begged that they would retire to their rooms, assuring them that he
felt much better, and that he hoped the following day he should have
more conversation with Mr Finlayson on the matters of business which he
wished to discuss with him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Evening approached, and Nora and her cousin sat in the tower chamber
overlooking the ocean. They neither of them felt disposed to go to
sleep. The night was calm and lovely, the atmosphere unclouded. The
stars shone forth brightly, and the light crescent moon was reflected in
the waters below. The reef of rocks on the other side of the bay could
be distinguished, and the lofty headlands beyond it stood out in bold
relief against the sky, while to their extreme right they could see the
whole sweep of the bay and the lofty downs above it. It is not
surprising that they should have been unwilling to tear themselves away
from such a scene. It calmed their agitated feelings, for Nora could
not conceal from herself that one of the kindest of fathers was about to
be taken from her, while Lady Sophy, almost friendless as she was, felt
that she was about to lose her best protector. She could, it was true,
live on with her cousin Nora, and watch over her, as she had ever done,
like an elder sister over one far younger than herself. Already, Lady
Sophy's early beauty had completely departed. There was the same
outline of feature, and the same elegant figure, but her countenance
wore that sad expression (too often to be seen marking the features of
the once young and lovely) of disappointed affection, of blighted hopes.
Thus they sat on, hour after hour. A dark shadow passed across the
moon, and threw a gloom over the hitherto bright landscape. Suddenly
they were startled by a loud, wild shriek. It seemed to come from far
away across the ocean. Now it swelled into a high note of wailing; now
it sank into a mournful tone of grief. Again and again that strange
sound struck their ears.

"The banshee!" exclaimed Nora, placing her hand on Sophy's shoulder with
alarm. "Surely I have always believed that it was a mere superstition
of the ignorant peasantry--a phantom of the imagination; but here is a
dreadful reality. Yes, it surely must be the banshee, and what does it
forebode? Sophy, you know too well, and so do I. Perhaps it is sent in
mercy, to warn and prepare us for that dreadful event. But ought we not
to have been prepared already? The last words my de