"What?"
"Marriage," added Annie, quietly. Lilian turned pale; her spirit of dissent was too strong for words; she shook her head with a mournful but decided air, and, after a pause, said, "never, oh, never!" but Annie only laughed, and a long and unpleasant pause in the conversation ensued. At length Lilian said, shuddering,
"Oh, what a grue came over me just now! What can it portend?"
"That an evil spirit is near us," replied Annie, turning pale with the superstition of the time.
"Nay, felt ye a grue, my bairn?" said Lady Grisel, rousing momentarily from her waking dose; "then some one is treading on the ground that shall be your grave." Again Lilian shuddered, and throwing her arms around her grand-aunt, kissed her, exclaiming,
"'Tis the first sentence I have heard you utter for a month—and oh, what a terrible one it is!"
At that moment there was a loud jingle at the great risp on the barbican gate, and Elsie Elshender hobbled in to say that an "auld broken soldier, who had limpit up the gate was speiring for my Lady Craigdarroch, but wadna enter."
"'Tis a letter from the Laird; his troop are in the north, watching the wild gillies of Braemar. Tush! what can his message be now?" said Annie, as she flew to the foot of the staircase, where a man in a tattered red coat, a great scratch wig, with a broad hat flapped over it, one patch on his right eye, and another on his nose, limped forward on a crutch, and presented a letter. "From whence comes it, poor man?" asked Annie.
"From the frontiers of Alsatia; blessings on your sweet face, my noble lady," replied the veteran, gruffly. Annie grew pale as death.
"From whom?" she faltered.