was
returning from a visit to the wife of a neighbouring farmer, she was
intercepted within a mile of her father's house. The sibyl-like figure of
Barbara Moor stood before her, and exclaimed--"Stand, maiden! Ye love the
young man whom ye call Patrick--whom your father has so called--and who
resides beneath his roof. He loves you; and ye shall be wed, if I, who
have his destiny in my hand, have strength to direct it! And yet there
must be more blood!--more!--for I am childless!--childless!--childless!
We are not even yet!" She paused, and pressed her hand upon her brow;
while the maiden, startled at her manner, trembled before her. But she
again added--"Yes! yes!--ye shall be wed--the bauble wealth shall be
yours, and ye deserve happiness. But hearken, ye maiden, for on the
obeying of my words depends your fate. When your faither and Patrick set
out for Whitsome fair, request ye to accompany them--insist that ye do,
and ye shall return here a wealthy and a wedded wife; for she says it
whose words were never wasted on the wind. Swear, maiden, that ye will
perform what I have commanded ye."

"Woman!" said Anne, quaking as she spoke, "I never swore, and I winna
swear; but I give thee my hand that I will obey thee. I will go to
Whitsome fair wi' my faither and Patrick."

"Go! go!" cried the sibyl, "lest the dark spirit come upon me; and he
whom ye call Patrick shall die by his father's hand, or his father by
his. But speak not of whom ye have seen, nor of what ye have heard--but
go and do as ye have been commanded. Be silent till we meet again."

Anne bent her head in terror, and promised to obey; and the weird woman,
again exclaiming--"Go!--be silent!--obey!" hastened from her sight.

When Anne entered the house, her father, and her adopted brother, or
lover, were making ready for their journey. She sat down silently and
thoughtfully in a corner of the apartment, and her half-suppressed sighs
reached their ears.

"Why, what in the globe, daughter Anne," said her father, "can make thee
sigh? Art thou sad because Patrick is to leave thee to go to a fair for
a day or two? I suppose thou wouldn't hae troubled thy head, had thy
father been to be absent as many months. But I don't blame thee; I mind
I was tender-hearted at thy age, too--but Patrick knaws better what to
say to thee than I do."

"Dear Anne," whispered the youth, taking her hand, "what ails thee?"

"Ask my father," she rejoined, hesitatingly, "that I may ac