“Rachel,” she said, presently, “Ermine must marry him now, and see to Lord Keith, and the little one—­tell her so, please,” then with her unfailing courtesy, “he will seem like your own child, dear Rachel, and you should have him; but you’ll have a wandering home with the dear old Highlanders.  Oh!  I wonder if he will ever go into them, there must always be a Keith there, and they say he is sure of the Victoria Cross, though papa will not send up his name because of being his own son.”  Then passing her hand over her face, she exclaimed—­“Wasn’t I talking great nonsense, Rachel?  I don’t seem able to say what I mean.”

“It is weakness, dearest,” said Rachel, “perhaps you might gain a little strength if you were quite still and listened to my uncle.”

“Presently.  O Rachel!  I like the sound of your voice; I am glad Alick has got you.  You suit him better than his wicked little sister ever did.  You have been so kind to me to-night, Rachel; I never thought I should have loved you so well, when I quizzed you.  I did use you ill then, Rachel, but I think you won Alick by it just by force of contrast,”—­she was verging into the dreamy voice, and Rachel requested her to rest and be silent.

“It can’t make any difference,” said Bessie, “and I’ll try to be quiet and do all right, if you’ll just let me have my child again.  I do want to know who he is like.  I am so glad it is not he that was hurt.  Oh!  I did so want to have brought him up to be like Alick.”

The infant was brought, and she insisted on being lifted to see its face, which she declared to resemble her brother; but here her real self seemed to gain the mastery, and calling it a poor little motherless thing, she fell into a fit of violent convulsive weeping, which ended in a fainting fit, and this was a fearfully perceptible stage on her way to the dark valley.

She was, however, conscious when she revived, and sent for her uncle, whom she begged to let her be laid in his churchyard, “near the willow-tree; not next to my aunt, I’m not good enough,” she said, “but I could not bear that old ruined abbey, where all the Keiths go, and Alick always wanted me to be here—­Alick was right!”

The dreamy mist was coming on, nor was it ever wholly dispelled again.  She listened, or seemed to listen, to her uncle’s prayers, but whenever he ceased, she began to talk—­perhaps sensibly at first, but soon losing the thread—­sometimes about her child or husband, sometimes going back to those expressions of Charles Carleton that had been so dire a shock to her.  “He ought not!  I thought he knew better!  Alick was right!  Come away, Rachel, I’ll never see him again.  I have done nothing that he should insult me.  Alick was right!”