SHORT STORY

Scottish Sketches

ByAMELIA E. BARR

New YorkDodd, Mead and Company1898

COPYRIGHT, 1883, BYAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 

CONTENTS

CRAWFORD'S SAIR STRAIT 7

JAMES BLACKIE'S REVENGE 101

FACING HIS ENEMY 163

ANDREW CARGILL'S CONFESSION 241

ONE WRONG STEP 267

LILE DAVIE 309

Crawford's Sair Strait. 

CRAWFORD'S SAIR STRAIT. 

CHAPTER I. 

Alexander Crawford sat reading a book which he studied frequently witha profound interest. Not the Bible: that volume had indeed its placeof honor in the room, but the book Crawford read was a smaller one; itwas stoutly bound and secured by a brass lock, and it was all inmanuscript. It was his private ledger, and it contained his bankaccount. Its contents seemed to give him much solid satisfaction; andwhen at last he locked the volume and replaced it in his secretary, itwas with that careful respect which he considered due to therepresentative of so many thousand pounds. 

He was in a placid mood, and strangely inclined to retrospection. Thoughtfully fingering the key which locked up the record of hiswealth, he walked to the window and looked out. It was a drearyprospect of brown moor and gray sea, but Crawford loved it. The bareland and the barren mountains was the country of the Crawfords. He hada fixed idea that it always had been theirs, and whenever he toldhimself--as he did this night--that so many acres of old Scotland wereactually his own, he was aggressively a Scotchman. 

"It is a bonnie bit o' land, " he murmured, "and I hae done as myfather Laird Archibald told me. If we should meet in another warldI'll be able to gie a good account o' Crawford and Traquare. It isthirty years to-night since he gave me the ring off his finger, andsaid, 'Alexander, I am going the way o' all flesh; be a good man, and_grip tight_. ' I hae done as he bid me; there is £80, 000 in theBank o' Scotland, and every mortgage lifted. I am vera weel pleasedwi' mysel' to-night. I hae been a good holder o' Crawford andTraquare. "

His self-complacent reflections were cut short by the entrance of hisdaughter. She stood beside him, and laid her hand upon his arm with acaressing gesture. No other living creature durst have taken thatliberty with him; but to Crawford his daughter Helen was a being apartfrom common humanity. She was small, but very lovely, with somethingalmost Puritanical in her dainty, precise dress and carefully snoodedgolden hair. 

"Father!"

"Helen, my bird. "

"Colin is coming home. I have just had a letter from him. He has takenhigh honors in Glasgow. We'll both be proud of Colin, father. "

"What has he done?"

"He has written a prize poem in Latin and Greek, and he is second inmathematics. "

"Latin and Greek! Poor ghostlike languages that hae put off flesh andblood lang syne. Poetry! Warse than nonsense! David and Solomon haegien us such sacred poetry as is good and necessary; and for sinfu'love verses and such vanities, if Scotland must hae them, Robert Burnsis mair than enough. As to mathematics, there's naething against them. A study that is founded on figures is to be depended upon; it has naeflights and fancies. You ken what you are doing wi' figures. When isthis clever fellow to be here?"

"He is coming by the afternoon packet to-morrow. We must send thecarriage to meet it, for Colin is bringing a stranger with him. I cameto ask you if I must have the best guest-room made ready. "

"Wha for?"

"He is an English gentleman, from London, father. "

"And you would put an Englishman in the room where the twa lastStuarts slept? I'll not hear tell o' it. I'm not the man to lift aquarrel my fathers dropped, but I'll hae no English body in PrinceCharlie's room. Mind that, noo! What is the man's name?"

"Mr. George Selwyn. "

"George Selwyn! There's nae Scotch Selwyns that I ken o'. He'll beSaxon altogether. Put him in the East room. "

Crawford was not pleased at his son bringing any visitor. In the firstplace, he had important plans to discuss and carry out, and he wasimpatient of further delay. In the second, he was intensely jealous ofHelen. Every young man was a probable suitor, and he had quite decidedthat Farquharson of Blair was the proper husband for her. Crawford andBlair had stood shoulder to shoulder in every national quarrel, and amarriage would put the two estates almost in a ring fence. 

But he went the next day to meet the young men. He had not seen hisson for three years, and the lad was an object very near and dear tohis heart. He loved him tenderly as his son, he respected him highlyas the future heir of Crawford and Traquare. The Crawfords were a veryhandsome race; he was anxious that this, their thirteenthrepresentative, should be worthy, even physically, of his ancestors. He drew a long sigh of gratification as young Colin, with open hands, came up to him. The future laird was a noble-looking fellow, a dark, swarthy Highlandman, with glowing eyes, and a frame which promised ina few years to fill up splendidly. 

His companion was singularly unlike him. Old Crawford had judgedrightly. He was a pure Saxon, and showed it in his clear, freshcomplexion, pale brown hair, and clear, wide-open blue eyes. But therewas something about this young man which struck a deeper and widersympathy than race--he had a heart beating for all humanity. Crawfordlooked at him physically only, and he decided at once, "There is nofear of Helen. " He told himself that young Farquharson was six inchestaller and every way a far "prettier man. " Helen was not of thisopinion. No hero is so fascinating to a woman as the man mentally andspiritually above her, and whom she must love from a distance; and ifCrawford could have known how dangerous were those walks over thespringy heather and through the still pine woods, Mr. Selwyn wouldhave taken them far more frequently alone than he did. 

But Crawford had other things to employ his attention at that time, and indeed the young English clergyman was far beyond his mental andspiritual horizon; he could not judge him fairly. So these youngpeople walked and rode and sailed together, and Selwyn talked like anapostle of the wrongs that were to be righted and the poor perishingsouls that were to be redeemed. The spiritual warfare in which he wasenlisted had taken possession of him, and he spoke with the martialenthusiasm of a young soldier buckling on his armor. 

Helen and Colin listened in glowing silence, Helen showing hersympathy by her flushing cheeks and wet eyes, and Colin by theimpatient way in which he struck down with his stick the thistles bythe path side, as if they were the demons of sin and ignorance anddirt Selwyn was warring against. But after three weeks of thisintercourse Crawford became sensible of some change in the atmosphereof his home. When Selwyn first arrived, and Crawford learned that hewas a clergyman in orders, he had, out of respect to the office, delegated to him the conduct of family worship. Gradually Selwyn hadbegun to illustrate the gospel text with short, earnest remarks, whichwere a revelation of Bible truth to the thoughtful men and women whoheard them. 

The laird's "exercises" had often been slipped away from, excuses hadbeen frequent, absentees usual; but they came to listen to Selwyn withan eagerness which irritated him. In our day, the gospel of Christ hasbrought forth its last beautiful blossom--the gospel of humanity. Freeschools, free Bibles, Tract and City Missions, Hospitals and ClothingSocieties, loving helps of all kinds are a part of every churchorganization. But in the time of which I am writing they were unknownin country parishes, they struggled even in great cities for a feeblelife. 

The laird and his servants heard some startling truths, and the lairdbegan to rebel against them. A religion of intellectual faith, andwhich had certain well-recognized claims on his pocket, he was willingto support, and to defend, if need were; but he considered one whichmade him on every hand his brother's keeper a dangerously democratictheology. 

"I'll hae no socialism in my religion, any more than I'll hae it in mypolitics, Colin, " he said angrily. "And if yon Mr. Selwyn belongs towhat they call the Church o' England, I'm mair set up than ever wi'the Kirk o' Scotland! God bless her!"

They were sitting in the room sacred to business and to the memory ofthe late Laird Archibald. Colin was accustomed to receive his father'sopinions in silence, and he made no answer to this remark. This time, however, the laird was not satisfied with the presumed assent ofsilence; he asked sharply, "What say ye to that, son Colin?"

"I say God bless the Kirk of Scotland, father, and I say it the moreheartily because I would like to have a place among those who serveher. "

"What are ye saying now?"

"That I should like to be a minister. I suppose you have noobjections. "

"I hae vera great objections. I'll no hear tell o' such a thing. Ministers canna mak money, and they canna save it. If you should makit, that would be an offence to your congregation; if ye should saveit, they would say ye ought to hae gien it to the poor. There will benae Dominie Crawford o' my kin, Colin. Will naething but looking downon the warld from a pulpit sarve you?"

"I like art, father. I can paint a little, and I love music. "

"Art! Painting! Music! Is the lad gane daft? God has gien to some menwisdom and understanding, to ithers the art o' playing on the fiddleand painting pictures. There shall be no painting, fiddling Crawfordamong my kin, Colin. "

The young fellow bit his lip, and his eyes flashed dangerously beneaththeir dropped lids. But he said calmly enough, "What is your own idea, father? I am twenty-two, I ought to be doing aman's work of some kind. "

"Just sae. That is warld-like talk. Now I'll speak wi' you anent agrand plan I hae had for a long time. " With these words he rose, andtook from his secretary a piece of parchment containing the plan ofthe estate. "Sit down, son Colin, and I'll show you your inheritance. "Then he went carefully over every acre of moor and wood, of moss andwater, growing enthusiastic as he pointed out how many sheep could begrazed on the hills, what shooting and fishing privileges were worth, etc. "And the best is to come, my lad. There is coal on the estate, and I am going to open it up, for I hae the ready siller to do it. "

Colin sat silent; his cold, dissenting air irritated the excited lairdvery much. 

"What hae ye got to say to a' this, Colin?" he asked proudly, "foryou'll hae the management o' everything with me. Why, my dear son, ifa' goes weel--and it's sure to--we'll be rich enough in a few years toput in our claim for the old Earldom o' Crawford, and you may tak yourseat in the House o' Peers yet. The old chevalier promised us aDukedom, " he said sadly, "but I'm feared that will be aboon ourthumb--"

"Father, what are you going to do with the clansmen? Do you thinkHighlandmen who have lived on the mountains are going to dig coal? Doyou imagine that these men, who, until a generation or two ago, neverhandled anything but a claymore, and who even now scorn to do aughtbut stalk deer or spear salmon, will take a shovel and a pickaxe andlabor as coal-miners? There is not a Crawford among them who would doit. I would despise him if he did. "

"There is a glimmer o' good sense in what you say, Colin. I dinnaintend any Crawford to work in my coal mine. Little use they would bethere. I'll send to Glasgow for some Irish bodies. "

"And then you will have more fighting than working on the place; andyou'll have to build a Roman-catholic chapel, and have a Roman priestin Crawford, and you ken whether the Crawfords will thole _that_ ornot. "

"As to the fighting, I'll gie them no chance. I'm going to send theCrawfords to Canada. I hae thought it all out. The sheilings will dofor the others; the land I want for sheep grazing. They are doingnaething for themsel's, and they are just a burden to me. It will bebetter for them to gang to Canada. I'll pay their passage, and I'llgie them a few pounds each to start them. You must stand by me in thismatter, for they'll hae to go sooner or later. "

"That is a thing I cannot do, father. There is not a Laird of Crawfordthat was not nursed on some clanswoman's breast. We are all kin. Doyou think I would like to see Rory and Jean Crawford packed off toCanada? And there is young Hector, my foster-brother! And old Ailsa, your own foster-sister! Every Crawford has a right to a bite and a supfrom the Crawford land. "

"That is a' bygane nonsense. Your great-grandfather, if he wantedcattle or meal, could just take the clan and go and harry someSouthern body out o' them. That is beyond our power, and it's an uncacharge to hae every Crawford looking to you when hunting and fishingfails. They'll do fine in Canada. There is grand hunting, and if theywant fighting, doubtless there will be Indians. They will hae to go, and you will hae to stand by me in this matter. "

"It is against my conscience, sir. I had also plans about these poor, half-civilized, loving kinsmen of ours. You should hear Selwyn talk ofwhat we might do with them. There is land enough to give all who wantit a few acres, and the rest could be set up with boats and nets asfishers. They would like that. "

"Nae doubt. But I don't like it, and I wont hae it. Mr. Selwyn may haea big parish in London, but the Crawfords arena in his congregation. Iam king and bishop within my ain estate, Colin. " Then he rose in adecided passion and locked up again the precious parchment, and Colinunderstood that, for the present, the subject was dismissed. 

CHAPTER II. 

At the very time this conversation was in progress, one strangelydissimilar was being carried on between George Selwyn and HelenCrawford. They were sitting in the sweet, old-fashioned garden andSelwyn had been talking of the work so dear to his heart, but asilence had fallen between them. Then softly and almost hesitatinglyHelen said "Mr. Selwyn, I cannot help in this grand evangel, exceptwith money and prayers. May I offer you £300? It is entirely my own, and it lies useless in my desk. Will you take it?"

"I have no power to refuse it. 'You give it to God, durst I say no?'But as I do not return at once, you had better send it in a check toour treasurer. " Then he gave her the necessary business directions, and was writing the address of the treasurer when the laird stopped infront of them. 

"Helen, you are needed in the house, " he said abruptly; and thenturning to Selwyn, he asked him to take a walk up the hill. The youngman complied. He was quite unconscious of the anger in the tone of therequest. For a few yards neither spoke; then the laird, with anirritable glance at his placid companion, said, "Mr. Selwyn, fore-speaking saves after-speaking. Helen Crawford is bespoke foryoung Farquharson of Blair, and if you have any hopes o' wiving in myhouse--"

"Crawford, thank you for your warning, but I have no thoughts ofmarrying any one. Helen Crawford is a pearl among women; but even if Iwanted a wife, she is unfit for my helpmate. When I took my curacy inthe East End of London I counted the cost. Not for the fairest of thedaughters of men would I desert my first love--the Christ-work towhich I have solemnly dedicated my life. "

His voice fell almost to a whisper, but the outward, upward glance ofthe inspired eyes completely disconcerted the aggressive oldchieftain. His supposed enemy, in some intangible way, had escapedhim, and he felt keenly his own mistake. He was glad to see Colincoming; it gave him an opportunity of escaping honorably from aconversation which had been very humiliating to him. He had a habitwhen annoyed of seeking the sea-beach. The chafing, complaining wavessuited his fretful mood, and leaving the young men, he turned to thesea, taking the hillside with such mighty strides that Selwyn watchedhim with admiration and astonishment. 

"Four miles of that walking will bring him home in the most amiable ofmoods, " said Colin. And perhaps it would, if he had been left to thesole companionship of nature. But when he was half way home he metDominie Tallisker, a man of as lofty a spirit as any Crawford who everlived. The two men were close friends, though they seldom met withoutdisagreeing on some point. 

"Weel met, dominie! Are you going to the Keep?"

"Just so, I am for an hour's talk wi' that fine young Englishclergyman you hae staying wi' you. "

"Tallisker, let me tell you, man, you hae been seen o'er much wi' himlately. Why, dominie! he is an Episcopal, and an Arminian o' the verawarst kind. "

"Hout, laird! Arminianism isna a contagious disease. I'll no mair takArminianism from the Rev. George Selwyn than I'll tak Toryism fraLaird Alexander Crawford. My theology and my politics are far beyondinoculation. Let me tell you that, laird. "

"Hae ye gotten an argument up wi' him, Tallisker? I would like weel tohear ye twa at it. "

"Na, na; he isna one o' them that argues. He maks downrightassertions; every one o' them hits a body's conscience like asledge-hammer. He said that to me as we walked the moor last nightthat didna let me sleep a wink. "

"He is a vera disagreeable young man. What could he say to you? Youhave aye done your duty. "

"I thought sae once, Crawford. I taught the bairns their catechism; Ilooked weel to the spiritual life o' young and old; I had aye a wordin season for all. But maybe this I ought to hae done, and not leftthe other undone. "

"You are talking foolishness, Tallisker, and that's a thing no usualwi' you. "

"No oftener wi' me nor other folk. But, laird, I feel there must be achange. I hae gotten my orders, and I am going to obey them. You maybe certain o' that. "

"I didna think I would ever see Dominie Tallisker taking orders from adisciple o' Arminius--and an Englishman forbye!"

"I'll tak my orders, Crawford, from any messenger the Lord chooses tosend them by. And I'll do this messenger justice; he laid down no lawto me, he only spak o' the duty laid on his own conscience; but myconscience said 'Amen' to his--that's about it. There has been abreath o' the Holy Ghost through the Church o' England lately, and thedry bones o' its ceremonials are being clothed upon wi' a new andwonderfu' life. "

"Humff!" said the laird with a scornful laugh as he kicked a pebbleout of his way. 

"There is a great outpouring at Oxford among the young men, and thoughI dinna agree wi' them in a' things, I can see that they hae gotten arevelation. "

"Ou, ay, the young ken a' things. It is aye young men that are forturning the warld upside down. Naething is good enough for them. "

The dominie took no notice of the petulant interruption. "Laird, " hesaid excitedly, "it is like a fresh Epiphany, what this young Mr. Selwyn says--the hungry are fed, the naked clothed, the prisonerscomforted, the puir wee, ragged, ignorant bairns gathered into homesand schools, and it is the gospel wi' bread and meat and shelter andschooling in its hand. That was Christ's ain way, you'll admit that. And while he was talking, my heart burned, and I bethought me of anight-school for the little herd laddies and lasses. They could studytheir lessons on the hillside all day, and I'll gather them for anhour at night, and gie them a basin o' porridge and milk after theirlessons. And we ought not to send the orphan weans o' the kirk to thewarkhouse; we ought to hae a hame for them, and our sick ought to bebetter looked to. There is many another good thing to do, but we'llbegin wi' these, and the rest will follow. "

The laird had listened thus far in speechless indignation. He nowstood still, and said, "I'll hae you to understand, Dominie Tallisker, that I am laird o'Crawford and Traquare, and I'll hae nae such pliskies played in eithero' my clachans. "

"If you are laird, I am dominie. You ken me weel enough to be sure ifthis thing is a matter o' conscience to me, neither king nor kaisercan stop me. I'd snap my fingers in King George's face if he bid me'stay, ' when my conscience said 'go, '" and the dominie accompanied thethreat with that sharp, resonant fillip of the fingers that is aScotchman's natural expression of intense excitement of any kind. 

"King George!" cried the laird, in an ungovernable temper, "there isthe whole trouble. If we had only a Charles Stuart on the throne therewould be nane o' this Whiggery. "

"There would be in its place masses, and popish priests, and a fewprivate torture-chambers, and whiles a Presbyterian heretic or twaburned at the Grass-market. Whiggery is a grand thing when it keepsthe Scarlet Woman on her ain seven hills. Scotland's hills and braescan do weel, weel without her. "

This speech gave the laird time to think. It would never do to quarrelwith Tallisker. If he should set himself positively against his schemeof sending his clan to Canada it would be almost a hopeless one; andthen he loved and respected his friend. His tall, powerful frame andhis dark, handsome face, all aglow with a passionate conviction ofright, and an invincible determination to do it, commanded histhorough admiration. He clasped his hands behind his back and saidcalmly, "Tallisker, you'll be sorry enough for your temper erelong. You haegien way mair than I did. Ye ken how you feel about it. "

"I feel ashamed o' mysel', laird. You'll no lay the blame o' it to myoffice, but to Dugald Tallisker his ain sel'. There's a deal o'Dugald Tallisker in me yet, laird; and whiles he is o'er much forDominie Tallisker. "

They were at the gate by this time, and Crawford held out his hand andsaid, "Come in, dominie. "

"No; I'll go hame, laird, and gie mysel' a talking to. Tell Mr. SelwynI want to see him. "

CHAPTER III. 

Alas, how often do Christ's words, "I come not to bring peace, but asword, " prove true. George Selwyn went away, but the seed he haddropped in this far-off corner of Scotland did not bring forthaltogether the peaceable fruits of righteousness. In fact, as we haveseen, it had scarcely begun to germinate before the laird and thedominie felt it to be a root of bitterness between them. For ifCrawford knew anything he knew that Tallisker would never relinquishhis new work, and perhaps if he yielded to any reasonable objectTallisker would stand by him in his project. 

He did not force the emigration plan upon his notice. The summer wasfar advanced; it would be unjustifiable to send the clan to Canada atthe beginning of winter. And, as it happened, the subject was openedwith the dominie in a very favorable manner. They were returning fromthe moors one day and met a party of six men. They were evidentlygreatly depressed, but they lifted their bonnets readily to the chief. There was a hopeless, unhappy look about them that was very painful. 

"You have been unsuccessful on the hills, Archie, I fear. "

"There's few red deer left, " said the man gloomily. "It used to bedeer and men; it is sheep and dogs now. "

After a painful silence the dominie said, "Something ought to be done for those braw fellows. They canna ditchand delve like an Irish peasant. It would be like harnessing stags ina plough. "

Then Crawford spoke cautiously of his intention, and to his delightthe dominie approved it. 

"I'll send them out in Read & Murray's best ships. I'll gie each heado' a family what you think right, Tallisker, and I'll put £100 in yourhands for special cases o' help. And you will speak to the men andtheir wives for me, for it is a thing I canna bear to do. "

But the men too listened eagerly to the proposition. They trusted thedominie, and they were weary of picking up a precarious living inhunting and fishing, and relying on the chief in emergencies. Theirold feudal love and reverence still remained in a large measure, butthey were quite sensible that everything had changed in their littleworld, and that they were out of tune with it. Some few of theirnumber had made their way to India or Canada, and there was a vaguedissatisfaction which only required a prospect of change to develop. As time went on, and the laird's plan for opening the coal beds on hisestate got known, the men became impatient to be gone. 

In the early part of March two large ships lay off the coast waitingfor them, and they went in a body to Crawford Keep to bid the chief"farewell. " It was a hard hour, after all, to Crawford. The greatpurpose that he had kept before his eyes for years was not at thatmoment sufficient. He had dressed himself in his full chieftain's suitto meet them. The eagle's feather in his Glengary gave to his greatstature the last grace. The tartan and philibeg, the garters at hisknee, the silver buckles at his shoulder, belt, and shoon, thejewelled mull and dirk, had all to these poor fellows in this lasthour a proud and sad significance. As he stood on the steps to welcomethem, the wind colored his handsome face and blew out the long blackhair which fell curling on his shoulders. 

Whatever they intended to say to him, when they thus saw him withyoung Colin by his side they were unable to say. They could only lifttheir bonnets in silence. The instincts and traditions of a thousandyears were over them; he was at this moment the father and the chiefof their deepest affection. One by one they advanced to him. Hepressed the hands of all. Some of the older men--companions of hisyouth in play and sport--he kissed with a solemn tenderness. They wentaway silently as they came, but every heart was full and every eye wasdim. There was a great feast for them in the clachan that night, butit was a sombre meeting, and the dominie's cheerful words of adviceand comfort formed its gayest feature. 

The next day was calm and clear. The women and children were safely onboard soon after noon, and about four o'clock the long boats left theshore full of men. Tallisker was in the front one. As they pulled awayhe pointed silently to a steep crag on the shingly beach. The chiefstood upon it. He waved his bonnet, and then the long-pent feelings ofthe clan found vent in one long, pitiful Gallic lament, _O hon a rie!O hon a rie!_ For a few moments the boats lay at rest, no man was ableto lift an oar. Suddenly Tallisker's clear, powerful voice touched theright chord. To the grand, plaintive melody of St. Mary's he began the125th Psalm, "They in the Lord that firmly trust shall be like Sion hill, Which at no time can be removed, but standeth ever still. 

 As round about Jerusalem the mountains stand alway; The Lord his folk doth compass so from henceforth and for aye. "

And thus singing together they passed from their old life into a newone. 

Colin had been indignant and sorrowful over the whole affair. He andHelen were still young enough to regret the breaking of a tie whichbound them to a life whose romance cast something like a glamour overthe prosaic one of more modern times. Both would, in theunreasonableness of youthful sympathy, have willingly shared land andgold with their poor kinsmen; but in this respect Tallisker was withthe laird. 

"It was better, " he said, "that the old feudal tie should be severedeven by a thousand leagues of ocean. They were men and not bairns, andthey could feel their ain feet;" and then he smiled as he rememberedhow naturally they had taken to self-dependence. For one night, in aconversation with the oldest men, he said, "Crawfords, ye'll hae toconsider, as soon as you are gathered together in your new hame, thematter o' a dominie. Your little flock in the wilderness will need ashepherd, and the proper authorities maun be notified. "

Then an old gray-headed man had answered firmly, "Dominie, we willelect our ain minister. We hae been heart and soul, every man o' us, with the Relief Kirk; but it is ill living in Rome and striving wi'the pope, and sae for the chief's sake and your sake we hae withheldour testimony. But we ken weel that even in Scotland the Kirk willnahirple along much farther wi' the State on her back, and in thewilderness, please God, we'll plant only a Free Kirk. "

The dominie heard the resolve in silence, but to himself he saidsoftly, "_They'll do! They'll do!_ They'll be a bit upsetting atfirst, maybe, but they are queer folk that have nae failings. "

A long parting is a great strain; it was a great relief when the shipshad sailed quite out of sight. The laird with a light heart now turnedto his new plans. No reproachful eyes and unhappy faces were there todamp his ardor. Everything promised well. The coal seam proved to befar richer than had been anticipated, and those expert in such matterssaid there were undoubted indications of the near presence of ironore. Great furnaces began to loom up in Crawford's mental vision, andto cast splendid lustres across his future fortunes. 

In a month after the departure of the clan, the little clachan ofTraquare had greatly changed. Long rows of brick cottages, ugly andmonotonous beyond description, had taken the place of the morepicturesque sheilings. Men who seemed to measure everything in lifewith a two-foot rule were making roads and building jetties forcoal-smacks to lie at. There was constant influx of strange men andwomen--men of stunted growth and white faces, and who had an insolent, swaggering air, intolerably vulgar when contrasted with the Doricsimplicity and quiet gigantic manhood of the mountain shepherds. 

The new workers were, however, mainly Lowland Scotchmen from themining districts of Ayrshire. The dominie had set himself positivelyagainst the introduction of a popish element and an alien people; andin this position he had been warmly upheld by Farquharson and theneighboring proprietors. As it was, there was an antagonism likely togive him full employment. The Gael of the mountains regarded theseLowland "working bodies" with something of that disdain which a richand cultivated man feels for kin, not only poor, but of contemptiblenature and associations. The Gael was poor truly, but he held himselfas of gentle birth. He had lived by his sword, or by the care ofcattle, hunting, and fishing. Spades, hammers, and looms belonged topeople of another kind. 

Besides this great social gulf, there were political and religiousones still wider. That these differences were traditional, rather thanreal, made no distinction. Man have always fought as passionately foran idea as for a fact. But Dominie Tallisker was a man made for greatrequirements and great trusts. He took in the position with the eye ofa general. He watched the two classes passing down the same streets asfar apart as if separated by a continent, and he said, with a verypositive look on his face, "These men are brethren and they ought todwell in unity; and, God helping Dugald Tallisker, they will do it, yes, indeed, they will. "

CHAPTER IV. 

In a year after the departure of the clan, the clachans of Crawfordand Traquare had lost almost all traces of their old pastoralcharacter. The coal pit had been opened, and great iron furnaces builtalmost at its mouth. Things had gone well with Crawford; the seam hadproved to be unusually rich; and, though the iron had been found, noton his land, but on the extreme edge of Blair, he was quite satisfied. Farquharson had struck hands with him over it, and the Blair iron orewent to the Crawford furnaces to be smelted into pig iron. 

Crawford had grown younger in the ardent life he had been leading. Noone would have taken him to be fifty-five years old. He hardly thoughtof the past; he only told himself that he had never been as strong andclear-headed and full of endurance, and that it was probable he hadyet nearly half a century before him. What could he not accomplish inthat time?

But in every earthly success there is a Mordecai sitting in its gate, and Colin was the uncomfortable feature in the laird's splendid hopes. He had lounged heartlessly to and from the works; the steady, mechanical routine of the new life oppressed him, and he had athorough dislike for the new order of men with whom he had to come incontact. The young Crawfords had followed him about the hills with analmost canine affection and admiration. To them he was always "theyoung laird. " These sturdy Ayrshire and Galloway men had an oldcovenanting rebelliousness about them. They disputed even with DominieTallisker on church government; they sang Robert Burns' mostdemocratic songs in Crawford's very presence. 

Then Colin contrasted them physically with the great fellows he hadbeen accustomed to see striding over the hills, and he despised theforms stunted by working in low seams and unhealthy vapors and thefaces white for lack of sunshine and grimy with the all-pervading coaldust. The giants who toiled in leather masks and leather suits beforethe furnaces suited his taste better. When he watched them movingabout amid the din and flames and white-hot metal, he thought ofVulcan and Mount Ętna, and thus threw over them the enchantments ofthe old Roman age. But in their real life the men disappointed him. They were vulgar and quarrelsome; the poorest Highland gillie had avein of poetry in his nature, but these iron-workers were painfullymatter of fact; they could not even understand a courtesy unless ittook the shape of a glass of whiskey. 

It was evident to the laird that the new life was very distasteful tohis heir; it was evident to the dominie that it was developing theworst sides of Colin's character. Something of this he pointed out toHelen one morning. Helen and he had lately become great friends, indeed, they were co-workers together in all the new labors which thedominie's conscience had set him. The laird had been too busy andanxious about other matters to interfere as yet with this alliance, but he promised himself he would do so very soon. Helen Crawford wasnot going to nurse sick babies and sew for all the old women in theclachan much longer. And the night-school! This was particularlyoffensive to him. Some of the new men had gone there, and Crawford wassure he was in some way defrauded by it. He thought it impossible towork in the day and study an hour at night. In some way he suffered byit. 

"If they werna in the schoolroom they would be in the Change House, "Tallisker had argued. 

But the laird thought in his heart that the whiskey would be more tohis advantage than the books. Yet he did not like to say so; there wassomething in the dominie's face which restrained him. He had openedthe subject in that blustering way which always hides the whitefeather somewhere beneath it, and Tallisker had answered with a solemnseverity, "Crawford, it seems to be your wark to mak money; it is mine to savesouls. Our roads are sae far apart we arena likely to run against eachother, if we dinna try to. "

"But I don't like the way you are doing your wark; that is all, dominie. "

"Mammon never did like God's ways. There is a vera old disagreementbetween them. A man has a right to consider his ain welfare, Crawford, but it shouldna be mair than the twa tables o' the law to him. "

Now Tallisker was one of those ministers who bear their greatcommission in their faces. There was something almost imperial aboutthe man when he took his stand by the humblest altar of his duty. Crawford had intended at this very time to speak positively on thesubject of his own workers to Tallisker. But when he looked at thedark face, set and solemn and full of an irresistible authority, hewas compelled to keep silence. A dim fear that Tallisker would saysomething to him which would make him uncomfortable crept into hisheart. It was better that both the dominie and conscience should bequiet at present. 

Still he could not refrain from saying, "You hae set yoursel' a task you'll ne'er win over, dominie. You couldas easy mak Ben-Cruchan cross the valley and sit down by Ben-Appin asmak Gael and Lowlander call each other brothers. "

"We are told, Crawford, that mountains may be moved by faith; why not, then, by love? I am a servant o' God. I dinna think it any presumptionto expect impossibilities. "

Still it must be acknowledged that Tallisker looked on the situationas a difficult one. The new workers to a man disapproved of theEstablished Church of Scotland. Perhaps of all classes of laborersScotch colliers are the most theoretically democratic and the mostpractically indifferent in matters of religion. Every one of them hadrelief and secession arguments ready for use, and they used themchiefly as an excuse for not attending Tallisker's ministry. Whenconscience is used as an excuse, or as a weapon for wounding, it isamazing how tender it becomes. It pleased these Lowland workers toassert a religious freedom beyond that of the dominie and the shepherdGael around them. And if men wish to quarrel, and can give theirquarrel a religious basis, they secure a tolerance and a respect whichtheir own characters would not give them. Tallisker might pooh-poohsectional or political differences, but he was himself far tooscrupulous to regard with indifference the smallest theologicalhesitation. 

One day as he was walking up the clachan pondering these things, henoticed before him a Highland shepherd driving a flock to the hills. There was a party of colliers sitting around the Change House; theywere the night-gang, and having had their sleep and their breakfast, were now smoking and drinking away the few hours left of their rest. Anything offering the chance of amusement was acceptable, and JimArmstrong, a saucy, bullying fellow from the Lonsdale mines, who hadgreat confidence in his Cumberland wrestling tricks, thought he saw inthe placid indifference of the shepherd a good opportunity forbravado. 

"Sawnie, ye needna pass the Change House because we are here. We'll nohurt you, man. "

The shepherd was as one who heard not. 

Then followed an epithet that no Highlander can hear unmoved, and theman paused and put his hand under his plaid. Tallisker saw themovement and quickened his steps. The word was repeated, with thescornful laugh of the group to enforce it. The shepherd called hisdog--

"Keeper, you tak the sheep to the Cruchan corrie, and dinna let are o'them stray. "

The dumb creature looked in his face assentingly, and with a sharpbark took the flock charge. Then the shepherd walked up to the group, and Jim Armstrong rose to meet him. 

"Nae dirks, " said an old man quietly; "tak your hands like men. "

Before the speech was over they were clinched in a grasp which meantgigantic strength on one side, and a good deal of practical bruisingscience on the other. But before there was an opportunity of testingthe quality of either the dominie was between the men. He threw themapart like children, and held each of them at arm's length, almost asa father might separate two fighting schoolboys. The group watchingcould not refrain a shout of enthusiasm, and old Tony Musgrave jumpedto his feet and threw his pipe and his cap in the air. 

"Dugald, " said the dominie to the shepherd, "go your ways to yoursheep. I'll hae nae fighting in my parish. 

"Jim Armstrong, you thrawart bully you, dinna think you are the onlyman that kens Cumberland cantrips. I could fling you mysel' before youcould tell your own name;" and as if to prove his words, he raised animmense stone, that few men could have lifted, and with apparent easeflung it over his right shoulder. A shout of astonishment greeted theexploit, and Tony Musgrave--whose keen, satirical ill-will hadhitherto been Tallisker's greatest annoyance--came frankly forward andsaid, "Dominie, you are a guid fellow! Will you tak some beer wi' me?"

Tallisker did not hesitate a moment. 

"Thank you, Tony. If it be a drink o' good-will, I'll tak it gladly. "

But he was not inclined to prolong the scene; the interference hadbeen forced upon him. It had been the only way to stop a quarrel whichthere would have been no healing if blood had once been shed. Yet hewas keenly alive to the dignity of his office, and resumed it in thenext moment. Indeed, the drinking of the glass of good-will togetherwas rather a ceremonial than a convivial affair. Perhaps that also wasthe best. The men were silent and respectful, and for the first timelifted their caps with a hearty courtesy to Tallisker when he leftthem. 

"Weel! Wonders never cease!" said Jim Armstrong scornfully. "To seeTony Musgrave hobnobbing wi' a black-coat! The deil must 'a' had aspasm o' laughing. "

"Let the deil laugh, " said Tony, with a snap of his grimy fingers. Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "Lads, I heard this morningthat the dominie's wheat was spoiling, because he couldna get help tocut it. I laughed when I heard it; I didna ken the man then. I'mgoing to-morrow to cut the dominie's wheat; which o' you will go wi'me?"

"I!" and "I!" and "I!" was the hearty response; and so next dayTraquare saw a strange sight--a dozen colliers in a field of wheat, making a real holiday of cutting the grain and binding the sheaves, sothat before the next Sabbath it had all been brought safely home. 

CHAPTER V. 

But during these very days, when the dominie and his parishioners weredrawing a step closer to each other, the laird and his son weredrifting farther apart. Crawford felt keenly that Colin took nointerest in the great enterprises which filled his own life. The factwas, Colin inherited his mother's, and not his father's temperament. The late Lady Crawford had been the daughter of a Zetland Udaller, apure Scandinavian, a descendant of the old Vikings, and she inheritedfrom them a poetic imagination and a nature dreamy and inert, thoughcapable of rousing itself into fits of courage that could dare theimpossible. Colin would have led a forlorn hope or stormed a battery;but the bare ugliness and monotony of his life at the works frettedand worried him. 

Tallisker had repeatedly urged a year's foreign travel. But the lairdhad been much averse to the plan. France, in his opinion, was a hotbedof infidelity; Italy, of popery; Germany, of socialistic andrevolutionary doctrines. There was safety only in Scotland. Ponderingthese things, he resolved that marriage was the proper means to"settle" the lad. So he entered into communication with an old friendrespecting his daughter and his daughter's portion; and one night helaid the result before Colin. 

Colin was indignant. He wanted to marry no woman, and least of allwomen, Isabel McLeod. 

