and colourless, her dark
eyes looked hollow and wild. The first of November was near at hand.
Lois, in her instinctive, well-intentioned efforts to bring some life
and cheerfulness into the monotonous household, had been telling Faith
of many English customs, silly enough, no doubt, and which scarcely
lighted up a flicker of interest in the American girl's mind. The
cousins were lying awake in their bed in the great unplastered room,
which was in part store-room, in part bedroom. Lois was full of
sympathy for Faith that night. For long she had listened to her
cousin's heavy, irrepressible sighs, in silence. Faith sighed because
her grief was of too old a date for violent emotion or crying. Lois
listened without speaking in the dark, quiet night hours, for a long,
long time. She kept quite still, because she thought such vent for
sorrow might relieve her cousin's weary heart. But when at length,
instead of lying motionless, Faith seemed to be growing restless even
to convulsive motions of her limbs, Lois began to speak, to talk about
England, and the dear old ways at home, without exciting much attention
on Faith's part, until at length she fell upon the subject of
Hallow-e'en, and told about customs then and long afterwards practised
in England, and that have scarcely yet died out in Scotland. As she
told of tricks she had often played, of the apple eaten facing a
mirror, of the dripping sheet, of the basins of water, of the nuts
burning side by side, and many other such innocent ways of divination,
by which laughing, trembling English maidens sought to see the form of
their future husbands, if husbands they were to have, then Faith
listened breathlessly, asking short, eager questions, as if some ray of
hope had entered into her gloomy heart. Lois went on speaking, telling
her of all the stories that would confirm the truth of the second sight
vouchsafed to all seekers in the accustomed methods, half believing,
half incredulous herself, but desiring, above all things, to cheer up
poor Faith.

Suddenly, Prudence rose up from her truckle-bed in the dim corner of
the room. They had not thought that she was awake, but she had been
listening long.

'Cousin Lois may go out and meet Satan by the brook-side if she will,
but if thou goest, Faith, I will tell mother--ay, and I will tell
Pastor Tappau, too. Hold thy stories, Cousin Lois, I am afeard of my
very life. I would rather never be wed at all, than feel the touch of
the