and the bitter disappointment that followed my
exciting joy made such a thing impossible. When I drew the curtain over
the window, the reflection of the sunrise was just beginning to tinge the
high-sailing clouds in front of me. I laid down and tried to rest, but
without avail. However, I schooled myself to lie still, and at last, if
I did not sleep, was at least quiescent.

Disturbed by a gentle tap at the door, I sprang up at once and threw on a
dressing gown. Outside, when I opened the door, was Aunt Janet. She was
holding a lighted candle in her hand, for though it was getting light in
the open, the passages were still dark. When she saw me she seemed to
breathe more freely, and asked if she might come in.

Whilst she sat on the edge of my bed, in her old-time way, she said in a
hushed voice:

"Oh, laddie, laddie, I trust yer burden is no too heavy to bear."

"My burden! What on earth do you mean, Aunt Janet?" I said in reply. I
did not wish to commit myself by a definite answer, for it was evident
that she had been dreaming or Second Sighting again. She replied with
the grim seriousness usual to her when she touched on occult matters:

"I saw your hairt bleeding, laddie. I kent it was yours, though how I
kent it I don't know. It lay on a stone floor in the dark, save for a
dim blue light such as corpse-lights are. On it was placed a great book,
and close around were scattered many strange things, amongst them two
crowns o' flowers--the one bound wi' silver, the other wi' gold. There
was also a golden cup, like a chalice, o'erturned. The red wine trickled
from it an' mingled wi' yer hairt's bluid; for on the great book was some
vast dim weight wrapped up in black, and on it stepped in turn many men
all swathed in black. An' as the weight of each came on it the bluid
gushed out afresh. And oh, yer puir hairt, my laddie, was quick and
leaping, so that at every beat it raised the black-clad weight! An' yet
that was not all, for hard by stood a tall imperial shape o' a woman, all
arrayed in white, wi' a great veil o' finest lace worn o'er a shrood.
An' she was whiter than the snow, an' fairer than the morn for beauty;
though a dark woman she was, wi' hair like the raven, an' eyes black as
the sea at nicht, an' there was stars in them. An' at each beat o' yer
puir bleeding hairt she wrung her white hands, an' the manin' o' her
sweet voice rent my hairt in twain. Oh, laddie, laddie! what does it
me