Chapter Six.

Dangerous Studies, Peculiar Art, and Splendid Fishing.

There was a glass conservatory in one corner of the garden at Kinlossie House, to which the laird was wont to retire regularly for the enjoyment of a pipe every morning after breakfast. In this retreat, which was rich in hot-house plants, he was frequently joined by one or more of the members of his family, and sometimes by the friends who chanced to be staying with him. Thither John Barret got into the way of going—partly for the sake of a chat with the old man, of whom he soon became very fond, and partly for the sake of the plants, in which he was scientifically interested, botany being, as Mabberly said, his peculiar weakness.

One morning—and a gloriously bright morning it was, such as induces one to thank God for the gift of sunshine and the capacity of enjoying it—John Barret sauntered down to the garden, after breakfast, to have a quiet chat with his host. He had decided to remain at home that morning for the purpose of writing a letter or two, intending in the afternoon to follow up some of his companions, who had gone off to the hills.

Entering the conservatory, he found that the laird was not there; but, in his usual rustic chair, there sat a beautiful girl, sound asleep, with her fair cheek resting on her little hand, and her nut-brown hair straggling luxuriantly over her shoulders.

Barret was spell-bound. He could not move for a few seconds. Surprise may have had something to do with the sudden paralysis of his powers. It may have been curiosity, possibly admiration, certainly some sort of sensation that he could neither describe nor account for. He knew at a glance who the girl was, though he had not seen her since the day of her accident. Even if he had been so obtuse as not to know, the arm in a sling would have revealed that it was Milly Moss who slumbered there; yet he found it hard to believe that the neat little woman, with the lovely, benignant countenance before him was in very truth the dishevelled, dusty, scratched, and blood-sprinkled being whom he had carried for several miles over the heather a short time before.

As we have said, Barret stood immovable, not knowing very well what to do. Then it occurred to him that it was scarcely gallant or fair thus to take advantage of a sleeping beauty. Staring at her was bad enough, but to awake her would be still worse; so he turned slowly about, as a cat turns when afraid of being pounced on by a glaring adversary. He would retire on tiptoe as softly as possible, so as not to disturb her. In carrying out this considerate intention, he swept a flower-pot off its stand, which fell with a mighty crash upon the stone floor.

The poor youth clasped his hands, and glanced back over his shoulder in horror. The startled Milly was gazing at him with mingled surprise and alarm, which changed, however, into a flush and a look of restrained laughter as she began to understand the situation.

“Never mind, Mr Barret,” she said, rising, and coming forward with a gracious manner. “It is only one of the commonest plants we have. There are plenty more of them. You came, I suppose, in search of my uncle? Excuse my left hand; the right, as you see, is not yet fit for duty.”

“I did indeed come here in search of Mr Gordon,” said Barret, recovering himself; “but permit me to lead you back to the chair; your strength has not quite returned yet, I see.”

He was right. Although Milly had recovered much more rapidly than the doctor had expected, she could not stand much excitement, and the shock given by the breaking flower-pot, coupled, perhaps, with the unexpected meeting with the man who had rescued her from what might well have caused her death, somewhat overcame her.

“Excuse me,” she said, with a fluttering sigh, as she sank down into the rustic chair, “I do feel rather faint. It does seem so strange! I—I suppose it is because I have had no experience of anything but robust health all my life till now. There—I feel better. Will you kindly fetch me a glass of water? You will find a cistern with a tumbler beside it outside.”

The youth hurried out, and, on returning with the glass, found that the deadly pallor of the girl’s face had passed away, and was replaced by a tint that might have made the blush rose envious.

“You must understand,” said Milly, setting down the glass, while Barret seated himself on a vacant flower-pot-stand beside her, “that this conservatory is a favourite haunt of mine, to which, before my accident, I have resorted every morning since I came here, in order to sit with Uncle Allan. The doctor thought me so much better this morning that he gave me leave to recommence my visits. This is why I came; but I had totally forgotten that uncle had arranged to go out with the shooting party to-day, so I sat down to enjoy my favourite plants, and paid them the poor compliment of falling asleep, owing to weakness, I suppose. But how does it happen, Mr Barret, that you have been left behind? They gave me to understand that you are a keen sportsman.”

“They misled you, then, for I am but a poor sportsman, and by no means enthusiastic. Indeed, whether I go out with rod or gun, I usually convert the expedition into a search for plants.”

“Oh, then, you are fond of botany!” exclaimed the girl, with a flush of pleasure and awakened interest. “I am so glad of that, because—because—”

“Well, why do you hesitate, Miss Moss?” asked Barret, with a surprised look and a smile.

