sat gazing into the fire
till it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of the
painful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! the
anguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers,
was as sharp and "ill to bide" as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in a
sense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, the
coming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soul
against it gives a sort of courage for the time.

But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallen
on her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all the
future, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness.

It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it all
over. She saw again the home she had left forever--the low house, with
the sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of a
beautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, was
ever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow--a
face with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse than
death. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbing
sighs between.

"O! Willie, Willie!" the broken voice says. "Where are ye, Willie?
Mind, Allison, ye hae promised--to watch for his soul as ane that maun
gie account. And the Lord deal--wi' you, as--ye shall deal wi' Him."

And in her heart she answers:

"Father, be at peace about him. I'll be more mindfu' o' him than the
Lord himself has been."

She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, and
sitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair.
Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, and
the prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are ever
before her, their voices in her ears.

She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does not
even care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dread
lies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, she
thinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Willie
could die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If they
could only pass out of all men's minds, as though they had never been!
But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in their
lives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten.

And having got thus far, it all begins