"She'll hae £50, 000!" said the laird sententiously. 

"I would not sell myself for £50, 000. "

"You'd be a vera dear bargain at half the price to any woman, Colin. And you never saw Isabel. She was here when you were in Glasgow. Shehas the bonniest black e'en in Scotland, and hair like a raven'swing. "

"When I marry, sir, I shall marry a woman like my mother: a woman witheyes as blue as heaven, and a face like a rose. I'll go, as you did, to Shetland for her. "

"There isna a house there fit for you to take a wife from, Colin, saveand except the Earl's ain; and his daughter, the Lady Selina, is nearthirty years old. "

"There are my second cousins, Helga and Saxa Vedder. "

Then the laird was sure in his own heart that Tallisker's advice wasbest. France and Italy were less to be feared than pretty, portionlesscousins. Colin had better travel a year, and he proposed it. It hurthim to see how eagerly his heir accepted the offer. However, if thething was to be done, it was best done quickly. Letters of creditsuitable to the young laird's fortune were prepared, and in less thana month he was ready to begin his travels. It had been agreed that heshould remain away one year, and if it seemed desirable, that his staymight even be lengthened to two. But no one dreamed that advantagewould be taken of this permission. 

"He'll be hamesick ere a twelvemonth, laird, " said the dominie; andthe laird answered fretfully, "A twelvemonth is a big slice o' life tofling awa in far countries. "

The night before Colin left he was walking with his sister on themoor. A sublime tranquillity was in the still September air. Theevening crimson hung over the hills like a royal mantle. The oldchurch stood framed in the deepest blue. At that distance the longwaves broke without a sound, and the few sails on the horizon lookedlike white flowers at sea. 

"How beautiful is this mansion of our father!" said Helen softly. "Oneblushes to be caught worrying in it, and yet, Colin, I fear to haveyou go away. "

"Why, my dear?"

"I have a presentiment that we shall meet no more in this life. Nay, do not smile; this strange intelligence of sorrow, this suddentrembling in a soul at rest, is not all a delusion. We shall partto-morrow, Colin. Oh, darling brother, where shall we meet again?"

He looked into the fair, tender face and the eager, questioning eyes, and found himself unable to reply. 

"Remember, Colin! I give you a rendezvous in heaven. "

He clasped her hand tightly, and they walked on in a silence thatColin remembered often afterwards. Sometimes, in dreams, to the veryend of his life, he took again with Helen that last evening walk, andhis soul leaned and hearkened after hers. "I give you a rendezvous inheaven!"

In the morning they had a few more words alone. She was standinglooking out thoughtfully into the garden. "Are you going to London?"she asked suddenly. 

"Yes. "

"You will call on Mr. Selwyn?"

"I think so. "

"Tell him we remember him--and try to follow, though afar off, theexample he sets us. "

"Well, you know, Helen, I may not see him. We never were chums. I haveoften wondered why I asked him here. It was all done in a moment. Ihad thought of asking Walter Napier, and then I asked Selwyn. I haveoften thought it would have pleased me better if I had invitedWalter. "

"Sometimes it is permitted to us to do things for the pleasure ofothers, rather than our own. I have often thought that God--whoforesaw the changes to take place here--sent Mr. Selwyn with a messageto Dominie Tallisker. The dominie thinks so too. Then how glad youought to be that you asked him. He came to prepare for those poorpeople who as yet were scattered over Ayrshire and Cumberland. Andthis thought comforts me for you, Colin. God knows just where you aregoing, dear, and the people you are going to meet, and all the eventsthat will happen to you. "

The events and situations of life resemble ocean waves--every one isalike and yet every one is different. It was just so at Crawford Keepafter Colin left it. The usual duties of the day were almost asregular as the clock, but little things varied them. There wereletters or no letters from Colin; there were little events at theworks or in the village; the dominie called or he did not call. Occasionally there were visitors connected with the mines or furnaces, and sometimes there were social evening gatherings of the neighboringyoung people, or formal state dinners for the magistrates andproprietors who were on terms of intimacy with the laird. 

For the first year of Colin's absence, if his letters were not quitesatisfactory, they were condoned. It did not please his father thatColin seemed to have settled himself so completely in Rome, among"artists and that kind o' folk, " and he was still more angry whenColin declared his intention of staying away another year. Poorfather! How he had toiled and planned to aggrandize this only son, whoseemed far more delighted with an old coin or an old picture than withthe great works which bore his name. In all manner of ways he had madeit clear to his family that in the dreamy, sensuous atmosphere ofItalian life he remembered the gray earnestness of Scottish life witha kind of terror. 

Tallisker said, "Give him his way a little longer, laird. To bring himhame now is no use. People canna thole blue skies for ever; he'll bewanting the moors and the misty corries and the gray clouds erelong. "So Colin had another year granted him, and his father added thousandto thousand, and said to his heart wearily many and many a time, "Itis all vexation of spirit. "

At the end of the second year Crawford wrote a most important letterto his son. There was an opening for the family that might never comeagain. All arrangements had been made for Colin to enter the comingcontest for a seat in Parliament. The Marquis of B---- had been spokento, and Crawford and he had come to an understanding Crawford did notgive the particulars of the "understanding, " but he told Colin thathis "political career was assured. " He himself would take care of theworks. Political life was open to his son, and if money and influencecould put him in the House of Peers, money should not be spared. 

The offer was so stupendous, the future it looked forward to so great, Crawford never doubted Colin's proud, acquiescence. That much he owedto a long line of glorious ancestors; it was one of the obligations ofnoble birth; he would not dare to, neglect it. 

Impatiently he waited Colin's answer. Indeed, he felt sure Colin wouldanswer such a call in person. He was disappointed when a letter came;he had not known, till then, how sure he had felt of seeing his son. And the letter was a simple blow to him. Very respectfully, but veryfirmly, the proposition was declined. Colin said he knew little ofparties and cabals, and was certain, at least, that nothing couldinduce him to serve under the Marquis of B----. He could not see hisobligations to the dead Crawfords as his father did. He considered hislife his own. It had come to him with certain tastes, which he meantto improve and gratify, for only in that way was life of any value tohim. 

The laird laid the letter in Tallisker's hands without a word. He wasalmost broken-hearted. He had not yet got to that point wheremoney-making for money's sake was enough. Family aggrandizement andpolitical ambition are not the loftiest motives of a man's life, butstill they lift money-making a little above the dirty drudgery of mereaccumulation. Hitherto Crawford had worked for an object, and theobject, at least in his own eyes, had dignified the labor. 

In his secret heart he was angry at Colin's calm respectability. Aspendthrift prodigal, wasting his substance in riotous living, wouldhave been easier to manage than this young man of ęsthetic tastes, whose greatest extravagance was a statuette or a picture. Tallisker, too, was more uneasy than he would confess. He had hoped that Colinwould answer his father's summons, because he believed now that thelife he was leading was unmanning him. The poetical element in hischaracter was usurping an undue mastery. He wrote to Colin verysternly, and told him plainly that a poetic pantheism was not a whitless sinful than the most vulgar infidelity. 

Still he advised the laird to be patient, and by no means to answerColin's letter in a hurry. But only fixed more firmly the angryfather's determination. Colin must come home and fulfil his wish, orhe must time remain away until he returned as master. As his son, hewould know him no more; as the heir of Crawford, he would receive atintervals such information as pertained to that position. For the oldman was just in his anger; it never seemed possible to him to depriveColin of the right of his heritage. To be the 13th Laird of Crawfordwas Colin's birthright; he fully recognized his title to the honor, and, as the future head of the house, rendered him a definite respect. 

Of course a letter written in such a spirit did no good whatever. Nothing after it could have induced Colin to come home. He wrote anddeclined to receive even the allowance due to him as heir of Crawford. The letter was perfectly respectful, but cruelly cold and polite, andevery word cut the old man like a sword. 

For some weeks he really seemed to lose all interest in life. Then theresult Tallisker feared was arrived at. He let ambition go, andsettled down to the simple toil of accumulation. 

CHAPTER VI. 

But Crawford had not a miser's nature. His house, his name, hischildren were dearer, after all, to him than gold. Hope springseternal in the breast; in a little while he had provided himself witha new motive: he would marry Helen to young Farquharson, and endow herso royally that Farquharson would gladly take her name. There shouldbe another house of Crawford of which Helen should be the root. 

Helen had been long accustomed to consider Hugh Farquharson as herfuture husband. The young people, if not very eager lovers, were atleast very warm and loyal friends. They had been in no hurry to finishthe arrangement. Farquharson was in the Scot's Greys; it wasunderstood that at his marriage he should resign his commission, so, though he greatly admired Helen, he was in no hurry to leave thedelights of metropolitan and military life. 

But suddenly Crawford became urgent for the fulfilment of thecontract, and Helen, seeing how anxious he was, and knowing how sorelyColin had disappointed him, could no longer plead for a delay. And yeta strange sadness fell over her; some inexplicable symptoms as to herhealth led her to fear she would never be Farquharson's wife; the gaywedding attire that came from Edinburgh filled her with a stillsorrow; she could not appropriate any part of it as her own. 

One day when the preparations were nearly finished, Tallisker came upto the Keep. Helen saw at once that he was moved by some intensefeeling, and there was a red spot on his cheeks which she had beenaccustomed to associate with the dominie's anger. The laird wassitting placidly smoking, and drinking toddy. He had been tellingHelen of the grand house he was going to build on the new estate hehad just bought; and he was now calmly considering how to carry outhis plans on the most magnificent scale, for he had firmly determinedthere should be neither Keep nor Castle in the North Country assplendid as the new Crawfords' Home. 

He greeted Tallisker with a peculiar kindness, and held his handalmost lovingly. His friendship for the dominie--if he had knownit--was a grain of salt in his fast deteriorating life. He did notnotice the dominie's stern preoccupation, he was so full of his ownnew plans. He began at once to lay them before his old friend; he hadthat very day got the estimates from the Edinburgh architect. 

Tallisker looked at them a moment with a gathering anger. Then hepushed them passionately away, saying in a voice that was almost asob, "I darena look at them, laird; I darena look at them! Do you kenthat there are fourteen cases o' typhus in them colliers' cottages youbuilt? Do you remember what Mr. Selwyn said about the right o'laborers to pure air and pure water? I knew he was right then, andyet, God forgive me! I let you tak your ain way. Six little bits o'bairns, twa women, and six o' your pit men! You must awa to Atholinstanter for doctors and medicines and brandy and such things as areneedfu'. There isna a minute to lose, laird. "

Helen had risen while he was speaking with a calm determination thatfrightened her father. He did not answer Tallisker, he spoke to her:"Where are you going, Helen?"

"Down to the village; I can do something till better help is got. "

"Helen Crawford, you'll bide where you are! Sit still, and I'll dowhatever Tallisker bids me. "

Then he turned angrily to the dominie. 

"You are aye bringing me ill tidings. Am I to blame if death comes?"

"Am I my brother's keeper? It's an auld question, laird. The firstmurderer of a' asked it. I'm bound to say you are to blame. When yougie fever an invite to your cotters' homes, you darena lay the blameon the Almighty. You should hae built as Mr. Selwyn advised. "

"Dominie, be quiet. I'm no a bairn, to be hectored o'er in this way. Say what I must do and I'll do it--anything in reason--only Helen. I'll no hae her leave the Keep; that's as sure as deathe. Sit down, Helen. Send a' the wine and dainties you like to, but don't you stir afoot o'er the threshold. "

His anger was, in its way, as authoritative as the dominie's. Helendid as she was bid, more especially as Tallisker in this seconded thelaird. 

"There is naething she could do in the village that some old cronecould not do better. "

It was a bitterly annoying interruption to Crawford's pleasant dreamsand plans. He got up and went over to the works. He found things verybad there. Three more of the men had left sick, and there was anunusual depression in the village. The next day the tidings wereworse. He foresaw that he would have to work the men half time, andthere had never been so many large and peremptory orders on hand. Itwas all very unfortunate to him. 

Tallisker's self-reproaches were his own; he resented them, even whilehe acknowledged their truth. He wished he had built as Selwyn advised;he wished Tallisker had urged him more. It was not likely he wouldhave listened to any urging, but it soothed him to think he would. Andhe greatly aggravated the dominie's trouble by saying, "Why did ye na mak me do right, Tallisker? You should hae been mairdetermined wi' me, dominie. "

During the next six weeks the dominie's efforts were almostsuperhuman. He saw every cottage whitewashed; he was nurse and doctorand cook. The laird saw him carrying wailing babies and holding ravingmen in his strong arms. He watched over the sick till the last ray ofhope fled; he buried them tenderly when all was over. The splendor ofthe man's humanity had never shown itself until it stood erect andfeared not, while the pestilence that walked in darkness and thedestruction that wasted at noon-day dogged his every step. 

The laird, too, tried to do his duty. Plenty of people are willing toplay the Samaritan without the oil and the twopence, but that was notCrawford's way. Tallisker's outspoken blame had really made himtremble at his new responsibilities; he had put his hand liberally inhis pocket to aid the sufferers. Perhaps at the foundation of all layone haunting thought--Helen! If he did what he could for others, Helenwould safer. He never audibly admitted that Helen was in any danger, but--but--if there should be danger, he was, he hoped, paying a ransomfor her safety. 

In six weeks the epidemic appeared to have spent itself. There was atalk of resuming full hours at the works. Twenty new hands had beensent for to fill vacant places. Still there was a shadow on thedominie's face, and he knew himself there was a shadow on his heart. Was it the still solemnity of death in which he had lately lived somuch? Or was it the shadow of a coming instead of a departing sorrow?

One afternoon he thought he would go and sit with Helen a littlewhile. During his close intimacy with the colliers he had learned manythings which would change his methods of working for their welfare;and of these changes he wished to speak with Helen. She was just goingfor a walk on the moor, and he went with her. It was on such aSeptember evening she had walked last with Colin. As they saunteredslowly, almost solemnly home, she remembered it. Some impulse farbeyond her control or understanding urged her to say, "Dominie, when Iam gone I leave Colin to you. "

He looked at her with a sudden enlightenment. Her face had for amoment a far-away death-like predestination over it. His heart sanklike lead as he looked at her. 

"Are you ill, Helen?"

"I have not been well for two weeks. "

He felt her hands; they were burning with fever. 

"Let us go home, " she said, and then she turned and gave one long, mournful look at the mountains and the sea and the great stretch ofmoorland. Tallisker knew in his heart she was bidding farewell tothem. He had no word to say. There are moods of the soul beyond allhuman intermeddling. 

The silence was broken by Helen. She pointed to the mountains. "Howsteadfast they are, how familiar with forgotten years! How small weare beside them!"

"I don't think so, " said Tallisker stoutly. "Mountains are naething tomen. How small is Sinai when the man Moses stands upon it!"

Then they were at the Keep garden. Helen pulled a handful of white andgolden asters, and the laird, who had seen them coming, opened thedoor wide to welcome them. Alas! Alas! Though he saw it not, deathentered with them. At midnight there was the old, old cry of despairand anguish, the hurrying for help, where no help was of avail, thedesolation of a terror creeping hour by hour closer to thehearthstone. 

The laird was stricken with a stony grief which was deaf to allconsolation. He wandered up and down wringing his hands, and cryingout at intervals like a man in mortal agony. Helen lay in a stuporwhile the fever burned her young life away. She muttered constantlythe word "Colin;" and Tallisker, though he had no hope that Colinwould ever reach his sister, wrote for the young laird. 

Just before the last she became clearly, almost radiantly conscious. She would be alone with her father, and the old man, strugglingbravely with his grief, knelt down beside her. She whispered to himthat there was a paper in the jewel-box on her table. He went and gotit. It was a tiny scrap folded crosswise. "Read it, father, when I ambeyond all pain and grief. I shall trust you, dear. " He could only bowhis head upon her hands and weep. 

"Tallisker!" she whispered, and he rose softly and called him. The twomen stood together by her side. 

"Is it well, my daughter?" said the dominie, with a tone of tendertriumph in his voice. "You fear not, Helen, the bonds of death?"

"I trust in those pierced hands which have broken the bonds of death. Oh! the unspeakable riches!"

These were her last words. Tallisker prayed softly as the mysticalgray shadow stole over the fair, tranquil face. It was soon all over. 

 "She had outsoared the shadow of our night, And that unrest which men misname delight. "

The bridal robes were folded away, the bridegroom went back to hisregiment, the heartsore father tried to take up his life again. But itseemed to him to have been broken in two by the blow; and besidesthis, there was a little strip of paper which lay like a load upon hisheart. It was the paper he had taken from Helen's dying fingers, andit contained her last request:

"Father, dear, dear father, whatever you intended to give me--I prayyou--give it to God's poor. 

"HELEN. "

CHAPTER VII. 

The dominie had felt certain that Colin would answer his letter inperson, but after a long silence he received it back again. Colin hadleft Rome, and left no trace behind him. The laird knew that Talliskerhad written, and he too had been hoping and expecting. But he receivedthe news of his son's disappearance without remark. Life for some timewas a dreary weight to him, he scarce felt as if he could lift itagain. Hope after hope had failed him. He had longed so to be a richman, had God in his anger granted him his wish? And was no other thingto prosper with him? All the same he clung to his gold with a deeperaffection. When all other vices are old avarice is still young. Asambition and other motives died out, avarice usurped their places, andTallisker saw with a feeling half angry, and half pitiful, the laird'slife dwindling down to this most contemptible of all aims. He kept hisduty as proprietor constantly before the laird, but he no longerseemed to care that people should say, "Crawford's men have the bestlaborers' cottages in Scotland. "

"I hae made up my mind, Tallisker, " said fretfully, "the warld thinksmore o' the who mak money than o' those who gie it awa. " Certainlythis change was not a sudden one; for two years after Helen's death itwas coming slowly forward, yet there were often times when Talliskerhoped that it was but a temptation, and would be finally conquered. Men do not lose the noble savor of humanity in a moment. Even on thedownward road good angels wait anxiously, and whisper in every bettermoment to the lapsing soul, "Return!"

But there was a seed of bitterness in Crawford's heart, that waspoisoning the man's spiritual life--a little bit of paper, yet it laylike a great stone over his noblest feelings, and sealed them up as ina sepulchre. Oh, if some angel would come and roll it away! He hadnever told the dominie of Helen's bequest. He did not dare to destroythe slip of paper, but he hid it in the most secret drawer of hissecretary. He told himself that it was only a dying sentiment in Helento wish it, and that it would be a foolish superstition in him toregard it. Perhaps in those last moments she had not understood whatshe was asking. 

For a little while he found relief in this suggestion; then heremembered that the request must have been dictated before the feverhad conquered her strength or judgment. The words were clearly writtenin Helen's neat, precise manner; there was not a hesitating line inthe whole. She had evidently written it with care and consideration. No one could tell how that slip of paper haunted him. Even in thedarkness of its secret hiding-place his spiritual eyes saw it clearlyday and night. 

To give to the poor all he had intended to give to Helen! He couldnot! He could not! He could not do it! Helen could not have known whatshe was asking. He had meant, in one way or another, to give her, asthe founder of the new line of Crawfords, at least one hundredthousand pounds. Was it reasonable to scatter hither and yon such alarge sum, earned, as he told himself pitifully, "by his ain wisdomand enterprise!"

The dominie knew nothing of this terrible struggle going on ever inthe man's soul who sat by his side. He saw that Crawford was irritableand moody, but he laid the blame of it on Colin. Oh, if the lad wouldonly write, he would go himself and bring him back to his father, though he should have to seek him at the ends of the earth. But fouryears passed away, and the prodigal sent no backward, homeward sign. Every night, then, the laird looked a moment into the dominie's face, and always the dominie shook his head. Ah, life has silences that arefar more pathetic than death's. 

One night Crawford said, almost in a whisper, "He'll be dead, Tallisker. "

And Tallisker answered promptly, "He'll come hame, laird. "

No other words about Colin passed between the two men in four years. But destiny loves surprises. One night Tallisker laid a letter on thetable. 

"It is for you, laird; read it. "

It was a singular letter to come after so long a silence, and thelaird's anger was almost excusable. 

"Listen, Tallisker; did e'er you hear the like?

"'DEAR FATHER: I want, for a very laudable purpose, £4, 000. It is notfor myself in any way. If you will let me have it, I will trouble youwith the proper explanations. If not, they will not be necessary. Ihave heard that you are well. I pray God to continue his mercy to you. 

"'Your dutiful son, "'COLIN CRAWFORD. '

"'Laudable purpose!'" cried the unhappy father, in a passion. "The ladis altogether too laudable. The letter is an insult, Tallisker. I'llne'er forgive him for it. Oh, what a miserable father I am!"

And the dominie was moved to tears at the sight of his old friend'sbitter anguish. 

Still he asserted that Colin had meant it to be a kind letter. 

"Dinna tak want o' sense for want o' affection laird. The lad is aconceited prig. He's set up wi' himsel' about something he is going todo. Let him hae the money. I would show him you can gie as grandly ashe can ask loftily. "

And, somehow, the idea pleased the laird. It was something that Colinhad been obliged to ask him for money at all. He sat down and wroteout a check for the amount. Then he enclosed it with these words:

"SON COLIN CRAWFORD: I send you what you desire. I am glad yourprospects are sae laudable; maybe it may enter your heart, some day, to consider it laudable to keep the Fifth Command. Your sister isdead. Life is lonely, but I thole it. I want nae explanations. 

"Your father, "ALEX. CRAWFORD. "

"What's the address, Tallisker?"

"Regent's Place, London. "

The answer arrived in due time. It was as proper as a letter could be. Colin said he was just leaving for America, but did not expect to bemore than six months there. But he never said a word about coming toCrawford. Tallisker was downright angry at the young man. It was truehis father had told him he did not wish to see him again, but that hadbeen said under a keen sense of family wrong and of bitterdisappointment. Colin ought to have taken his father's ready responseto his request as an overture of reconciliation. For a moment he wasprovoked with both of them. 

"You are a dour lot, you Crawfords; ane o' you is prouder than theither. "

"The Crawfords are as God made them, dominie. "

"And some o' them a little warse. "

Yet, after all, it was Colin Tallisker was really angry at. For thepresent he had to let his anger lie by. Colin had gone, and given himno address in America. 

"He is feared I will be telling him his duty, and when he comes backthat is what I shall do, if I go to London to mak him hear me. "

For a moment the laird looked hopefully into the dominie's face, butthe hope was yet so far off he could not grasp it. Yet, in a dim, unacknowledged way it influenced him. He returned to his money-makingwith renewed vigor. It was evident he had let the hope of Colin'sreturn steal into his heart. And the giving of that £4, 000 Talliskerconsidered almost a sign of grace. It had not been given from anyparticularly noble motive; but any motive, not sinful, roused inopposition to simple avarice, was a gain. He was quite determined nowto find Colin as soon as he returned from America. 

In rather less than six months there were a few lines from Colin, saying that the money sent had been applied to the proper purpose, andhad nobly fulfilled it. The laird had said he wanted no explanations, and Colin gave him none. 

Tallisker read the letter with a half smile. 

"He is just the maist contrary, conceited young man I e'er heard tello'. Laird, as he wont come to us, I am going to him. "

The laird said nothing. Any grief is better than a grief not sure. Itwould be a relief to know all, even if that "all" were painful. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Tallisker was a man as quick in action as in resolve; the next nighthe left for London, it was no light journey in those days for a man ofhis years, and who had never in all his life been farther away fromPerthshire than Edinburgh. But he feared nothing. He was going intothe wilderness after his own stray sheep, and he had a conviction thatany path of duty is a safe path. He said little to any one. The peoplelooked strangely on him. He almost fancied himself to be Christiangoing through Vanity Fair. 

He went first to Colin's old address in Regent's Place. He did notexpect to find him there, but it might lead him to the right place. Number 34 Regent's Place proved to be a very grand house. As he wentup to the door, an open carriage, containing a lady and a child, leftit. A man dressed in the Crawford tartan opened the door. 

"Crawford?" inquired Tallisker, "is he at home?"

"Yes, he is at home;" and the servant ushered him into, acarefully-shaded room, where marble statues gleamed in dusk cornersand great flowering plants made the air fresh and cool. It as thefirst time Tallisker had ever seen a calla lily and he looked withwonder and delight at the gleaming flowers. And somehow he thought ofHelen. Colin sat in a great leathern chair reading. He did not lifthis head until the door closed and he was sensible the servant hadleft some one behind. Then for a moment he could hardly realize who itwas; but when he did, he came forward with a glad cry. 

"Dominie! O Tallisker!"

"Just so, Colin, my dear lad. O Colin, you are the warst man I everkenned. You had a good share o' original sin to start wi', but whatwi' pride and self-will and ill-will, the old trouble is sairlyincreased. "

Colin smiled gravely. "I think you misjudge me, dominie. " Thenrefreshments were sent for, and the two men sat down for a long mutualconfidence. 

Colin's life had not been uneventful. He told it frankly, withoutreserve and without pride. When he quarrelled with his father aboutentering Parliament, he left Rome at once, and went to Canada. He hadsome idea of joining his lot with his own people there. But he foundthem in a state of suffering destitution. They had been unfortunate intheir choice of location, and were enduring an existence barer thanthe one they had left, without any of its redeeming features. Colingave them all he had, and left them with promises of future aid. 

Then he went to New York. When he arrived, there was an intenseexcitement over the struggle then going on in the little republic ofTexas. He found out something about the country; as for the struggle, it was the old struggle of freedom against papal and priestlydominion. That was a quarrel for which Scotchmen have always beenready to draw the sword. It was Scotland's old quarrel in the NewWorld, and Colin went into it heart and soul. His reward had been animmense tract of the noble rolling Colorado prairie. Then hedetermined to bring the Crawfords down, and plant them in this gardenof the Lord. It was for this end he had written to his father for£4, 000. This sum had sufficed to transplant them to their new home, and give them a start. He had left them happy and contented, and feltnow that in this matter he had absolved his conscience of all wrong. 

"But you ought to hae told the laird. It was vera ill-considered. Itwas his affair more than yours. I like the thing you did, Colin, but Ihate the way you did it. One shouldna be selfish even in a good wark. "

"It was the laird's own fault; he would not let me explain. "

"Colin, are you married?"

"Yes. I married a Boston lady. I have a son three years old. My wifewas in Texas with me. She had a large fortune of her own. "

"You are a maist respectable man, Colin, but I dinna like it at all. What are you doing wi' your time? This grand house costs something. "

"I am an artist--a successful one, if that is not also against me. "

"Your father would think sae. Oh, my dear lad, you hae gane far astrayfrom the old Crawford ways. "

"I cannot help that, dominie. I must live according to my light. I amsorry about father. "

Then the dominie in the most forcible manner painted the old laird'shopes and cruel disappointments. There were tears in Colin's eyes ashe reasoned with him. And at this point his own son came into theroom. Perhaps for the first time Colin looked at the lad as the futureheir of Crawford. A strange thrill of family and national pridestirred his heart. He threw the little fellow shoulder high, and inthat moment regretted that he had flung away the child's chance ofbeing Earl of Crawford. He understood then something of the anger andsuffering his father had endured, and he put the boy down verysolemnly. For if Colin was anything, he was just; if his father hadbeen his bitterest enemy, he would, at this moment, have acknowledgedhis own aggravation. 

Then Mrs. Crawford came in. She had heard all about the dominie, andshe met him like a daughter. Colin had kept his word. This fair, sunny-haired, blue-eyed woman was the wife he had dreamed about; andTallisker told him he had at any rate done right in that matter. "Thebonnie little Republican, " as he called her, queened it over thedominie from the first hour of their acquaintance. 

He stayed a week in London, and during it visited Colin's studio. Hewent there at Colin's urgent request, but with evident reluctance. Astudio to the simple dominie had almost the same worldly flavor as atheatre. He had many misgivings as they went down Pall Mall, but hewas soon reassured. There was a singular air of repose and quiet inthe large, cool room. And the first picture he cast his eyes uponreconciled him to Colin's most un-Crawford-like taste. 

It was "The Farewell of the Emigrant Clan. " The dominie's knees shook, and he turned pale with emotion. How had Colin reproduced that scene, and not only reproduced but idealized it! There were the gray sea andthe gray sky, and the gray granite boulder rocks on which the chiefstood, the waiting ships, and the loaded boats, and he himself in theprow of the foremost one. He almost felt the dear old hymn thrillingthrough the still room. In some way, too, Colin had grasped thegrandest points of his father's character. In this picture the man'ssplendid physical beauty seemed in some mysterious way to giveassurance of an equally splendid spiritual nature. 

"If this is making pictures, Colin, I'll no say but what you couldpaint a sermon, my dear lad. I hae ne'er seen a picture before. " Thenhe turned to another, and his swarthy face glowed with an intenseemotion. There was a sudden sense of tightening in his throat, and heput his hand up and slowly raised his hat. It was Prince Charlieentering Edinburgh. The handsome, unfortunate youth rode bareheadedamid the Gordons and the Murrays and a hundred Highland noblemen. Thewomen had their children shoulder high to see him, the citizens, bonnets up, were pressing up to his bridle-rein. It stirred Talliskerlike a peal of trumpets. With the tears streaming down his glowingface, he cried out, "How daur ye, sir! You are just the warst rebel between the seas! KingGeorge ought to hang you up at Carlisle-gate. And this is painting!This is artist's wark! And you choose your subjects wisely, Colin: itis a gift the angels might be proud o'. " He lingered long in the room, and when he left it, "Prince Charlie" and the "Clan's Farewell" werehis own. They were to go back with him to the manse at Crawford. 

CHAPTER IX. 

It was, upon the whole, a wonderful week to Tallisker; he returnedhome with the determination that the laird must recall his banished. He had tried to induce Colin to condone all past grievances, but Colinhad, perhaps wisely, said that he could not go back upon a momentaryimpulse. The laird must know all, and accept him just as he was. Hehad once been requested not to come home unless he came prepared toenter into political life. He had refused the alternative then, and heshould refuse it again. The laird must understand these things, or thequarrel would probably be renewed, perhaps aggravated. 

And Tallisker thought that, in this respect, Colin was right. He wouldat any rate hide nothing from the laird, he should know all; andreally he thought he ought to be very grateful that the "all" was somuch better than might have been. 

The laird was not glad. A son brought down to eat the husk of evilways, poor, sick, suppliant, would have found a far readier welcome. He would gladly have gone to meet Colin, even while he was yet a greatway off, only he wanted Colin to be weary and footsore and utterlydependent on his love. He heard with a grim silence Tallisker'sdescription of the house in Regent's Place, with its flowers andbooks, its statues, pictures, and conservatory. When Tallisker toldhim of the condition of the Crawfords in Canada, he was greatly moved. He was interested and pleased with the Texan struggle. He knew nothingof Texas, had never heard of the country, but Mexicans, Spaniards, andthe Inquisition were one in his mind. 

"That at least was Crawford-like, " he said warmly, when told ofColin's part in the struggle. 

But the subsequent settlement of the clan there hurt him terribly. "Heshould hae told me. He shouldna hae minded what I said in such a case. I had a right to know. Colin has used me vera hardly about this. Hashe not, Tallisker?"

"Yes, laird, Colin was vera wrong there. He knows it now. "

"What is he doing in such a grand house? How does he live?"

"He is an artist--a vera great one, I should say. "

"He paints pictures for a living! He! A Crawford o' Traquare! I'll nobelieve it, Tallisker. "

"There's naught to fret about, laird. You'll ken that some day. Thenhis wife had money. "

"His wife! Sae he is married. That is o' a piece wi' the rest. Wha isshe?"

"He married an American--a Boston lady. "

Then the laird's passion was no longer controllable, and he said somethings the dominie was very angry at. 

"Laird, " he answered, "Mrs. Colin Crawford is my friend. You'll nodaur to speak any way but respectful o' her in my presence. She is asgood as any Crawford that ever trod the heather. She came o' theEnglish Hampdens. Whar will ye get better blood than that?"

"No Hampdens that ever lived--"

"Whist! Whist, laird! The Crawfords are like a' ither folk; they havetwa legs and twa hands. "

"He should hae married a Scots lass, though she had carried amilking-pail. "

"Laird, let me tell you there will be nae special heaven for the Gael. They that want to go to heaven by themsel's arena likely to win thereat a'. You may as well learn to live with ither folk here; you'll haeto do it to a' eternity. "

"If I get to heaven, Dominie Tallisker, I'll hae special graces forthe place. I'm no going to put mysel' in a blazing passion for youto-night. Yon London woman has bewitched you. She's wanting to come tothe Keep, I'll warrant. "

"If ye saw the hame she has you wouldna warrant your ain word a minutelonger, laird. And I'm sure I dinna see what she would want to hae twaCrawfords to guide for. One is mair than enough whiles. It's a wonderto me how good women put up wi' us at all!"

"_Humff!_" said the laird scornfully. "Too many words on a spoiledsubject. "

"I must say one mair, though. There is a little lad, a bonnie, brave, bit fellow, your ain grandson, Crawford. "

"An American Crawford!" And the laird laughed bitterly. "A foreigner!an alien! a Crawford born in England! Guid-night, Tallisker! We'lldrop the subject, an it please you. "

Tallisker let it drop. He had never expected the laird to give in atthe first cry of "Surrender. " But he reflected that the winter wascoming, and that its long nights would give plenty of time for thoughtand plenty of opportunities for further advocacy. He wrote constantlyto Colin and his wife, perhaps oftener to Mrs. Crawford than to theyoung laird, for she was a woman of great tact and many resources, andTallisker believed in her. 

Crawford had said a bitter word about her coming to the Keep, andTallisker could not help thinking what a blessing she would be there;for one of Crawford's great troubles now was the wretchedness of hishousehold arrangements. The dainty cleanliness and order which hadruled it during Helen's life were quite departed. The garden wasneglected, and all was disorder and discomfort. Now it is reallywonderful how much of the solid comfort of life depends upon awell-arranged home, and the home must depend upon some woman. Men maymar the happiness of a household, but they cannot make it. Women arethe happiness makers. The laird never thought of it in this light, buthe did know that he was very uncomfortable. 

"I canna even get my porridge made right, " he said fretfully to thedominie. 

"You should hae a proper person o'er them ne'er-do-weel servants o'yours, laird. I ken one that will do you. "

"Wha is she?"

"A Mrs. Hope. "

"A widow?"

"No, not a widow, but she is not living with her husband. "

"Then she'll ne'er win into my house, dominie. "

"She has good and sufficient reasons. I uphold her. Do you think Iwould sanction aught wrong, laird?"

No more was said at that time, but a month afterwards Mrs. Hope hadwalked into the Keep and taken everything in her clever little hands. Drunken, thieving, idle servants had been replaced by men and womenthoroughly capable and efficient. The laird's tastes were studied, hiswants anticipated, his home became bright, restful, and quiet. Thewoman was young and wonderfully pretty, and Crawford soon began towatch her with a genuine interest. 

"She'll be ane o' the Hopes o' Beaton, " he thought; "she is vera likethem. "

At any rate he improved under her sway, for being thoroughlycomfortable himself, he was inclined to have consideration for others. 

One afternoon, as he came from the works, it began to snow. He turnedaside to the manse to borrow a plaid of Tallisker. He very seldom wentto the manse, but in the keen, driving snow the cheerful fire gleamingthrough the window looked very inviting. He thought he would go in andtake a cup of tea with Tallisker. 

"Come awa in, laird, " cried old Janet, "come awa in. You are a sightgood for sair e'en. The dominie will be back anon, and I'll gie ye adrap o' hot tay till he comes. "

So the laird went in, and the first thing he saw was Colin's pictureof "The Clan's Farewell. " It moved him to his very heart. He divinedat once whose work it was, and he felt that it was wonderful. It mustbe acknowledged, too, that he was greatly pleased with Colin'sconception of himself. 

"I'm no a bad-looking Crawford, " he thought complacently; "the lad hashad a vera clear notion o' what he was doing. "

Personal flattery is very subtle and agreeable. Colin rose in hisfather's opinion that hour. 

Then he turned to Prince Charlie. How strange is that vein of romanticloyalty marbling the granite of Scotch character! The common-place manof coal and iron became in the presence of his ideal prince a feudalchieftain again. His heart swelled to that pictured face as the greatsea swells to the bending moon. He understood in that moment how hisfathers felt it easy to pin on the white cockade and give upeverything for an impossible loyalty. 

