The Lost Lady of Lone. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

that," said the housekeeper, with a deep sigh.

      "Who is it, then?" whispered Salome, still gazing on the portrait with somewhat of the rapt devotion with which she had been wont to gaze on pictured saint, or angel, on her convent walls. "Who is it, Mrs. Ross?"

      "Wha is it? Wha suld it be, but our ain young laird? Our ain bonny laddie? Our young Markis o' Arondelle? Oh, waes the day he ever left Lone!" exclaimed Dame Girzie, lifting her apron to her eyes.

      "The Marquis of Arondelle!" echoed Salome, catching her breath, and gazing with even more interest upon the glorious picture.

      Even while she gazed, the ray that had lighted it for a moment was withdrawn by the setting sun, and the picture was swallowed up in sudden darkness.

      "The Marquis of Arondelle," repeated Salome in a low reverent tone, as if speaking to herself.

      "Ay, the young Markis o' Arondelle; wae worth the day he went awa'!" said the housekeeper, wiping her eyes.

      Salome turned suddenly to the weeping woman.

      "I have heard—I have heard—" she began in a low, hesitating voice, and then she suddenly stopped and looked at the dame.

      "Ay, young leddy, nae doubt ye hae heard unco mony a fule tale anent our young laird; but if ye would care to hear the verra truth, ye suld do so frae mysel. But come noo, leddy. It is too dark to see onything mair in this room. We'll gae out on the battlements gin ye like, and tak' a luke at the landscape while the twilight lasts," said Dame Girzie.

      Salome assented with a nod, and they climbed the last steep flight of stairs, cut in the solid wall, and leading from this upper room to the top of the watch-tower.

      They came out upon a magnificent view.

      The bright, long twilight of these Northern latitudes still hung luminously over island, lake and mountain.

      While Salome gazed upon it Dame Girzie said:

      "All this frae the tower to the horizon, far as our eyes can reach, and far'er, was for eight centuries the land of the Lairds of Lone. And noo! a' hae gane frae them, and they hae gane frae us, and na mon kens where they bide or how they fare. Wae's me!"

      "It was indeed a household wreck," said Salome, with sigh of sincere sympathy.

      "Ye may say that, leddy, and mak' na mistake."

      "What is that lofty mountain-top that I see on the edge of the horizon away to the north, just fading in the twilight?" inquired Salome, partly to divert the dame from her gloomy thoughts.

      "Yon? Ay. Yon will be, Ben Lone. It will be twenty miles awa', gin it be a furlong. Our young laird had a braw hunting lodge there, where in the season he was wont to spend weeks thegither wi' his kinsman, Johnnie Scott, for the young laird was unco' fond of deer stalking, and sic like sport. I dinna ken wha owns the lodge now, or whether it went wi' the lave of the estate," said Dame Girzie, with a deep sigh.

      "It is growing quite chilly up here," said Salome, shivering, and drawing her little red shawl more closely around her slight frame. "I think we will go down now, Mrs. Ross. And if you will be so good as to come to me after tea, this evening, I shall like to hear the story of this sorrowful family wreck," she added, as she turned to leave the place.

      That evening, as the heiress sat in the small drawing room appropriated to her own use, the housekeeper rapped and was admitted.

      And after seating herself at the bidding of her young mistress, Girzie Ross opened her mouth and told the true story of the fall of Lone, as I have already told to my readers.

      "And this devoted son actually sacrificed all the prospects of his whole future life, in order to give peace and prosperity to his father's declining days," murmured Salome, with her eyes full of tears and her usually pale cheeks, flushed with emotion.

      "He did, young leddy, like the noble soul, he was," said Dame Girzie.

      "I never heard of such an act of renunciation in my life," murmured Salome.

      "And the pity of it was, young leddy, that it was a' in vain," said the housekeeper.

      "Yes, I know. Where is he now?" inquired the young girl, in a subdued voice.

      "I dinna ken, leddy. Naebody kens," answered Girzie Ross, with a deep sigh, which was unconsciously echoed by the listener.

      Then Dame Ross not to trespass on her young mistress's indulgence, arose and respectfully took her leave.

      Salome fell into a deep reverie. From that hour she had something else to think about, beside the convent and the vail.

      The portrait haunted her imagination, the story filled her heart and employed her thoughts. That night she dreamed of the self-exiled heir, a beautiful, vague, delightful dream, that she tried in vain to recall on the next morning.

      In the course of the day she made several attempts to ask Mrs. Girzie Ross a simple question. And she wondered at her own hesitation to do it. At length she asked it:

      "Mrs. Ross, is that portrait in the tower very much like Lord Arondelle?"

      "Like him, young leddy? Why, it is his verra sel'! And only not sae bonny because it canna move, or smile, or speak. Ye should see him alive to ken him weel," said the housekeeper, heartily.

      That afternoon Salome went up alone to the top of the tower, and spent a dreamy, delicious hour in sitting at the feet of the portrait and gazing upon the face.

      That evening, while the housekeeper attended her at tea, she took courage to make another inquiry, in a very low voice:

      "Is Lord Arondelle engaged, Mrs. Ross?"

      She blushed crimson and turned away her head the moment she had asked the question.

      "Engaged? What—troth-plighted do you mean, young leddy?"

      "Yes," in a very low tone.

      "Bless the lass! nay, nor no thought of it," answered the housekeeper.

      "I was thinking that perhaps it would be well if he were not, that is all," explained Salome, a little confusedly.

      That night, as she undressed to retire to bed, she looked at herself in the glass critically for the first time in her life.

      It was not a pretty face that was reflected there. It was a pale, thin, dark face, that might have been redeemed by the broad, smooth forehead, shaped round by bands of dark brown hair, and lighted by the large, tender, thoughtful gray eyes, had not that forehead worn a look of anxious care, and those eyes an expression of eager inquiry.

      "But then I am so plain—so very, very plain," she said to herself, as if uttering the negation of some preceding train of thought.

      And with a deep sigh she retired to rest.

      The next day Girzie Ross herself was the first to speak of the young marquis.

      "I hae been thinking, young leddy, what garred ye ask me gin the young laird, were troth plighted. And I mistrust ye must hae heard these fule stories anent his hardship, having a sweetheart at Ben Lone. There's nae truth in sic tales, me leddy. No that I'm denying she's a handsome hizzy, this Rose Cameron; but she's nae one to mak' the young laird forget his rank. Ye'll no credit sic tales, me young leddy."

      "I have heard no tales of the sort," said Salome, looking up in surprise.

      "Ay, hae ye no? Aweel, then, its nae matter," said the dame.

      "But what tales are there, Mrs. Ross?" uneasily inquired the heiress. And then she instantly perceived the indiscretion of her question, and regretted that she had asked it.

      "Ou aye, it's just the fule talk o' thae gossips up by Ben Lone. They behoove to say that's its na the game that draws the young laird sae often to Ben Lone; but just Rab Cameron's handsome lass, Rose, and she is a handsome quean as I said before; but nae 'are to mak' the young master lose his head for a' that! Sae ye maun na