As she sat thus, Halbert entered the grounds of Mossgray, and perceiving Lilias, advanced to her with some hesitation. He seemed to be doubtful whether he should speak to her or no, and gave a wavering glance up to the turret-window of Mossgray’s study as he passed. But Mossgray was seated in the dusk of the large apartment, with content upon his face—content for both the children of his old age, and good hope that the cloud of Lilias’ firmament was floating away. The young man went on with a slow, reluctant step to the sun-dial: she had not noticed him, and unseen he listened to the pathetic burden of her song.
“Werena my heart licht, I wad dee.” Halbert had never heard the words before, and they struck him strangely.
Lilias started as she heard his step; she had fallen into strange habits of late—customs not common to the calm and thoughtful composure of her nature. Such fancies as the poet’s Margaret had, as she sat by her solitary door, while her eyes
“Were busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick.”
It startled her very much, this sudden footstep. She turned her head with a sharp, quick flush of pain, and then it drooped again so languidly.
“Is it you, Halbert?”
“Lilias,” said Halbert, with a difficult attempt at cheerfulness, “it is very rare to hear you sing, and that strange song. Where does it come from?”
“Do you think it strange?” said Lilias. “I think it is not strange, but only very sad and true. Grizzel Baillie must have had a sick heart sometimes, and it sang to her so.”
But the stalwart, healthful Halbert had never been sick at heart.
“I do not understand it very well,” he said, frankly; “but where did you get it, Lilias?”