“Well, I don’t quite like to lay bare my selfishness; but the truth is, there are some rare plants in terribly inaccessible places, which can only be reached by creatures in male attire. In fact, I was trying to secure one of these on the Eagle Cliff when I fell, and was so nearly killed at the time you rescued me.”

“Pray don’t give the little service I rendered so dignified a name as ‘rescue.’ But it rejoices me to know that I can be of further service to you—all the more that you are now so helpless; for if you found climbing the precipices difficult before, you will find it impossible now with your injured arm. By the way, I was very glad to find that I had been mistaken in thinking that your arm was broken. Has it given you much pain?”

“Yes, a good deal; but I am very, very thankful it was no worse. And now I must show you some of the plants I have been trying to bring up since I came here,” said Milly, with animation. “Of course, I cannot walk about to show them to you, so I will point them out, and ask you to fetch the pots—that is, if you have nothing better to do, and won’t be bored.”

Barret protested earnestly that he had nothing—could have nothing—better to do, and that even if he had he wouldn’t do it. As for being bored, the idea of such a state of mind being possible in the circumstances was ridiculous.

Milly was rejoiced. Here she had unexpectedly found a friend to sympathise with her intelligently. Her uncle, she was well aware, sympathised with her heartily, but not intelligently; for his knowledge of botany, he told her frankly, was inferior to that of a tom-cat, and he was capable of little more in that line than to distinguish the difference between a cabbage and a potato.

At it, therefore, the two young people went with real enthusiasm—we might almost say with red-hot enthusiasm—for botany was only a superstructure, so to speak, love being the foundation of the whole affair.

But let not the reader jump to hasty conclusions. Barret and Milly, being young and inexperienced, were absolutely ignorant at that time of the true state of matters. Both were earnest and straightforward—both were ardently fond of botany, and neither, up to that period, had known what it was to fall in love. What more natural, then, than that they should attribute their condition to botany? There is, indeed, a sense in which their idea was correct, for sympathy is one of the most precious seeds with which poor humanity is entrusted, and did not botany enable these two to unite in planting that seed, and is not sympathy the germ of full-blown love? If so, may they not be said to have fallen in love botanically? We make no assertion in regard to this. We merely, and modestly, put the question, leaving it to the intelligent reader to supply the answer—an exceedingly convenient mode of procedure when one is not quite sure of the answer one’s self.

To return. Having got “at it,” Barret and Milly continued at it for several hours, during which period they either forgot, or did not care to remember, the flight of time. They also contrived, during that time, to examine, discuss, and comment upon, a prodigious number of plants, all of which, being in pots or boxes, were conveyed by the youth to the empty stand at the side of the fair invalid. The minute examination with a magnifying glass of corolla, and stamen, and calyx, etcetera, rendered it necessary, of course, that these inquiries into the mysteries of Nature should bring the two heads pretty close together; one consequence being that the seed-plant of sympathy was “forced” a good deal, and developed somewhat after the fashion of those plants which Hindoo jugglers cause magically to sprout, blossom, and bloom before the very eyes of astonished beholders—with this difference, however, that whereas the development of the jugglers is deceptive as well as quick, that of our botanists was genuine and natural, though rapid.

The clang of the luncheon gong was the first thing that brought them to their senses.

“Surely there must be some mistake! Junkie must be playing with—no, it is indeed one o’clock,” exclaimed Milly, consulting in unbelief a watch so small that it seemed like cruelty to expect it to go at all, much less to go correctly.

As she spoke, the door of the conservatory opened, and Mrs Gordon appeared with affected indignation on her usually mild countenance.

“You naughty child!” she exclaimed, hurrying forward. “Did I not warn you to stay no longer than an hour? and here you are, flushed, and no doubt feverish, in consequence of staying the whole forenoon. Take my arm, and come away directly.”

“I pray you, Mrs Gordon, to lay the blame on my shoulders,” said Barret. “I fear it was my encouraging Miss Moss to talk of her favourite study that induced her to remain.”

“I would be only too glad to lay the blame on your shoulders if I could lay Milly’s weakness there too,” returned the lady. “It is quite evident that you would never do for a nurse. Strong men like you have not sympathy enough to put yourself in the place of invalids, and think how they feel. I would scold you severely, sir, if you were not my guest. As it is, I will forgive you if you promise me not to mention the subject of botany in the presence of my niece for a week to come.”

“The condition is hard,” said Barret, with a laugh; “but I promise—that is, if Miss Moss does not force the subject on me.”

“I promise that, Mr Barret; but I also attach a condition.”

“Which is—?”