The dominie found him in this mood. He turned back to every-day lifewith a sigh. 

"Weel, dominie, you are a man o' taste. When did you begin buyingpictures?"

"I hae no money for pictures, laird. The artist gave me them. "

"You mean Colin Crawford gave you them. "

"That is what I mean. "

"Weel, I'm free to say Colin kens how to choose grand subjects. Ididna think there was so much in a picture. I wouldna dare to keepthat poor dear prince in my house. I shouldna be worth a bawbee at theworks. It was a wonderfu' wise step, that forbidding o' pictures inthe kirks. I can vera weel see how they would lead to a sinfu'idolatry. "

"Yes, John Knox kent well the temper o' the metal he had to work. There's nae greater hero-worshippers than Scots folk. They are ayemaking idols for themsel's. Whiles it's Wallace, then it's Bruce orPrince Charlie; nay, there are decent, pious folk that gie Knoxhimsel' a honoring he wouldna thank them for. But, laird, there is amair degraded idolatry still--that o' gold. We are just as ready asever the Jews were to fall down before a calf, an' it only be a goldenone. "

"Let that subject alane, dominie. It will tak a jury o' rich men tojudge rich men. A poor man isna competent. The rich hae straits thepoor canna fathom. "

And then he saw in light as clear as crystal a slip of paper hid awayin a secret drawer. 

Just at this moment a little lad bairn entered the room; a child withbright, daring eyes, and a comically haughty, confident manner. Heattracted Crawford's attention at once. 

"What's your name, my wee man?"

"Alexander is my name. "

"That is my name. "

"It is not, " he answered positively; "don't say that any more. "

"Will you hae a sixpence?"

"Yes, I will. Money is good. It buys sweeties. "

"Whose boy is that, dominie?"

"Mrs. Hope's. I thought he would annoy you. He is a great pleasure tome. "

"Let him come up to the Keep whiles. I'll no mind him. "

When he rose to go he stood a moment before each picture, and thensuddenly asked, "Whar is young Crawford?"

"In Rome. "

"A nice place for him to be! He'd be in Babylon, doubtless, if it wason the face o' the earth. "

When he went home he shut himself in his room and almost stealthilytook out that slip of paper. It had begun to look yellow and faded, and Crawford had a strange fancy that it had a sad, pitifulappearance. He held it in his hand a few moments and then put it backagain. It would be the new year soon, and he would decide then. He hadmade similar promises often; they always gave him temporary comfort. 

Then gradually another element of pleasure crept into his life--Mrs. Hope's child. The boy amused him; he never resented his pretty, authoritative ways; a queer kind of companionship sprang up betweenthem. It was one of perfect equality every way; an old man easilybecomes a little child. And those who only knew Crawford among coalsand pig iron would have been amazed to see him keeping up a mockdispute with this baby. 

CHAPTER X. 

One day, getting towards the end of December, the laird awoke in asingular mood. He had no mind to go to the works, and the weatherpromised to give him a good excuse. Over the dreary hills there was amournful floating veil of mist. Clouds were flying rapidly in greatmasses, and showers streaming through the air in disordered ranks, driven furiously before a mad wind--a wind that before noon shook thedoors and windows, and drove the bravest birds into hiding. 

The laird wandered restlessly up and down. 

"There is the dominie, " cried Mrs. Hope, about one o'clock. "Whatbrings him here through such a storm?"

Crawford walked to the door to meet him. He came striding over thesoaking moor with his plaid folded tightly around him and his headbent before the blast. He was greatly excited. 

"Crawford, come wi' me. The Athol passenger packet is driving beforethis wind, and there is a fishing smack in her wake. "

"Gie us some brandy wi' us, Mrs. Hope, and you'll hae fires andblankets and a' things needfu' in case O' accident, ma'am. " He wasputting on his bonnet and plaid as he spoke, and in five minutes themen were hastening to the seaside. 

It was a deadly coast to be on in a storm with a gale blowing to land. A long reef of sharp rocks lay all along it, and now the line offoaming breakers was to any ship a terrible omen of death anddestruction. The packet was almost helpless, and the laird andTallisker found a crowd of men waiting the catastrophe that was everymoment imminent. 

"She ought to hae gien hersel' plenty o' sea room, " said the laird. Hewas half angry to see all the interest centred on the packet. Thelittle fishing cobble was making, in his opinion, a far more sensiblestruggle for existence. She was managing her small resources withdesperate skill. 

"Tallisker, " said the laird, "you stay here with these men. Rory and Iare going half a mile up the coast. If the cobble drives on shore, thecurrent will take a boat as light as she is over the Bogie Rock andinto the surf yonder. There are doubtless three or four honest men inher, quite as weel worth the saving as those stranger merchant bodiesthat will be in the packet. "

So Crawford and Rory hastened to the point they had decided on, andjust as they reached it the boat became unmanageable. The wind tookher in its teeth, shook her a moment or two like a thing of straw andrags, and then flung her, keel upwards, on the Bogie Rock. Two of themen were evidently good swimmers; the others were a boy and an oldman. Crawford plunged boldly in after the latter. The waves buffetedhim, and flung him down, and lifted him up, but he was a fine surfswimmer, and he knew every rock on that dangerous coast. After a hardstruggle, all were brought safe to land. 

Then they walked back to where the packet had been last seen. She hadgone to pieces. A few men waited on the beach, picking up the dead, and such boxes and packages as were dashed on shore. Only three of allon board had been rescued, and they had been taken to the Keep forsuccor and rest. 

The laird hastened home. He had not felt as young for many years. Thestruggle, though one of life and death, had not wearied him like aday's toil at the works, for it had been a struggle to which the soulhad girded itself gladly, and helped and borne with it the mortalbody. He came in all glowing and glad; a form lay on his own couchbefore the fire. The dominie and Mrs. Hope were bending over it. As heentered, Mrs. Hope sprang forward--

"Father!"

"Eh? Father? What is this?"

"Father, it is Colin. "

Then he knew it all. Colin stretched out a feeble hand towards him. Hewas sorely bruised and hurt, he was white and helpless and death-like. 

"Father!"

And the father knelt down beside him. Wife and friend walked softlyaway. In the solemn moment when these two long-parted souls met againthere was no other love that could inter-meddle. 

"My dear father--forgive me!"

Then the laird kissed his recovered son, and said tenderly, "Son Colin, you are all I have, and all I have is yours. "

"Father, my wife and son. "

Then the old man proudly and fondly kissed Hope Crawford too, and heclasped the little lad in his arms. He was well pleased that Hope hadthought it worth while to minister to his comfort, and let him learnhow to know her fairly. 

"But it was your doing, Tallisker, I ken it was; it has your mark onit. " And he grasped his old friend's hand with a very hearty grip. 

"Not altogether, laird. Colin had gone to Rome on business, and youwere in sair discomfort, and I just named it to Mrs. Hope. After a' itwas her proposal. Naebody but a woman would hae thought o' such a wayto win round you. "

Perhaps it was well that Colin was sick and very helpless for someweeks. During them the two men learned to understand and to respecteach other's peculiarities. Crawford himself was wonderfully happy; hewould not let any thought of the past darken his heart. He lookedforward as hopefully as if he were yet on the threshold of life. 

O mystery of life! from what depths proceed thy comforts and thylessons! One morning at very early dawn Crawford awoke from a deepsleep in an indescribable awe. In some vision of the night he hadvisited that piteous home which memory builds, and where only in sleepwe walk. Whom had he seen there? What message had he received? This henever told. He had been "spoken to. "

Tallisker was not the man to smile at any such confidence. He saw noreason why God's messengers should not meet his children in theborder-land of dreams. Thus he had counselled and visited thepatriarchs and prophets of old. He was a God who changeth not; and ifhe had chosen to send Crawford a message in this way, it was doubtlesssome special word, for some special duty or sorrow. But he had reallyno idea of what Crawford had come to confess to him. 

"Tallisker, I hae been a man in a sair strait for many a year. I haenot indeed hid the Lord's talent in a napkin, but I hae done a warsething; I hae been trading wi' it for my ain proper advantage. Odominie, I hae been a wretched man through it all. Nane ken betterthan I what a hard master the deil is. "

Then he told the dominie of Helen's bequest. He went over all thearguments with which he had hitherto quieted his conscience, and heanxiously watched their effect upon Tallisker. He had a hope even yetthat the dominie might think them reasonable. But the table at whichthey sat was not less demonstrative than Tallisker's face; for once heabsolutely controlled himself till the story was told. Then he said toCrawford, "I'll no tak any responsibility in a matter between you and yourconscience. If you gie it, gie it without regret and without holdingback. Gie it cheerfully; God loves a cheerful giver. But it isna wi'me you'll find the wisdom to guide you in this matter. Shut yoursel'in your ain room, and sit down at the foot o' the cross and think itout. It is a big sum to gie away, but maybe, in the face o' thatstupendous Sacrifice it willna seem so big. I'll walk up in theevening, laird; perhaps you will then hae decided what to do. "

Crawford was partly disappointed. He had hoped that Tallisker would insome way take the burden from him--he had instead sent him to the footof the cross. He did not feel as if he dared to neglect the advice; sohe went thoughtfully to his own room and locked the door. Then he tookout his private ledger. Many a page had been written the last tenyears. It was the book of a very rich man. He thought of all hisengagements and plans and hopes, and of how the withdrawal of so largea sum would affect them. 

Then he took out Helen's last message, and sat down humbly with itwhere Tallisker had told him to sit. Suddenly Helen's last words cameback to him, "Oh! the unspeakable riches!" What of? The cross ofChrist--the redemption from eternal death--the promise of eternallife! Sin is like a nightmare; when we stir under it, we awake. Crawford sat thinking until his heart burned and softened, and greattears rolled slowly down his cheeks and dropped upon the paper in hishands. Then he thought of the richness of his own life--Colin andHope, and the already beloved child Alexander--of his happy home, ofthe prosperity of his enterprises, of his loyal and loving friendTallisker. What a contrast to the Life he had been told to remember!that pathetic Life that had not where to lay its head, that mysteriousagony in Gethsemane, that sublime death on Calvary, and he cried out, "O Christ! O Saviour of my soul! all that I have is too little!"

When Tallisker came in the evening, Hope noticed a strange solemnityabout the man. He, too, had been in the presence of God all day. Hehad been praying for his friend. But as soon as he saw Crawford heknew how the struggle had ended. Quietly they grasped each other'shand, and the evening meal was taken by Colin's side in pleasantcheerfulness. After it, when all were still, the laird spoke:

"Colin and Hope, I hae something I ought to tell you. When your sisterHelen died she asked me to gie her share o' the estate to the poorchildren of our Father. I had intended giving Helen £100, 000. It is abig sum, and I hae been in a sair strait about it. What say you, Colin?"

"My dear father, I say there is only one way out of that strait. Themoney must be given as Helen wished it. Helen was a noble girl. It wasjust like her. "

"Ah, Colin, if you could only tell what a burden this bit o' paper hasbeen to me! I left the great weight at the foot o' the cross thismorning. " As he spoke the paper dropped from his fingers and fell uponthe table. Colin lifted it reverently and kissed it. "Father, " hesaid, "may I keep it now? The day will come when the Crawfords willthink with more pride of it than of any parchment they possess. "

Then there was an appeal to Tallisker about its disposal. "Laird, " heanswered, "such a sum must be handled wi' great care. It is not enoughto gie money, it must be gien wisely. " But he promised to take onhimself the labor of inquiry into different charities, and theconsideration of what places and objects needed help most. "But, Crawford, " he said, "if you hae any special desire, I think it shouldbe regarded. "

Then Crawford said he had indeed one. When he was himself young he haddesired greatly to enter the ministry, but his father had laid uponhim a duty to the family and estate which he had accepted instead. 

"Now, dominie, " he said, "canna I keep aye a young man in my place?"

"It is a worthy thought, Crawford. "

So the first portion of Helen's bequest went to Aberdeen University. This endowment has sent out in Crawford's place many a noble young maninto the harvest-field of the world, and who shall say for how manycenturies it will keep his name green in earth and heaven! Thedistribution of the rest does not concern our story. It may safely beleft in Dominie Tallisker's hands. 

Of course, in some measure it altered Crawford's plans. The new housewas abandoned and a wing built to the Keep for Colin's special use. Inthis portion the young man indulged freely his poetic, artistictastes. And the laird got to like it. He used to tread softly as soonas his feet entered the large shaded rooms, full of skilful lights andwhite gleaming statues. He got to enjoy the hot, scented atmosphereand rare blossoms of the conservatory, and it became a daily delightto him to sit an hour in Colin's studio and watch the progress of somefavorite picture. 

But above all his life was made rich by his grandson. Nature, as sheoften does, reproduced in the second generation what she had totallyomitted in the first. The boy was his grandfather over again. Theyagreed upon every point. It was the laird who taught Alexander tospear a salmon, and throw a trout-line, and stalk a deer. They hadconstant confidences about tackle and guns and snares. They were allday together on the hills. The works pleased the boy better than hisfather's studio. He trotted away with his grandfather gladly to them. The fires and molten metal, the wheels and hammers and tumult, wereall enchantments to him. He never feared to leap into a collier'sbasket and swing down the deep, black shaft. He had also anappreciative love of money; he knew just how many sixpences he owned, and though he could give if asked to do so, he always wanted thedominie to give him a good reason for giving. The child gave him backagain his youth, and a fuller and nobler one than he himself hadknown. 

And God was very gracious to him, and lengthened out this second youthto a green old age. These men of old Gaul had iron constitutions; theydid not begin to think themselves old men until they had turnedfourscore. It was thirty years after Helen's death when Tallisker onenight sent this word to his life-long friend, "I hae been called, Crawford; come and see me once more. "

They all went together to the manse. The dominie was in hisninety-first year, and he was going home. No one could call it dying. He had no pain. He was going to his last sleep

 "As sweetly as a child, Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers, Tired with long play, at close of summer's day Lies down and slumbers. "

"Good-by, Crawford--for a little while. We'll hae nae tears. I haelived joyfully before my God these ninety years; I am going out o' thesunshine into the sunshine. Crawford, through that sair strait o'yours you hae set a grand, wide-open door for a weight o' happiness. Iam glad ye didna wait. A good will is a good thing, but a good life isfar better. It is a grand thing to sow your ain good seed. Nae itherhand could hae done it sae well and sae wisely. Far and wide there arelads and lasses growing up to call you blessed. This is a thought tomak death easy, Crawford. Good-night, dears. "

And then "God's finger touched him and he slept. "

Crawford lived but a few weeks longer. After the dominie's death hesimply sat waiting. His darling Alexander came home specially tobrighten these last hours, and in his company he showed almost to thelast hour the true Crawford spirit. 

"Alexander, " he would say, "you'll ding for your ain side and theCrawfords always, but you'll be a good man; there is nae happinesselse, dear. Never rest, my lad, till ye sit where your fathers sat inthe House o' Peers. Stand by the State and the Kirk, and fear God, Alexander. The lease o' the Cowden Knowes is near out; don't renew it. Grip tight what ye hae got, but pay every debt as if God wrote thebill. Remember the poor, dear lad. Charity gies itsel' rich. Richesmak to themselves wings, but charity clips the wings. The love o' God, dear, the love o' God--that is the best o' all. "

Yes, he had a sair struggle with his lower nature to the very last, but he was constantly strengthened by the conviction of a "Powercloser to him than breathing, nearer than hands or feet. " Nine weeksafter the dominie's death they found him sitting in his chair, fallenon that sleep whose waking is eternal day. His death was likeTallisker's--a perfectly natural one. He had been reading. The Biblelay open at that grand peroration of St. Paul's on faith, in thetwelfth of Hebrews. The "great cloud of witnesses, " "the sin whichdoth so easily beset us, " "Jesus, the Author and Finisher of ourfaith"--these were probably his last earthly thoughts, and with themhe passed into

 "That perfect presence of His face Which we, for want of words, call heaven. "

James Blackie's Revenge. 

JAMES BLACKIE'S REVENGE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Few people who have travelled will deny that of all cities Glasgow isapparently the least romantic. Steeped in wet, white mist, or wrappedin yellow fog vapor, all gray stone and gray sky, dirty streets, andsloppy people, it presents none of the features of a show town. Yet ithas great merits; it is enterprising, persevering, intensely national, and practically religious; and people who do not mind being damp haveevery chance to make a good living there. Even the sombre appearanceof the dark gray granite of which it is built is not unsuitable to thesterling character of its people; for though this stone may be dulland ugly, there is a natural nobility about it, and it never can bemean. 

I have said that, as a city, Glasgow is practically religious, andcertainly this was the case something less than half a century ago. The number of its churches was not more remarkable than the piety andlearning of its clergy; and the "skailing" of their congregations on aSabbath afternoon was one of the most impressive sights, of its kind, in the world. 

My true little story opens with the skailing of the Ramshorn Kirk, avery favorite place of worship with the well-to-do burghers of theeast end of the city, and it was a peculiarly douce, decent, solemn-looking crowd that slowly and reverently passed out of itsgates into the absolutely silent streets. For no vehicles of any kinddisturbed the Sabbath stillness, and not until the people had gonesome distance from the house of God did they begin to think their ownthoughts, and with a certain grave reserve put them into words. 

Among the groups who proceeded still farther east, towards thepleasant houses facing the "Green, " one alone was remarkable enough tohave elicited special notice from an observing stranger. It consistedof an old man and a young girl, evidently his daughter. Both werestrikingly handsome, and the girl was much better dressed than themajority of women who took the same road. Long before they reached theGreen they were joined by a younger man, whom the elder at onceaddressed in a reproving voice. 

"Ye didna pay as much attention to the sermon as it behooved ye to do, James Blackie; and what for did ye speak to Robert Laird a'most within'the Gates'?"

"I only asked if he had heard of the 'Bonnie Bess;' she is overduefive days, and eight good men in her, not to speak of the cargo. "

"It's no cannie to be aye asking questions. Sit still and the newswill come to ye: forbye, I'm no sure if yon was a lawfu' question; theSabbath sun hasna set yet. "

James Blackie mechanically turned to the west, and then slowly let hisglance fall on the lovely face at his side. 

"Christine, " he asked softly, "how is all with you?"

"All is well, James. "

Not another word was spoken until they reached David Cameron's home. He was carefully reconsidering the sermon--going over every point onhis finger ends, lest he should drop any link of the argument; andJames and Christine were listening to his criticisms and remarks. Theyall stopped before a shop over the windows of which was painted, "David Cameron, Dealer in Fine Teas;" and David, taking a large keyfrom his pocket, opened the door, and said, "Come in and eat wi' us, James; ye ken ye're welcome. "

"Our friendship, Mr. Cameron, is a kind of Montgomery division--all onone side, nothing on the other; but I am 'so by myself' that I thankyou heartily. "

So David, followed by Christine and James, passed slowly through thedarkened store, with its faint smells of Eastern spices and fragrantteas, into the little parlor beyond. The early winter night had nowfallen, and the room, having only an outlet into a small court, wouldhave been dark also but for the red glow of the "covered" fire. Davidtook the poker and struck the great block of coal, and instantly thecheerful blaze threw an air of cosey and almost picturesque comfortover the homelike room. 

The two men sat down beside the fire, spreading their hands to itswarmth, and apparently finding their own thoughts excellent company, for neither of them spoke or moved until Christine reappeared. She haddivested herself of the handsome black satin and velvet which formedher kirk suit; but in her long, plain dress of gray winsey, with asnowy lawn kerchief and cuffs, she looked still more fair and lovable. 

James watched her as she spread the cloth and produced from variouscupboards cold meats and pastries, bread and cakes, and many kinds ofdelicate preserves and sweetmeats. Her large, shapely hands among thegold-and-white china fascinated him, while her calm, noiseless, unhurried movements induced a feeling of passive repose that itrequired an effort to dispel, when she said in a low, even voice, "Father, the food is waiting for the blessing. "

It was a silent but by no means an unhappy meal. David was a good man, and he ate his food graciously and gratefully, dropping now and then aword of praise or thanks; and James felt it delightful enough to watchChristine. For James, though he had not yet admitted the fact to hisown heart, loved Christine Cameron as men love only once, with thatdeep, pure affection that has perchance a nearer kindred than thislife has hinted of. 

He thought her also exquisitely beautiful, though this opinion wouldnot have been indorsed by a majority of men. For Christine had one ofthose pale, statuesque faces apt to be solemn in repose; its beautywas tender and twilight, its expression serious and steadfast, and herclear, spiritual eyes held in them no light of earthly passion. Shehad grown up in that little back parlor amid the din and tumult of thecity, under the gray, rainy skies, and surrounded by care and sin, asa white lily grows out of the dark, damp soil, drawing from theelements around only sweetness and purity. 

She was very silent this afternoon, but apparently very happy. Indeed, there was an expression on her face which attracted her father'sattention, and he said, "The sermon has pleased thee well, I see, Christine. "

"The sermon was good, but the text was enough, father. I think it overin my heart, and it leaves a light on all the common things of life. "And she repeated it softly, "O Thou preserver of men, unto Thee shallall flesh come. "

David lifted his bonnet reverently, and James, who was learned in whatthe Scotch pleasantly call "the humanities, " added slowly, "'But I, the mortal, Planted so lowly, with death to bless me, I sorrow no longer. '"

When people have such subjects of conversation, they talkmoderately--for words are but poor interpreters of emotions whosesources lie in the depths of eternity. But they were none the lesshappy, and James felt as if he had been sitting at one of those tableswhich the Lord "prepareth in the wilderness, " where the "cup runnethover" with joy and content. 

Such moments rarely last long; and it is doubtful if we could bear tokeep the soul always to its highest bent. When Christine had sidedaway the dishes and put in order the little room, David laid down hispipe, and said, "The Lord's day being now over, I may speak anent myain matters. I had a letter, Christine, on Saturday, from mybrother-in-law, McFarlane. He says young Donald will be in Glasgownext week. "

"Will he stay here, father?"

"Na, na; he'll bide wi' the McFarlanes. They are rich folk; but silleris nae sin--an' it be clean-won siller. "

"Then why did Uncle McFarlane write to you, father?"

"He wrote concerning the lad's pecuniary matters, Christine. YoungDonald will need gude guiding; and he is my sister Jessie's onlybairn--blood is thicker than water, ye'll allow that--and Donald is o'gentle blood. I'm no saying that's everything; but it is gude to comeo' a gude kind. "

"The McFarlanes have aye been for the pope and the Stuarts, " saidJames, a little scornfully. "They were 'out' in the '79'; and theywould pin the white cockade on to-morrow, if there was ever a Stuartto bid them do it. "

"Maybe they would, James. Hielandmen hae a way o' sticking to auldfriends. There's Camerons I wadna go bail for, if Prince Charlie couldcome again; but let that flea stick to the wa'. And the McFarlanesarena exactly papist noo; the twa last generations hae been'Piscopals--that's ane step ony way towards the truth. Luther mayna beJohn Knox, but they'll win up to him some time, dootless they will. "

"How old is young McFarlane?" asked James. 

"He is turned twenty--a braw lad, his father says. I hae ne'er seenhim, but he's Jessie's bairn, and my heart gaes out to meet him. "

"Why did you not tell me on Saturday, father? I could have spoken forMaggie Maclean to help me put the house in order. "

"I didna get the letter till the evening post. It was most as good asSabbath then. Housecleaning is an unco temptation to women-folk, so Ikeepit the news till the Sabbath sun was weel set. "

During this conversation James Blackie's heart had become heavy withsome sad presentiment of trouble, such as arise very naturally insimilar circumstances. As a poet says, "Ah, no! it is not all delusion, That strange intelligence of sorrow Searching the tranquil heart's seclusion, Making us quail before the morrow. 'Tis the farewell of happiness departing, The sudden tremor of a soul at rest; The wraith of coming grief upstarting Within the watchful breast. "

He listened to David Cameron's reminiscences of his bonnie sisterJessie, and of the love match she had made with the great Highlandchieftain, with an ill-disguised impatience. He had a Lowlander'sscorn for the thriftless, fighting, freebooting traditions of theNorthern clans and a Calvinist's dislike to the Stuarts and theStuarts' faith; so that David's unusual emotion was exceedingly and, perhaps, unreasonably irritating to him. He could not bear to hear himspeak with trembling voice and gleaming eyes of the grand mountainsand the silent corries around Ben-Nevis, the red deer trooping overthe misty steeps, and the brown hinds lying among the green plumes offern, and the wren and the thrush lilting in song together. 

"Oh, the bonnie, bonnie Hielands!" cried David with a passionateaffection; "it is always Sabbath up i' the mountains, Christine. Imaun see them once again ere I lay by my pilgrim-staff and shoon forever. "

"Then you are not Glasgow born, Mr. Cameron, " said James, with the airof one who finds out something to another's disadvantage. 

"Me! Glasgo' born! Na, na, man! I was born among the mountains o'Argyle. It was a sair downcome fra them to the Glasgo' pavements. ButI'm saying naething against Glasgo'. I was but thinking o' the dayswhen I wore the tartan and climbed the hills in the white dawns, and, kneeling on the top o' Ben Na Keen, saw the sun sink down wi' a smile. It's little ane sees o' sunrising or sunsetting here, James, " andDavid sighed heavily and wiped away the tender mist from his sight. 

James looked at the old man with some contempt; he himself had beenborn and reared in one or other of the closest and darkest streets ofthe city. The memories of his loveless, hard-worked childhood werebitter to him, and he knew nothing of the joy of a boyhood spent inthe hills and woods. 

"Life is the same everywhere, Mr. Cameron. I dare say there is as muchsin and as much worry and care among the mountains as on the Glasgowpavements. "

"You may 'daur say' it, James, but that winna mak it true. Even inthis warld our Father's house has many mansions. Gang your way up andup through thae grand solitudes and ye'll blush to be caught worryingamong them. "

And then in a clear, jubilant voice he broke into the old Scotchversion of the 121st Psalm:

 "I to the hills will lift mine eyes from whence doth come mine aid; My safety cometh from the Lord, who heaven and earth hath made. "

And he sang it to that loveliest of all psalm tunes, Rathiel's "St. Mary's. " It was impossible to resist the faith, the enthusiasm, themelody. At the second bar Christine's clear, sweet voice joined in, and at the second line James was making a happy third. 

 "Henceforth thy goings out and in God keep for ever will. "

"Thae twa lines will do for a 'Gude-night, '" said David in the pauseat the end of the psalm, and James rose with a sigh and wrapped hisplaid around him. 

CHAPTER II. 

James had gone into the house so happy and hopeful, he left it soanxious and angry--yes, angry. He knew well that he had no just causefor anger, but that knowledge only irritated him the more. Souls, aswell as bodies, are subject to malignant diseases, and to-night envyand jealousy were causing James Blackie more acute suffering than anyattack of fever or contagion. A feeling of dislike towards youngDonald McFarlane had taken possession of his heart; he lay awake tomake a mental picture of the youth, and then he hated the picture hehad made. 

Feverish and miserable, he went next morning to the bank in which hewas employed, and endeavored amid the perplexities of compoundinterest to forget the anxieties he had invented for himself. But itwas beyond his power, and he did not pray about them; for the burdenswe bind on our own shoulders we rarely dare to go to God with, andJames might have known from this circumstance alone that his troublewas no lawful one. He nursed it carefully all day and took it to bedwith him again at night. The next day he had begun to understand howenvy grew to hatred, and hatred to murder. Still he did not go to Godfor help, and still he kept ever before his eyes the image of theyouth that he had determined was to be his enemy. 

On Thursday night he could no longer bear his uncertainties. Hedressed himself carefully and went to David Cameron's. David was inhis shop tasting and buying teas, and apparently absorbed in business. He merely nodded to James, and bid him "walk through. " He had nointention of being less kindly than usual, but James was in such asuspicious temper that he took his preoccupation for coolness, and soit was almost with a resentful feeling he opened the half-glass doordividing the shop from the parlor. 

As his heart had foretold him, there sat the youth whom he haddetermined to hate, but his imagination had greatly deceived him withregard to his appearance. He had thought of Donald only as a "fair, false Highlander" in tartan, kilt, and philibeg. He found him a tall, dark youth, richly dressed in the prevailing Southern fashion, andretaining no badge of his country's costume but the little Glengarycap with its chieftain's token of an eagle's feather. His manners werenot rude and haughty, as James had decided they would be; they weresingularly frank and pleasant. Gracious and graceful, exceedinglyhandsome and light-hearted, he was likely to prove a far moredangerous rival than even James' jealous heart had anticipated. 

He rose at Christine's introduction, and offered his hand with apleasant smile to James. The latter received the courtesy with suchmarked aversion that Donald slightly raised his eyebrows ere heresumed his interrupted conversation with Christine. And now thatJames sat down with a determination to look for offences he foundplenty. Christine was sewing, and Donald sat beside her winding andunwinding her threads, playing with her housewife, or teasingly hidingher scissors. Christine, half pleased and half annoyed, gradually fellinto Donald's mood, and her still face dimpled into smiles. James veryquickly decided that Donald presumed in a very offensive manner on hisrelationship to Christine. 

A little after nine o'clock David, having closed his shop, joined themin the parlor. He immediately began to question James about the lossof the "Bonnie Bess, " and from that subject they drifted easily intoothers of a local business interest. It was very natural that Donald, being a stranger both to the city and its business, should take nopart in this discourse, and that he should, in consequence, devotehimself to Christine. But James felt it an offence, and rose muchearlier than was his wont to depart. David stayed him, almostauthoritatively:

"Ye maun stop, baith o' ye lads, and join in my meat and worship. Theyare ill visitors that canna sit at ane board and kneel at ane altar. "

For David had seen, through all their drifting talk of ships andcargoes, the tumult in James' heart, and he did not wish him to goaway in an ungenerous and unjust temper. So both Donald and Jamespartook of the homely supper of pease brose and butter, oatmeal cakesand fresh milk, and then read aloud with David and Christine theverses of the evening Psalm that came to each in turn. James was muchsoftened by the exercise; so much so that when Donald asked permissionto walk with him as far as their way lay together, he very pleasantlyacceded to the request. And Donald was so bright and unpretentious itwas almost impossible to resist the infectious good temper whichseemed to be his characteristic. 

Still James was very little happier or more restful. He lay awakeagain, but this night it was not to fret and fume, but to calmly thinkover his position and determine what was best and right to do. ForJames still thought of "right, " and would have been shocked indeed ifany angel of conscience had revealed to him the lowest depths of hisdesires and intentions. In the first place, he saw that David wouldtolerate no element of quarrelling and bitterness in his peacefulhome, and that if he would continue to visit there he must preservethe semblance of friendship for Donald McFarlane. In the second, hesaw that Donald had already made so good his lien upon his uncle's andcousin's affections that it would be very hard to make them believewrong of the lad, even if he should do wrong, though of this Jamestold himself there would soon be abundance. 

"For the things David will think sinful beyond all measure, " heargued, "will seem but Puritanical severity to him; forbye, he isrich, gay, handsome, and has little to do with his time, he'll getwell on to Satan's ground before he knows it;" and then some whisperdim and low in his soul made him blush and pause and defer thefollowing out of a course which was to begin in such a way. 

So Donald and he fell into the habit of meeting at David's two orthree nights every week, and an apparent friendship sprang up betweenthem. It was only apparent, however. On Donald's side was thatgood-natured indifference that finds it easy enough to say smoothwords, and is not ready to think evil or to take offence; on James'part a wary watchfulness, assuming the rōle of superior wisdom, halfadmiring and half condemning Donald's youthful spirits and ways. 

David was quite deceived; he dropped at once the authoritative mannerwhich had marked his displeasure when he perceived James' dispositionto envy and anger; he fell again into his usual pleasant familiartalks with the young man, for David thought highly of James as of onelikely to do his duty to God and himself. 

In these conversations Donald soon began to take a little share, andwhen he chose to do so, evinced a thought and shrewdness which greatlypleased his uncle; more generally, however, he was at Christine'sside, reading her some poem he had copied, or telling her about somegrand party he had been at. Sometimes James could catch a few words ofreproof addressed in a gentle voice to Donald by Christine; more oftenhe heard only the murmur of an earnest conversation, or Christine'slow laugh at some amusing incident. 

The little room meanwhile had gradually become a far brighter place. Donald kept it sweet and bright with his daily offerings of freshflowers; the pet canary he had given Christine twittered and sang toher all the day through. Over Christine herself had come the samebright change; her still, calm face often dimpled into smiles, herpale-gold hair was snooded with a pretty ribbon, and her dress alittle richer. Yet, after all, the change was so slight that none buta lover would have noticed it. But there was not a smile or a shade ofbrighter color that James did not see; and he bore it with anequanimity which used often to astonish himself, though it would nothave done so if he had dared just once to look down into his heart; hebore it because he knew that Donald was living two lives--one thatChristine saw, and one that she could not even have imagined. 

It was, alas, too true that this gay, good-natured young man, who hadentered the fashionable world without one bad habit, was fast becomingproficient in all its follies and vices. That kind of negativegoodness which belonged naturally to him, unfortified by strict habitsand strong principles, had not been able to repel the seductions andtemptations that assail young men, rich, handsome, and well-born. There was an evil triumph in James' heart one night when Donald saidto him, as they walked home after an evening at David's, "Mr. Blackie, I wish you could lend me £20. I am in a little trouble, and I cannot ask Uncle David for more, as I have already overdrawn myfather's allowance. "

James loaned it with an eager willingness, though he was usually verycautious and careful of every bawbee of his hard-earned money. He knewit was but the beginning of confidence, and so it proved; in a verylittle while Donald had fallen into the habit of going to James inevery emergency, and of making him the confidant of all his youthfulhopes and follies. 

James even schooled himself to listen patiently to Donald's praises ofhis cousin Christine. "She is just the wife I shall need when I settledown in three or four years, " Donald would say complacently, "and Ithink she loves me. Of course no man is worthy of such a woman, butwhen I have seen life a little I mean to try and be so. "

"Umph!" answered James scornfully, "do you suppose, Mr. McFarlane, that ye'll be fit for a pure lassie like Christine Cameron when youhave played the prodigal and consorted with foolish women, and wastedyour substance in riotous living?"

And Donald said with an honest blush, "By the memory of my mother, no, I do not, James. And I am ashamed when I think of Christine's whitesoul and the stained love I have to offer it. But women forgive! Oh, what mothers and wives and sisters there are in this world!"

"Well, don't try Christine too far, Donald. She is of an oldCovenanting stock; her conscience feels sin afar off. I do not believeshe would marry a bad, worldly man, though it broke her heart to say'No. ' I have known her far longer than you have. "

"Tut, man, I love her! I know her better in an hour than you could doin a lifetime;" and Donald looked rather contemptuously on the plainman who was watching him with eyes that might have warned any one moresuspicious or less confident and self-satisfied. 

CHAPTER III. 

The summer brought some changes. Christine went to the seaside for afew weeks, and Donald went away in Lord Neville's yacht with a partyof gay young men; James and David passed the evenings generallytogether. If it was wet, they remained in the shop or parlor; if fine, they rambled to the "Green, " and sitting down by the riverside talkedof business, of Christine, and of Donald. In one of these confidentialrambles James first tried to arouse in David's mind a suspicion as tohis nephew's real character. David himself introduced the subject byspeaking of a letter he had received from Donald. 

"He's wi' the great Earl o' Egremont at present, " said David proudly, for he had all a Scotsman's respect for good birth; "and there is wi'them young Argyle, and Lord Lovat, and ithers o' the same quality. Butour Donald can cock his bonnet wi' ony o' them; there is na betterblood in Scotland than the McFarlanes'. It taks money though toforegather wi' nobeelity, and Donald is wanting some. So, James, I'llgie ye the siller to-night, and ye'll send it through your bank asearly as may be in the morn. "

"Donald wanting money is an old want, Mr. Cameron. "

David glanced quickly at James, and answered almost haughtily, "It's acommon want likewise, James Blackie. But if Donald McFarlane wantsmoney, he's got kin that can accommodate him, James; wanters arenaalways that fortunate. "

"He has got friends likewise, Mr. Cameron; and I am sure I was proudenough to do him a kindness, and he knows it well. "

"And how much may Donald be owing you, I wonder?"

"Only a little matter of £20. You see he had got into--"

"Dinna fash yoursel' wi' explanations, James. Dootless Donald has hisfaults; but I may weel wink at his small faults, when I hae sae monygreat faults o' my ain. "

And David's personal accusation sounded so much like a reproof, thatJames did not feel it safe to pursue the subject. 

