The same evening the earl and his guests were sitting in the June
twilight--the long, late northern twilight, which is nowhere more
lovely than on the shores of Loch Beg. Malcolm had just come in with
candles, as a gentle hint that it was time for his master, over whose
personal welfare he was sometimes a little too solicitous, to retire,
when there happened what for the time being startled every body present.

Malcolm, going to the window, sprang suddenly back with a shout and a
scream.

"I kent it weel. It was sure to be! Oh, my lord, my lord!"

"What is the matter?" said Mr. Menteith, sharply. "You're gone daft,
man;" for the big Highlander was trembling like a child.

"Whisht! Dinna speak o't. It was my lord's wraith, ye ken. It just
keekit in and slippit awa."

"Folly! I saw nothing."

"But I think I did," said Lord Cairnforth.

"Hear him! Ay, he saw't his ain sel. Then it maun be true. Oh my dear
lord!"

Poor Malcolm fell on his knees by the earl's little chair in such
agitation that Mr. Cardross looked up from his book, and Helen from her
peaceful needle-work, which was rarely out of her active hands.