ad taken up her seat on the banks of a small pond in front of the
house of Whitecraigs. She sat opposite to the front of the dwelling, and
seemed to survey its closed windows and deserted appearance, with the
long grass growing up through the gravel of the walks--the broken
pailings and decayed out-houses; a scene that might be supposed to
harmonize with the feelings of a mind broken and desolate. There might
seem even a consanguinity in the causes of the condition of both. The
scene might have suited the genius of a Danby. There was no living
creature to disturb the silence. The house of faded white, among the
dark trees, cheerless and forsaken; the face of Alice Scott emaciated
and pale, with the lustre of the loch, shining in the sun, reflected on
it, directed towards the habitation of which she should have been
mistress; her eyes, which had forgotten the relief of tears, fixed on
the scene so pregnant with unavailing reminiscences--with these we would
aid the artist.

But the charm was gone, as a voice sounded behind her. She started, and,
according to her custom, would have fled as the hare that remembers the
snare; but she was detained. A man, advanced in years, poorly clad, with
hair well smitten with snow tints, and a staff in his hand, stood beside
her, holding her by the skirt of the gown.

"I am weary," said he; "I have walked from Moffat, and would sit here
for a time, if you would speak to me of the scenes and people of these
parts." And the application of his hand again to her gown secured a
compliance, dictated more by fear than inclination. She sat, while she
trembled. "You are fair," continued he; "but my experience of sorrow
tells me that grief has been busier with your young heart than years. I
will not pry into your secrets. To whom does Whitecraigs now belong?"

The name had not been breathed by her to mortal since that day she had
heard of the intended marriage. She made an effort to pronounce it,
failed, and fixed her eyes on the pond. The stranger gazed on her,
waiting for her reply.

"Hector Hayston," she at length muttered.

"And why has he left so fair a retreat to the desolation that has
overtaken it?" rejoined he again. The question was still more
unfortunate. She had no power to reply. Her face was turned from him,
and repressed breathings heaved her bosom. "You may tell me, then, if
one Dame Scott lives in these parts?" he said again, as he marked her
strange manner, and probably augu