That very night David wrote thus to his nephew:

"Donald, my dear lad, if thou owest James Blackie £20, pay itimmediate. Lying is the second vice, owing money is the first. Ienclose draft for £70 instead o' £50, as per request. "

That £70 was a large sum in the eyes of the careful Glasgow trader; inthe young Highlander's eyes it seemed but a small sum. He could notform any conception of the amount of love it represented, nor of thestruggle it had cost David to "gie awa for nae consideration" thesavings of many days, perhaps weeks, of toil and thought. 

In September Christine came back, and towards the end of October, Donald. He was greatly improved externally by his trip and hisassociations--more manly and more handsome--while his manners hadacquired a slight touch of hauteur that both amused and pleased hisuncle. It had been decided that he should remain in Glasgow anotherwinter, and then select his future profession. But at present Donaldtroubled himself little about the future. He had returned to Christinemore in love with the peace and purity of her character than ever; andbesides, his pecuniary embarrassments in Glasgow were such as torequire his personal presence until they were arranged. 

This arrangement greatly troubled him. He had only a certain allowancefrom his father--a loving but stern man--who having once decided whatsum was sufficient for a young man in Donald's position, would not, under any ordinary circumstances, increase it. David Cameron hadalready advanced him £70. James Blackie was a resource he did not careagain to apply to. In the meantime he was pressed by small debts onevery hand, and was living among a class of young men whose habits ledhim into expenses far beyond his modest income. He began to be veryanxious and miserable. In Christine's presence he was indeed still thesame merry-hearted gentleman; but James saw him in other places, andhe knew from long experience the look of care that drew Donald'shandsome brows together. 

One night, towards the close of this winter, James went to see an oldman who was a broker or trader in bills and money, doing business inthe Cowcaddens. James also did a little of the same business in acautious way, and it was some mutual transaction in gold and silverthat took him that dreary, soaking night into such a locality. 

The two men talked for some time in a low and earnest voice, and thenthe old man, opening a greasy leather satchel, displayed a quantity ofpaper which he had bought. James looked it over with a keen andpractised eye. Suddenly his attitude and expression changed; he readover and over one piece of paper, and every time he read it he lookedat it more critically and with a greater satisfaction. 

"Andrew Starkie, " he said, "where did you buy this?"

"Weel, James, I bought it o' Laidlaw--Aleck Laidlaw. Ye wadna think abig tailoring place like that could hae the wind in their faces; butfolks maun hae their bad weather days, ye ken; but it blew me gude, soI'll ne'er complain. Ye see it is for £89, due in twenty days now, andI only gied £79 for it--a good name too, nane better. "

"David Cameron! But what would he be owing Laidlaw £89 for clothesfor?"

"Tut, tut! The claithes were for his nephew. There was some troubleanent the bill, but the old man gied a note for the amount at last, atthree months. It's due in twenty days now. As he banks wi' your firm, ye may collect it for me; it will be an easy-made penny or twa. "

"I would like to buy this note. What will you sell it for?"

"I'm no minded to sell it. What for do ye want it?"

"Nothing particular. I'll give you £90 for it. "

"If it's worth that to you, it is worth mair. I'm no minded to tak£90. "

"I'll give you £95. "

"I'm no minded to tak it. It's worth mair to you, I see that. What areyou going to mak by it? I'll sell it for half o' what you are countingon. " "Then you would not make a bawbee. I am going to ware £95 on--ona bit of revenge. Now will you go shares?"

"Not I. Revenge in cold blood is the deil's own act. I dinna wark wi'the deil, when it's a losing job to me. "

"Will you take £95 then?"

"No. When lads want whistles they maun pay for them. "

"I'll give no more. For why? Because in twenty days you will do mywork for me; then it will cost me nothing, and it will cost you £89, that is all about it, Starkie. "

Starkie lifted the note which James had flung carelessly down, and hisskinny hands trembled as he fingered it. "This is David Cameron's noteo' hand, and David Cameron is a gude name. "

"Yes, very good. Only that is not David Cameron's writing, it isa--forgery. Light your pipe with it, Andrew Starkie. "

"His nephew gave it himsel' to Aleck Laidlaw--"

"I know. And I hate his nephew. He has come between me and ChristineCameron. Do you see now?"

"Oh! oh! oh! I see, I see! Well, James, you can have it for £100--as afavor. "

"I don't want it now. He could not have a harder man to deal with thanyou are. You suit me very well. "

"James, such business wont suit me. I can't afford to be brought intonotice. I would rather lose double the money than prosecute anygentleman in trouble. "

The older man had reasoned right--James dared not risk the note out ofsight, dared not trust to Starkie's prosecution. He longed to have thebit of paper in his own keeping, and after a wary battle of a fullhour's length Andrew Starkie had his £89 back again, and James had thenote in his pocket-book. 

Through the fog, and through the wind, and through the rain he went, and he knew nothing, and he felt nothing but that little bit of paperagainst his breast. Oh, how greedily he remembered Donald's handsomelooks and stately ways, and all the thousand little words and acts bywhich he imagined himself wronged and insulted. Now he had his enemybeneath his feet, and for several days this thought satisfied him, andhe hid his secret morsel of vengeance and found it sweet--sharply, bitterly sweet--for even yet conscience pleaded hard with him. 

As he sat counting his columns of figures, every gentle, forgivingword of Christ came into his heart. He knew well that Donald wouldreceive his quarterly allowance before the bill was due, and that hemust have relied on this to meet it. He also knew enough of Donald'saffairs to guess something of the emergency that he must have been inere he would have yielded to so dangerous an alternative. There weretimes when he determined to send for Donald, show him the frightfuldanger in which he stood, and then tear the note before his eyes, andleave its payment to his honor. He even realized the peace which wouldflow from such a deed. Nor were these feelings transitory, his betternature pleaded so hard with him that he walked his room hour afterhour under their influence, and their power over him was such asdelayed all action in the matter for nearly a week. 

CHAPTER IV. 

At length one morning David Cameron came into the bank, and havingfinished his business, walked up to James and said, "I feared ye wereill, James. Whatna for hae ye stayed awa sae lang? I wanted ye sairlylast night to go o'er wi' me the points in this debate at our kirk. Weare to hae anither session to-night; ye'll come the morn and talk ito'er wi' me?"

"I will, Mr. Cameron. "

But James instantly determined to see Christine that night. Her fatherwould be at the kirk session, and if Donald was there, he thought heknew how to whisper him away. He meant to have Christine all tohimself for an hour or two, and if he saw any opportunity he wouldtell her all. When he got to David's the store was still open, but theclerk said, "David has just gone, " and James, as was his wont, walkedstraight to the parlor. 

Donald was there; he had guessed that, because a carriage was inwaiting, and he knew it could belong to no other caller at DavidCameron's. And never had Donald roused in him such an intenseantagonism. He was going to some National Celebration, and he stoodbeside Christine in all the splendid picturesque pomp of the McFarlanetartans. He was holding Christine's hand, and she stood as a whitelily in the glow and color of his dark beauty. Perhaps both of themfelt James' entrance inopportune. At any rate they received himcoldly, Donald drew Christine a little apart, said a few whisperedwords to her, and lifting his bonnet slightly to James, he went away. 

In the few minutes of this unfortunate meeting the devil entered intoJames' heart. Even Christine was struck with the new look on his face. It was haughty, malicious, and triumphant, and he leaned against thehigh oaken chimney-piece in a defiant way that annoyed Christine, though she could not analyze it. 

"Sit down, James, " she said with a touch of authority--for hisattitude had unconsciously put her on the defensive. "Donald has goneto the Caledonian club; there is to be a grand gathering of Highlandgentlemen there to-night. "

"_Gentlemen!_"

"Well, yes, _gentlemen!_ And there will be none there more worthy thename than our Donald. "

"The rest of them are much to be scorned at, then. "

"James, James, that speech was little like you. Sit down and come toyourself; I am sure you are not so mean as to grudge Donald the rightsof his good birth. "

"Donald McFarlane shall have all the rights he has worked for; andwhen he gets his just payment he will be in Glasgow jail. "

"James, you are ill. You have not been here for a week, and you lookso unlike yourself. I know you must be ill. Will you let me send forour doctor?" And she approached him kindly, and looked with anxiousscrutiny into his face. 

He put her gently away, and said in a thick, rapid voice, "Christine, I came to-night to tell you that Donald McFarlane isunworthy to come into your presence--he has forged your father'sname. "

"James, you are mad, or ill, what you say is just impossible!"

"I am neither mad nor ill. I will prove it, if you wish. "

At these words every trace of sympathy or feeling vanished from herface; and she said in a low, hoarse whisper, "You cannot prove it. I would not believe such a thing possible. "

Then with a pitiless particularity he went over all the eventsrelating to the note, and held it out for her to examine thesignature. 

"Is that David Cameron's writing?" he cried; "did you ever see such aweak imitation? The man is a fool as well as a villain. "

Christine gazed blankly at the witness of her cousin's guilt, andJames, carried away with the wicked impetuosity of his passionateaccusations of Donald's life, did not see the fair face set in whitedespair and the eyes close wearily, as with a piteous cry she fellprostrate at his feet. 

Ah, how short was his triumph! When he saw the ruin that his words hadmade he shrieked aloud in his terror and agony. Help was at hand, anddoctors were quickly brought, but she had received a shock from whichit seemed impossible to revive her. David was brought home, and kneltin speechless distress by the side of his insensible child, but nohope lightened the long, terrible night, and when the reaction came inthe morning, it came in the form of fever and delirium. 

Questioned closely by David, James admitted nothing but that whiletalking to him about Donald McFarlane she had fallen at his feet, andDonald could only say that he had that evening told her he was goingto Edinburgh in two weeks, to study law with his cousin, and that hehad asked her to be his wife. 

This acknowledgement bound David and Donald in a closer communion ofsorrow. James and his sufferings were scarcely noticed. Yet, probablyof all that unhappy company, he suffered the most. He loved Christinewith a far deeper affection than Donald had ever dreamed of. He wouldhave given his life for hers, and yet he had, perhaps, been hermurderer. How he hated Donald in those days! What love and remorsetortured him! And what availed it that he had bought the power to ruinthe man he hated? He was afraid to use it. If Christine lived, and hedid use it, she would never forgive him; if she died, he would be hermurderer. 

But the business of life cannot be delayed for its sorrows. David mustwait in his shop, and James must be at the bank; and in two weeksDonald had to leave for Edinburgh, though Christine was lying in asilent, broken-hearted apathy, so close to the very shoal of Time thatnone dared say, "She will live another day. "

How James despised Donald for leaving her at all; he desired nothingbeyond the permission to sit by her side, and watch and aid the slowstruggle of life back from the shores and shades of death. 

It was almost the end of summer before she was able to resume herplace in the household, but long before that she had asked to seeJames. The interview took place one Sabbath afternoon while David wasat church. Christine had been lifted to a couch, but she was unable tomove, and even speech was exhausting and difficult to her. James kneltdown by her side, and, weeping bitterly, said, "O Christine, forgive me!"

She smiled faintly. 

"You--have--not--used--yonder--paper, --James?"

"Oh, no, no. "

"It--would--kill--me. You--would--not--kill--me?"

"I would die to make you strong again. "

"Don't--hurt--Donald. Forgive--for--Christ's--sake, --James!"

Poor James! It was hard for him to see that still Donald was her firstthought, and, looking on the wreck of Christine's youth and beauty, itwas still harder not to hate him worse than ever. 

Nor did the temptation to do so grow less with time. He had to listenevery evening to David's praises of his nephew: how "he had beenentered wi' Advocate Scott, and was going to be a grand lawyer, " orhow he had been to some great man's house and won all hearts with hishandsome face and witty tongue. Or, perhaps, he would be shown somerich token of his love that had come for Christine; or David wouldsay, "There's the 'Edinbro' News, ' James; it cam fra Donald this morn;tak it hame wi' you. You're welcome. " And James feared not to take it, feared to show the slightest dislike to Donald, lest David's anger atit should provoke him to say what was in his heart, and Christine onlybe the sufferer. 

One cold night in early winter, James, as was his wont now, went tospend the evening in talking with David and in watching Christine. That was really all it was; for, though she had resumed her houseduties, she took little part in conversation. She had always beeninclined to silence, but now a faint smile and a "Yes" or "No" wereher usual response, even to her father's remarks. This night he foundDavid out, and he hesitated whether to trouble Christine or not. Hestood for a moment in the open door and looked at her. She was sittingby the table with a little Testament open in her hand; but she wasrather musing on what she had been reading than continuing heroccupation. 

"Christine!"

"James!"

"May I come in?"

"Yes, surely. "

"I hear your father has gone to a town-meeting. "

"Yes. "

"And he is to be made a bailie. "

"Yes. "

"I am very glad. It will greatly please him, and there is no citizenmore worthy of the honor. "

"I think so also. "

"Shall I disturb you if I wait to see him?"

"No, James; sit down. "

Then Christine laid aside her book and took her sewing, and James satthinking how he could best introduce the subject ever near his heart. He felt that there was much to say in his own behalf, if he only knewhow to begin. Christine opened the subject for him. She laid down herwork and went and stood before the fire at his side. The faintestshadow of color was in her face, and her eyes were unspeakably sad andanxious. He could not bear their eager, searching gaze, and droppedhis own. 

"James, have you destroyed yonder paper?"

"Nay, Christine; I am too poor a man to throw away so much hard-wongold. I am keeping it until I can see Mr. McFarlane and quietlycollect my own. "

"You will never use it in any way against him?"

"Will you ever marry him? Tell me that. "

"O sir!" she cried indignantly, "you want to make a bargain with mypoor heart. Hear, then. If Donald wants me to marry him I'll nevercast him off. Do you think God will cast him off for one fault? Youdare not say it. "

"I do not say but what God will pardon. But we are human beings; weare not near to God yet. "

"But we ought to be trying to get near him; and oh, James, you neverhad so grand a chance. See the pitiful face of Christ looking down onyou from the cross. If that face should turn away from you, James--ifit should!"

"You ask a hard thing of me, Christine. "

"Yes, I do. "

"But if you will only try and love me--"

"Stop, James! I will make no bargain in a matter of right and wrong. If for Christ's sake, who has forgiven you so much, you can forgiveDonald, for Christ's dear sake do it. If not, I will set no earthlylove before it. Do your worst. God can find out a way. I'll trusthim. "

"Christine! dear Christine!"

"Hush! I am Donald's promised wife. May God speak to you for me. I amvery sad and weary. Good-night. "

James did not wait for David's return. He went back to his ownlodging, and, taking the note out of his pocket-book, spread it beforehim. His first thought was that he had wared £89 on his enemy's fineclothes, and James loved gold and hated foppish, extravagant dress;his next that he had saved Andrew Starkie £89, and he knew the oldusurer was quietly laughing at his folly. But worse than all was thealternative he saw as the result of his sinful purchase: if he used itto gratify his personal hatred, he deeply wounded, perhaps killed, hisdearest love and his oldest friend. Hour after hour he sat with thenote before him. His good angel stood at his side and wooed him tomercy. There was a fire burning in the grate, and twice he held thepaper over it, and twice turned away from his better self. 

The watchman was calling "half-past two o'clock, " when, cold and wearywith his mental struggle, he rose and went to his desk. There was asecret hiding-place behind a drawer there, in which he kept papersrelating to his transactions with Andrew Starkie, and he put it amongthem. "I'll leave it to its chance, " he muttered; "a fire might comeand burn it up some day. If it is God's will to save Donald, he couldso order it, and I am fully insured against pecuniary loss. " He didnot at that moment see how presumptuously he was throwing his ownresponsibility on God; he did not indeed want to see anything but someplausible way of avoiding a road too steep for a heart weighed downwith earthly passion to dare. 

Then weeks and months drifted away in the calm regular routine ofDavid's life. But though there were no outward changes, there was avery important inward one. About sixteen months after Donald'sdeparture he returned to visit Christine. James, at Christine's urgentrequest, absented himself during this visit; but when he next calledat David's, he perceived at once that all was not as had beenanticipated. David had little to say about him; Christine looked palerand sadder than ever. Neither quite understood why. There had been novisible break with Donald, but both father and daughter felt that hehad drifted far away from them and their humble, pious life. Donaldhad lost the child's heart he had brought with him from the mountains;he was ambitious of honors, and eager after worldly pleasures andadvantages. He had become more gravely handsome, and he talked moresensibly to David; but David liked him less. 

After this visit there sprang up a new hope in James' heart, and hewaited and watched, though often with very angry feelings; for he wassure that Donald was gradually deserting Christine. 

She grew daily more sad and silent; it was evident she was suffering. The little Testament lay now always with her work, and he noticed thatshe frequently laid aside her sewing and read it earnestly, even whileDavid and he were quietly talking at the fireside. 

One Sabbath, two years after Donald's departure, James met Davidcoming out of church alone. He could only say, "I hope Christine iswell. "

"Had she been well, she had been wi' me; thou kens that, James. "

"I might have done so. Christine is never absent from God's house whenit is open. "

"It is a good plan, James; for when they who go regular to God's houseare forced to stay away, God himself asks after them. I hae no doubtbut what Christine has been visited. "

They walked on in silence until David's house was in sight. "I'm nocaring for any company earth can gie me the night, James; but the mornI hae something to tell you I canna speak anent to-day. "

CHAPTER V. 

The next day David came into the bank about noon, and said, "Come wi'me to McLellan's, James, and hae a mutton pie, it's near bylunch-time. " While they were eating it David said, "Donald McFarlaneis to be wedded next month. He's making a grand marriage. "

James bit his lip, but said nothing. 

"He's spoken for Miss Margaret Napier; her father was ane o' the Lordso' Session; she's his sole heiress, and that will mean £50, 000, forebythe bonnie place and lands o' Ellenshawe. "

"And Christine?"

"Dinna look that way, man. Christine is content; she kens weel enoughshe isna like her cousin. "

"God be thanked she is not. Go away from me, David Cameron, or I shallsay words that will make more suffering than you can dream off. Goaway, man. "

David was shocked and grieved at his companion's passion. "James, " hesaid solemnly, "dinna mak a fool o' yoursel'. I hae long seen yourill-will at Donald. Let it go. Donald's aboon your thumb now, and theanger o' a poor man aye falls on himsel'. "

"For God's sake don't tempt me farther. You little know what I coulddo if I had the ill heart to do it. "

"Ow! ay!" said David scornfully, "if the poor cat had only wings itwould extirpate the race of sparrows from the world; but when thewings arena there, James lad, it is just as weel to mak no boast o'them. "

James had leaned his head in his hands, and was whispering, "Christine! Christine! Christine!" in a rapid inaudible voice. He tookno notice of David's remark, and David was instantly sorry for it. "The puir lad is just sorrowful wi' love for Christine, and that's naesin that I can see, " he thought. "James, " he said kindly, "I am sorryenough to grieve you. Come as soon as you can like to do it. You'll bewelcome. "

James slightly nodded his head, but did not move; and David left himalone in the little boarded room where they had eaten. In a fewminutes he collected himself, and, like one dazed, walked back to hisplace in the bank. Never had its hours seemed so long, never had thenoise and traffic, the tramping of feet, and the banging of doorsseemed so intolerable. As early as possible he was at David's, andDavid, with that fine instinct that a kind heart teaches, said as heentered, "Gude evening, James. Gae awa ben and keep Christine company. I'm that busy that I'll no shut up for half an hour yet. "

James found Christine in her usual place. The hearth had been freshlyswept, the fire blazed brightly, and she sat before it with her whiteseam in her hand. She raised her eyes at James' entrance, andsmilingly nodded to a vacant chair near her. He took it silently. Christine seemed annoyed at his silence in a little while, and asked, "Why don't you speak, James? Have you nothing to say?"

"A great deal, Christine. What now do you think of Donald McFarlane?"

"I think well of Donald. "

"And of his marriage also?"

"Certainly I do. When he was here I saw how unfit I was to be hiswife. I told him so, and bid him seek a mate more suitable to hisposition and prospects. "

"Do you think it right to let yonder lady wed such a man with her eyesshut?"

"Are you going to open them?" Her face was sad and mournful, and shelaid her hand gently on James' shoulder. 

"I think it is my duty, Christine. "

"Think again, James. Be sure it is your duty before you go on such anerrand. See if you dare kneel down and ask God to bless you in thisduty. "

"Christine, you treat me very hardly. You know how I love you, and youuse your power over me unmercifully. "

"No, no, James, I only want you to keep yourself out of the power ofSatan. If indeed I have any share in your heart, do not wrong me bygiving Satan a place there also. Let me at least respect you, James. "

Christine had never spoken in this way before to him; the majesty andpurity of her character lifted him insensibly to higher thoughts, hergentleness soothed and comforted him. When David came in he found themtalking in a calm, cheerful tone, and the evening that followed wasone of the pleasantest he could remember. Yet James understood thatChristine trusted in his forbearance, and he had no heart to grieveher, especially as she did her best to reward him by striving to makehis visits to her father unusually happy. 

So Donald married Miss Napier, and the newspapers were full of thebridegroom's beauty and talents, and the bride's high lineage andgreat possessions. After this Donald and Donald's affairs seemed tovery little trouble David's humble household. His marriage put him faraway from Christine's thoughts, for her delicate conscience would haveregarded it as a great sin to remember with any feeling of loveanother woman's affianced husband; and when the struggle became onebetween right and wrong, it was ended for Christine. David seldomnamed him, and so Donald McFarlane gradually passed out of the liveshe had so sorely troubled. 

Slowly but surely James continued to prosper; he rose to be cashier inthe bank, and he won a calm but certain place in Christine's regard. She had never quite recovered the shock of her long illness; she wasstill very frail, and easily exhausted by the least fatigue orexcitement. But in James' eyes she was perfect; he was always at hisbest in her presence, and he was a very proud and happy man when, after eight years' patient waiting and wooing, he won from her thepromise to be his wife; for he knew that with Christine the promisemeant all that it ought to mean. 

The marriage made few changes in her peaceful life. James left thebank, put his savings in David's business, and became his partner. Butthey continued to live in the same house, and year after year passedaway in that happy calm which leaves no records, and has no fate daysfor the future to date from. 

Sometimes a letter, a newspaper, or some public event, would bringback the memory of the gay, handsome lad that had once made so brightthe little back parlor. Such strays from Donald's present life werealways pleasant ones. In ten years he had made great strides forward. Every one had a good word for him. His legal skill was quoted asauthority, his charities were munificent, his name unblemished by asingle mean deed. 

Had James forgotten? No, indeed. Donald's success only deepened hishatred of him. Even the silence he was compelled to keep on thesubject intensified the feeling. Once after his marriage he attemptedto discuss the subject with Christine, but the scene had been sopainful he had never attempted it again; and David was swift andpositive to dismiss any unfavorable allusion to Donald. Once, onreading that "Advocate McFarlane had joined the Free Kirk of Scotlandon open confession of faith, " James flung down the paper and saidpointedly, "I wonder whether he confessed his wrong-doing before hisfaith or not. "

"There's nane sae weel shod, James, that they mayna slip, " answeredDavid, with a stern face. "He has united wi' Dr. Buchan'skirk--there's nane taken into that fellowship unworthily, as far asman can judge. "

"He would be a wise minister that got at all Advocate McFarlane'ssins, I am thinking. "

"Dinna say all ye think, James. They walk too fair for earth thatnaebody can find fault wi'. "

So James nursed the evil passion in his own heart; indeed, he hadnursed it so long that he could not of himself resign it, and in allhis prayers--and he did pray frequently, and often sincerely--he nevernamed this subject to God, never once asked for his counsel or help inthe matter. 

Twelve years after his marriage with Christine David died, died as hehad often wished to die, very suddenly. He was well at noon; at nighthe had put on the garments of eternal Sabbath. He had but a fewmoments of consciousness in which to bid farewell to his children. "Christine, " he said cheerfully, "we'll no be lang parted, dearlassie;" and to James a few words on his affairs, and then almost withhis last breath, "James, heed what I say: 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall--obtain mercy. '"

There seemed to have been some prophetic sense in David's partingwords to his daughter, for soon after his death she began to failrapidly. What James suffered as he saw it only those can tell who havewatched their beloved slowly dying, and hoped against hope day afterday and week after week. Perhaps the hardest part was the knowledgethat she had never recovered the health she had previous to theterrible shock which his revelation of Donald's guilt had been to her. He forgot his own share in the shock and threw the whole blame of herearly decay on Donald. "And if she dies, " he kept saying in his angryheart, "I will make him suffer for it. "

And Christine was drawing very near to death, though even when she wasconfined to her room and bed James would not believe it. And it was atthis time that Donald came once more to Glasgow. There was a veryexciting general election for a new Parliament, and Donald stood forthe Conservative party in the city of Glasgow. Nothing could have sospeedily ripened James' evil purpose. Should a forger represent hisnative city? Should he see the murderer of his Christine win honorupon honor, when he had but to speak and place him among thieves?

During the struggle he worked frantically to defeat him--and failed. That night he came home like a man possessed by some malicious, ungovernable spirit of hell. He would not go to Christine's room, forhe was afraid she would discover his purpose in his face, and win himfrom it. For now he had sworn to himself that he would only wait untilthe congratulatory dinner. He could get an invitation to it. All thebailies and the great men of the city would be there. The newspaperreporters would be there. His triumph would be complete. Donald woulddoubtless make a great speech, and after it _he_ would say his fewwords. 

Then he thought of Christine. But she did not move him now, for shewas never likely to hear of it. She was confined to her bed; she readnothing but her Bible; she saw no one but her nurse. He would chargethe nurse, and he would keep all papers and letters from her. Hethought of nothing now but the near gratification of a revengefulpurpose for which he had waited twenty years. Oh, how sweet it seemedto him!

The dinner was to be in a week, and during the next few days he waslike a man in a bad dream. He neglected his business, and wanderedrestlessly about the house, and looked so fierce and haggard thatChristine began to notice, to watch, and to fear. She knew that Donaldwas in the city, and her heart told her that it was his presence onlythat could so alter her husband; and she poured it out in strongsupplications for strength and wisdom to avert the calamity she feltapproaching. 

That night her nurse became sick and could not remain with her, andJames, half reluctantly, took her place, for he feared Christine'sinfluence now. She would ask him to read the Bible, to pray with her;she might talk to him of death and heaven; she might name Donald, andextract some promise from him. And he was determined now that nothingshould move him. So he pretended great weariness, drew a large chairto her bedside, and said, "I shall try and sleep a while, darling; if you need me you have onlyto speak. "

CHAPTER VI. 

He was more weary than he knew, and ere he was aware he fell asleep--arestless, wretched sleep, that made him glad when the half-oblivionwas over. Christine, however, was apparently at rest, and he soonrelapsed into the same dark, haunted state of unconsciousness. Suddenly he began to mutter and moan, and then to speak with a hoarse, whispered rapidity that had in it something frightful and unearthly. But Christine listened with wide-open eyes, and heard with sickeningterror the whole wicked plot. It fell from his half-open lips over andover in every detail; and over and over he laughed low and terribly atthe coming shame of the hated Donald. 

She had not walked alone for weeks, nor indeed been out of her roomfor months, but she must go now; and she never doubted her strength. As if she had been a spirit, she slipped out of bed, walked rapidlyand noiselessly into the long-unfamiliar parlor. A rushlight wasburning, and the key of the old desk was always in it. Nothingvaluable was kept there, and people unacquainted with the secret ofthe hidden drawer would have looked in vain for the entrance to it. Christine had known it for years, but her wifely honor had held itmore sacred than locks or keys could have done. She was aware onlythat James kept some private matter of importance there, and she wouldas readily have robbed her husband's purse as have spied into thingsof which he did not speak to her. 

Now, however, all mere thoughts of courtesy or honor must yield beforethe alternative in which James and Donald stood. She reached the desk, drew out the concealing drawer, pushed aside the slide, and touchedthe paper. There were other papers there, but something taught her atonce the right one. To take it and close the desk was but the work ofa moment, then back she flew as swiftly and noiselessly as a spiritwith the condemning evidence tightly clasped in her hand. 

James was still muttering and moaning in his troubled sleep, and withthe consciousness of her success all her unnatural strength passedaway. She could hardly secrete it in her bosom ere she fell into asemi-conscious lethargy, through which she heard with terror herhusband's low, weird laughter and whispered curses. 

At length the day for the dinner came. James had procured aninvitation, and he made unusual personal preparations for it. He wasconscious that he was going to do a very mean action, but he wouldlook as well as possible in the act. He had even his apology for itready; he would say that "as long as it was a private wrong he hadborne the loss patiently for twenty years, but that the public welfaredemanded honest men, men above reproach, and he could no longer feelit his duty, " etc. , etc. 

After he was dressed he bid Christine "Good-by. "

"He would only stay an hour, " he said, "and he must needs go, asDonald was her kin. "

Then he went to the desk, and with hands trembling in their eagernesssought the bill. It was not there. _Impossible!_ He lookedagain--again more carefully--could not believe his eyes, and lookedagain and again. It was really gone. If the visible hand of God hadstruck him, he could not have felt it more consciously. Hemechanically closed the desk and sat down like one stunned. Cain mighthave felt as James did when God asked him, "Where is thy brother?" Hedid not think of prayer. No "God be merciful to me a sinner" came asyet from his dry, white lips. The fountains of his heart seemed dry asdust. The anger of God weighed him down till

 "He felt as one Who, waking after some strange, fevered dream, Sees a dim land and things unspeakable, And comes to know at last that it is hell. "

Meantime Christine was lying with folded hands, praying for him. Sheknew what an agony he was going through, and ceaselessly with puresupplications she prayed for his forgiveness. About midnight one cameand told him his wife wanted to see him. He rose with a wretched sigh, and looked at the clock. He had sat there six hours. He had thoughtover everything, over and over--the certainty that the paper wasthere, the fact that no other paper had been touched, and that nohuman being but Christine knew of the secret place. These thingsshocked him beyond expression. It was to his mind a visible assertionof the divine prerogative; he had really heard God say to him, "Vengeance is mine. " The lesson that in these materialistic days wewould reason away, James humbly accepted. His religious feelings were, after all, his deepest feelings, and in those six hours he had sopalpably felt the frown of his angry Heavenly Father that he had quiteforgotten his poor, puny wrath at Donald McFarlane. 

As he slowly walked up stairs to Christine he determined to make toher a full confession of the deed he had meditated. But when hereached her bedside he saw that she was nearly dead. She smiledfaintly and said, "Send all away, James. I must speak alone with you, dear; we are goingto part, my husband. "

Then he knelt down by her side and held her cold hands, and thegracious tears welled up in his hot eyes, and he covered them with theblessed rain. 

"O James, how you have suffered--since six o'clock. "

"You know then, Christine! I would weep tears of blood over my sin. Odear, dear wife, take no shameful memory of me into eternity withyou. "

"See how I trust you, James. Here is poor, weak Donald's note. I knownow you will never use it against him. What if your six hours werelengthened out through life--through eternity? I ask no promise fromyou now, dear. "

"But I give it. Before God I give it, with all my heart. My sin hasfound me out this night. How has God borne with me all these years?Oh, how great is his mercy!"

Then Christine told him how he had revealed his wicked plot, and howwonderful strength had been given her to defeat it; and the two souls, amid their parting sighs and tears, knew each other as they had neverdone through all their years of life. 

For a week James remained in his own room. Then Christine was laidbeside her father, and the shop was reopened, and the householdreturned to its ways. But James was not seen in house or shop, and theneighbors said, "Kirsty Cameron has had a wearisome sickness, and nae doobt hergudeman was needing a rest. Dootless he has gane to the Hielands abit. "

But it was not northward James Blackie went. It was south; south pastthe bonnie Cumberland Hills and the great manufacturing towns ofLancashire and the rich valleys of Yorkshire; southward until hestopped at last in London. Even then, though he was weary and sick andthe night had fallen, he did not rest. He took a carriage and drove atonce to a fashionable mansion in Baker street. The servant lookedcuriously at him and felt half inclined to be insolent to such avisitor. 

"Take that card to your master at once, " he said in a voice whoseauthority could not be disputed, and the man went. 

His master was lying on a sofa in a luxuriously-furnished room, playing with a lovely girl about four years old, and listeningmeanwhile to an enthusiastic account of a cricket match that two boysof about twelve and fourteen years were giving him. He was astrikingly handsome man, in the prime of life, with a thoroughly happyexpression. He took James' card in a careless fashion, listened to theend of his sons' story, and then looked at it. Instantly his mannerchanged; he stood up, and said promptly, "Go away now, Miss Margaret, and you also, Angus and David; I have anold friend to see. " Then to the servant, "Bring the gentleman here atonce. "

When he heard James' step he went to meet him with open hand; butJames said, "Not just yet, Mr. McFarlane; hear what I have to say. Then if youoffer your hand I will take it. "

"Christine is dead?"

"Dead, dead. "

They sat down opposite each other, and James did not spare himself. From his discovery of the note in old Starkie's possession until thedeath of Christine, he confessed everything. Donald sat with downcasteyes, quite silent. Once or twice his fierce Highland blood surgedinto his face, and his hand stole mechanically to the place where hisdirk had once been, but the motion was as transitory as a thought. When James had finished he sat with compressed lips for a few moments, quite unable to control his speech; but at length he slowly said, "I wish I had known all this before; it would have saved much sin andsuffering. You said that my indifference at first angered you. I mustcorrect this. I was not indifferent. No one can tell what sufferingthat one cowardly act cost me. But before the bill fell due I wentfrankly to Uncle David and confessed all my sin. What passed betweenus you may guess; but he forgave me freely and fully, as I trust Goddid also. Hence there was no cause for its memory to darken life. "

"I always thought Christine had told her father, " muttered James. 

"Nay, but I told him myself. He said he would trace the note, and Ihave no doubt he knew it was in your keeping from the first. "

Then James took it from his pocket-book. 

"There it is, Mr. McFarlane. Christine gave it back to me the hour shedied. I promised her to bring it to you and tell you all. "

"Christine's soul was a white rose without a thorn. I count it anhonor to have known and loved her. But the paper is yours, Mr. Blackie, unless I may pay for it. "

"O man, man! what money could pay for it? I would not dare to sell itfor the whole world! Take it, I pray you. "

"I will not. Do as you wish with it, James, I can trust you. "

Then James walked towards the table. There were wax lights burning onit, and he held it in the flame and watched it slowly consume away toashes. The silence was so intense that they heard each otherbreathing, and the expression on James' face was so rapt and noblethat even Donald's stately beauty was for the moment less attractive. Then he walked towards Donald and said, "Now give me your hand, McFarlane, and I'll take it gladly. "

And that was a handclasp that meant to both men what no words couldhave expressed. 

"Farewell, McFarlane; our ways in this world lie far apart; but whenwe come to die it will comfort both of us to remember this meeting. God be with you!"

"And with you also, James. Farewell. "

Then James went back to his store and his shadowed household life. Andpeople said he looked happier than ever he had done, and pitied himfor his sick wife, and supposed he felt it a happy release to be ridof her. So wrongly does the world, which knows nothing of our reallife, judge us. 

You may see his gravestone in Glasgow Necropolis to-day, and peoplewill tell you that he was a great philanthropist, and gave away anoble fortune to the sick and the ignorant; and you will probablywonder to see only beneath his name the solemn text, "Vengeance ismine; I will repay, saith the Lord. "

Facing His Enemy. 

FACING HIS ENEMY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Forty years ago there stood in the lower part of the city of Glasgow alarge, plain building which was to hundreds of very intelligentScotchmen almost sacred ground. It stood among warehouses andfactories, and in a very unfashionable quarter; but for all that, itwas Dr. William Morrison's kirk. And Dr. Morrison was in every respecta remarkable man--a Scotchman with the old Hebrew fervor andsublimity, who accepted the extremest tenets of his creed with a deepreligious faith, and scorned to trim or moderate them in order to suitwhat he called "a sinfu' latitudinarian age. "

Such a man readily found among the solid burghers of Glasgow a large"following" of a very serious kind, douce, dour men, whosestrongly-marked features looked as if they had been chiselled out oftheir native granite--men who settled themselves with a grave kind ofenjoyment to listen to a full hour's sermon, and who watched everypoint their minister made with a critical acumen that seemed morefitting to a synod of divines than a congregation of weavers andtraders. 

