slipped out of the
younger ones' memories--as, if one only allows it time, every tale,
however sad, wicked, or strange, will very soon do. Had it not been for
the silent, shut-up castle, standing summer and winter on the loch-side,
with its flower-gardens blossoming for none to gather, and its woods--
the pride of the whole country--budding and withering, with scarcely
a foot to cross, or an eye to notice their wonderful beauty, people
would ere long have forgotten the very existence of the last Earl of
Cairnforth.

Chapter 2

It was on a June day--ten years after that bright June day when the
minister of Cairnforth had walked with such a sad heart up to Cairnforth
Castle, and seen for the first time its unconscious heir--the poor
little orphan baby, who in such apparent mockery was called "the Earl."
The woods, the hills, the loch, looked exactly the same--nature never
changes. As Mr. Cardross walked up to the Castle once more--the
first time for many months--in accordance with a request of Mr.
Menteith's, who had written to say the earl was coming home, he could
hardly believe it was ten years since that sad week when the baby-heir
was born, and the countess's funeral had passed out from that now
long-closed door.

Mr. Cardross's step was heavier and his face sadder now than then. He
who had so often sympathized with others' sorrows had had to suffer
patiently his own. From the Manse gate as from that of the Castle, the
mother and mistress had been carried, never to return. A new Helen--
only fifteen years old--was trying vainly to replace to father and
brothers her who was--as Mr. Cardross still touchingly put it--
"away." But, though his grief was more than a year old, the minister
mourned still. His was one of those quiet natures which make no show,
and trouble no one, yet in which sorrow goes deep down, and grows into
the heart, as it were, becoming a part of existence, until existence
itself shall cease.

It did not, however, hinder him from doing all his ordinary duties,
perhaps with even closer persistence, as he felt himself sinking into
that indifference to outside things which is the inevitable result of a
heavy loss upon any gentle nature. The fierce rebel against it; the
impetuous and impatient throw it off; but the feeble and tender souls
make no sign, only quietly pass into that state which the outer world
calls submission: and resignation, yet which is, in truth, mere
passiveness-