The bright autumn sank into November, November winds and mists into a muffled, gray-roofed, white-floored December.

And still the laird of Glenfernie lived with the work of the estate and, when that was done, and when the long, lonely, rambling daily walk or ride was over, with books.

The room in the keep had now many books.

He sat among them, and he built his fire higher, and his candles burned into late night.
Whether he read or did not read, he stayed among them and drew what restless comfort he might.

Strickland, from his own high room, waking in the night, saw the loophole slit of light.
He felt concern.