A prominent man in this remarkable church was Deacon John Callendar. He had been one of its first members, and it was everything to hisheart that Jerusalem is to the Jew, or Mecca to the Mohammedan. Hebelieved his minister to be the best and wisest of men, though he wasby no means inclined to allow himself a lazy confidence in thissecurity. It was the special duty of deacons to keep a strict watchover doctrinal points, and though he had never had occasion to dissentin thirty years' scrutiny, he still kept the watch. 

In the temporal affairs of the church it had been different. There wasno definite creed for guidance in these matters, and eight or ten menwith strong, rugged wills about £, _s_. , _d_. , each thinking highly ofhis own discretion in monetary affairs, and rather indifferently ofthe minister's gifts in this direction, were not likely to have alwaysharmonious sessions. 

They had had a decidedly inharmonious one early in January of 184-, and Deacon Callendar had spoken his mind with his usual bluntdirectness. He had been a good deal nettled at the minister'sattitude, for, instead of seconding his propositions, Dr. Morrison hadsat with a faraway, indifferent look, as if the pending discussion wasentirely out of his range of interest. John could have bornecontradiction better. An argument would have gratified him. But tohave the speech and statistics which he had so carefully prepared fallon the minister's ear without provoking any response was a great trialof his patience. He was inwardly very angry, though outwardly verycalm; but Dr. Morrison knew well what a tumult was beneath the dourstill face of the deacon as he rose from his chair, put on his plaid, and pulled his bonnet over his brows. 

"John, " he said kindly, "you are a wise man, and I aye thought so. Ittakes a Christian to lead passion by the bridle. A Turk is a placidgentleman, John, but he cannot do it. "

"Ou, ay! doubtless! There is talk o' the Turk and the Pope, but it ismy neighbors that trouble me the maist, minister. Good-night to yeall. If ye vote to-night you can e'en count my vote wi' Dr. Morrison's; it will be as sensible and warld-like as any o' the lave. "

With this parting reflection he went out. It had begun to snow, andthe still, white solitude made him ashamed of his temper. He looked upat the quiet heavens above him, then at the quiet street before him, and muttered with a spice of satisfaction, "Speaking comes by nature, and silence by understanding. I am thankfu' now I let Deacon Stranghae the last word. I'm saying naught against Strang; he may gie goodcounsel, but they'll be fools that tak it. "

"Uncle!"

"Hout, Davie! Whatna for are you here?"

"It began to snow, and I thought you would be the better of your cloakand umbrella. You seem vexed, uncle. "

"Vexed? Ay. The minister is the maist contrary o' mortals. He kensnaething about church government, and he treats gude siller as if itwasna worth the counting; but he's a gude man, and a great man, Davie, and folk canna serve the altar and be money-changers too. I ought tokeep that i' mind. It's Deacon Strang, and no the minister. "

"Well, uncle, you must just thole it; you know what the New Testamentsays?"

"Ay, ay; I ken it says if a man be struck on one cheek, he must turnthe other; but, Davie, let me tell you that the man who gets the firstblow generally deserves the second. It is gude Christian law no topermit the first stroke. That is my interpretation o' the matter. "

"I never thought of that. "

"Young folk don't think o' everything. "

There was something in the tone of this last remark which seemed tofit best into silence, and David Callendar had a particular reason fornot further irritating his uncle. The two men without any other remarkreached the large, handsome house in Blytheswood Square which wastheir home. Its warmth and comfort had an immediate effect on thedeacon. He looked pleasantly at the blazing fire and the table on thehearthrug, with its basket of oaten cakes, its pitcher of cream, andits whiskey-bottle and toddy glasses. The little brass kettle wassimmering before the fire, his slippers were invitingly warm, hisloose coat lying over the back of his soft, ample chair, and just ashe had put them on, and sank down with a sigh of content, a bright oldlady entered with a spicy dish of kippered salmon. 

"I thought I wad bring ye a bit relish wi' your toddy, deacon. Talkingis hungry wark. I think a man might find easier pleasuring than goingto a kirk session through a snowstorm. "

"A man might, Jenny. They'd suit women-folk wonderfu'; there's plentyo' talk and little wark. "

"Then I dinna see ony call to mak a change, deacon. "

"Now, Jenny, you've had the last word, sae ye can go to bed wi' aneasy mind. And, Jenny, woman, dinna let your quarrel wi' MaggieLaunder come between you and honest sleep. I think that will settleher, " he observed with a pawky smile, as his housekeeper shut the doorwith unnecessary haste. 

Half an hour afterwards, David, mixing another glass of toddy, drewhis chair closer to the fire, and said, "Uncle John, I want to speakto you. "

"Speak on, laddie;" but David noticed that even with the permission, cautious curves settled round his uncle's eyes, and his face assumedthat business-like immobility which defied his scrutiny. 

"I have had a very serious talk with Robert Leslie; he is thinking ofbuying Alexander Hastie out. "

"Why not think o' buying out Robert Napier, or Gavin Campbell, orClydeside Woolen Works? A body might as weel think o' a thousandspindles as think o' fifty. "

"But he means business. An aunt, who has lately died in Galloway, hasleft him £2, 000. "

"That isna capital enough to run Sandy Hastie's mill. "

"He wants me to join him. "

"And how will that help matters? Twa thousand pounds added to DavieCallendar will be just £2, 000. "

"I felt sure you would lend me £2, 000; and in that case it would be agreat chance for me. I am very anxious to be--"

"Your ain maister. "

"Not that altogether, uncle, although you know well the Callendarscome of a kind that do not like to serve. I want to have a chance tomake money. "

"How much of your salary have you saved?"

"I have never tried to save anything yet, uncle, but I am going tobegin. "

The old man sat silent for a few moments, and then said, "I wont doit, Davie. "

"It is only £2, 000, Uncle John. "

"_Only_ £2, 000! Hear the lad! Did ye ever mak £2, 000? Did ye ever save£2, 000? When ye hae done that ye'll ne'er put in the adverb, Davie. _Only £2, 000, indeed!_"

"I thought you loved me, uncle. "

"I love no human creature better than you. Whatna for should I notlove you? You are the only thing left to me o' the bonnie bravebrother who wrapped his colors round him in the Afghan Pass, thebrave-hearted lad who died fighting twenty to one. And you are whilessae like him that I'm tempted--na, na, that is a' byganes. I will notlet you hae the £2, 000, that is the business in hand. "

"What for?"

"If you will hear the truth, that second glass o' whiskey is reasonplenty. I hae taken my ane glass every night for forty years, and Ihae ne'er made the ane twa, except New Year's tide. "

"That is fair nonsense, Uncle John. There are plenty of men whom youtrust for more than £2, 000 who can take four glasses for theirnightcap always. "

"That may be; I'm no denying it; but what is lawfu' in some men issinfu' in others. "

"I do not see that at all. "

"Do you mind last summer, when we were up in Argyleshire, how yourcousin, Roy Callendar, walked, with ne'er the wink o' an eyelash, on amantel-shelf hanging over a three-hundred-feet precipice? Roy had thetrained eyesight and the steady nerve which made it lawfu' for him;for you or me it had been suicide--naething less sinfu'. Three or fourglasses o' whiskey are safer for some men than twa for you. I hae beenfeeling it my duty to tell you this for some time. Never look saeglum, Davie, or I'll be thinking it is my siller and no mysel' youwere caring for the night when ye thought o' my cloak and umbrella. "

The young man rose in a perfect blaze of passion. 

"Sit down, sit down, " said his uncle. "One would think you were yourgrandfather, Evan Callendar, and that some English red-coat had trodon your tartan. Hout! What's the use o' a temper like that to folk whahae taken to the spindle instead o' the claymore?"

"I am a Callendar for all that. "

"Sae am I, sae am I, and vera proud o' it fore-bye. We are a' kin, Davie; blood is thicker than water, and we wont quarrel. "

David put down his unfinished glass of toddy. He could not trusthimself to discuss the matter any farther, but as he left the room hepaused, with the open door in his hand, and said, "If you are afraid I am going to be a drunkard, why did you not carefor the fear before it became a question of £2, 000? And if I ever dobecome one, remember this, Uncle John--you mixed my first glass forme!"

CHAPTER II. 

A positive blow could hardly have stunned John Callendar as thisaccusation did. He could not have answered it, even if he had had anopportunity, and the shock was the greater that it brought with it asudden sense of responsibility, yea, even guilt. At first the feelingwas one of anger at this sudden charge of conscience. He began toexcuse himself; he was not to blame if other people could not do butthey must o'erdo; then to assure himself that, being God's child, there could be no condemnation in the matter to him. But his heart wastoo tender and honest to find rest in such apologies, and close uponhis anger at the lad crowded a host of loving memories that would notbe put away. 

David's father had been very dear to him. He recalled his youngerbrother in a score of tender situations: the schoolhouse in which theyhad studied cheek to cheek over one book; the little stream in whichthey had paddled and fished on holidays, the fir-wood, the mistycorries, and the heathery mountains of Argyle; above all, heremembered the last time that he had ever seen the bright young facemarching at the head of his company down Buchanan street on his way toIndia. David's mother was a still tenderer memory, and JohnCallendar's eyes grew misty as his heart forced him to recall thatdark, wintry afternoon when she had brought David to him, and he hadsolemnly promised to be a father to the lad. It was the last promisebetween them; three weeks afterwards he stood at her grave's side. Time is said to dim such memories as these. It never does. After manyyears some sudden event recalls the great crises of any life with allthe vividness of their first occurrence. 

Confused as these memories were, they blended with an equal confusionof feelings. Love, anger, regret, fear, perplexity, condemnation, excuse, followed close on each other, and John's mind, thoughremarkably clear and acute, was one trained rather to theconsideration of things point by point than to the catching of theproper clew in a mental labyrinth. After an hour's miserableuncertainty he was still in doubt what to do. The one point of comforthe had been able to reach was the hope that David had gone straight toJenny with his grievance. "And though women-folk arena much ascounsellors, " thought John, "they are wonderfu' comforters; and Jennywill ne'er hear tell o' his leaving the house; sae there will be timeto put right what is wrong. "

But though David had always hitherto, when lessons were hard orlassies scornful, gone with his troubles to the faithful Jenny, he didnot do so at this time. He did not even bid her "Good-night, " andthere was such a look on his face that she considered it prudent notto challenge the omission. 

"It will be either money or marriage, " she thought. "If it be money, the deacon has mair than is good for him to hae; if it be marriage, itwill be Isabel Strang, and that the deacon wont like. But it is hisain wife Davie is choosing, and I am for letting the lad hae the lasshe likes best. "

Jenny had come to these conclusions in ten minutes, but she waitedpatiently for an hour before she interrupted her master. Then theclock struck midnight, and she felt herself aggrieved. "Deacon, " shesaid sharply, "ye should mak the day day and the night night, and yewould if ye had a three weeks' ironing to do the morn. It has chappittwelve, sir. "

"Jenny, I'm not sleeplike to-night. There hae been ill words betweenDavid and me. "

"And I am mair than astonished at ye, deacon. Ye are auld enough token that ill words canna be wiped out wi' a sponge. Our Davie isna anordinar lad; he can be trusted where the lave would need a watcher. Yeken that, deacon, for he is your ain bringing up. "

"But, Jenny, £2, 000 for his share o' Hastie's mill! Surely ye didnaencourage the lad in such an idea?"

"Oh, sae it's money, " thought Jenny. "What is £2, 000 to you, deacon?Why should you be sparing and saving money to die wi'? The lad isna afool. "

"I dinna approve o' the partner that is seeking him, Jenny. I haeheard things anent Robert Leslie that I dinna approve of; far fromit. "

"Hae ye _seen_ anything wrong?"

"I canna say I hae. "

"Trust to your eyes, deacon; they believe themselves, and your earsbelieve other people; ye ken which is best. His father was a decentbody. "

"Ay, ay; but Alexander Leslie was different from his son Robert. Hewas a canny, cautious man, who could ding for his ain side, and whoalways stood by the kirk. Robert left Dr. Morrison's soon after hisfather died. The doctor was too narrow for Robert Leslie. RobertLeslie has wonderfu' broad ideas about religion now. Jenny, I dinnalike the men who are their ain Bibles and ministers. "

"But there are good folk outside Dr. Morrison's kirk, deacon, surely. "

"We'll trust so, surely, we'll trust so, Jenny; but a man wi' broadnotions about religion soon gets broad notions about business and allother things. Why, Jenny, I hae heard that Robert Leslie once spoke o'the house o' John Callendar & Co. As 'old fogyish!'"

"That's no hanging matter, deacon, and ye must see that the world ismoving. "

"Maybe, maybe; but I'se never help it to move except in the safe, narrow road. Ye ken the Garloch mill-stream? It is narrow enough for agood rider to leap, but it is deep, and it does its wark weel summerand winter. They can break down the banks, woman, and let it spreadall over the meadow; bonnie enough it will look, but the mill-clapperwould soon stop. Now there's just sae much power, spiritual ortemporal, in any man; spread it out, and it is shallow and no to bedepended on for any purpose whatever. But narrow the channel, Jenny, narrow the channel, and it is a driving force. "

"Ye are getting awa from the main subject, deacon. It is the £2, 000, and ye had best mak up your mind to gie it to Davie. Then ye can gangawa to your bed and tak your rest. "

"You talk like a--like a woman. It is easy to gie other folks' sillerawa. I hae worked for my siller. "

"Your siller, deacon? Ye hae naught but a life use o' it. Ye cannatake it awa wi' ye. Ye can leave it to the ane you like best, but thatvera person may scatter it to the four corners o' the earth. And whynot? Money was made round that it might roll. It is little good yoursis doing lying in the Clyde Trust. "

"Jenny Callendar, you are my ain cousin four times removed, and youhae a kind o' right to speak your mind in my house; but you hae saidenough, woman. It isna a question of money only; there are itherthings troubling me mair than that. But women are but one-sidedarguers. Good-night to you. "

He turned to the fire and sat down, but after a few moments of thesame restless, confused deliberation, he rose and went to his Bible. It lay open upon its stand, and John put his hand lovingly, reverentlyupon the pages. He had no glasses on, and he could not see a letter, but he did not need to. 

"It is my Father's word, " he whispered; and, standing humbly beforeit, he recalled passage after passage, until a great calm fell uponhim. Then he said, "I will lay me down and sleep now; maybe I'll see clearer in themorning light. "

Almost as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning there was a tap athis door, and the gay, strong voice he loved so dearly asked, "Can I come in, Uncle John?"

"Come in, Davie. "

"Uncle, I was wrong last night, and I cannot be happy with any shadowbetween us two. "

Scotchmen are not demonstrative, and John only winked his eyes andstraightened out his mouth; but the grip of the old and young handsaid what no words could have said half so eloquently. Then the oldman remarked in a business-like way, "I hae been thinking, Davie, I would go and look o'er Hastie'saffairs, and if I like the look o' them I'll buy the whole concern outfor you. Partners are kittle cattle. Ye will hae to bear theirshortcomings as well as your ain. Tak my advice, Davie; rule youryouth well, and your age will rule itsel'. "

"Uncle, you forget that Robert Leslie is in treaty with Hastie. Itwould be the height of dishonor to interfere with his bargain. Youhave always told me never to put my finger in another man's bargain. Let us say no more on the subject. I have another plan now. If itsucceeds, well and good; if not, there are chances behind this one. "

John fervently hoped there would be no more to say on this subject, and when day after day went by without any reference to Hastie orRobert Leslie, John Callendar felt much relieved. David also hadlimited himself to one glass of toddy at night, and this unspokenconfession and reformation was a great consolation to the old man. Hesaid to himself that the evil he dreaded had gone by his door, and hewas rather complacent over the bold stand he had taken. 

That day, as he was slowly walking through the Exchange, pondering aproposal for Virginia goods, Deacon Strang accosted him. "Callendar, agood day to ye; I congratulate ye on the new firm o' Callendar &Leslie. They are brave lads, and like enough--if a' goes weel--to doweel. "

John did not allow an eyelash to betray his surprise and chagrin. "Ah, Strang!" he answered, "the Callendars are a big clan, and we are a'kin; sae, if you tak to congratulating me on every Callendar whosename ye see aboon a doorstep, you'll hae mair business on hand thanyou'll ken how to manage. A good day to you!" But Deacon Callendarwent up Great George street that day with a heavy, angry heart. Hisnephew opened the door for him. "Uncle John, I have been looking allover for you. I have something to tell you. "

"Fiddler's news, Davie. I hae heard it already. Sae you hae struckhands wi' Robert Leslie after a', eh?"

"He had my promise, uncle, before I spoke to you. I could not breakit. "

"H'm! Where did you get the £2, 000?"

"I borrowed it. "

"Then I hope 'the party' looked weel into the business. "

"They did not. It was loaned to me on my simple representation. "

"'Simple representation!' Vera simple! It was some woman, dootless. "

"It was my mother's aunt, Lady Brith. "

"Ou, ay! I kent it. Weel, when a bargain is made, wish it good luck;sae, Jenny, put a partridge before the fire, and bring up a bottle O'Madeira. "

It was not however a lively meal. John was too proud and hurt to askfor information, and David too much chilled by his reserve tovolunteer it. The wine, being an unusual beverage to John, made himsleepy; and when David said he had to meet Robert Leslie at nineo'clock, John made no objection and no remark. But when Jenny came into cover up the fire for the night, she found him sitting before it, rubbing his hands in a very unhappy manner. 

"Cousin, " he said fretfully, "there is a new firm in Glasgo' to-day. "

"I hae heard tell o' it. God send it prosperity. "

"It isna likely, Jenny; auld Lady Brith's money to start it! Thegodless auld woman! If Davie taks her advice, he's a gane lad. "

"Then, deacon, it's your ain fault. Whatna for did ye not gie him the£2, 000?"

"Just hear the woman! It taks women and lads to talk o' £2, 000 as ifit were picked up on the planestanes. "

"If ye had loaned it, deacon, ye would hae had the right to spier intothings, and gie the lad advice. He maun tak his advice where he takshis money. Ye flung that chance o' guiding Davie to the four winds. And let me tell ye, Cousin Callendar, ye hae far too tight a grip onthis warld's goods. The money is only loaned to you to put out atinterest for the Master. It ought to be building kirks andschoolhouses, and sending Bibles to the far ends o' the earth. Whenyou are asked what ye did wi' it, how will you like to answer, 'I hidit safely awa, Lord, in the Clyde Trust and in Andrew Fleming'sbank!'"

"That will do, woman. Now you hae made me dissatisfied wi' my guidingo' Davie, and meeserable anent my bank account, ye may gang to yourbed; you'll doobtless sleep weel on the thought. "

CHAPTER III. 

However, sometimes things are not so ill as they look. The new firmobtained favor, and even old, cautious men began to do a littlebusiness with it. For Robert introduced some new machinery, and thework it did was allowed, after considerable suspicion, to be "verasatisfactory. " A sudden emergency had also discovered to David that hepossessed singularly original ideas in designing patterns; and he sethimself with enthusiasm to that part of the business. Two yearsafterwards came the Great Fair of 1851, and Callendar & Leslie took afirst prize for their rugs, both design and workmanship beinghonorably mentioned. 

Their success seemed now assured. Orders came in so fast that the millworked day and night to fill them; and David was so gay and happy thatJohn could hardly help rejoicing with him. Indeed, he was very proudof his nephew, and even inclined to give Robert a little cautiouskindness. The winter of 1851 was a very prosperous one, but the springbrought an unlooked-for change. 

One evening David came home to dinner in a mood which Jennycharacterized as "_thrawart_. " He barely answered her greeting, andshut his room-door with a bang. He did not want any dinner, and hewanted to be let alone. John looked troubled at this behavior. Jennysaid, "It is some lass in the matter; naething else could mak asensible lad like Davie act sae child-like and silly. " And Jennie wasright. Towards nine o'clock David came to the parlor and sat downbeside his uncle. He said he had been "greatly annoyed. "

"Annoyances are as certain as the multiplication table, " John remarkedquietly, "and ye ought to expect them--all the mair after a long runo' prosperity. "

"But no man likes to be refused by the girl he loves. "

"Eh? Refused, say ye? Wha has refused you?"

"Isabel Strang. I have loved her, as you and Jenny know, since we wentto school together, and I was sure that she loved me. Two days ago Ihad some business with Deacon Strang, and when it was finished I spoketo him anent Isabel. He made me no answer then, one way or the other, but told me he would have a talk with Isabel, and I might call on himthis afternoon. When I did so he said he felt obligated to refuse myoffer. "

"Weel?"

"That is all. "

"Nonsense! Hae you seen Isabel hersel'?"

"She went to Edinburgh last night. "

"And if you were your uncle, lad, you would hae been in Edinburgh tooby this time. Your uncle would not stay refused twenty-four hours, ifhe thought the lass loved him. Tut, tut, you ought to hae left atonce; that would hae been mair like a Callendar than ganging to yourain room to sit out a scorning. There is a train at ten o'clockto-night; you hae time to catch it if ye dinna lose a minute, and ifyou come back wi' Mrs. David Callendar, I'll gie her a warm welcomefor your sake. "

The old man's face was aglow, and in his excitement he had risen tohis feet with the very air of one whom no circumstances could depressor embarrass. David caught his mood and his suggestion, and in fiveminutes he was on his way to the railway dépōt. The thing was done soquickly that reflection had formed no part of it. But when Jenny heardthe front-door clash impatiently after David, she surmised someimprudence, and hastened to see what was the matter. John told her the"affront" David had received, and looked eagerly into the strong, kindly face for an assurance that he had acted with becomingpromptitude and sympathy. Jenny shook her head gravely, and regardedthe deacon with a look of pitying disapproval. "To think, " she said, "of twa men trying to sort a love affair, when there was a womanwithin call to seek counsel o'. "

"But we couldna hae done better, Jenny. "

"Ye couldna hae done warse, deacon. Once the lad asked ye for money, and ye wouldna trust him wi' it; and now ye are in sic a hurry to sendhim after a wife that he maun neither eat nor sleep. Ye ken which isthe maist dangerous. And you, wi' a' your years, to play into auldStrang's hand sae glibly! Deacon, ye hae made a nice mess o' it. Dinnaye see that Strang knew you twa fiery Hielandmen would never tak'No, ' and he sent Isabel awa on purpose for our Davie to run after her. He kens weel they will be sure to marry, but he'll say now that hisdaughter disobeyed him; sae he'll get off giving her a bawbee o' herfortune, and he'll save a' the plenishing and the wedding expenses. Deacon, I'm ashamed o' you. Sending a love-sick lad on sic a fool'serrand. And mair, I'm not going to hae Isabel Strang, or IsabelCallendar here. A young woman wi' bridish ways dawdling about thehouse, I canna, and I willna stand. You'll hae to choose atween DeaconStrang's daughter and your auld cousin, Jenny Callendar. "

John had no answer ready, and indeed Jenny gave him no time to makeone: she went off with a sob in her voice, and left the impulsive oldmatchmaker very unhappy indeed. For he had an unmitigated sense ofhaving acted most imprudently, and moreover, a shrewd suspicion thatJenny's analysis of Deacon Strang's tactics was a correct one. For thefirst time in many a year, a great tide of hot, passionate anger sweptaway every other feeling. He longed to meet Strang face to face, andwith an hereditary and quite involuntary instinct he put his hand tothe place where his forefathers had always carried their dirks. Theaction terrified and partly calmed him. "My God!" he exclaimed, "forgive thy servant. I hae been guilty in my heart o' murder. "

He was very penitent, but still, as he mused the fire burned; and hegave vent to his feelings in odd, disjointed sentences thrown up fromthe very bottom of his heart, as lava is thrown up by theirrepressible eruption: "Wha shall deliver a man from his ancestors?Black Evan Callendar was never much nearer murder than I hae been thisnight, only for the grace of God, which put the temptation and theopportunity sae far apart. I'll hae Strang under my thumb yet. Godforgie me! what hae I got to do wi' sorting my ain wrongs? What forcouldna Davie like some other lass? It's as easy to graft on a goodstock as an ill one. I doobt I hae done wrong. I am in a sair swither. The righteous dinna always see the right way. I maun e'en to my Psalmsagain. It is a wonderfu' comfort that King David was just a weak, sinfu' mortal like mysel'. " So he went again to those pathetic, self-accusing laments of the royal singer, and found in them, as healways had done, words for all the great depths of his sin and fear, his hopes and his faith. 

In the morning one thing was clear to him; David must have his ownhouse now--David must leave him. He could not help but acknowledgethat he helped on this consummation, and it was with something of thefeeling of a man doing a just penance that he went to look at afurnished house, whose owner was going to the south of France with asick daughter. The place was pretty, and handsomely furnished, andJohn paid down the year's rent. So when David returned with his youngbride, he assumed at once the dignity and the cares of a householder. 

Jenny was much offended at the marriage of David. She had lookedforward to this event as desirable and probable, but she supposed itwould have come with solemn religious rites and domestic feasting, andwith a great gathering in Blytheswood Square of all the Callendarclan. That it had been "a wedding in a corner, " as she contemptuouslycalled it, was a great disappointment to her. But, woman-like, shevisited it on her own sex. It was all Isabel's fault, and from thevery first day of the return of the new couple she assumed an air ofcommiseration for the young husband, and always spoke of him as "poorDavie. "

This annoyed John, and after his visits to David's house he wasperhaps unnecessarily eloquent concerning the happiness of the youngpeople. Jenny received all such information with a dissenting silence. She always spoke of Isabel as "Mistress David, " and when John remindedher that David's wife was "Mistress Callendar, " she said, "It was weelkent that there were plenty o' folk called Callendar that wernaCallendars for a' that. " And it soon became evident to her womanlykeen-sightedness that John did not always return from his visits toDavid and Isabel in the most happy of humors. He was frequently toosilent and thoughtful for a perfectly satisfied man; but whatever hisfears were, he kept them in his own bosom. They were evidently as yetso light that hope frequently banished them altogether; and when atlength David had a son and called it after his uncle, the old manenjoyed a real springtime of renewed youth and pleasure. Jenny waspartly reconciled also, for the happy parents treated her with specialattention, and she began to feel that perhaps David's marriage mightturn out better than she had looked for. 

Two years after this event Deacon Strang became reconciled to hisdaughter, and as a proof of it gave her a large mansion situated inthe rapidly-growing "West End. " It had come into his possession at abargain in some of the mysterious ways of his trade; but it was, bythe very reason of its great size, quite unsuitable for a youngmanufacturer like David. Indeed, it proved to be a most unfortunategift in many ways. 

"It will cost £5, 000 to furnish it, " said John fretfully, "and thatDavie can ill afford--few men could; but Isabel has set her heart onit. "

"And she'll hae her will, deacon. Ye could put £5, 000 in the businessthough, or ye could furnish for them. "

"My way o' furnishing wouldna suit them; and as for putting back moneythat David is set on wasting, I'll no do it. It is a poor well, Jenny, into which you must put water. If David's business wont stand hisdrafts on it, the sooner he finds it out the better. "

So the fine house was finely furnished; but that was only thebeginning of expenses. Isabel now wanted dress to suit her newsurroundings, and servants to keep the numerous rooms clean. Then shewanted all her friends and acquaintances to see her splendidbelongings, so that erelong David found his home turned into afashionable gathering-place. Lunches, dinners, and balls followedeach other quickly, and the result of all this visiting was thatIsabel had long lists of calls to make every day, and that she finallypersuaded David that it would be cheaper to buy their own carriagethan to pay so much hire to livery-stables. 

These changes did not take place all at once, nor without muchdisputing. John Callendar opposed every one of them step by step tillopposition was useless. David only submitted to them in order topurchase for himself a delusive peace during the few hours he couldafford to be in his fine home; for his increased expenditure was not athing he could bear lightly. Every extra hundred pounds involved extraplanning and work and risks. He gradually lost all the cheerfulbuoyancy of manner and the brightness of countenance that had beenalways part and parcel of David Callendar. A look of care andweariness was on his face, and his habits and hours lost all theirformer regularity. It had once been possible to tell the time of dayby the return home of the two Callendars. Now no one could have donethat with David. He stayed out late at night; he stayed out all nightlong. He told Isabel the mill needed him, and she either believed himor pretended to do so. 

So that after the first winter of her fashionable existence shegenerally "entertained" alone. "Mr. Callendar had gone to Stirling, orup to the Highlands to buy wool, " or, "he was so busy money-making shecould not get him to recognize the claims of society. " And societycared not a pin's point whether he presided or not at the expensiveentertainments given in his name. 

CHAPTER IV. 

But things did not come to this pass all at once; few men take thesteps towards ruin so rapidly as to be themselves alarmed by it. Itwas nearly seven years after his marriage when the fact that he was indangerously embarrassed circumstances forced itself suddenly onDavid's mind. I say "suddenly" here, because the consummation of evilthat has been long preparing comes at last in a moment; a stringholding a picture gets weaker and weaker through weeks of tension, andthen breaks. A calamity through nights and days moves slowly towardsus step by step, and then some hour it has come. So it was withDavid's business. It had often lately been in tight places, butsomething had always happened to relieve him. One day, however, therewas absolutely no relief but in borrowing money, and David went to hisuncle again. 

It was a painful thing for him to do; not that they had any quarrel, though sometimes David thought a quarrel would be better than thescant and almost sad intercourse their once tender love had falleninto. By some strange mental sympathy, hardly sufficiently recognizedby us, John was thinking of his nephew when he entered. He greeted himkindly, and pulled a chair close, so that David might sit beside him. He listened sympathizingly to his cares, and looked mournfully intothe unhappy face so dear to him; then he took his bank-book and wroteout a check for double the amount asked. 

The young man was astonished; the tears sprang to his eyes, and hesaid, "Uncle, this is very good of you. I wish I could tell you howgrateful I am. "

"Davie, sit a moment, you dear lad. I hae a word to say to ye. I heartell that my lad is drinking far mair than is good either for himsel'or his business. My lad, I care little for the business; let it go, ifits anxieties are driving thee to whiskey. David, remember what thouaccused me of, yonder night, when this weary mill was first spoken of;and then think how I suffer every time I hear tell o' thee being thewarse o' liquor. And Jenny is greeting her heart out about thee. Andthere is thy sick wife, and three bonnie bit bairns. "

"Did Isabel tell you this?"

"How can she help complaining? She is vera ill, and she sees little o'thee, David, she says. "

"Yes, she is ill. She took cold at Provost Allison's ball, and she hasdwined away ever since. That is true. And the house is neglected andthe servants do their own will both with it and the poor children. Ihave been very wretched, Uncle John, lately, and I am afraid I havedrunk more than I ought to have done. Robert and I do not hit togetheras we used to; he is always fault-finding, and ever since that visitfrom his cousin who is settled in America he has been dissatisfied andheartless. His cousin has made himself a rich man in ten years there;and Robert says we shall ne'er make money here till we are too old toenjoy it. "

"I heard tell, too, that Robert has been speculating in railway stock. Such reports, true or false, hurt you, David. Prudent men dinna liketo trust speculators. "

"I think the report is true; but then it is out of his private savingshe speculates. "

"Davie, gie me your word that you wont touch a drop o' whiskey for aweek--just for a week. "

"I cannot do it, uncle. I should be sure to break it. I don't want totell you a lie. "

"O Davie, Davie! Will you try, then?"

"I'll try, uncle. Ask Jenny to go and see the children. "

"'Deed she shall go; she'll be fain to do it. Let them come and staywi' me till their mother is mair able to look after them. "

Jenny heard the story that night with a dour face. She could have saidsome very bitter things about Deacon Strang's daughter, but inconsideration of her sickness she forbore. The next morning she wentto David's house and had a talk with Isabel. The poor woman was so illthat Jenny had no heart to scold her; she only gave the house "a goodsorting, " did what she could for Isabel's comfort, and took back withher the children and their nurse. It was at her suggestion John sawDavid the next day, and offered to send Isabel to the mild climate ofDevonshire. "She'll die if she stays in Glasgo' through the winter, "he urged, and David consented. Then, as David could not leave hisbusiness, John himself took the poor woman to Torbay, and no one butshe and God ever knew how tenderly he cared for her, and how solemnlyhe tried to prepare her for the great change he saw approaching. Shehad not thought of death before, but when they parted he knew she hadunderstood him, for weeping bitterly, she said, "You will take care ofthe children, Uncle John? I fear I shall see them no more. "

"I will, Isabel. While I live I will. "

"And, O uncle, poor David! I have not been a good wife to him. Whatever happens, think of that and judge him mercifully. It is myfault, uncle, my fault, my fault! God forgive me!"

"Nae, nae, lassie; I am far from innocent mysel';" and with thesemournful accusations they parted for ever. 

For Isabel's sickness suddenly assumed an alarming character, and herdissolution was so rapid that John had scarcely got back to Glasgowere David was sent for to see his wife die. He came back a bereavedand very wretched man; the great house was dismantled and sold, and hewent home once more to Blytheswood Square. 

But he could not go back to his old innocent life and self; and thechange only revealed to John how terribly far astray his nephew hadgone. And even Isabel's death had no reforming influence on him; itonly roused regrets and self-reproaches, which made liquor all themore necessary to him. Then the breaking up of the house entailed muchbargain-making, all of which was unfortunately cemented with glassesof whiskey toddy. Still his uncle had some new element of hope onwhich to work. David's home was now near enough to his place ofbusiness to afford no excuse for remaining away all night. Thechildren were not to be hid away in some upper room; John wasdetermined they should be at the table and on the hearthstone; andsurely their father would respect their innocence and keep himselfsober for their sakes. 

"It is the highest earthly motive I can gie him, " argued the anxiousold man, "and he has aye had grace enough to keep out o' my sight whenhe wasna himsel'; he'll ne'er let wee John and Flora and Davie see himwhen the whiskey is aboon the will and the wit--that's no to bebelieved. "

And for a time it seemed as if John's tactics would prevail. Therewere many evenings when they were very happy. The children made so gaythe quiet old parlor, and David learning to know his own boys andgirl, was astonished at their childish beauty and intelligence. OftenJohn could not bear to break up the pleasant evening time, and Davidand he would sit softly talking in the firelight, with little Johnmusing quietly between them, and Flora asleep on her uncle's lap. ThenJenny would come gently in and out and say tenderly, "Hadna the bairnsbetter come awa to their beds?" and the old man would answer, "Bide abit, Jenny, woman, " for he thought every such hour was building up acounter influence against the snare of strong drink. 

But there is no voice in human nature that can say authoritatively, "_Return!_" David felt all the sweet influences with which he wassurrounded, but, it must be admitted, they were sometimes anirritation to him. His business troubles, and his disagreements withhis partner, were increasing rapidly; for Robert--whose hopes were seton America--was urging him to close the mill before their liabilitieswere any larger. He refused to believe longer in the future makinggood what they had lost; and certainly it was uphill work for David tostruggle against accumulating bills, and a partner whose heart was notwith him. 

One night at the close of the year, David did not come home to dinner, and John and the children ate it alone. He was very anxious, and hehad not much heart to talk; but he kept the two eldest with him untillittle Flora's head dropped, heavy with sleep, on his breast. Then asudden thought seemed to strike him, and he sent them, almosthurriedly, away. He had scarcely done so when there was a shufflingnoise in the hall, the parlor-door was flung open with a jar, andDavid staggered towards him--_drunk_!

In a moment, John's natural temper conquered him; he jumped to hisfeet, and said passionately, "How daur ye, sir? Get out o' my house, you sinfu' lad!" Then, with a great cry he smote his hands togetherand bowed his head upon them, weeping slow, heavy drops, that cameeach with a separate pang. His agony touched David, though he scarcelycomprehended it. Not all at once is the tender conscience seared, andthe tender heart hardened. 

"Uncle, " he said in a maudlin, hesitating way, which it would be a sinto imitate--"Uncle John, I'm not drunk, I'm in trouble; I'm introuble, Uncle John. Don't cry about me. I'm not worth it. "

Then he sank down upon the sofa, and, after a few more incoherentapologies, dropped into a deep sleep. 

CHAPTER V. 

John sat and looked at his fallen idol with a vacant, tear-stainedface. He tried to pray a few words at intervals, but he was not yetable to gird up his soul and wrestle with this grief. When Jenny camein she was shocked at the gray, wretched look with which her masterpointed to the shameful figure on the sofa. Nevertheless, she wentgently to it, raised the fallen head to the pillow, and then went andgot a blanket to cover the sleeper, muttering, "Poor fellow! There's nae need to let him get a pleurisy, ony gate. Whatna for did ye no tell me, deacon? Then I could hae made him a cupo' warm tea. "

She spoke as if she was angry, not at David, but at John; and, thoughit was only the natural instinct of a woman defending what she dearlyloved, John gave it a different meaning, and it added to hissuffering. 

