elly, and never see my face more."

The lady had lapsed into wrath, that burned a white heat on her wrinkled
brow, and was doubly formidable because expressed by no hasty word or
gesture.

"Leave my presence, and learn your duty, belyve, for before the turn of
the moon Staneholme's wife ye sall be."

Do not think that Nelly Carnegie was beaten, because she uttered no
further remonstrance. She did not sob, and beg and pray beyond a few
minutes, but she opposed to the tyrannical mandate that disposed of her
so summarily the dead weight of passive resistance. She would give no
token of submission; would make no preparation; she would neither stir
hand nor foot in the matter. A hundred years ago, however, the head of a
family was paramount, and household discipline was wielded without
mercy. Lady Carnegie acted like a sovereign: she wasted no time on
arguments, threats or entreaties. She locked her wilful charge into a
dark sleeping-closet, and fed her on bread and water until she should
consent to her fate. Sometimes Nelly shook the door until its hinges
cracked, and sometimes she flung back the prisoner's fare doled out to
her; and then her mother came with a firm, slow, step, and in her hard,
haughty manner commanded her to cease, or she would tie her hand and
foot, and pour meat and drink down her throat in spite of her. Then
Nelly would lie down on the rough boards, and stretch out her hands as
if to push the world from her and die in her despair. But the young life
was fresh and strong within her. She panted for one breath of the breeze
that blew round craggy Arthur's Seat, and one drink of St. Anthony's
Well, and one look, if it were the last, of the golden sunshine, no
beams of which could penetrate her high, little window. She would fain
have gone again up the busy street, and watched the crowds of
passengers, and listened to the bustling traffic, and greeted her
friends and acquaintances. Silence and solitude, and the close air that
oppressed her, were things very foreign to her nature. In the dark
night, when her distempered imagination conjured up horrible dreams,
Nanny Swinton stole to her door, and bemoaned her bird, her lamb,
whispering hoarsely, "Do her biddin', Miss Nelly; she's yer leddy
mother; neither man nor God will acquit you; your burden may be lichter
than ye trow." And Nelly was weary, and had sinful, mad thoughts of
living to punish her enemies more by the fulfilment of their desire than
by the