“Very well, Margaret,” answered Janet, and left the room.
“Will she listen?” I asked.
“She dares not,” answered Margaret, with a smile; “she has a terrible idea of my powers.”
The twilight grew deeper; the glow of the peat-fire became redder; the old woman lay still as death. And I told all the story of Lady Alice. My voice sounded to myself as I spoke, not like my own, but like its echo from the vault of some listening cave, or like the voices one hears beside as sleep is slowly creeping over the sense. Margaret did not once interrupt me. When I had finished she remained still silent, and I began to fear I had talked her asleep.
“Can you help me?” I said.
“I think I can,” she answered. “Will you call Janet?” I called her.
“Make me a cup of tea, Janet. Will you have some tea with me, Duncan?”
Janet lighted a little lamp, and the tea was soon set out, with “flour-scons” and butter. But Margaret ate nothing; she only drank her tea, lifting her cup with her one trembling hand. When the remains of our repast had been removed, she said:—
“Now, Janet, you can leave us; and on no account come into the room till Mr. Campbell calls you. Take the lamp with you.”
Janet obeyed without a word of reply, and we were left once more alone, lighted only by the dull glow of the fire.