By degrees, I heard all that he could tell me.
They had not left Willborough together.
Horace had started by the night-coach for his
northern destination, and Anna must have met
him at some preconcerted point upon the road.
She was not missed for some time, having given
out to the servants that she was going to spend
a few days with the Gibsons at Meadow Leas.
Neither my uncle nor I had the heart to follow
all the windings of the scheme. A few hours
after he had missed her, and had begun to
feel uneasy at her absence, he received a
hurried letter in Anna's hand, saying that
any attempt at pursuit would be worse than
useless, as before those lines could reach
Willborough she and he would have crossed the
Scottish Border, and got married. " I was half
crazed," said my uncle. "As to sitting still at
home, I could no more have done it than I
could have flown to Scotland, and seized the
throat of you——-; well, well, I won't say it,
my lassie. But that's what I longed to do at
first. When it fairly came home to me that it
was too late, I just flung myself into a post-chaise
to come to you and your aunt. Talk
of a man's strength! Yes, if fighting be the
cue. But for endurance: why, the bravest of
us is fain to lean on you frail creatures when
Sorrow comes and sits herself down in the
inglenook."

In all that my uncle said and left unsaid, I
could trace the deep wound that Anna had
given to his proud affection. He had loved
her so. He had so gloried in her beauty
and her high spirit, and even in her untamed
vehement temper. He loved me fondly, and
felt for me. No sympathy could have been
deeper, more tender, more unfailing than his.
But, for himself, the bitter smart was this:
that her hand should have dealt the blow.
That she should be false, treacherous,
ungrateful! His pet, his bonny bairn, his
darling! Strive as he would to throw the blame
on Horace, there was a rankling sense of her
unworthiness that wrung his kind heart cruelly,
cruelly. Never again, on the rare occasions
when my sister's name was mentioned between
us, did I hear him speak of her by the
familiar appellation of her childhood. It was
"your sister," or "Mrs. Lee," or "Anna."
Never Nan, or Nanny. Never, never, again.

When Uncle Gough had ceased speaking, there
was a long silence between us. At last I rose
(we had been sitting on a heap of loose stones)
and took his arm. " Thank you, uncle," I said.
"You are very good to me."

"Good to thee, my precious bairn!" All
his full heart gushed out in a burst of tears and
inarticulate ejaculations. He took me in his
arms, as if I had been indeed the bairn he called
me, and wailed over me as a mother over her
sick child. We wept together until the passion
had spent itself, and something like peace came
down upon our souls. And, as we walked
slowly homeward, the first glimpse of that,
"and then," began to dawn upon me.

What if, though the bright glory of my morning
were quenched for ever, there still remained
long twilight hours to turn to account, ere the
night, cometh when no man can work! I was
still very weak, very heart-sick, very miserable;
but there was already a faint ray of comfort in
the thought that I might yet be dear and
useful to others.

When we reached home, the servant of the
house was standing at the door looking for us,
and she ran forward to say that her mistress
was with my aunt, and that some one had been
despatched for the doctor, as Mrs. Gough was
awake, and seemed " mortal bad." We were
with her immediately, and Mr. Norcliffe arrived
soon after; but the first glimpse of her face
told me, inexperienced though I was, that human
skill was powerless to prolong her life. She
died peacefully in my uncle's arms that night.

CHAPTER XII.

WE went back to the old house, Uncle Gough
and I, to the quaint old house at Willborough,
taking the shadow of our sorrow and our loss
with us. I pass by the first pain of looking on
the familiar scenes and faces with our changed
eyes; I pass by the grief of the servants, the
condolences of friends, the sympathy of humble
neighbours. As my uncle had said, now that
Sorrow had sat herself down in our ingle-nook,
it was to me that he looked for consolation.
He was a man peculiarly sensitive to a woman's
influence, and peculiarly needing a woman's
sympathy. Soft and unassuming as his wife's
character had been, he had leaned on her for
support in the every-day affairs of life, and
had turned, in any trouble, to the never-failing
solace of her wifely love. Now, she was dead,
and Anna was gone, and Horace, whom he had
loved so well, was cast out for ever from his
home and from his heart, and there was no one
but I left to fill the vacant places. What a
sad autumn was that which followed our return
to the Gable House! The summer had waned
before we left Beachington, and my uncle and
I used to wander arm in arm along the garden
paths and through the shrubbery, ankle deep in
fallen leaves. He seldom cared to pass the
iron gates into Willborough, and few strangers
crossed our threshold. But, once, old Mr. Lee
came. He came one sunny afternoon, soon
after our return home. I, sitting sewing by the
window in the morning-room, heard the gate
bell ring, and looked out to see who the
unwonted visitor might be. I stood up trembling,
and my work dropped upon the floor.

"Margaret, what is it?" asked my uncle, looking
at my scared face; then, following the
direction of my glance, he, too, saw Mr. Lee,
who was now almost at the porch.

"I can't bear to see him, uncle. What shall
I do?  Let me go away."

"Yes, child," said my uncle, with his brow
knitted into the stern troubled look it often wore
now. " Go, dear. He shall not disturb you.
Why does he come here at all? It was a bitter
hour when any of his name first darkened these
doors."