"You are right, Jenny, woman, " he said humbly, "it is my fault. Imixed his first glass for him. "

"Vera weel. Somebody aye mixes the first glass. Somebody mixed yourfirst glass. That is a bygane, and there is nae use at a' speiringafter it. How is the lad to be saved? That is the question now. "

"O Jenny, then you dare to hope for his salvation?"

"I would think it far mair sinfu' to despair o' it. The Father has twakinds o' sons, deacon. Ye are ane like the elder brother; ye hae'served him many years and transgressed not at any time hiscommandment;' but this dear lad is his younger son--still his son, mind ye--and he'll win hame again to his Father's house. What for not?He's the bairn o' many prayers. Gae awa to your ain room, deacon; I'llkeep the watch wi' him. He'd rather see me nor you when he comes tohimsel'. "

Alas! the watch begun that night was one Jenny had very often to keepafterwards. David's troubles gathered closer and closer round him, andthe more trouble he had the deeper he drank. Within a month after thatfirst shameful homecoming the firm of Callendar & Leslie went intosequestration. John felt the humiliation of this downcome in a farkeener way than David did. His own business record was a stainlessone; his word was as good as gold on Glasgow Exchange; the house ofJohn Callendar & Co. Was synonymous with commercial integrity. Theprudent burghers who were his nephew's creditors were far fromsatisfied with the risks David and Robert Leslie had taken, and theydid not scruple to call them by words which hurt John Callendar'shonor like a sword-thrust. He did not doubt that many blamed him fornot interfering in his nephew's extravagant business methods; and hecould not explain to these people how peculiarly he was situated withregard to David's affairs; nor, indeed, would many of them haveunderstood the fine delicacy which had dictated John's course. 

It was a wretched summer every way. The accountant who had charge ofDavid's affairs was in no hurry to close up a profitable engagement, and the creditors, having once accepted the probable loss, did notthink it worth while to deny themselves their seaside or Highlandtrips to attend meetings relating to Callendar & Leslie. So there waslittle progress made in the settlement of affairs all summer, andDavid was literally out of employment. His uncle's and his children'spresence was a reproach to him, and Robert and he only irritated eachother with mutual reproaches. Before autumn brought back manufacturersand merchants to their factories and offices David had sunk stilllower. He did not come home any more when he felt that he had drunktoo much. He had found out houses where such a condition was thenatural and the most acceptable one--houses whose doors are near tothe gates of hell. 

This knowledge shocked John inexpressibly, and in the depth of hishorror and grief he craved some human sympathy. 

"I must go and see Dr. Morrison, " he said one night to Jenny. 

"And you'll do right, deacon; the grip o' his hand and the shining o'his eyes in yours will do you good; forbye, you ken weel you arena fitto guide yoursel', let alane Davie. You are too angry, and angry mentell many a lie to themsel's. "

There is often something luminous in the face of a good man, and Dr. Morrison had this peculiarity in a remarkable degree. His face seemedto radiate light; moreover, he was a man anointed with the oil ofgladness above his fellows, and John no sooner felt the glow of thatradiant countenance on him than his heart leaped up to welcome it. 

"Doctor, " he said, choking back his sorrow, "doctor, I'm fain to seeyou. "

"John, sit down. What is it, John?"

"It's David, minister. "

And then John slowly, and weighing every word so as to be sure heneither over-stated nor under-stated the case, opened up his wholeheart's sorrow. 

"I hae suffered deeply, minister; I didna think life could be such atragedy. "

"A tragedy indeed, John, but a tragedy with an angel audience. Thinkof that. Paul says 'we are a spectacle unto men and angels. ' Mind howyou play your part. What is David doing now?"

"Nothing. His affairs are still unsettled. "

"But that wont do, John. Men learn to do ill by doing what is next toit--nothing. Without some duty life cannot hold itself erect. If a manhas no regular calling he is an unhappy man and a cross man, and Ithink prayers should be offered up for his wife and children and a'who have to live with him. Take David into your own employ at once. "

"O minister, that I canna do! My office has aye had God-fearing, steady men in it, and I canna, and--"

"'And that day Jesus was guest in the house of a man that was asinner. ' John, can't you take a sinner as a servant into your office?"

"I'll try it, minister. "

"And, John, it will be a hard thing to do, but you must watch Davidconstantly. You must follow him to his drinking-haunts and take himhome; if need be, you must follow him to warse places and take himhome. You must watch him as if all depended on your vigilance, and youmust pray for him as if nothing depended on it. You hae to conquer onyour knees before you go into the world to fight your battle, John. But think, man, what a warfare is set before you--the saving of animmortal soul! And I'm your friend and helper in the matter; the ladis one o' my stray lambs; he belongs to my fold. Go your ways in God'sstrength, John, for this grief o' yours shall be crowned withconsolation. "

It is impossible to say how this conference strengthened JohnCallendar. Naturally a very choleric man, he controlled himself into agreat patience with his erring nephew. He watched for him like afather; nay, more like a mother's was the thoughtful tenderness of hiscare. And David was often so touched by the love and forbearance shownhim, that he made passionate acknowledgments of his sin and earnestefforts to conquer it. Sometimes for a week together he abstainedentirely, though during these intervals of reason he was very trying. His remorse, his shame, his physical suffering, were so great that heneeded the most patient tenderness; and yet he frequently resentedthis tenderness in a moody, sullen way that was a shocking contrast tohis once bright and affectionate manner. 

So things went on until the close of the year. By that time theaffairs of the broken firm had been thoroughly investigated, and itwas found that its liabilities were nearly £20, 000 above its assets. Suddenly, however, bundle wools took an enormous rise, and as thestock of "Callendar & Leslie" was mainly of this kind, they werepushed on the market, and sold at a rate which reduced the firm'sdebts to about £17, 000. This piece of good fortune only irritatedDavid; he was sure now that if Robert had continued the fight theywould have been in a position to clear themselves. Still, whatevercredit was due the transaction was frankly given to David. It was hiscommercial instinct that had divined the opportunity and seized it, and a short item in the "Glasgow Herald" spoke in a cautiouslyflattering way of the affair. 

Both John and David were greatly pleased at the circumstance. Davidalso had been perfectly sober during the few days he had this strokeof business in hand, and the public acknowledgment of his service tothe firm's creditors was particularly flattering to him. He came downto breakfast that morning as he had not come for months. It was aglimpse of the old Davie back again, and John was as happy as a childin the vision. Into his heart came at once Dr. Morrison's assertionthat David must have some regular duty to keep his life erect. It wasevident that the obligation of a trust had a controlling influenceover him. 

"David, " he said cheerfully, "you must hae nearly done wi' that firstventure o' yours. The next will hae to redeem it; that is all aboutit. Everything is possible to a man under forty years auld. "

"We have our final meeting this afternoon, uncle. I shall lock thedoors for ever to-night. "

"And your debts are na as much as you expected. "

"They will not be over £17, 000, and they may be considerably less. Ihope to make another sale this morning. There are yet three thousandbundles in the stock. "

"David, I shall put £20, 000 in your ain name and for your ain use, whatever that use may be, in the Western Bank this morning. I thinkyou'll do the best thing you can do to set your name clear again. Ifyou are my boy you will. "

"Uncle John, you cannot really mean that I may pay every shilling Iowe, and go back on the Exchange with a white name? O uncle, if youshould mean this, what a man you would make of me!"

"It is just what I mean to do, Davie. Is na all that I have yours andyour children's? But oh, I thank God that you hae still a heart thatcounts honor more than gold. David, after this I wont let go one o'the hopes I have ever had for you. "

"You need not, uncle. Please God, and with his help, I will make everyone of them good. "

And he meant to do it. He never had felt more certain of himself ormore hopeful for the future than when he went out that morning. Hetouched nothing all day, and as the short, dark afternoon closed in, he went cheerfully towards the mill, with his new check-book in hispocket and the assurance in his heart that in a few hours he couldstand up among his fellow-citizens free from the stain of debt. 

His short speech at the final meeting was so frank and manly, and sojust and honorable to his uncle, that it roused a quiet but deepenthusiasm. Many of the older men had to wipe the mist from theirglasses, and the heaviest creditor stood up and took David's hand, saying, "Gentlemen, I hae made money, and I hae saved money, and I haehad money left me; but I never made, nor saved, nor got money thatgave me such honest pleasure as this siller I hae found in twa honestmen's hearts. Let's hae in the toddy and drink to the twa Callendars. "

Alas! alas! how often is it our friends from whom we ought to pray tobe preserved. The man meant kindly; he was a good man, he was aGod-fearing man, and even while he was setting temptation before hispoor, weak brother, he was thinking "that money so clean and fair andunexpected should be given to some holy purpose. " But the best of usare the slaves of habit and chronic thoughtlessness. All his life hehad signalled every happy event by a libation of toddy; everybody elsedid the same; and although he knew David's weakness, he did not thinkof it in connection with that wisest of all prayers, "Lead us not intotemptation. "

CHAPTER VI. 

David ought to have left then, but he did not; and when his uncle'shealth was given, and the glass of steaming whiskey stood before him, he raised it to his lips and drank. It was easy to drink the secondglass and the third, and so on. The men fell into reminiscence andsong, and no one knew how many glasses were mixed; and even when theystood at the door they turned back for "a thimbleful o' raw speerit tokeep out the cold, " for it had begun to snow, and there was a chill, wet, east wind. 

Then they went; and when their forms were lost in the misty gloom, andeven their voices had died away, David turned back to put out thelights, and lock the mill-door for the last time. Suddenly it struckhim that he had not seen Robert Leslie for an hour at least, and whilehe was wondering about it in a vague, drunken way, Robert came out ofan inner room, white with scornful anger, and in a most quarrelsomemood. 

"You have made a nice fool of yoursel', David Callendar! Flinging awaso much gude gold for a speech and a glass o' whiskey! Ugh!"

"You may think so, Robert. The Leslies have always been 'rievers andthievers;' but the Callendars are of another stock. "

"The Callendars are like ither folk--good and bad, and mostly bad. Money, not honor, rules the warld in these days; and when folk haveturned spinners, what is the use o' talking about honor! Profit is aword more fitting. "

"I count mysel' no less a Callendar than my great-grandfather, EvanCallendar, who led the last hopeless charge on Culloden. If I am aspinner, I'll never be the first to smirch the roll o' my house withdebt and dishonesty, if I can help it. "

"Fair nonsense! The height of nonsense! Your ancestors indeed! Mulesmake a great to-do about their ancestors having been horses!"

David retorted with hot sarcasm on the freebooting Leslies, and theirkin the Armstrongs and Kennedys; and to Scotchmen this is the verysorest side of a quarrel. They can forgive a bitter word againstthemselves perhaps, but against their clan, or their dead, it is anunpardonable offence. And certainly Robert had an unfair advantage; hewas in a cool, wicked temper of envy and covetousness. He could havestruck himself for not having foreseen that old John Callendar wouldbe sure to clear the name of dishonor, and thus let David and his£20, 000 slip out of his control. 

David had drunk enough to excite all the hereditary fight in hisnature, and not enough to dull the anger and remorse he felt forhaving drunk anything at all. The dreary, damp atmosphere and thecold, sloppy turf of Glasgow Green might have brought them back to theordinary cares and troubles of every-day life, but it did not. Thisgrim oasis in the very centre of the hardest and bitterest existenceswas now deserted. The dull, heavy swash of the dirty Clyde and thedistant hum of the sorrowful voices of humanity in the adjacentstreets hardly touched the sharp, cutting accents of the twoquarrelling men. No human ears heard them, and no human eyes saw theuplifted hands and the sway and fall of Robert Leslie upon the smuttyand half melted snow, except David's. 

Yes; David saw him fall, and heard with a strange terror the peculiarthud and the long moan that followed it. It sobered him at once andcompletely. The shock was frightful. He stood for a moment looking atthe upturned face, and then with a fearful horror he stooped andtouched it. There was no response to either entreaties or movement, and David was sure after five minutes' efforts there never would be. Then his children, his uncle, his own life, pressed upon him like asurging crowd. His rapid mind took in the situation at once. There wasno proof. Nobody had seen them leave together. Robert had certainlyleft the company an hour before it scattered; none of them could knowthat he was waiting in that inner room. With a rapid step he took hisway through Kent street into a region where he was quite unknown, andby a circuitous route reached the foot of Great George street. 

He arrived at home about eight o'clock. John had had his dinner, andthe younger children had gone to bed. Little John sat opposite him onthe hearthrug, but the old man and the child were both lost inthought. David's face at once terrified his uncle. 

"Johnnie, " he said, with a weary pathos in his voice, "your fatherwants to see me alane. You had best say 'Gude-night, ' my wee man. "

The child kissed his uncle, and after a glance into his father's facewent quietly out. His little heart had divined that he "must notdisturb papa. " David's eyes followed him with an almost overmasteringgrief and love, but when John said sternly, "Now, David Callendar, what is it this time?" he answered with a sullen despair, "It is the last trouble I can bring you. I have killed Robert Leslie!"

The old man uttered a cry of horror, and stood looking at his nephewas if he doubted his sanity. 

"I am not going to excuse mysel', sir. Robert said some aggravatingthings, and he struck me first; but that is neither here nor there. Istruck him and he fell. I think he hit his head in falling; but it wasdark and stormy, I could not see. I don't excuse mysel' at all. I amas wicked and lost as a man can be. Just help me awa, Uncle John, andI will trouble you no more for ever. "

"Where hae you left Robert?"

"Where he fell, about 300 yards above Rutherglen Bridge. "

"You are a maist unmerciful man! I ne'er liked Robert, but had he beenmy bitterest enemy I would hae got him help if there was a chance forlife, and if not, I would hae sought a shelter for his corpse. "

Then he walked to the parlor door, locked it, and put the key in hispocket. 

"As for helping you awa, sir, I'll ne'er do it, ne'er; you hae sinned, and you'll pay the penalty, as a man should do. "

"Uncle, have mercy on me. "

"Justice has a voice as weel as mercy. O waly, waly!" cried thewretched old man, going back to the pathetic Gęlic of his childhood, "O waly, waly! to think o' the sin and the shame o' it. Plenty o'Callendars hae died before their time, but it has been wi' their facesto their foes and their claymores in their hands. O Davie, Davie! mylad, my lad! My Davie!"

His agony shook him as a great wind shakes the tree-tops, and Davidstood watching him in a misery still keener and more hopeless. For afew moments neither spoke. Then John rose wearily and said, "I'll go with you, David, to the proper place. Justice must bedone--yes, yes, it is just and right. "

Then he lifted up his eyes, and clasping his hands, cried out, "But, O my heavenly Father, be merciful, be merciful, for love is thefulfilling of the law. Come, David, we hae delayed o'er long. "

"Where are you going, uncle?"

"You ken where weel enough. "

"Dear uncle, be merciful. At least let us go see Dr. Morrison first. Whatever he says I will do. "

"I'll do that; I'll be glad to do that; maybe he'll find me a road outo' this sair, sair strait. God help us all, for vain is the help o'man. "

CHAPTER VII. 

When they entered Dr. Morrison's house the doctor entered with them. He was wet through, and his swarthy face was in a glow of excitement. A stranger was with him, and this stranger he hastily took into a roombehind the parlor, and then he came back to his visitors. 

"Well, John, what is the matter?"

"Murder. Murder is the matter, doctor, " and with a strange, quietprecision he went over David's confession, for David had quite brokendown and was sobbing with all the abandon of a little child. Duringthe recital the minister's face was wonderful in its changes ofexpression, but at the last a kind of adoring hopefulness was the mostdecided. 

"John, " he said, "what were you going to do wi' that sorrowfu' lad?"

"I was going to gie him up to justice, minister, as it was right andjust to do; but first we must see about--about the body. "

"That has, without doot, been already cared for. On the warst o'nights there are plenty o' folk passing o'er Glasgow Green after thetea-hour. It is David we must care for now. Why should we gie him upto the law? Not but what 'the law is good, if a man use it lawfully. 'But see how the lad is weeping. Dinna mak yoursel' hard to a brokenheart, deacon. God himsel' has promised to listen to it. You must goback hame and leave him wi' me. And, John, " he said, with an air oftriumph, as they stood at the door together, with the snow blowing intheir uplifted faces, "John, my dear old brother John, go hame andbless God; for, I tell you, this thing shall turn out to be a greatsalvation. "

So John went home, praying as he went, and conscious of a strangehopefulness in the midst of his grief. The minister turned back to thesobbing criminal, and touching him gently, said, "Davie, my son, come wi' me. "

David rose hopelessly and followed him. They went into the room wherethey had seen the minister take the stranger who had entered the housewith them. The stranger was still there, and as they entered he camegently and on tiptoe to meet them. 

"Dr. Fleming, " said the minister, "this is David Callendar, yourpatient's late partner in business; he wishes to be the poor man'snurse, and indeed, sir, I ken no one fitter for the duty. "

So Dr. Fleming took David's hand, and then in a low voice gave himdirections for the night's watch, though David, in the sudden hope andrelief that had come to him, could scarcely comprehend them. Then thephysician went, and the minister and David sat by the bedside alone. Robert lay in the very similitude and presence of death, unconsciousboth of his sufferings and his friends. Congestion of the brain hadset in, and life was only revealed by the faintest pulsations, and bythe appliances for relief which medical skill thought it worth whileto make. 

"'And sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death, '" said thedoctor solemnly. "David, there is your work. "

"God knows how patiently and willingly I'll do it, minister. PoorRobert, I never meant to harm him. "

"Now listen to me, and wonder at God's merciful ways. Auld DeaconGalbraith, who lives just beyond Rutherglen Bridge, sent me word thisafternoon that he had gotten a summons from his Lord, and he wouldlike to see my face ance mair before he went awa for ever. He has beenmy right hand in the kirk, and I loved him weel. Sae I went to bid hima short Gude-by--for we'll meet again in a few years at the maist--andI found him sae glad and solemnly happy within sight o' the heavenlyshore, that I tarried wi' him a few hours, and we ate and drank hislast sacrament together. He dropped my hand wi' a smile at half-pastsix o'clock, and after comforting his wife and children a bit I turnedmy face hameward. But I was in that mood that I didna care to sit i' acrowded omnibus, and I wanted to be moving wi' my thoughts. Thefalling snow and the deserted Green seemed good to me, and I walked onthinking o'er again the deacon's last utterances, for they were wiseand good even beyond the man's nature. That is how I came acrossRobert Leslie. I thought he was dead, but I carried him in my arms tothe House o' the Humane Society, which, you ken, isna one hundredyards from where Robert fell. The officer there said he wasna dead, sae I brought him here and went for the physician you spoke to. Now, Davie, it is needless for me to say mair. You ken what I expect o'you. You'll get no whiskey in this house, not a drop o' it. If thesick man needs anything o' that kind, I shall gie it wi' my ain hand;and you wont leave this house, David, until I see whether Robert is tolive or die. You must gie me your word o' honor for that. "

"Minister, pray what is my word worth?"

"Everything it promises, David Callendar. I would trust your wordafore I'd trust a couple o' constables, for a' that's come and gane. "

"Thank you, thank you, doctor! You shall not trust, and be deceived. Isolemnly promise you to do my best for Robert, and not to leave yourhouse until I have your permission. "

The next morning Dr. Morrison was at John Callendar's before he satdown to breakfast. He had the morning paper with him, and he pointedout a paragraph which ran thus: "Robert Leslie, of the late firm ofCallendar & Leslie, was found by the Rev. Dr. Morrison in anunconscious condition on the Green last night about seven o'clock. Itis supposed the young gentleman slipped and fell, and in the fallstruck his head, as congestion of the brain has taken place. He liesat Dr. Morrison's house, and is being carefully nursed by his latepartner, though there is but little hope of his recovery. "

"Minister, it wasna you surely wha concocted this lie?"

"Nobody has told a lie, John. Don't be overrighteous, man; there is anunreasonableness o' virtue that savors o' pride. I really thoughtRobert had had an accident, until you told me the truth o' the matter. The people at the Humane Society did the same; sae did Dr. Fleming. Isuppose some reporter got the information from one o' the lattersources. But if Robert gets well, we may let it stand; and if hedoesna get well, I shall seek counsel o' God before I take a stepfarther. In the meantime David is doing his first duty in nursing him;and David will stay in my house till I see whether it be a case o'murder or not. "

For three weeks there was but the barest possibility of Robert'srecovery. But his youth and fine constitution, aided by the skill ofhis physician and the unremitting care of his nurse, were at length, through God's mercy, permitted to gain a slight advantage. Thediscipline of that three weeks was a salutary though a terrible one toDavid. Sometimes it became almost intolerable; but always, when itreached this point, Dr. Morrison seemed, by some fine spiritualinstinct, to discover the danger and hasten to his assistance. Lifehas silences more pathetic than death's; and the stillness of thatdarkened room, with its white prostrate figure, was a stillness inwhich David heard many voices he never would have heard in the cryingout of the noisy world. 

What they said to him about his wasted youth and talents, and abouthis neglected Saviour, only his own heart knew. But he must havesuffered very much, for, at the end of a month, he looked like a manwho had himself walked through the valley and shadow of death. Aboutthis time Dr. Morrison began to drop in for an hour or two everyevening; sometimes he took his cup of tea with the young men, and thenhe always talked with David on passing events in such a way as tointerest without fatiguing the sick man. His first visit of this kindwas marked by a very affecting scene. He stood a moment looking atRobert and then taking David's hand, he laid it in Robert's. But theyoung men had come to a perfect reconciliation one midnight when thefirst gleam of consciousness visited the sick man, and Dr. Morrisonwas delighted to see them grasp each other with a smile, while Davidstooped and lovingly touched his friend's brow. 

"Doctor, it was my fault, " whispered Robert. "If I die, remember that. I did my best to anger Davie, and I struck him first. I deserved all Ihave had to suffer. "

After this, however, Robert recovered rapidly, and in two months hewas quite well. 

"David, " said the minister to him one morning, "your trial is nearlyover. I have a message from Captain Laird to Robert Leslie. Lairdsails to-night; his ship has dropped down the river a mile, and Robertmust leave when the tide serves; that will be at five o'clock. "

For Robert had shrunk from going again into his Glasgow life, and haddetermined to sail with his friend Laird at once for New York. Therewas no one he loved more dearly than David and Dr. Morrison, and withthem his converse had been constant and very happy and hopeful. Hewished to leave his old life with this conclusion to it unmingled withany other memories. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

So that evening the three men went in a coach to the Broomilawtogether. A boat and two watermen were in waiting at the bridge-stair, and though the evening was wet and chilly they all embarked. No onespoke. The black waters washed and heaved beneath them, the myriadlights shone vaguely through the clammy mist and steady drizzle, andthe roar of the city blended with the stroke of the oars and thepatter of the rain. Only when they lay under the hull of a large shipwas the silence broken. But it was broken by a blessing. 

"God bless you, Robert! The Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, make you a gudeman, " said Dr. Morrison fervently, and David whispered a few brokenwords in his friend's ear. Then Captain Laird's voice was heard, andin a moment or two more they saw by the light of a lifted lanternRobert's white face in the middle of a group on deck. 

"Farewell!" he shouted feebly, and Dr. Morrison answered it with alusty, "God speed you, Robert! God speed the good ship and all onboard of her!"

So they went silently back again, and stepped into the muddy, dreamlike, misty streets, wet through and quite weary with emotion. 

"Now gude-night, David. Your uncle is waiting dinner for you. I haelearned to love you vera much. "

"Is there anything I can do, doctor, to show you how much I love andrespect you?"

"You can be a good man, and you can let me see you every Sabbath inyour place at kirk. Heaven's gate stands wide open on the Sabbath day, David; sae it is a grand time to offer your petitions. "

Yes, the good old uncle was waiting, but with that fine instinct whichis born of a true love he had felt that David would like no fuss madeabout his return. He met him as if he had only been a few hours away, and he had so tutored Jenny that she only betrayed her joy by a lookwhich David and she understood well. 

"The little folks, " said John, "have a' gane to their beds; the dayhas been that wet and wearisome that they were glad to gae to sleepand forget a' about it. "

David sat down in his old place, and the two men talked of the Russianwar and the probable storming of the Alamo. Then John took his usualafter-dinner nap, and David went up stairs with Jenny and kissed hischildren, and said a few words to them and to the old woman, whichmade them all very happy. 

When he returned to the parlor his uncle was still sleeping, and hecould see how weary and worn he had become. 

"So patient, so generous, so honorable, so considerate for myfeelings, " said the young man to himself. "I should be an ingrateindeed if I did not, as soon as he wakes, say what I know he is soanxious to hear. "

With the thought John opened his eyes, and David nodded and smiledback to him. How alert and gladly he roused himself! How cheerily hesaid, "Why, Davie, I hae been sleeping, I doot. Hech, but it is gude to seeyou, lad. "

"Please God, uncle, it shall always be gude to see me. Can you give mesome advice to-night?" "I'll be mair than glad to do it. "

"Tell me frankly, Uncle John, what you think I ought to do. I sawRobert off to America to-night. Shall I follow him?"

"Davie, mind what I say. In the vera place where a man loses what hevalues, there he should look to find it again. You hae lost your goodname in Glasgow; stay in Glasgow and find it again. "

"I will stay here then. What shall I do?"

"You'll go back to your old place, and to your old business. "

"But I heard that Deacon Strang had bought the looms and the lease. "

"He bought them for me, for us, I mean. I will tell you how that cameabout. One day when I was cross, and sair put out wi' your affairs, Davie, Dr. Morrison came into my office. I'm feared I wasna glad tosee him; and though I was ceevil enough, the wise man read me like abook. 'John, ' says he, 'I am not come to ask you for siller to-day, nor am I come to reprove you for staying awa from the service o' Godtwice lately. I am come to tell you that you will hae the grandestopportunity to-day, to be, not only a man, but a Christ-man. If youlet the opportunity slip by you, I shall feel sairly troubled aboutit. '

"Then he was gone before I could say, 'What is it?' and I wondered andwondered all day what he could hae meant. But just before I was readyto say, 'Mr. MacFarlane, lock the safe, ' in walks Deacon Strang. Helooked vera downcast and shamefaced, and says he, 'Callendar, you cantak your revenge on me to-morrow, for a' I hae said and done againstyou for thirty years. You hold twa notes o' mine, and I canna meetthem. You'll hae to protest and post them to-morrow, and that willruin me and break my heart. '

"David, I had to walk to the window and hide my face till I couldmaster mysel', I was that astonished. Then I called out, 'Mr. MacFarlane, you hae two notes o' Deacon Strang's, bring them to me. 'When he did sae, I said, 'Well, deacon, we a' o' us hae our ainfashes. How long time do you want, and we'll renew these bits o'paper?'

"And the thing was done, Davie, and done that pleasantly that it mademe feel twenty years younger. We shook hands when we parted, and as wedid sae, the deacon said, 'Is there aught I can do to pleasure you orDavid?' and a' at once it struck me about the sales o' the looms andlease. Sae I said, 'Yes, deacon, there is something you can do, andI'll be vera much obligated to you for the same. Davie is sae tieddown wi' Robert's illness, will you go to the sale o' Callendar &Leslie's looms and lease, and buy them for me? You'll get them onbetter terms than I will. ' And he did get them on excellent terms, Davie; sae your mill is just as you left it--for Bailie Nicol, whatook it at the accountant's valuation, never opened it at all. And youhae twenty months' rent paid in advance, and you hae something in thebank I expect. "

"I have £3, 600, uncle. "

"Now, I'll be your partner this time. I'll put in the business £4, 000, but I'll hae it run on a solid foundation, however small thatfoundation may be. I'll hae no risks taken that are dishonest risks;I'll hae a broad mark made between enterprise and speculation; andabove a', I'll hae the right to examine the books, and see how thingsare going on, whenever I wish to do sae. We will start no more loomsthan our capital will work, and we'll ask credit from no one. "

"Uncle John, there is not another man in the world so generous andunselfish as you are. "

"There are plenty as good men in every congregation o' the Lord; ifthere wasna they would scatter in no time. Then you are willing, areyou? Gie me your hand, Davie. I shall look to you to do your best forbaith o' us. "

"I have not drunk a drop for two months, uncle. I never intend todrink again. "

"I hae given it up mysel', " said the old man, with an affectedindifference that was pathetic in its self-abnegation. "I thought twagoing a warfare together might do better than ane alone. Ye ken Christsent out the disciples by twa and twa. And, Davie, when you are hardbeset, just utter the name of Christ down in your heart, and see howmuch harder it is to sin. "

CHAPTER IX. 

The arrangement had been a very pleasant one, every way, but somehowJohn did not feel as if David had as much outside help as he needed. The young man was not imaginative; an ideal, however high, was a farless real thing to David than to old John. He pondered during manysleepless hours the advisability of having David sign the pledge. David had always refused to do it hitherto. He had a keen sense ofshame in breaking a verbal promise on this subject; but he had analmost superstitious feeling regarding the obligation of anything heput his name to; and this very feeling made John hesitate to press thematter. For, he argued, and not unwisely, "if David should break thiswritten obligation, his condition would seem to himself irremediable, and he would become quite reckless. "

In the morning this anxiety was solved. When John came down tobreakfast, he found David walking about the room with a newspaper inhis hand, and in a fever heat of martial enthusiasm. "Uncle, " hecried, "O Uncle John, such glorious news! The Alamo is taken. ColinCampbell and his Highlanders were first at the ramparts, and Roy andHector Callendar were with them. Listen?" and he threw the passion andfervor of all his military instincts into the glowing words whichtold, how in a storm of fire and shot, Sir Colin and his Highlandregiment had pushed up the hill; and how when the Life Guards werestruggling to reach their side, the brave old commander turned roundand shouted, "We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!" "O Uncle John, what would I not have given to have marched with Roy and Hector behindhim? With such a leader I would not turn my back on any foe. "

"David, you have a far harder fight before you, and a far granderCaptain. "

"Uncle, uncle, if I could see my foe; if I could meet him face to facein a real fight; but he steals into my heart, even by my nostrils, andunmans me, before I am aware. "

John rang the bell sharply, and when Jenny came, he amazed her bysaying, "Bring me here from the cellar three bottles of whiskey. " Hespoke so curt and determined that for once Jenny only wondered, andobeyed. 

"That will do, my woman. " Then he turned to David, and putting onebottle on the table said, "There is your foe! Face your enemy, sir!Sit down before him morning, noon, and night. Dare him to master you!Put this bottle on the table in your ain room; carry this in your handto your office, and stand it before your eyes upon your desk. If youwant a foe to face and to conquer, a foe that you can see and touch, here is one mighty enough to stir the bravest soul. And, if you turnyour back on him you are a coward; a mean, poor-hearted coward, sir. And there ne'er was a coward yet, o' the Callendar blood, nor o' theCampbell line! Your Captain is nane less than the Son o' God. Hearwhat he says to you! 'To him that overcometh! To him that overcometh!'O Davie, you ken the rest!" and the old man was so lifted out of andabove himself, that his face shone and his keen gray eyes scintillatedwith a light that no market-place ever saw in them. 

David caught the holy enthusiasm; he seized the idea like a visiblehand of God for his help. The black bottle became to him thematerialization of all his crime and misery. It was a foe he couldsee, and touch, and defy. It seemed to mock him, to tempt him, to beghim just to open the cork, if only to test the strength of hisresolutions. 

Thank God he never did it. He faced his enemy the first thing in themorning and the last thing at night. He kept him in sight through thetemptations of a business day. He faced him most steadily in thesolitude of his own room. There, indeed, his most dangerous strugglestook place, and one night John heard him after two hours of restlesshurried walking up and down, throw open his window, and dash thebottle upon the pavement beneath it. That was the last of his hardstruggles; the bottle which replaced the one flung beyond his reachstands to-day where it has stood for nearly a quarter of a century, and David feels now no more inclination to open it than if itcontained strychnine. 

This is no fancy story. It is a fact. It is the true history of asoul's struggle, and I write it--God knows I do--in the strong hopethat some brave fellow, who is mastered by a foe that steals upon himin the guise of good fellowship, or pleasure, or hospitality, maylocate his enemy, and then face and conquer him in the name of Him whodelivers his people from their sins. I do not say that all naturescould do this. Some may find safety and final victory in flight, or inhiding from their foe; but I believe that the majority of souls wouldrise to a warfare in which the enemy was confronting them to face andfight, and would conquer. 

I have little more to say of David Callendar. It was the story of hisfall and his redemption I intended to write. But we cannot separateour spiritual and mortal life; they are the warp and woof which weweave together for eternity. Therefore David's struggle, though apalpable one in some respects, was, after all, an intensely spiritualone; for it was in the constant recognition of Christ as the Captainof his salvation, and in the constant use of such spiritual aids ashis Bible and his minister gave him, that he was enabled to fight agood fight and to come off more than conqueror in a contest wherein somany strive and fail. 

David's reformation had also a very sensible influence on his businessprosperity. He has won back again now all, and far more than all, helost, and in all good and great works for the welfare of humanityDavid Callendar is a willing worker and a noble giver. The new firm ofJohn and David Callendar acquired a world-wide reputation. It is stillJohn and David Callendar, for when the dear old deacon died he lefthis interest in it to David's eldest son, a pious, steady young fellowfor whom nobody ever mixed a first glass. But God was very kind toJohn in allowing him to see the full harvest of his tender love, hispatience, and his unselfishness. Out of his large fortune he left anoble endowment for a church and college in his native town, makingonly two requests concerning its management: first, that no whiskeyshould ever go within the college walls: second, that all the childrenin the town might have a holiday on the anniversary of his death;"for, " said he, "I have aye loved children, and I would fain connectthe happiness of childhood with the peace o' the dead. "

Dr. Morrison lived long enough to assist in filling in the grave ofhis old friend and helper, but attained unto the beginning of peaceand glory soon afterwards. And I have often pictured to myself themeeting of those two upon the hills of God. The minister anticipatedit, though upon his dying bed his great soul forgot allindividualities, and thought only of the church universal, and hislast glowing words were, "For Jerusalem that is above is free, whichis the mother of us all. "

Robert Leslie has done well in America, and no man is a more warm andearnest advocate of "the faith once delivered to the saints. " I read alittle speech of his some time ago at the dedication of a church, andit greatly pleased me. 

"Many things, " he said, "have doubtless been improved in this age, forman's works are progressive and require improvement; but who, " heasked, "can improve the sunshine and the flowers, the wheat and thecorn? And who will give us anything worthy to take the place of thereligion of our fathers and mothers? And what teachers have comecomparable to Christ, to David, Isaiah, and Paul?"

Jenny only died a year ago. She brought up David's children admirably, and saw, to her great delight, the marriage of Flora and young CaptainCallendar. For it had long been her wish to go back to Argyleshire"among her ain folk and die among the mountains, " and this marriagesatisfied all her longings. One evening they found her sitting in heropen door with her face turned towards the cloud-cleaving hills. Herknitting had fallen upon her lap, her earthly work was done for ever, and she had put on the garments of the eternal Sabbath. But there wasa wonderful smile on her simple, kindly face. Soul and body had partedwith a smile. Oh, how happy are those whom the Master finds waitingfor him, and who, when he calls, pass gently away!

 "Up to the golden citadel they fare, And as they go their limbs grow full of might; And One awaits them at the topmost stair, One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight. "

Andrew Cargill's Confession. 

ANDREW CARGILL'S CONFESSION. 

CHAPTER I. 

Between Sinverness and Creffel lies the valley of Glenmora. Sca Fells and Soutra Fells guard it on each hand, and the long, treacherous sweep of Solway Frith is its outlet. It is a region ofhills and moors, inhabited by a people of singular gravity andsimplicity of character, a pastoral people, who in its solemn highplaces have learned how to interpret the voices of winds andwatersand to devoutly love their God. 

