When Edward reached Miss Mac-Ivor’s present place of abode, he was instantly admitted.  In a large and gloomy tapestried apartment, Flora was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white flannel.  At a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a foreigner, and of a religious order.  She was reading in a book of Catholic devotion; but when Waverley entered, laid it on the table and left the room.  Flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but neither ventured to attempt speech.  Her fine complexion was totally gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress and jet-black hair.  Yet, amid these marks of distress, there was nothing negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair, though totally without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention to neatness.  The first words she uttered were, ‘Have you seen him?’

‘Alas, no,’ answered Waverley; ‘I have been refused admittance.’

‘It accords with the rest,’ she said; ’but we must submit.  Shall you obtain leave, do you suppose?’

‘For—­for—­to-morrow,’ said Waverley; but muttering the last word so faintly that it was almost unintelligible.

‘Aye, then or never,’ said Flora, ’until’—­she added, looking upward, ’the time when, I trust, we shall all meet.  But I hope you will see him while earth yet bears him.  He always loved you at his heart, though—­but it is vain to talk of the past.’

‘Vain indeed!’ echoed Waverley.

‘Or even of the future, my good friend,’ said Flora, ’so far as earthly events are concerned; for how often have I pictured to myself the strong possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider how I could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation fallen short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!’

’Dear Flora, if your strength of mind’—­

‘Aye, there it is,’ she answered, somewhat wildly; ’there is, Mr. Waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart, that whispers—­but it were madness to listen to it—­that the strength of mind on which Flora prided herself has murdered her brother!’

‘Good God! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?’

’Aye, is it not so?—­but yet it haunts me like a phantom:  I know it is unsubstantial and vain; but it will be present—­will intrude its horrors on my mind—­will whisper that my brother, as volatile as ardent, would have divided his energies amid a hundred objects.  It was I who taught him to concentrate them, and to gage all on this dreadful and desperate cast.  Oh that I could recollect that I had but once said to him, “He that striketh with the sword shall die by the sword”; that I had but once said, Remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals, your life, for enterprises within the reach of man.  But oh, Mr. Waverley, I spurred his fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least lies with his sister.’