Miss Horn's hand came from behind him, and withdrew a covering;
there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold!--a fixed evanescence
--a listening stillness,--awful, yet with a look of entreaty,
at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew the heart
of Malcolm. He saw a low white forehead, large eyeballs upheaving
closed lids, finely modelled features of which the tightened skin
showed all the delicacy, and a mouth of suffering whereon the
vanishing Psyche had left the shadow of the smile with which she
awoke. The tears gathered in his eyes, and Miss Horn saw them.
"Ye maun lay yer han' upo' her, Ma'colm," she said. "Ye ma' aye
touch the deid, to hand ye ohn dreamed aboot them."
"I wad be laith," answered Malcolm; "she wad be ower bonny a dream
to miss.--Are they a' like that?" he added, speaking under his
breath.
"Na, 'deed no!" replied Miss Horn, with mild indignation. "Wad ye
expec' Bawby Cat'nach to luik like that, no?--I beg yer pardon for
mentionin' the wuman, my dear," she added with sudden divergence,
bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic
tone; "I ken weel ye canna bide the verra name o' her; but it s' be
the last time ye s' hear 't to a' eternity, my doo." Then turning
again to Malcolm.--"Lay yer han' upon her broo, I tell ye," she
said.
"I daurna," replied the youth, still under his breath; "my han's
are no clean. I wadna for the warl' touch her wi' fishy han's."
The same moment, moved by a sudden impulse, whose irresistibleness
was veiled in his unconsciousness, he bent down, and put his lips
to the forehead.
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