trembling; an attempt to smile was on her features, but her heart denied the courage of the effort. “Where is she now?” cried Catty, wildly. “She rang the bell this minute, and I heerd the mare trottin' round to the stable by herself, as she always does. But where 's Miss Mary?” “My dear Mrs. Broon,” said Kate, in her kindest accents, “it is just as I told you. Your mind is anxious and uneasy about Miss Martin; you are unhappy at her absence, and you think at every stir you hear her coming; but I have been to the river-side, and there is no one there. I 'll go round to the stables, if you wish it.” “There 's no tracks of a hoof on the gravel,” muttered the old woman, in a broken voice; “there was nobody here!” “So I said,” replied Kate. “It was a mere delusion,--a fancy.” “A delusion,--a fancy!” cried Catty, scornfully; “that's the way they always spake of whatever they don't understand. It's easier to say that than confess you don't see how to explain a thing; but I heerd the same sounds before you came to-day; ay, and I went down to see why she was n't comin', and at the pool there was bubbles and froth on the water, just as if a baste had passed through, but no livin' thing to be seen. Was n't that a delusion, too?” “An accident, perchance. Only think, what lives of misery we should lead were we ever tracing our own fears, and connecting them with all the changes that go on around us!”