Most of them are of the purest Saxon origin; but here and there onemeets the massive features and the blue bonnet of the Lowland Scots, descendants of those stern Covenanters who from the coasts of Gallowayand Dumfries sought refuge in the strength of these lonely hills. Theyare easily distinguished, and are very proud of their descent fromthis race whom

 "God anointed with his odorous oil To wrestle, not to reign. "

Thirty years ago their leader and elder was Andrew Cargill, a man ofthe same lineage as that famous Donald Cargill who was the Boanergesof the Covenant, and who suffered martyrdom for his faith at the townof Queensferry. Andrew never forgot this fact, and the stern, just, uncompromising spirit of the old Protester still lived in him. He wasa man well-to-do in the world, and his comfortable stone house was oneof the best known in the vale of Glenmora. 

People who live amid grand scenery are not generally sensitive to it, but Andrew was. The adoring spirit in which he stood one autumnevening at his own door was a very common mood with him. He lookedover the moors carpeted with golden brown, and the hills covered withsheep and cattle, at the towering crags, more like clouds at sunsetthan things of solid land, at the children among the heather pickingbilberries, at the deep, clear, purple mist that filled the valley, not hindering the view, but giving everything a strangely solemnaspect, and his face relaxed into something very like a smile as hesaid, "It is the wark o' my Father's hand, and praised be his name. "

He stood at his own open door looking at these things, and inside hiswife Mysie was laying the supper-board with haver bread and cheese andmilk. A bright fire blazed on the wide hearth, and half a dozensheep-dogs spread out their white breasts to the heat. Great settlesof carved oak, bedded deep with fleeces of long wool, were on thesides of the fireplace, and from every wall racks of spotless deal, filled with crockery and pewter, reflected the shifting blaze. 

Suddenly he stepped out and looked anxiously towards the horizon onall sides. "Mysie, woman, " said he, "there is a storm coming up fromold Solway; I maun e'en gae and fauld the ewes wi' their younglammies. Come awa', Keeper and Sandy. "

The dogs selected rose at once and followed Andrew with rightgood-will. Mysie watched them a moment; but the great clouds of mistrolling down from the mountains soon hid the stalwart figure in itsbonnet and plaid from view, and gave to the dogs' fitful barks adistant, muffled sound. So she went in and sat down upon the settle, folding her hands listlessly on her lap, and letting the smile fallfrom her face as a mask might fall. Oh, what a sad face it was then!

She sat thus in a very trance of sorrow until the tears droppedheavily and slowly down, and her lips began to move in brokensupplications. Evidently these brought her the comfort she sought, forerelong she rose, saying softly to herself, "The lost bit o' sillerwas found, and the strayed sheep was come up wi', and the prodigal wonhame again, and dootless, dootless, my ain dear lad will no be lostsight o'. "

By this time the storm had broken, but Mysie was not uneasy. Andrewknew the hills like his own ingle, and she could tell to within fiveminutes how long it would take him to go to the fauld and back. Butwhen it was ten minutes past his time Mysie stood anxiously in theopen door and listened. Her ears, trained to almost supernaturalquickness, soon detected above the winds and rain a sound offootsteps. She called a wise old sheep-dog and bid him listen. Thecreature held his head a moment to the ground, looked at heraffirmatively, and at her command went to seek his master. 

In a few moments she heard Andrew's peculiar "hallo!" and the joyfulbarking of the dog, and knew that all was right. Yet she could not goin; she felt that something unusual had happened, and stood waitingfor whatever was coming. It was a poor, little, half-drowned baby. Andrew took it from under his plaid, and laid it in her arms, saying, "I maun go now and look after the mither. I'll need to yoke the cartfor her; she's past walking, and I'm sair feared she's past living;but you'll save the bit bairn, Mysie, nae doot; for God disna smiteaften wi' baith hands. "

"Where is she, Andrew?"

"'Mang the Druids' stanes, Mysie, and that's an ill place for aChristian woman to die. God forbid it!" he muttered, as he lit alantern and went rapidly to the stable; "an evil place! under the veraaltar-stane o' Satan. God stay the parting soul till it can hear aword o' his great mercy!"

With such a motive to prompt him, Andrew was not long in reaching theruins of the old Druidical temple. Under a raised flat stone, whichmade a kind of shelter, a woman was lying. She was now insensible, andAndrew lifted her carefully into the cart. Perhaps it was somesatisfaction to him that she did not actually die within suchunhallowed precincts; but the poor creature herself was beyond suchcare. When she had seen her child in Mysie's arms, and comprehendedMysie's assurance that she would care for it, all anxiety slipped awayfrom her. Andrew strove hard to make her understand the awfulsituation in which she was; but the girl lay smiling, with upturnedeyes, as if she was glad to be relieved of the burden of living. 

"You hae done your duty, gudeman, " at length said Mysie, "and now youmay leave the puir bit lassie to me; I'll dootless find a word o'comfort to say to her. "

"But I'm feared, I am awfu' feared, woman, that she is but a prodigaland an--"

"Hush, gudeman! There is mercy for the prodigal daughter as weel asfor the prodigal son;" and at these words Andrew went out with a dark, stern face, while she turned with a new and stronger tenderness to thedying woman. 

"God is love, " she whispered; "if you hae done aught wrang, there'sthe open grave o' Jesus, dearie; just bury your wrang-doing there. "She was answered with a happy smile. "And your little lad is my ladfra this hour, dearie!" The dying lips parted, and Mysie knew they hadspoken a blessing for her. 

Nothing was found upon the woman that could identify her, nothingexcept a cruel letter, which evidently came from the girl's father;but even in this there was neither date nor locality named. It had noterm of endearment to commence with, and was signed simply, "JohnDunbar. " Two things were, however, proven by it: that the woman'sgiven name was Bessie, and that by her marriage she had cut herselfoff from her home and her father's affection. 

So she was laid by stranger hands within that doorless house in thewhich God sometimes mercifully puts his weary ones to sleep. Mysietook the child to her heart at once, and Andrew was not long able toresist the little lad's beauty and winning ways. The neighbors beganto call him "wee Andrew;" and the old man grew to love his namesakewith a strangely tender affection. 

Sometimes there was indeed a bitter feeling in Mysie's heart, as shesaw how gentle he was with this child and remembered how stern andstrict he had been with their own lad. She did not understand that theone was in reality the result of the other, the acknowledgement of hisfault, and the touching effort to atone, in some way, for it. 

One night, when wee Andrew was about seven years old, this wrongstruck her in a manner peculiarly painful. Andrew had made a mostextraordinary journey, even as far as Penrith. A large manufactory hadbeen begun there, and a sudden demand for his long staple of whitewool had sprung up. Moreover, he had had a prosperous journey, andbrought back with him two books for the boy, Ęsop's Fables andRobinson Crusoe. 

When Mysie saw them, her heart swelled beyond control. She remembereda day when her own son Davie had begged for these very books and beenrefused with hard rebukes. She remembered the old man's bitter wordsand the child's bitter tears; but she did not reflect that the presentconcession was the result of the former refusal, nor yet that thebooks were much easier got and the money more plentiful than thirtyyears previous. When wee Andrew ran away with his treasures to theDruids' stones, Mysie went into the shippen, and did her milking tosome very sad thoughts. 

She was poisoning her heart with her own tears. When she returned tothe "houseplace" and saw the child bending with rapt, earnest faceover the books, she could not avoid murmuring that the son of astrange woman should be sitting happy in Cargill spence, and her owndear lad a banished wanderer. She had come to a point when rebellionwould be easy for her. Andrew saw a look on her face that amazed andtroubled him: and yet when she sat so hopelessly down before the fire, and without fear or apology

 "Let the tears downfa', "

he had no heart to reprove her. Nay, he asked with a very unusualconcern, "What's the matter, Mysie, woman?"

"I want to see Davie, and die, gudeman!"

"You'll no dare to speak o' dying, wife, until the Lord gies youoccasion; and Davie maun drink as he's brewed. "

"Nay, gudeman, but you brewed for him; the lad is drinking the cup youmixed wi' your ain hands. "

"I did my duty by him. "

"He had ower muckle o' your duty, and ower little o' your indulgence. If Davie was wrang, ither folk werena right. Every fault has itsforefault. "

Andrew looked in amazement at this woman, who for thirty and moreyears had never before dared to oppose his wishes, and to whom hisword had been law. 

"Davie's wrang-doing was weel kent, gude-wife; he hasted to sin like amoth to a candle. "

"It's weel that our faults arena written i' our faces. "

"I hae fallen on evil days, Mysie; saxty years syne wives and bairnswerena sae contrarie. "

"There was gude and bad then, as now, gudeman. "

Mysie's face had a dour, determined look that no one had ever seen onit before. Andrew began to feel irritated at her. "What do you want, woman?" he said sternly. 

"I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill. "

"Your bairn is i' some far-awa country, squandering his share o'Paradise wi' publicans and sinners. "

"I hope not, I hope not; if it werena for this hope my heart wouldbreak;" and then all the barriers that education and habit had builtwere suddenly overthrown as by an earthquake, and Mysie cried outpassionately, "I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill! the bonnie bairn thatlay on my bosom, and was dandled on my knees, and sobbed out hissorrows i' my arms. I want the bairn you were aye girding andgrumbling at! that got the rod for this, and the hard word and theblack look for that! My bonnie Davie, wha ne'er had a playtime nor astory-book! O gudeman, I want my bairn! I want my bairn!"

The repressed passion and sorrow of ten long years had found an outletand would not be controlled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amazementand terror, and for a moment he feared his wife had lost her senses. He had a tender heart beneath his stern, grave manner, and his firstimpulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his breast and promiseher all she asked. But he did not do it the first moment, and he couldnot the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in his awkward waytry to comfort her. "Dinna greet that way, Mysie, woman, " he said; "ifI hae done amiss, I'll mak amends. "

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to say; Mysie hardly knewhow to believe it. Such a confession was a kind of miracle, for shejudged things by results and was not given to any consideration of theevents that led up to them. She could not know, and did not suspect, that all the bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually forcingthemselves on her husband's mind. She did not know that wee Andrew'shappy face over his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, hadbeen an accusation and a reproach which the old man had already humblyand sorrowfully accepted. Therefore his confession and his promisewere a wonder to the woman, who had never before dared to admit thatit was possible Andrew Cargill should do wrong in his own household. 

CHAPTER II. 

The confidence that came after this plain speaking was very sweet andcomforting to both, although in their isolation and ignorance theyknew not what steps to take in order to find Davie. Ten years hadelapsed since he had hung for one heart-breaking moment on hismother's neck, and bid, as he told her, a farewell for ever to themiserable scenes of his hard, bare childhood. Mysie had not been ableto make herself believe that he was very wrong; dancing at pretty MaryHalliday's bridal and singing two or three love-songs did not seem tothe fond mother such awful transgressions as the stern, strictCovenanter really believed them to be, though even Mysie was willingto allow that Davie, in being beguiled into such sinful folly, "hadmade a sair tumble. "

However, Davie and his father had both said things that neither couldwin over, and the lad had gone proudly down the hill with but a fewshillings in his pocket. Since then there had been ten years ofanxious, longing grief that had remained unconfessed until this night. Now the hearts of both yearned for their lost son. But how should theyfind him? Andrew read nothing but his Bible and almanac; he had noconception of the world beyond Kendal and Keswick. He could scarcelyimagine David going beyond these places, or, at any rate, the coast ofScotland. Should he make a pilgrimage round about all those parts?

Mysie shook her head. She thought Andrew had better go to Keswick andsee the Methodist preacher there. She had heard they travelled allover the world, and if so, it was more than likely they had seen DavieCargill; "at ony rate, he would gie advice worth speiring after. "

Andrew had but a light opinion of Methodists, and had never beeninside the little chapel at Sinverness; but Mysie's advice, heallowed, "had a savor o' sense in it, " and so the next day he rodeover to Keswick and opened his heart to John Sugden, thesuperintendent of the Derwent Circuit. He had assured himself on theroad that he would only tell John just as much as was necessary forhis quest; but he was quite unable to resist the preacher's heartysympathy. There never were two men more unlike than Andrew Cargill andJohn Sugden, and yet they loved each other at once. 

"He is a son o' consolation, and dootless ane o' God's chosen, " saidAndrew to Mysie on his return. 

"He is a far nobler old fellow than he thinks he is, " said John to hiswife when he told her of Andrew's visit. 

John had advised advertising for Davie in "The Watchman;" for Johnreally thought this organ of the Methodist creed was the greatestpaper in existence, and honestly believed that if Davie was anywherein the civilized world "The Watchman" would find him out. He was sosure of it that both Mysie and Andrew caught his hopeful tone, andbegan to tell each other what should be done when Davie came home. 

Poor Mysie was now doubly kind to wee Andrew. She accused herselfbitterly of "grudging the bit lammie his story-books, " and persuadedher husband to bring back from Keswick for the child the "Pilgrim'sProgress" and "The Young Christian. " John Sugden, too, visited themoften, not only staying at Cargill during his regular appointments, but often riding over to take a day's recreation with the oldCameronian. True, they disputed the whole time. John said verypositive things and Andrew very contemptuous ones; but as they eachkept their own opinions intact, and were quite sure of their groundsfor doing so, no words that were uttered ever slackened the grip oftheir hands at parting. 

One day, as John was on the way to Cargill, he perceived a man sittingamong the Druids' stones. The stranger was a pleasant fellow, andafter a few words with the preacher he proposed that they should rideto Sinverness together. John soon got to talking of Andrew and hislost son, and the stranger became greatly interested. He said heshould like to go up to Andrew's and get a description of Davie, adding that he travelled far and wide, and might happen to come acrosshim. 

The old man met them at the door. 

"My sight fails, John, " he said, "but I'd hae kent your step i' athousand. You too are welcome, sir, though I ken you not, and doublywelcome if you bring God's blessing wi' you. "

The stranger lifted his hat, and Andrew led the way into the house. John had been expected, for haver bread and potted shrimps were on thetable, and he helped himself without ceremony, taking up at the sametime their last argument just where he had dropped it at the gate ofthe lower croft. But it had a singular interruption. The sheep-dogswho had been quietly sleeping under the settle began to be strangelyuneasy. Keeper could scarcely be kept down, even by Andrew's command, and Sandy bounded towards the stranger with low, rapid barks that madeJohn lose the sense of the argument in a new thought. But before hecould frame it into words Mysie came in. 

"See here, John, " she cried, and then she stopped and looked withwide-open eyes at the man coming towards her. With one long, thrillingcry she threw herself into his arms. 

"Mother! mother! darling mother, forgive me!"

John had instantly gone to Andrew's side, but Andrew had risen at onceto the occasion. "I'm no a woman to skirl or swoon, " he said, almostpetulantly, "and it's right and fit the lad should gie his mither thefirst greeting. "

But he stretched out both hands, and his cheeks were flushed and hiseyes full when Davie flung himself on his knees beside him. 

"My lad! my ain dear lad!" he cried, "I'll see nae better day thanthis until I see His face. "

No one can tell the joy of that hour. The cheese curds were left inthe dairy and the wool was left at the wheel, and Mysie forget herhousehold, and Andrew forgot his argument, and the preacher at lastsaid, "You shall tell us, Davie, what the Lord has done for you since youleft your father's house. "

"He has been gude to me, vera gude. I had a broad Scot's tongue in myhead, and I determined to go northward. I had little siller and I hadto walk, and by the time I reached Ecclefechan I had reason enough tobe sorry for the step I had taken. As I was sitting by the fireside o'the little inn there a man came in who said he was going to Carlisleto hire a shepherd. I did not like the man, but I was tired and hadnot plack nor bawbee, so I e'en asked him for the place. When he heardI was Cumberland born, and had been among sheep all my life, he wasfain enough, and we soon 'greed about the fee. 

"He was a harder master than Laban, but he had a daughter who was asbonnie as Rachel, and I loved the lass wi' my whole soul, and sheloved me. I ne'er thought about being her father's hired man. I wasaye Davie Cargill to mysel', and I had soon enough told Bessie allabout my father and mither and hame. I spoke to her father at last, but he wouldna listen to me. He just ordered me off his place, andBessie went wi' me. 

"I know now that we did wrang, but we thought then that we were right. We had a few pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle. But naethingwent as it should hae done. I could get nae wark, and Bessie fell intovera bad health; but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me toleave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow. 'For when wark an'siller arena i' one place, Davie, ' she said, 'then they're safe to bein another. '

"I swithered lang about leaving her, but a good opportunity came, andBessie promised me to go back to her father until I could come afterher. It was July then, and when Christmas came round I had saved moneyenough, and I started wi' a blithe heart to Ecclefechan. I hadna anyfear o' harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had promised to go to herhame, and I was sure she would be mair than welcome when she wentwithout me. I didna expect any letters, because Bessie couldna write, and, indeed, I was poor enough wi' my pen at that time, and only wroteonce to tell her I had good wark and would be for her a New Year. 

"But when I went I found that Bessie had gane, and none knew where. Itraced her to Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; thematron said she went away in a very weak condition when the child wasthree weeks old, declaring that she was going to her friends. Puir, bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever heard o' my wife andbairn. "

Mysie had left the room, and as she returnee with a little bundleAndrew was anxiously asking, "What was the lassie's maiden name, Davie?"

"Bessie Dunbar, father. "

"Then this is a wun'erful day; we are blessed and twice blessed, for Ifound your wife and bairn, Davie, just where John Sugden found you, 'mang the Druids' stanes; and the lad has my ain honest name and isweel worthy o' it. "

"See here, Davie, " and Mysie tenderly touched the poor faded dress andshawl, and laid the wedding-ring in his palm. As she spoke wee Andrewcame across the yard, walking slowly, reading as he walked. "Look athim, Davie! He's a bonnie lad, and a gude are; and oh, my ain dearlad, he has had a' things that thy youth wanted. "

It pleased the old man no little that, in spite of his father's lovinggreeting, wee Andrew stole away to his side. 

"You see, Davie, " he urged in apology, "he's mair at hame like wi'me. "

And then he drew the child to him, and let his whole heart go out now, without check or reproach, to "Davie's bairn. "

"But you have not finished your story, Mr. Cargill, " said John, andDavid sighed as he answered, "There is naething by the ordinar in it. I went back to the warks Ihad got a footing in, the Glencart Iron Warks, and gradually won myway to the topmost rungs o' the ladder. I am head buyer now, hae agude share i' the concern, and i' money matters there's plenty folkwaur off than David Cargill. When I put my father's forgiveness, mymither's love, and my Bessie's bonnie lad to the lave, I may weel saythat 'they are weel guided that God guides. ' A week ago I went intothe editor's room o' the Glasgow Herald, ' and the man no being in Ilifted a paper and saw in it my father's message to me. It's sma'credit that I left a' and answered it. "

"What paper, Mr. Cargill, what paper?"

"They ca' it 'The Watchman. ' I hae it in my pocket. "

"I thought so, " said John triumphantly. "It's a grand paper; every oneought to have it. "

"It is welcome evermore in my house, " said Davie. 

"It means weel, it means weel, " said Andrew, with a great stretch ofcharity, "but I dinna approve o' its doctrines at a', and--"

"It found David for you, Andrew. "

"Ay, ay, God uses a' kinds o' instruments. 'The Watchman' isna as auldas the Bible yet, John, and it's ill praising green barley. "

"Now, Andrew, I think--"

"Tut, tut, John, I'se no sit i' Rome and strive wi' the pope; there'snaething ill said, you ken, if it's no ill taken. "

John smiled tolerantly, and indeed there was no longer time forfurther discussion, for the shepherds from the hills and the farmersfrom the glen had heard of David's return, and were hurrying toCargill to see him. Mysie saw that there would be a goodly company, and the long harvest-table was brought in and a feast ofthanksgiving spread. Conversation in that house could only set oneway, and after all had eaten and David had told his story again, oneold man after another spoke of the dangers they had encountered andthe spiritual foes they had conquered. 

Whether it was the speaking, or the sympathy of numbers, or somespecial influence of the Holy Ghost, I know not; but suddenly Andrewlifted his noble old head and spoke thus:

"Frien's, ye hae some o' you said ill things o' yoursel's, but to thesons o' God there is nae condemnation; not that I hae been althegitherfaultless, but I meant weel, an' the lad was a wilfu' lad, and ye kenwhat the wisest o' men said anent such. Just and right has been mywalk before you, but--still--" Then, with a sudden passion, and risingto his feet, he cried out, "Frien's, I'm a poor sinfu' man, but I'llplay no mair pliskies wi' my conscience. I hae dootless been a hardmaster, hard and stern, and loving Sinai far beyond Bethlehem. Hardwas I to my lad, and hard hae I been to the wife o' my bosom, and hardhae I been to my ain heart. It has been my ain will and my ain way allmy life lang. God forgie me! God forgie me! for this night he hasbrought my sins to my remembrance. I hae been your elder for mair thanforty years, but I hae ne'er been worthy to carry his holy vessels. I'll e'en sit i' the lowest seat henceforward. "

"Not so, " said John. And there was such eager praise, and such warmlove rose from every mouth, that words began to fail, and as the oldman sat down smiling, happier than he had ever been before, song tookup the burden speech laid down; for John started one of those oldtriumphant Methodist hymns, and the rafters shook to the melody, andthe stars heard it, and the angels in heaven knew a deeper joy. Singing, the company departed, and Andrew, standing in the moonlightbetween David and John, watched the groups scatter hither and thither, and heard, far up the hills and down the glen, that sweet, sweetrefrain, "Canaan, bright Canaan! Will you go to the land of Canaan?"

After this David stayed a week at Glenmora, and then it becamenecessary for him to return to Glasgow. But wee Andrew was to have atutor and remain with his grandparents for some years at least. Andrewhimself determined to "tak a trip" and see Scotland and the wonderfuliron works of which he was never weary of hearing David talk. 

When he reached Kendal, however, and saw for the first time theCaledonian Railway and its locomotives, nothing could induce him to gofarther. 

"It's ower like the deil and the place he bides in, Davie, " he said, with a kind of horror. "Fire and smoke and iron bands! I'll no ride atthe deil's tail-end, not e'en to see the land o' the Covenant. "

So he went back to Glenmora, and was well content when he stood againat his own door and looked over the bonny braes of Sinverness, itssimmering becks and fruitful vales. "These are the warks o' His hands, Mysie, " he said, reverently lifting his bonnet and looking up toCreffel and away to Solway, "and you'd ken that, woman, if you hadseen Satan as I saw him rampaging roun' far waur than any roaringlion. "

After this Andrew never left Sinverness; but, the past unsighed forand the future sure, passed through

 "----an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, "

until, one summer evening, he gently fell on that sleep which Godgiveth his beloved. 

 "For such Death's portal opens not in gloom, But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold, Shows avenues interminable--shows Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord Of human mingled with angelic song. "

One Wrong Step. 

ONE WRONG STEP. 

CHAPTER I. 

"There's few folk ken Ragon Torr as I do, mother. He is better atheart than thou wad think; indeed he is!"

"If better were within, better wad come out, John. He's been drunk ordovering i' the chimney-corner these past three weeks. Hech! but he'ddo weel i' Fool's Land, where they get half a crown a day forsleeping. "

"There's nane can hunt a seal or spear a whale like Ragon; thou sawhim theesel', mother, among the last school i' Stromness Bay. "

"I saw a raving, ranting heathen, wi' the bonnie blue bay a sea o'blood around him, an' he shouting an' slaying like an old pagansea-king. Decent, God-fearing fisher-folk do their needful wark ithergate than yon. Now there is but one thing for thee to do: thou mustbreak wi' Ragon Torr, an' that quick an' soon. "

"Know this, my mother, a friend is to be taken wi' his faults. "

"Thou knows this, John: I hae forty years mair than thou hast, an'years ken mair than books. An' wi' a' thy book skill hast thou ne'erread that 'Evil communications corrupt gude manners'? Mak up thy mindthat I shall tak it vera ill if thou sail again this year wi' thatborn heathen;" and with these words Dame Alison Sabay rose up from thestone bench at her cottage door and went dourly into the houseplace. 

John stood on the little jetty which ran from the very doorstep intothe bay, and looked thoughtfully over towards the sweet green isle ofGraemsay; but neither the beauty of land or sea, nor the splendor ofskies bright with the rosy banners of the Aurora gave him any answerto the thoughts which troubled him. "I'll hae to talk it o'er wi'Christine, " he said decidedly, and he also turned into the house. 

Christine was ten years older than her brother John. She had knownmuch sorrow, but she had lived through and lived down all her trialsand come out into the peace on the other side. She was sitting by thepeat fire knitting, and softly crooning an old Scotch psalm to theclick of her needles. She answered John's look with a sweet, gravesmile, and a slight nod towards the little round table, upon whichthere was a plate of smoked goose and some oaten cake for his supper. 

"I carena to eat a bite, Christine; this is what I want o' thee: theskiff is under the window; step into it, an' do thou go on the bay wi'me an hour. "

"I havena any mind to go, John. It is nine by the clock, an' to-morrowthe peat is to coil an' the herring to kipper; yes, indeed. "

"Well an' good. But here is matter o' mair account than peat an'herring. Wilt thou come?"

"At the end I ken weel thou wilt hae thy way. Mother, here is John, an' he is for my going on the bay wi' him. "

"Then thou go. If John kept aye as gude company he wouldna be like tobring my gray hairs wi' sorrow to the grave. "

John did not answer this remark until they had pushed well off fromthe sleeping town, then he replied fretfully, "Yes, what mother saysis true enough; but a man goes into the warld. A' the fingers are notalike, much less one's friends. How can a' be gude?"

"To speak from the heart, John, wha is it?"

"Ragon Torr. Thou knows we hae sat i' the same boat an' drawn the samenets for three years; he is gude an' bad, like ither folk. "

"Keep gude company, my brother, an' thou wilt aye be counted ane o'them. When Ragon is gude he is ower gude, and when he is bad he isjust beyont kenning. "

"Can a man help the kin he comes o'? Have not his forbears done forcenturies the vera same way? Naething takes a Norseman frae his bed orhis cup but some great deed o' danger or profit; but then wha canfight or wark like them?"

"Christ doesna ask a man whether he be Norse or Scot. If Ragon wentmair to the kirk an' less to the change-house, he wouldna need todiffer. Were not our ain folk cattle-lifting Hieland thieves langafter the days o' the Covenant?"

"Christine, ye'll speak nae wrang o' the Sabays. It's an ill bird'files its ain nest. "

"Weel, weel, John! The gude name o' the Sabays is i' thy hands now. But to speak from the heart, this thing touches thee nearer than RagonTorr. Thou did not bring me out to speak only o' him. "

"Thou art a wise woman, Christine, an' thou art right. It touchesMargaret Fae, an' when it does that, it touches what is dearer to methan life. "

"I see it not. "

"Do not Ragon an' I sail i' Peter Fae's boats? Do we not eat at histable, an' bide round his house during the whole fishing season? If Isail no more wi' Ragon, I must quit Peter's employ; for he loves Ragonas he loves no ither lad i' Stromness or Kirkwall. The Norse blood wethink little o', Peter glories in; an' the twa men count thegithero'er their glasses the races o' the Vikings, an' their ain generationsup to Snorro an' Thorso. "

"Is there no ither master but Peter Fae? ask theesel' that question, John. "

"I hae done that, Christine. Plenty o' masters, but nane o' them haeMargaret for a daughter. Christine, I love Margaret, an' she loves meweel. Thou hast loved theesel', my sister. "

"I ken that, John, " she said tenderly; "I hae loved, therefore I haegot beyont doots, an' learned something holier than my ain way. Thoutrust Margaret now. Thou say 'Yes' to thy mother, an' fear not. "

"Christine thou speaks hard words. "

"Was it to speak easy anes thou brought me here? An' if I said, 'Icounsel thee to tak thy ain will i' the matter, ' wad my counsel makbad gude, or wrang right? Paul Calder's fleet sails i' twa days; seeka place i' his boats. "

"Then I shall see next to naught o' Margaret, an' Ragon will see herevery day. "

"If Margaret loves thee, that can do thee nae harm. "

"But her father favors Ragon, an' of me he thinks nae mair than o' thenets, or aught else that finds his boats for sea. "

"Well an' good; but no talking can alter facts. Thou must now chooseatween thy mother an' Margaret Fae, atween right an' wrang. God doesnaleave that choice i' the dark; thy way may be narrow an' unpleasant, but it is clear enough. Dost thou fear to walk i' it?"

"There hae been words mair than plenty, Christine. Let us go hame. "

Silently the little boat drifted across the smooth bay, and silentlythe brother and sister stood a moment looking up the empty, flaggedstreet of the sleeping town. The strange light, which was neithergloaming nor dawning, but a mixture of both, the waving borealbanners, the queer houses, gray with the storms of centuries, thebrown undulating heaths, and the phosphorescent sea, made a strangelysolemn picture which sank deep into their hearts. After a pause, Christine went into the house, but John sat down on the stone bench tothink over the alternatives before him. 

Now the power of training up a child in the way it should go asserteditself. It became at once a fortification against self-will. Johnnever had positively disobeyed his mother's explicit commands; hefound it impossible to do so. He must offer his services to PaulCalder in the morning, and try to trust Margaret Fae's love for him. 

He had determined now to do right, but he did not do it verypleasantly--it is a rare soul that grows sweeter in disappointments. Both mother and sister knew from John's stern, silent ways that he hadchosen the path of duty, and they expected that he would make it avalley of Baca. This Dame Alison accepted as in some sort her desert. "I ought to hae forbid the lad three years syne, " she saidregretfully; "aft ill an' sorrow come o' sich sinfu' putting aff. There's nae half-way house atween right an' wrang. "

Certainly the determination involved some unpleasant explanations toJohn. He must first see old Peter Fae and withdraw himself from hisservice. He found him busy in loading a small vessel with smoked geeseand kippered fish, and he was apparently in a very great passion. Before John could mention his own matters, Peter burst into a torrentof invectives against another of his sailors, who, he said, had givensome information to the Excise which had cost him a whole cargo ofDutch specialties. The culprit was leaning against a hogshead, and waslistening to Peter's intemperate words with a very evil smile. 

"How much did ye sell yoursel' for, Sandy Beg? It took the son of aHieland robber like you to tell tales of a honest man's cargo. It wasan ill day when the Scots cam to Orkney, I trow. "

"She'll hae petter right to say tat same 'fore lang time. " And Sandy'sface was dark with a subdued passion that Peter might have known to bedangerous, but which he continued to aggravate by contemptuousexpressions regarding Scotchmen in general. 

This John Sabay was in no mood to bear; he very soon took offence atPeter's sweeping abuse, and said he would relieve him at any rate ofone Scot. "He didna care to sail again wi' such a crowd as Petergathered round him. "

It was a very unadvised speech. Ragon lifted it at once, and in thewords which followed John unavoidably found himself associated withSandy Beg, a man whose character was of the lowest order. And he hadmeant to be so temperate, and to part with both Peter and Ragon on thebest terms possible. How weak are all our resolutions! John turnedaway from Peter's store conscious that he had given full sway to allthe irritation and disappointment of his feelings, and that he hadspoken as violently as either Peter, Ragon, or even the half-brutalSandy Beg. Indeed, Sandy had said very little; but the malignant lookwith which he regarded Peter, John could never forget. 

This was not his only annoyance. Paul Calder's boats were fullymanned, and the others had already left for Brassey's Sound. TheSabays were not rich; a few weeks of idleness would make the longOrkney winter a dreary prospect. Christine and his mother sat frommorning to night braiding straw into the once famous Orkney Tuscans, and he went to the peat-moss to cut a good stock of winter fuel; buthis earnings in money were small and precarious, and he was so anxiousthat Christine's constant cheerfulness hurt him. 

Sandy Beg had indeed said something of an offer he could make "ifshentlemans wanted goot wages wi' ta chance of a lucky bit forthemsel's; foive kuineas ta month an' ta affsets. Oigh! oigh!" ButJohn had met the offer with such scorn and anger that Sandy hadthought it worth while to bestow one of his most wicked looks uponhim. The fact was, Sandy felt half grateful to John for his apparentpartisanship, and John indignantly resented any disposition to put himin the same boat with a man so generally suspected and disliked. 

"It might be a come-down, " he said, "for a gude sailor an' fisher tocoil peats and do days' darg, but it was honest labor; an', pleaseGod, he'd never do that i' the week that wad hinder him fra going tothe kirk on Sabbath. "

"Oigh! she'll jist please hersel'; she'll pe owing ta Beg naething byta next new moon. " And with a mocking laugh Sandy loitered awaytowards the seashore. 

CHAPTER II. 

Just after this interview a little lad put a note in John's hand fromMargaret Fae. It only asked him to be on Brogar Bridge at eighto'clock that night. Now Brogar Bridge was not a spot that any Orcadiancared to visit at such an hour. In the pagan temple whose remainsstood there it was said pale ghosts of white-robed priests stilloffered up shadowy human sacrifices, and though John's faith was firmand sure, superstitions are beyond reasoning with, and he recalled theeerie, weird aspect of the grim stones with an unavoidableapprehension. What could Margaret want with him in such a place and atan hour so near that at which Peter usually went home from his shop?He had never seen Margaret's writing, and he half suspected Sandy Beghad more to do with the appointment than she had; but he was tooanxious to justify himself in Margaret's eyes to let any fears ordoubts prevent him from keeping the tryst. 

He had scarcely reached the Stones of Stennis when he saw her leaningagainst one of them. The strange western light was over her thoughtfulface. She seemed to have become a part of the still and solemnlandscape. John had always loved her with a species of reverence;to-night he felt almost afraid of her beauty and the power she hadover him. She was a true Scandinavian, with the tall, slender, andrather haughty form which marks Orcadian and Zetland women. Her hairwas perhaps a little too fair and cold, and yet it made a noblesetting to the large, finely-featured, tranquil face. 

She put out her hand as John approached, and said, "Was it well thatthou shouldst quarrel with my father? I thought that thou didst loveme. "

Then John poured out his whole heart--his love for her, his mother'sdemand of him, his quarrel with Ragon and Peter and Sandy Beg. "It hasbeen an ill time, Margaret, " he said, "and thou hast been long incomforting me. "

Well, Margaret had plenty of reasons for her delay and plenty ofcomfort for her lover. Naturally slow of pulse and speech, she hadbeen long coming to a conclusion; but, having satisfied herself of itsjustice, she was likely to be immovable in it. She gave John her handfrankly and lovingly, and promised, in poverty or wealth, in weal orwoe, to stand truly by his side. It was not a very hopefultroth-plighting, but they were both sure of the foundations of theirlove, and both regarded the promise as solemnly binding. 

Then Margaret told John that she had heard that evening that thecaptain of the Wick steamer wanted a mate, and the rough PentlandFrith being well known to John, she hoped, if he made immediateapplication, he would be accepted. If he was, John declared hisintention of at once seeing Peter and asking his consent to theirengagement. In the meantime the Bridge of Brogar was to be theirtryst, when tryst was possible. Peter's summer dwelling lay not farfrom it, and it was Margaret's habit to watch for his boat and walk upfrom the beach to the house with him. She would always walk over firstto Brogar, and if John could meet her there that would be well; ifnot, she would understand that it was out of the way of duty, and becontent. 

John fortunately secured the mate's place. Before he could tellMargaret this she heard her father speak well of him to the captain. "There is nae better sailor, nor better lad, for that matter, " saidPeter. "I like none that he wad hang roun' my bonnie Marg'et; butthen, a cat may look at a king without it being high treason, I wot. "

A week afterwards Peter thought differently. When John told himhonestly how matters stood between him and Margaret he was more angrythan when Sandy Beg swore away his whole Dutch cargo. He would listento neither love nor reason, and positively forbid him to hold anyfurther intercourse with his daughter. John had expected this, and wasnot greatly discouraged. He had Margaret's promise. Youth is hopeful, and they could wait; for it never entered their minds absolutely todisobey the old man. 

In the meantime there was a kind of peacemaking between Ragon andJohn. The good Dominie Sinclair had met them both one day on thebeach, and insisted on their forgiving and shaking hands. Neither ofthem were sorry to do so. Men who have shared the dangers of thedeep-sea fishing and the stormy Northern Ocean together cannot lookupon each other as mere parts of a bargain. There was, too, a wildvalor and a wonderful power in emergencies belonging to Ragon that hadalways dazzled John's more cautious nature. In some respects, hethought Ragon Torr the greatest sailor that left Stromness harbor, andRagon was willing enough to admit that John "was a fine fellow, " andto give his hand at the dominie's direction. 

Alas! the good man's peacemaking was of short duration. As soon asPeter told the young Norse sailor of John's offer for Margaret's hand, Ragon's passive good-will turned to active dislike and bitterjealousy. For, though he had taken little trouble to please Margaret, he had come to look upon her as his future wife. He knew that Peterwished it so, and he now imagined that it was also the only thing onearth he cared for. 

