again upon the
coffin-lid, and she took no heed of all that was going on around her.

Now and then a friend or neighbour came and stood a while looking at the
closed coffin and the motionless figure of the desolate girl, but not a
word was spoken in the room, till the minister rose and said:

"The time is come."

Then there was a movement in the house, and those who were without came
toward the door. Two or three kinsmen of the dead man drew near and
stood ready "to lift the body." At the head, where the son of the house
should have been, Allison still sat mute and motionless, with her face
hidden on her arms, which rested upon the coffin. There was a minute's
silence, so deep that the ticking of the clock seemed to smite with pain
upon the ear. The minister prayed, and then he touched the bowed head
and said gently:

"Allison Bain, the time has come."

The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself to
the waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her face
was so white and drawn--so little like the face of "bonny Allie Bain"--
that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through the
throng. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks,
and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back,
might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers to
lead her away. Then a voice said:

"This is my place," and Brownrig's hand was laid upon the coffin where
Allison's head had lain.

At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl's face. It grew
hard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye or
lip, acknowledge the men's presence or his intent.

"Now," said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with her
face bowed down, but with a firm step, she "carried her father's head"
out of the house which was "to know him no more." In breathless silence
the friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood white
and tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train had
disappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward the
house. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going away
again. But she did not. When her aunt--her mother's sister--put her
hand on her shoulder, saying softly, "Allie, my woman," she paused and
put her arms round the old woman's neck and burst into bitter weeping.
But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spo