She was drying away her tears indignantly, angry with herself and ashamed, and resolute that no such weakness should ever occur again, when she became aware of several small crackling sounds that came from the direction of the turret, the lower story of which formed an appendage to the drawing-room, as the higher did to the study. Elsie was not alarmed by these sounds. It was, no doubt, some friend either of Rodie’s or her own, who was desirous of making a private communication without disturbing the minister’s house by an untimely visit, and calling attention by flinging gravel at the window. She could not think who it was, but any incident was good to break the current of her thoughts. There was a little pale moonlight, of that misty, milky kind, which is more like a lingering of fantastic day than a fine white night with black shadows, and there was a figure standing underneath, which she did not recognise till she had opened the window. Then she saw it was Johnny Wemyss. He had a packet in his hand. “I thought,” he said, “that I would just come and tell you before I sent it off by the night-coach. Elsie! I am sure--that is to say, I am near sure, as sure as you dare to think you are, when it’s only you----” “What?” she cried, leaning out of the window. “That yon _is_ a new beast,” said the young man. His voice was a little tremulous. “I never lifted my head till I had it all out with it,” he said, with a nervous laugh; “and I’m just as near sure--oh, well, some other idiot may have found it out yesterday! but, barring that--I’m sure--I mean as near sure----” “Oh, you and your beasts!” cried Elsie. Her heart had given a jump in her breast, and she had become gay and saucy in a moment; “and you never were more than _near_ sure all your life. _I_ knew it was, all the time.” They laughed together under the gray wall, the girl lightly triumphant, the boy thrilling in every nerve with the certainty which he dared not acknowledge even to himself. “I have called it ‘Princess Elsie,’” he said, “in Latin, you know: that is, if it is really a new beast.” “There is nine striking,” said she; “you will have to run if you are to catch the night-coach.” “I will--but I had to come and tell you,” he cried over his shoulder. “As if there was any need! when I knew it all the time.” This was enough, I am glad to say, to turn entirely the tide of Elsie’s thoughts. She stood listening to the sound of his heavy shoes, as he dashed along the rough cobbles of the pavement, towards the centre of the town from which the coach started. And then she came in with a delightful, soft illumination on her face, laughing to herself, and sat down at the table and took up her seam. Four years! four strokes of the clock, four stitches with the needle! That was about all it would come to in the long stretching, far panorama of endless and joyous life. CHAPTER XXII. IN THE STUDY.