rd to be kind?

"I don't know what you mean, Stephen," she said, more gently than he
had ever heard her speak.

Was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but a flickering of the
shadows upon his face? A moment, and he gave a half-choked shriek and
fell on the floor. His mother turned from him with disgust and rang
the bell. "Send Tom here," she said.

An elderly, hard-featured man came.

"Stephen is in one of his fits," she said.

The man looked about him: he could see no one in the room but his
mistress.

"There he is," she continued, pointing to the floor. "Take him away.
Get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay."

The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log and carried him,
convulsed, from the room.

Stephen's mother sat down again by the fire and resumed her knitting.

CHAPTER LXV.

THE LAIRD'S VISION.

Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride when
one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbyres wanted him.
Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs.
Stewart's grieve and had been about the place all his days.

"Mr. Stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a
civility for which Malcolm was not grateful.

"It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht."

"He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness
o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to
speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him."

"Has he ta'en till's bed?" asked Malcolm.

"We pat him infill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no
far frae his hin'er en'."

"I'll gang wi' ye direckly," said Malcolm.

In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyres,
neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted every
one about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn.

"What garred them sen' for me, div ye ken?" asked Malcolm at length
when they had gone about halfway.

"He cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered Tom.

When they arrived Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Stewart met him with red eyes. "Will you come and see my poor boy?"
she said.

"I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill?"

"Very. I'm afraid he is in a bad way."

She led him to a dark, old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. There,
sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the
laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was