"Hoot, laddie!" returned Miss Horn, in a somewhat offended tone.
--"That'll be what comes o' haein' feelin's. A bonny corp 's the
bonniest thing in creation,--an' that quaiet!--Eh! sic a heap
o' them as there has been sin' Awbel," she went on--"an ilk ane
them luikin, as gien there never had been anither but itsel'! Ye
oucht to see a corp, Ma'colm. Ye'll hae't to du afore ye're ane
yersel', an' ye'll never see a bonnier nor my Grizel."

"Be 't to yer wull, mem," said Malcolm resignedly.

At once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up the
stair and into the dead chamber.

There on the white bed lay the long, black, misshapen thing she had
called "the bit boxie:" and with a strange sinking at the heart,
Malcolm approached it.

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."