pray for than for yours.'

With these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where two
paths separated. Waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of
conflicting passions. He avoided any private interview with Fergus, as he
did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery or reply to
his solicitations. The wild revelry of the feast, for Mac-Ivor kept open
table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. When their
festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again meet Miss
Mac-Ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the morning.
But Flora did not appear. Fergus, whose eyes flashed when he was told by
Cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment that evening,
went himself in quest of her; but apparently his remonstrances were in
vain, for he returned with a heightened complexion and manifest symptoms
of displeasure. The rest of the evening passed on without any allusion,
on the part either of Fergus or Waverley, to the subject which engrossed
the reflections of the latter, and perhaps of both.

When retired to his own apartment, Edward endeavoured to sum up the
business of the day. That the repulse he had received from Flora would be
persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. But could he hope for
ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his suit?
Would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment left no
room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing force, the
success or the failure of the present political machinations? And if so,
could he hope that the interest which she had acknowledged him to possess
in her favour might be improved into a warmer attachment? He taxed his
memory to recall every word she had used, with the appropriate looks and
gestures which had enforced them, and ended by finding himself in the
same state of uncertainty. It was very late before sleep brought relief
to the tumult of his mind, after the most painful and agitating day which
he had ever passed.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A LETTER FROM TULLY-VEOLAN

In the morning, when Waverley's troubled reflections had for some time
given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice of
Selma. He imagined himself transported back to Tully-Veolan, and that he
heard Davie Gellatley singing in the court those matins which used
generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a guest
o