"Na lang, and only fra Ruth and Solly, chattering hizzies! I think it would ha been mair becoming, if Mr. Lindsay, or Mrs. Lindsay, or at least the doctor, had broke it to me. I'm na used to hear such things fra' the like o' Ruth and Solly."

"But Mr. Lindsay himself does not know it yet. He is ill in bed; he had such an alarm last night about Mr. Grunter, that Mr. Jobb, the surgeon, gave him a sleeping draught to compose his nerves: fortunately, he is still in bed and asleep, and knows nothing of what has passed."

"And if the same precaution had been used aboot mysel, it would na have been out o' character," said Miss Tibby, who was very jealous, tetchy, and tenacious. "I'm na that strang that I can bear a' things sae aisily as folk fancy. It ought to ha' been kept fra' me, for I too am ill in bed; a composing draught would ha dune me a warld o' good. I'm jist upset entirely wi' the shock aboot the auld fule Grunter and my young kinsmon."

"Weel, aunt, they're both doing weel now."

"It's mair than I am.

When you've sent

me a wee bit dinner, I beg I may have an interview with the medical mon. I'm as much in need of composing draughts as ony o' them. And noo I'll jist beg you to gang and order the brose and the chicken."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

"By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust
Ensuing danger, as by proof we see

The water swell before a boisterous storm.”

Richard III.

Night closed in; Ellen was obliged to leave Julian to Mr. Jobb's care. Miss Tibby,

anxious to make some little toilet in his honour, appointed him for the next morning. De Villeneuve took his leave; and Ellen, having paid a visit of consolation to all who would admit her, persuaded Annie to retire to rest, and threw her wearied form upon her bed.

There, all the alarms and sorrows of this interminable day were reproduced in her first agitated sleep. She saw Julian's death-like face; she felt him writhe; she heard him groan—the

little busy, smiling, but odious Mr. Jobbthe large, pliant face of the canting nurse: even De Villeneuve's tearful eyes haunted her pillow. She had retired at eleven; at one she awoke with a start. A strange terror seized her; she sat up. All was still, save the loud beating of her own heart.

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Why do I tremble so?" she asked her

self; can he be worse? can he be dying? Does any mysterious sympathy, such as dreaming philosophers tell us of, summon me to his aid? He has Mr. Jobb and the nurse with him- folly! the result of my excited brain and weakened nerves, acted upon by the silence and gloom of the night."

She forced herself to lie down, in vain; she could not rest.

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What," she exclaimed, suddenly starting up, "what is this mysterious hand that seems to be rending my heart-strings? Is fate, at this moment, snapping the thread of his life? Can that mystic thread be intertwined with mine? Must destiny,' as Byron says, ' at once sever both or none?'-what can this agony

mean? I cannot bear it; I will glide down to listen at his door."

Half-dressed, as she had flung herself on the bed, she threw a shawl around her; and, seizing her lamp, stole down stairs, barefoot, lest she should disturb or awake any one.

The door of the anteroom was ajar; she crept to Julian's door, and listened as if her soul was in her ear. Presently she thought she distinguished a very faint moan. She put down her lamp, noiselessly opened the door, and stood in Julian's room.

All was dark and still; a faint glimmer from the lamp she had left in the anteroom showed her the huge old nurse, her arms folded on a small table beside her easy chair, and her face buried in them, fast asleep. Mr. Jobb was not there.

It was some minutes before Ellen's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light; when they did, she saw the face of Julian livid as that of a corpse. She drew nearer, and, to her horror, perceived that the skirt of her white dressing-gown was dabbled with blood; her