Thus, though John was getting good wages, he was not happy. It wasrarely he got a word with Margaret, and Peter and Ragon were only tooready to speak. It became daily more and more difficult to avoid anopen quarrel with them, and, indeed, on several occasions sharp, cruelwords, that hurt like wounds, had passed between them on the publicstreets and quays. 

Thus Stromness, that used to be so pleasant to him, was changing fast. He knew not how it was that people so readily believed him in thewrong. In Wick, too, he had been troubled with Sandy Beg, and a kindof nameless dread possessed him about the man; he could not get rid ofit, even after he had heard that Sandy had sailed in a whaling shipfor the Arctic seas. 

Thus things went on until the end of July. John was engaged now untilthe steamer stopped running in September, and the little sum of readymoney necessary for the winter's comfort was assured. Christine satsinging and knitting, or singing and braiding straw, and Dame Alisonwent up and down her cottage with a glad heart. They knew little ofJohn's anxieties. Christine had listened sympathizingly to his troubleabout Margaret, and said, "Thou wait an' trust; John dear, an' at theend a' things will be well. " Even Ragon's ill-will and Peter's illwords had not greatly frightened them--"The wrath o' man shall praiseHim, " read old Alison, with just a touch of spiritual satisfaction, "an' the rest o' the wrath he will restrain. "

CHAPTER III. 

It was a Saturday night in the beginning of August, and John was athome until the following Monday. He dressed himself and went outtowards Brogar, and Christine watched him far over the western moor, and blessed him as he went. He had not seen Margaret for many days, but he had a feeling to-night that she would be able to keep hertryst. And there, standing amid the rushes on the lakeside, he foundher. They had so much to say to each other that Margaret forgot herfather's return, and delayed so long that she thought it best to gostraight home, instead of walking down the beach to meet him. 

He generally left Stromness about half-past eight, and his supper waslaid for nine o'clock. But this night nine passed, and he did notcome; and though the delay could be accounted for in various ways, shehad a dim but anxious forecasting of calamity in her heart. Theatmosphere of the little parlor grew sorrowful and heavy, the lamp didnot seem to light it, her father's chair had a deserted, lonelyaspect, the house was strangely silent; in fifteen minutes she hadforgotten how happy she had been, and wandered to and from the doorlike some soul in an uneasy dream. 

All at once she heard the far-away shouting of angry and alarmedvoices, and to her sensitive ears her lover's and her father's nameswere mingled. It was her nature to act slowly; for a few moments shecould not decide what was to be done. The first thought was theservants. There were only two, Hacon Flett and Gerda Vedder. Gerda hadgone to bed, Hacon was not on the place. As she gathered her energiestogether she began to walk rapidly over the springy heath towards thewhite sands of the beach. Her father, if he was coming, would comethat way. She was angry with herself for the _if_. Of course he wascoming. What was there to prevent it? She told herself, Nothing, andthe next moment looked up and saw two men coming towards her, and intheir arms a figure which she knew instinctively was her father's. 

She slowly retraced her steps, set open the gate and the door, andwaited for the grief that was coming to her. But however slow herreasoning faculties, her soul knew in a moment what it needed. It wasbut a little prayer said with trembling lips and fainting heart; butno prayer loses its way. Straight to the heart of Christ it went. Andthe answer was there and the strength waiting when Ragon and Haconbrought in the bleeding, dying old man, and laid him down upon hisparlor floor. 

Ragon said but one word, "Stabbed!" and then, turning to Hacon, bidhim ride for life and death into Stromness for a doctor. Most sailorsof these islands know a little rude surgery, and Ragon stayed besidehis friend, doing what he could to relieve the worst symptoms. Margaret, white and still, went hither and thither, bringing whateverRagon wanted, and fearing, she knew not why, to ask any questions. 

With the doctor came the dominie and two of the town bailies. Therewas little need of the doctor; Peter Fae's life was ebbing rapidlyaway with every moment of time. There was but little time now forwhatever had yet to be done. The dominie stooped first to his ear, andin a few solemn words bid him lay himself at the foot of the cross. "Thou'lt never perish there, Peter, " he said; and the dying man seemedto catch something of the comfort of such an assurance. 

Then Bailie Inkster said, "Peter Fae, before God an' hisminister--before twa o' the town bailies an' thy ain daughterMargaret, an' thy friend Ragon Torr, an' thy servants Hacon Flett an'Gerda Vedder, thou art now to say what man stabbed thee. "

Peter made one desperate effort, a wild, passionate gleam shot fromthe suddenly-opened eyes, and he cried out in a voice terrible in itsdespairing anger, "_John Sabay! John Sabay--stabb-ed--me!Indeed--he--did_!"

"Oh, forgive him, man! forgive him! Dinna think o' that now, Peter!Cling to the cross--cling to the cross, man! Nane ever perished thatonly won to the foot o' it. " Then the pleading words were whispereddown into fast-sealing ears, and the doctor quietly led away a poorheart-stricken girl, who was too shocked to weep and too humbled andwretched to tell her sorrow to any one but God. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The bailies, after hearing the deposition, immediately repaired toJohn Sabay's cottage. It was Saturday night, and no warrant could nowbe got, but the murderer must be secured. No two men bent on such anerrand ever found it more difficult to execute. The little family hadsat later than usual. John had always news they were eager to hear--oftourists and strangers he had seen in Wick, or of the people thesteamer had brought to Kirkwall. 

He was particularly cheerful this evening; his interview with Margarethad been hopeful and pleasant, and Christine had given the houseplaceand the humble supper-table quite a festival look. They had sat solong over the meal that when the bailies entered John was only thenreading the regular portion for the evening exercise. All were alittle amazed at the visit, but no one thought for a moment ofinterrupting the Scripture; and the two men sat down and listenedattentively while John finished the chapter. 

Bailie Tulloch then rose and went towards the dame. He was a far-offcousin of the Sabays, and, though not on the best of terms with them, his relationship was considered to impose the duty particularly onhim. 

"Gude-e'en, if thou comes on a gude errand, " said old Dame Alison, suspiciously; "but that's no thy custom, bailie. "

"I came, dame, to ask John anent Peter Fae. "

The dame laughed pleasantly. "If thou had asked him anent MargaretFae, he could tell thee more about it. "

"This is nae laughing matter, dame. Peter Fae has been murdered--yes, murdered! An' he said, ere he died, that John Sabay did the deed. "

"Then Peter Fae died wi' a lie on his lips--tell them that, John, " andthe old woman's face was almost majestic in its defiance and anger. 

"I hae not seen Peter Fae for a week, " said John. "God knows that, bailie. I wad be the vera last man to hurt a hair o' his gray head;why he is Margaret's father!"

"Still, John, though we hae nae warrant to hold thee, we are beholdento do sae; an' thou maun come wi' us, " said Bailie Inkster. 

"Wrang has nae warrant at ony time, an' ye will no touch my lad, " saidAlison, rising and standing before her son. 

"Come, dame, keep a still tongue. "

"My tongue's no under thy belt, Tulloch; but it's weel kenned thatsince thou wranged us thou ne'er liked us. "

"Mother, mother, dinna fash theesel'. It's naught at a' but a mistake;an' I'll gae wi' Bailie Inkster, if he's feared to tak my word. "

"I could tak thy word fain enough, John--"

"But the thing isna possible, Inkster. Besides, if he were missingMonday morn, I, being i' some sort a relation, wad be under suspiciono' helping him awa. "

"Naebody wad e'er suspect thee o' a helping or mercifu' deed, Tulloch. Indeed na!"

"Tak care, dame; thou art admitting it wad be a mercifu' deed. I heardPeter Fae say that John Sabay stabbed him, an' Ragon Torr and HaconFlett saw John, as I understan' the matter. "

"Mother, " said John, "do thou talk to nane but God. Thou wilt hae tolead the prayer theesel' to-night; dinna forget me. I'm as innocent o'this matter as Christine is; mak up thy mind on that. "

"God go wi' thee, John. A' the men i' Orkney can do nae mair than theymay against thee. "

"It's an unco grief an' shame to me, " said Tulloch, "but the Sabayshae aye been a thorn i' the flesh to me, an' John's the last o' them, the last o' them!"

"Thou art makin' thy count without Providence, Tulloch. There's mairSabays than Tullochs; for there's Ane for them that counts far beyontan' above a' that can be against them. Now, thou step aff my honesthearthstane--there is mair room for thee without than within. "

Then John held his mother's and sister's hands a moment, and there wassuch _virtue_ in the clasp, and such light and trust in their faces, that it was impossible for him not to catch hope from them. SuddenlyBailie Tulloch noticed that John was in his Sabbath-day clothes. Initself this was not remarkable on a Saturday night. Most of the peoplekept this evening as a kind of preparation for the Holy Day, and thebest clothing and the festival meal were very general. But just thenit struck the bailies as worth inquiring about. 

"Where are thy warking-claes, John--the uniform, I mean, o' thatsteamship company thou sails for--and why hast na them on thee?"

"I had a visit to mak, an' I put on my best to mak it in. The ithersare i' my room. "

"Get them, Christine. "

Christine returned in a few minutes pale-faced and empty-handed. "Theyare not there, John, nor yet i' thy kist. "

"I thought sae. "

"Then God help me, sister! I know not where they are. "

Even Bailie Inkster looked doubtful and troubled at this circumstance. Silence, cold and suspicious, fell upon them, and poor John went awayhalf-bereft of all the comfort his mother's trust and Christine's lookhad given him. 

The next day being Sabbath, no one felt at liberty to discuss thesubject; but as the little groups passed one another on their way tochurch their solemn looks and their doleful shakes of the headtestified to its presence in their thoughts. The dominie indeed, knowing how nearly impossible it would be for them not to think theirown thoughts this Lord's day, deemed it best to guide those thoughtsto charity. He begged every one to be kind to all in deep affliction, and to think no evil until it was positively known who the guiltyperson was. 

Indeed, in spite of the almost overwhelming evidence against JohnSabay, there was a strong disposition to believe him innocent. "If yebelieve a' ye hear, ye may eat a' ye see, " said Geordie Sweyn. "MaybeJohn Sabay killed old Peter Fae, but every maybe has a may-not-be. "And to this remark there were more nods of approval than shakes ofdissent. 

But affairs, even with this gleam of light, were dark enough to thesorrowful family. John's wages had stopped, and the winter fuel wasnot yet all cut. A lawyer had to be procured, and they must mortgagetheir little cottage to do it; and although ten days had passed, Margaret Fae had not shown, either by word or deed, what was heropinion regarding John's guilt or innocence. 

But Margaret, as before said, was naturally slow in all her movements, so slow that even Scotch caution had begun to call her cruel orcareless. But this was a great injustice. She had weighed carefully inher own mind everything against John, and put beside it his own letterto her and her intimate knowledge of his character, and then solemnlysat down in God's presence to take such counsel as he should put intoher heart. After many prayerful, waiting days she reached a conclusionwhich was satisfactory to herself; and she then put away from herevery doubt of John's innocence, and resolved on the course to bepursued. 

In the first place she would need money to clear the guiltless and toseek the guilty, and she resolved to continue her father's business. She had assisted him so long with his accounts that his methods werequite familiar to her; all she needed was some one to handle the roughgoods, and stand between her and the rude sailors with whom thebusiness was mainly conducted. 

Who was this to be? Ragon Torr? She was sure Ragon would have been herfather's choice. He had taken all charge of the funeral, and had sincehung round the house, ready at any moment to do her service. But Ragonwould testify against John Sabay, and she had besides an unaccountableantipathy to his having any nearer relation with her. "I'll askGeordie Sweyn, " she said, after a long consultation with her own slowbut sure reasoning powers; "he'll keep the skippers an' farmers i' aweo' him; an' he's just as honest as any ither man. "

So Geordie was sent for and the proposal made and accepted. "Thou wiltsurely be true to me, Geordie?"

"As sure as death, Miss Margaret;" and when he gave her his greatbrawny hand on it, she knew her affairs in that direction were safe. 

Next morning the shop was opened as usual, and Geordie Sweyn stood inPeter Fae's place. The arrangement had been finally made so rapidlythat it had taken all Stromness by surprise. But no one said anythingagainst it; many believed it to be wisely done, and those who did not, hardly cared to express dissatisfaction with a man whose personalprowess and ready hand were so well known. 

The same day Christine received a very sisterly letter from Margaret, begging her to come and talk matters over with her. There were suchobvious reasons why Margaret could not go to Christine, that thelatter readily complied with the request; and such was the influencethat this calm, cool, earnest girl had over the elder woman, that shenot only prevailed upon her to accept money to fee the lawyer inJohn's defence, but also whatever was necessary for their comfortduring the approaching winter. Thus Christine and Margaret mutuallystrengthened each other, and both cottage and prison were always thebetter for every meeting. 

CHAPTER V. 

But soon the summer passed away, and the storms and snows of winterswept over the lonely island. There would be no court until Decemberto try John, and his imprisonment in Kirkwall jail grew every day moredreary. But no storms kept Christine long away from him. Over almostimpassable roads and mosses she made her way on the little ponies ofthe country, which had to perform a constant steeple-chase over thebogs and chasms. 

All things may be borne when they are sure; and every one who lovedJohn was glad when at last he could have a fair hearing. Nothinghowever was in his favor. The bailies and the murdered man's servants, even the dominie and his daughter could tell but one tale. "Peter Faehad declared with his last breath that John Sabay had stabbed him. "The prosecution also brought forward strong evidence to show that verybitter words had passed, a few days before the murder, between theprisoner and the murdered man. 

In the sifting of this evidence other points were brought out, stillmore convincing. Hacon Flett said that he was walking to Stromness bythe beach to meet his sweetheart, when he heard the cry of murder, andin the gloaming light saw John Sabay distinctly running across themoor. When asked how he knew certainly that it was John, he said thathe knew him by his peculiar dress, its bright buttons, and the glimmerof gold braid on his cap. He said also, in a very decided manner, thatJohn Sabay passed Ragon Torr so closely that he supposed they hadspoken. 

Then Ragon being put upon his oath, and asked solemnly to declare whowas the man that had thus passed him, tremblingly answered, "_John Sabay!_"

John gave him such a look as might well haunt a guilty soul throughall eternity; and old Dame Alison, roused by a sense of intolerablewrong, cried out, "Know this, there's a day coming that will show the black heart; buttraitors' words ne'er yet hurt the honest cause. "

"Peace, woman!" said an officer of the court, not unkindly. 

"Weel, then, God speak for me! an' my thoughts are free; if I daurnasay, I may think. "

In defence Margaret Fae swore that she had been with John on BrogarBridge until nearly time to meet her father, and that John then wore ablack broadcloth suit and a high hat; furthermore, that she believedit utterly impossible for him to have gone home, changed his clothes, and then reached the scene of the murder at the time Hacon Flett andRagon Torr swore to his appearance there. 

But watches were very uncommon then; no one of the witnesses had anyvery distinct idea of the time; some of them varied as much as an hourin their estimate. It was also suggested by the prosecution that Johnprobably had the other suit secreted near the scene of the murder. Certain it was that he had not been able either to produce it or toaccount for its mysterious disappearance. 

The probability of Sandy Beg being the murderer was then advanced; butSandy was known to have sailed in a whaling vessel before the murder, and no one had seen him in Stromness since his departure for Wickafter his dismissal from Peter Fae's service. 

No one? Yes, some one had seen him. That fatal night, as Ragon Torrwas crossing the moor to Peter's house--he having some news of a veryparticular vessel to give--he heard the cry of "Murder, " and he heardHacon Flett call out, "I know thee, John Sabay. Thou hast stabbed mymaster!" and he instantly put himself in the way of the flying man. Then he knew at once that it was Sandy Beg in John Sabay's clothes. The two men looked a moment in each other's face, and Sandy saw inRagon's something that made him say, "She'll pat Sandy safe ta night, an' that will mak her shure o' talass she's seeking far. "

There was no time for parley; Ragon's evil nature was strongest, andhe answered, "There is a cellar below my house, thou knows it weel. "

Indeed, most of the houses in Stromness had underground passages, andplaces of concealment used for smuggling purposes, and Ragon's lonelyhouse was a favorite rendezvous. The vessel whose arrival he had beengoing to inform Peter of was a craft not likely to come into Stromnesswith all her cargo. 

Towards morning Ragon had managed to see Sandy and send him out to herwith such a message as insured her rapid disappearance. Sandy had alsowith him a sum of money which he promised to use in transportinghimself at once to India, where he had a cousin in the forty-secondHighland regiment. 

Ragon had not at first intended to positively swear away his friend'slife; he had been driven to it, not only by Margaret's growingantipathy to him and her decided interest in John's case and family, but also by that mysterious power of events which enable the devil toforge the whole chain that binds a man when the first link is givenhim. But the word once said, he adhered positively to it, and evenasserted it with quite unnecessary vehemence and persistence. 

After such testimony there was but one verdict possible. John Sabaywas declared guilty of murder, and sentenced to death. But there wasstill the same strange and unreasonable belief in his innocence, andthe judge, with a peculiar stretch of clemency, ordered the sentenceto be suspended until he could recommend the prisoner to his majesty'smercy. 

A remarkable change now came over Dame Alison. Her anger, her sense ofwrong, her impatience, were over. She had come now to where she coulddo nothing else but trust implicitly in God; and her mind, being thusstayed, was kept in a strange exultant kind of perfect peace. Lostconfidence? Not a bit of it! Both Christine and her mother had reacheda point where they knew

 "That right is right, since God is God, And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Slowly the weary winter passed away. And just as spring was openingthere began to be talk of Ragon Torr's going away. Margaret continuedto refuse his addresses with a scorn he found it ill to bear; and henoticed that many of his old acquaintances dropped away from him. There is a distinct atmosphere about every man, and the atmosphereabout Ragon people began to avoid. No one could have given a veryclear reason for doing so; one man did not ask another why; but thefact needed no reasoning about, it was there. 

One day, when Paul Calder was making up his spring cargoes, Ragonasked for a boat, and being a skilful sailor, he was accepted. But nosooner was the thing known, than Paul had to seek another crew. 

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing; they did not care to sail with Ragon Torr, that was all. "

This circumstance annoyed Ragon very much. He went home quitedetermined to leave Stromness at once and for ever. Indeed he had beenlonging to do so for many weeks, but had stayed partly out of bravado, and partly because there were few opportunities of getting away duringthe winter. 

He went home and shut himself in his own room, and began to count hishoarded gold. While thus employed, there was a stir or movement underhis feet which he quite understood. Some one was in the secret cellar, and was coming up. He turned hastily round, and there was Sandy Beg. 

"Thou scoundrel!" and he fairly gnashed his teeth at the intruder, "what dost thou want here?"

"She'll be wanting money an' help. "

Badly enough Sandy wanted both; and a dreadful story he told. He hadindeed engaged himself at Wick for a whaling voyage, but at the lastmoment had changed his mind and deserted. For somewhere among thewilds of Rhiconich in Sutherland he had a mother, a wild, superstitious, half-heathen Highland woman, and he wanted to see her. Coming back to the coast, after his visit, he had stopped a night at alittle wayside inn, and hearing some drovers talking of their gold inGallic, a language which he well understood, he had followed them intothe wild pass of Gualon, and there shot them from behind a rock. Forthis murder he had been tracked, and was now so closely pursued thathe had bribed with all the gold he had a passing fishing-smack to drophim at Stromness during the night. 

"She'll gae awa now ta some ither place; 'teet will she! An' she'shungry--an' unco dry;" all of which Sandy emphasized by a desperateand very evil look. 

The man was not to be trifled with, and Ragon knew that he was in hispower. If Sandy was taken, he would confess all, and Ragon knew wellthat in such case transportation for life and hard labor would be hislot. Other considerations pressed him heavily--the shame, the loss, the scorn of Margaret, the triumph of all his ill-wishers. No, he hadgone too far to retreat. 

He fed the villain, gave him a suit of his own clothes, and £50, andsaw him put off to sea. Sandy promised to keep well out in the bay, until some vessel going North to Zetland or Iceland, or some Dutchskipper bound for Amsterdam, took him up. All the next day Ragon wasin misery, but nightfall came and he had heard nothing of Sandy, though several craft had come into port. If another day got over hewould feel safe; but he told himself that he was in a graduallynarrowing circle, and that the sooner he leaped outside of it thebetter. 

When he reached home the old couple who hung about the place, and whohad learned to see nothing and to hear nothing, came to him andvoluntarily offered a remark. 

"Queer folk an' strange folk have been here, an' ta'en awa some claesout o' the cellar. "

Ragon asked no questions. He knew what clothes they were--that suit ofJohn Sabay's in which Sandy Beg had killed Peter Fae, and the ragswhich Sandy had a few hours before exchanged for one of his ownsailing-suits. He needed no one to tell him what had happened. Sandyhad undoubtedly bespoke the very vessel containing the officers insearch of him, and had confessed all, as he said he would. The menwere probably at this moment looking for him. 

He lifted the gold prepared for any such emergency, and, loosening hisboat, pulled for life and death towards Mayness Isle. Once in therapid "race" that divides it and Olla from the ocean, he knew no boatwould dare to follow him. While yet a mile from it he saw that he wasrapidly pursued by a four-oared boat. Now all his wild Norse natureasserted itself. He forgot everything but that he was eluding hispursuers, and as the chase grew hotter, closer, more exciting, hisenthusiasm carried him far beyond all prudence. 

He began to shout or chant to his wild efforts some old Norsedeath-song, and just as they gained on him he shot into the "race" anddefied them. Oars were useless there, and they watched him fling themfar away and stand up with outstretched arms in the little skiff. Thewaves tossed it hither and thither, the boiling, racing flood hurriedit with terrific force towards the ocean. The tall, massive figureswayed like a reed in a tempest, and suddenly the half despairing, half defying song was lost in the roar of the bleak, green surges. Allknew then what had happened. 

"Let me die the death o' the righteous, " murmured one old man, piouslyveiling his eyes with his bonnet; and then the boat turned and wentsilently back to Stromness. 

Sandy Beg was in Kirkwall jail. He had made a clean breast of all hiscrimes, and measures were rapidly taken for John Sabay's enlargementand justification. When he came out of prison Christine and Margaretwere waiting for him, and it was to Margaret's comfortable home he wastaken to see his mother. "For we are ane household now, John, " shesaid tenderly, "an' Christine an' mother will ne'er leave me anymair. "

Sandy's trial came on at the summer term. He was convicted on his ownconfession, and sentenced to suffer the penalty of his crime upon thespot where he stabbed Peter Fae. For some time he sulkily rejected allJohn's efforts to mitigate his present condition, or to prepare himfor his future. But at last the tender spot in his heart was found. John discovered his affection for his half-savage mother, and promisedto provide for all her necessities. 

"It's only ta poun' o' taa, an' ta bit cabin ta shelter her she'llwant at a', " but the tears fell heavily on the red, hairy hands; "an'she'll na tell her fat ill outsent cam to puir Sandy. "

"Thou kens I will gie her a' she needs, an' if she chooses to come toOrkney--"

"Na, na, she wullna leave ta Hieland hills for naught at a'. "

"Then she shall hae a siller crown for every month o' the year, Sandy. "

The poor, rude creature hardly knew how to say a "thanks;" but Johnsaw it in his glistening eyes and heard it in the softly-mutteredwords, "She was ta only are tat e'er caret for Santy Beg. "

It was a solemn day in Stromness when he went to the gallows. Thebells tolled backward, the stores were all closed, and there wereprayers both in public and private for the dying criminal. But fewdared to look upon the awful expiation, and John spent the hour insuch deep communion with God and his own soul that its influencewalked with him to the end of life. 

And when his own sons were grown up to youths, one bound for the seaand the other for Marischal College, Aberdeen, he took them aside andtold them this story, adding, "An' know this, my lads: the shame an' the sorrow cam a' o' anething--I made light o' my mother's counsel, an' thought I could dowhat nane hae ever done, gather mysel' with the deil's journeymen, an'yet escape the wages o' sin. Lads! lads! there's nae half-way houseatween right and wrang; know that. "

"But, my father, " said Hamish, the younger of the two, "thou did atthe last obey thy mother. "

"Ay, ay, Hamish; but mak up thy mind to this: it isna enough that aman rins a gude race; he maun also _start at the right time_. This iswhat I say to thee, Hamish, an' to thee, Donald: fear God, an' ne'erlightly heed a gude mother's advice. It's weel wi' the lads that carrya mother's blessing through the warld wi' them. "

Lile Davie. 

LILE DAVIE. 

In Yorkshire and Lancashire the word "lile" means "little, " but in theCumberland dales it has a far wider and nobler definition. There it isa term of honor, of endearment, of trust, and of approbation. DavidDenton won the pleasant little prefix before he was ten years old. When he saved little Willy Sabay out of the cold waters of Thirlmere, the villagers dubbed him "Lile Davie. " When he took a flogging tospare the crippled lad of Farmer Grimsby, men and women said proudly, "He were a lile lad;" and when he gave up his rare half-holiday tohelp the widow Gates glean, they had still no higher word of praisethan "kind lile Davie. "

However, it often happens that a prophet has no honor among his ownpeople, and David was the black sheep of the miserly household ofDenton Farm. It consisted of old Christopher Denton, his three sons, Matthew, Sam, and David, and his daughter Jennie. They had thereputation of being "people well-to-do, " but they were not liked amongthe Cumberland "states-men, " who had small sympathy for theirniggardly hospitality and petty deeds of injustice. 

One night in early autumn Christopher was sitting at the great blackoak table counting over the proceeds of the Kendal market, and Mattand Sam looked greedily on. There was some dispute about the wool andthe number of sheep, and Matt said angrily, "There's summat got to bedone about Davie. He's just a clish-ma-saunter, lying among the lingwi' a book in his hand the lee-long day. It is just miff-maff andnonsense letting him go any longer to the schoolmaster. I am fairjagged out wi' his ways. "

"That's so, " said Sam. 

"Then why don't you gie the lad a licking, and make him mind the sheepbetter? I saw him last Saturday playing sogers down at Thirlston witha score or more of idle lads like himsel'. " The old man spokeirritably, and looked round for the culprit. "I'll lay thee a pennyhe's at the same game now. Gie him a licking when he comes in, sonMatt. "

"Nay, but Matt wont, " said Jennie Denton, with a quiet decision. Shestood at her big wheel, spinning busily, though it was nine o'clock;and though her words were few and quiet, the men knew from her faceand manner that Davie's licking would not be easily accomplished. Infact, Jennie habitually stood between Davie and his father andbrothers. She had nursed him through a motherless babyhood, and hadalways sympathized in his eager efforts to rise above the sordid lifethat encompassed him. It was Jennie who had got him the grudgingpermission to go in the evening to the village schoolmaster for somebook-learning. But peculiar circumstances had favored her in thismatter, for neither the old man nor his sons could read or write, andthey had begun to find this, in their changed position, and in therapid growth of general information, a serious drawback in businessmatters. 

Therefore, as Davie could not be spared in the day, the schoolmasteragreed for a few shillings a quarter to teach him in the evening. Thisarrangement altered the lad's whole life. He soon mastered the simplebranches he had been sent to acquire, and then master and pupil faroutstepped old Christopher's programme, and in the long snowy nights, and in the balmy summer ones, pored with glowing cheeks over oldhistories and wonderful lives of great soldiers and sailors. 

In fact, David Denton, like most good sons, had a great deal of hismother in him, and she had been the daughter of a long line of braveWestmoreland troopers. The inherited tendencies which had passed overthe elder boys asserted themselves with threefold force in this lastchild of a dying woman. And among the sheepcotes in the hills he feltthat he was the son of the men who had defied Cromwell on the banks ofthe Kent and followed Prince Charlie to Preston. 

But the stern discipline of a Cumberland states-man's family is noteasily broken. Long after David had made up his mind to be a soldierhe continued to bear the cuffs and sneers and drudgery that fell tohim, watching eagerly for some opportunity of securing his father'spermission. But of this there was little hope. His knowledge ofwriting and accounts had become of service, and his wish to go intothe world and desert the great cause of the Denton economies was anunheard-of piece of treason and ingratitude. 

David ventured to say that he "had taught Jennie to write and count, and she was willing to do his work. "

The ignorant, loutish brothers scorned the idea of "women-folkmeddling wi' their 'counts and wool, " and, "besides, " as Matt argued, "Davie's going would necessitate the hiring of two shepherds; no hiredman would do more than half of what folk did for their ain. "

These disputes grew more frequent and more angry, and when Davie hadadded to all his other faults the unpardonable one of falling in lovewith the schoolmaster's niece, there was felt to be no hope for thelad. The Dentons had no poor relations; they regarded them as the onething _not_ needful, and they concluded it was better to give Davie acommission and send him away. 

Poor Jennie did all the mourning for the lad; his father and brotherswere in the midst of a new experiment for making wool water-proof, andpretty Mary Butterworth did not love David as David wished her to lovehim. It was Jennie only who hung weeping on his neck and watched himwalk proudly and sorrowfully away over the hills into the wide, wideworld beyond. 

Then for many, many long years no more was heard of "Lile DavieDenton. " The old schoolmaster died and Christopher followed him. Butthe Denton brothers remained together. However, when men make savingmoney the sole end of their existence, their life soon becomes asuninteresting as the multiplication table, and people ceased to careabout the Denton farm, especially as Jennie married a wealthy squireover the mountains, and left her brothers to work out alone their newdevices and economies. 

Jennie's marriage was a happy one, but she did not forget her brother. There was in Esthwaite Grange a young man who bore his name and whowas preparing for a like career. And often Jennie Esthwaite told tothe lads and lasses around her knees the story of their "lile uncle, "whom every one but his own kin had loved, and who had gone away to theIndies and never come back again. "Lile Davie" was the one bit ofromance in Esthwaite Grange. 

Jennie's brothers had never been across the "fells" that dividedDenton from Esthwaite; therefore, one morning, twenty-seven yearsafter Davie's departure, she was astonished to see Matt coming slowlydown the Esthwaite side. But she met him with hearty kindness, andafter he had been rested and refreshed he took a letter from hispocket and said, "Jennie, this came from Davie six months syne, but Ithought then it would be seeking trouble to answer it. "

"Why, Matt, this letter is directed to me! How dared you open and keepit?"

"Dared, indeed! That's a nice way for a woman to speak to her eldestbrother!' Read it, and then you'll see why I kept it from you. "

Poor Jennie's eyes filled fuller at every line. He was sick andwounded and coming home to die, and wanted to see his old home andfriends once more. 

"O Matt! Matt!" she cried; "how cruel, how shameful, not to answerthis appeal. "

"Well, I did it for the best; but it seems I have made a mistake. Samand I both thought an ailing body dovering round the hearthstone anddoorstone was not to be thought of--and nobody to do a hand's turn butold Elsie, who is nearly blind--and Davie never was one to do a decenthand job, let by it was herding sheep, and that it was not like he'dbe fit for; so we just agreed to let the matter lie where it was. "

"Oh, it was a cruel shame, Matt. "

"Well, it was a mistake; for yesterday Sam went to Kendall, and there, in the Stramon-gate, he met Tom Philipson, who is just home fromIndia. And what does Tom say but, 'Have you seen the general yet?'and, 'Great man is Gen. Denton, ' and, 'Is it true that he is going tobuy the Derwent estate?' and, 'Wont the Indian Government miss Gen. Denton!' Sam wasn't going to let Tom see how the land lay, and Tomwent off saying that Sam had no call to be so pesky proud; that itwasn't him who had conquered the Mahrattas and taken the GhizneePass. "

Jennie was crying bitterly, and saying softly to herself, "O my braveladdie! O my bonnie lile Davie!"

"Hush, woman! No good comes of crying. Write now as soon as you like, and the sooner the better. "

In a very few hours Jennie had acted on this advice, and, though thewriting and spelling were wonderful, the poor sick general, nursinghimself at the Bath waters, felt the love that spoke in every word. Hehad not expected much from his brothers; it was Jennie and Jennie'sbairns he wanted to see. He was soon afterwards an honored guest inEsthwaite Grange, and the handsome old soldier, riding slowly amongthe lovely dales, surrounded by his nephews and nieces, became awell-known sight to the villages around. 

Many in Thirlston remembered him, and none of his old companions foundthemselves forgotten. Nor did he neglect his brothers. These cautiousmen had become of late years manufacturers, and it was said weregrowing fabulously rich. They had learned the value of the low coppicewoods on their fell-side, and had started a bobbin-mill which Samsuperintended, while Matt was on constant duty at the great steam-millon Milloch-Force, where he spun his own wools into blankets andserges. 

The men were not insensible to the honor of their brother's career;they made great capital of it privately. But they were also intenselydissatisfied at the reckless way in which he spent his wealth. YoungDavid Esthwaite had joined a crack regiment with his uncle'sintroduction and at his uncle's charges, and Jennie and Mary Esthwaitehad been what the brothers considered extravagantly dowered in orderthat they might marry two poor clergymen whom they had set theirhearts on. 

"It is just sinful, giving women that much good gold, " said Mattangrily: "and here we are needing it to keep a great business afloat. "

It was the first time Matt had dared to hint that the mill under hiscare was not making money, and he was terribly shocked when Sam made asimilar confession. In fact, the brothers, with all their clevernessand industry, were so ignorant that they were necessarily at the mercyof those they employed, and they had fallen into roguish hands. Samproposed that David should be asked to look over their affairs andtell them where the leakage was: "He was always a lile-hearted chap, and I'd trust him, Matt, up hill and down dale, I would. "

But Matt objected to this plan. He said David must be taken throughthe mills and the most made of everything, and then in a week or twoafterwards be offered a partnership; and Matt, being the eldest, carried the day. A great festival was arranged, everything was seen tothe best advantage, and David was exceedingly interested. He lingeredwith a strange fascination among the steam-looms, and Matt saw thebait had taken, for as they walked back together to the old homesteadDavid said, "You were ever a careful man, Matt, but it must take adeal of money--you understand, brother--if you need at any time--Ihope I don't presume. "

"Certainly not. Yes, we are doing a big business--a very good businessindeed; perhaps when you are stronger you may like to join us. "

"I sha'n't get stronger, Matt--so I spoke now. "

Sam, in his anxiety, thought Matt had been too prudent; he would haveaccepted Davie's offer at once; but Matt was sure that by his planthey would finally get all the general's money into their hands. However, the very clever always find some quantity that they havefailed to take into account. After this long day at the mills GeneralDenton had a severe relapse, and it was soon evident that his work wasnearly finished. 

"But you must not fret, Jennie dear, " he said cheerfully; "I am indeedyounger in years than you, but then I have lived a hundred times aslong. What a stirring, eventful life I have had! I must have lived acycle among these hills to have evened it; and most of my comrades arealready gone. "

One day, at the very last, he said, "Jennie, there is one bequest inmy will may astonish you, but it is all right. I went to see her amonth ago. She is a widow now with a lot of little lads around her. And I loved her, Jennie--never loved any woman but her. Poor Mary! Shehas had a hard time; I have tried to make things easier. "

"You had always a lile heart, Davie; you could do no wrong to anyone. "

"I hope not. I--hope--not. " And with these words and a pleasant smilethe general answered some call that he alone heard, and trusting inhis Saviour, passed confidently

 "The quicks and drift that fill the rift Between this world and heaven. "

His will, written in the kindest spirit, caused a deal of angryfeeling; for it was shown by it that after his visit to the DentonMills he had revoked a bequest to the brothers of £20, 000, because, ashe explicitly said, "My dear brothers do not need it;" and this£20, 000 he left to Mary Butterworth Pierson, "who is poor anddelicate, and does sorely need it. " And the rest of his property hedivided between Jennie and Jennie's bairns. 

In the first excitement of their disappointment and ruin, Sam, whodreaded his brother's anger, and who yet longed for some sympatheticword, revealed to Jennie and her husband the plan Matt had laid, andhow signally it had failed. 

"I told him, squire, I did for sure, to be plain and honest withDavie. Davie was always a lile fellow, and he would have helped us outof trouble. Oh, dear! oh, dear! that £20, 000 would just have put a'things right. "

"A straight line, lad, is always the shortest line in business andmorals, as well as in geometry; and I have aye found that to be truein my dealings is to be wise. Lying serves no one but the devil, asever I made out. "