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Miss Horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the street door, and sprung from her chair inanger."Canna they lat her sleep for five meenutes?" she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear ofrousing her any more.-"It'll be Jean come in frae the pump," she reflected, after a moment's pause;but, hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen, concluded-"It's no her, for she gangsaboot the hoose like the fore half o' a new shod cowt;" and went down the stair to see who mighthave thus presumed to enter unbidden.In the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as scrubbing could make it, and sprinkled with seasand-under the gaily painted Dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, though justbelow the dead-sat a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump face to the first glance lookedkindly, to the second, cunning, and to the third, evil. To the last look the plumpness appearedunhealthy, suggesting a doughy indentation to the finger, and its colour also was pasty. Her deep set, black bright eyes, glowing from under the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, hadsomething of a fascinating influence-so much of it that at a first interview one was not likely for atime to notice any other of her features. She rose as Miss Horn entered, buried a fat fist in a softside, and stood silent."Weel?" said Miss Horn interrogatively, and was silent also."I thocht ye micht want a cast o' my callin'," said the woman."Na, na; there's no a han' 'at s' lay finger upo' the bairn but mine ain," said Miss Horn. "I had it a'ower, my lee lane, afore the skreigh o' day. She's lyin' quaiet noo-verra quaiet-waitin' upo' WattyWitherspail. Whan he fesses hame her bit boxie, we s' hae her laid canny intill 't, an' hae dune wi' 't.""Weel, mem, for a leddy born, like yersel', I maun say, ye tak it unco composed "" no awaur, Mistress Catanach, o' ony necessity laid upo' ye to say yer min' i' this hoose. It's noexpeckit. But what for sud I no tak' it wi' composur'? We'll hae to tak' oor ain turn er lang, ascomposed as we hae the skiel o', and gang oot like a lang nibbit can'le-ay, an lea' jist sic a memoryahin' some o' 's, Bawby.