“That you go to Eagle Cliff some day this week, and find for me a particular plant for which I have sought for a long time in vain, but which I am told is to be found there.”

“Most willingly. Nothing could give me greater pleasure,” returned the youth, with an air of such eager enthusiasm that he felt constrained to add,—“you see, the acquisition of new and rare plants has been a sort of passion with me for many years, and I am quite delighted to find that there is a possibility of not only gratifying it here, but of being able at the same time to contribute to your happiness.”

They reached the house as he made this gallant speech, and Milly went straight to her room.

The only members of the household who sat down to luncheon that day were Mrs Gordon, Archie, the enthusiastic photographer, and Flo, with her black doll; and the only guest, besides Barret, was McPherson, the skipper of the lost yacht. The rest were all out rambling by mountain, loch, or stream.

“Milly won’t appear again to-day,” said the hostess, as she sat down. “I knew that she had overdone it. The shock to her system has been far too severe to admit of botanical discussions.”

Barret professed himself overwhelmed with a sense of guilt, and promised to avoid the dangerous subject in future.

“Mother,” exclaimed Flo, who was a good but irrepressible child, “what d’ee t’ink? Archie have pofografft dolly, an’ she’s as like as—as—two peas. Isn’t she, Archie?”

“Quite as like as that, Flo,” replied Archie, with a laugh; “liker, if anything.”

“By the way, how did you get on with your photographing yesterday afternoon, Archie?” asked Barret.

“Pretty well with some of the views; but I ruined the last one, because father would have me introduce Captain McPherson and his man McGregor.”

“Is that so, captain?” asked Mrs Gordon.

“Oo, ay; it iss true enough,” answered the skipper, with a grim smile. “He made a queer like mess o’ me, what-Ë-ver.”

“How was it, Archie?”

“Well, mother, this is how it was. You know the waterfall at the head of Raven’s Nook? Well, I have long wanted to take that, so I went up with father and Mr Mabberly. We found the captain and McGregor sitting there smoking their pipes, and when I was arranging the camera, the captain said to me—”

“No, Maister Archie,” interrupted the skipper; “I did not say anything to Shames. You should be more parteekler. But Shames said something to me, what-Ë-ver.”

“Just so; I forgot,” continued Archie. “Well, McGregor said to the captain, ‘What would you think if we wass to sit still an’ co into the pictur’?’”

“Oo, ay; that was just it, an’ fery like him too,” said the skipper, laughing at Archie’s imitation, though he failed to recognise the similarity to his own drawling and nasal tones. People always do thus fail. We can never see ourselves!

“Well,” continued Archie, “father insisted that I was to take them, though they quite spoiled the view. So I did; but in the very middle of the operation, what did the captain do but insist on changing his—”

“Not at all, Maister Archie,” again interrupted the skipper; “you have not got the right of it. It wass Shames said to me that he thought you had feenished, an’ so I got up; an’ then you roared like a wild bullock to keep still, and so what could I do but keep still? an so—”

“Exactly; that was it,” cried Archie, interrupting in his turn; “but you kept still standing, and so there were three figures in the picture when it was done, and your fist in the standing one came right in front of your own nose in the sitting one, for all the world as if you were going to knock yourself down. Such a mess it was altogether!”

“That iss fery true. It wass a mess, what-Ë-ver!”

“You must show me this curious photograph, Archie, after lunch,” said Barret; “it must be splendid.”

“But it is not so splendid as my dolly,” chimed in Flo. “I’ll show you zat after lunch too.”

Accordingly, after the meal was over, Archie carried Barret off to his workshop. Then Flo took him to the nursery, where she not only showed him the portrait of the nigger doll, which was a striking likeness—for dolls invariably sit well—but took special pains to indicate the various points which had “come out” so “bootifully”—such as the nails which Junkie had driven into its wooden head for the purpose of making it behave better; the chip that Junkie had taken off the end of its nose when he tried to convert that feature into a Roman; the deep line drawn round the head close to the hair by Junkie, when, as the chief of the Micmac Indians, he attempted to scalp it; and the hole through the right eye, by which Junkie proposed to let a little more light into its black brain.

Having seen and commented on all these things, Barret retired to the smoking-room, not to smoke, but to consult a bundle of newspapers which the post had brought to the house that day.

For it must not be imagined that the interests and amusements by which he was surrounded had laid the ghost of the thin, little old lady whom he had mur— at least run down—in London. No; wherever he went, and whatever he did, that old lady, like Nemesis, pursued him. When he looked down, she lay sprawling—a murdered, at least a manslaughtered, victim—at his feet. When he looked up, she hung, like the sword of Damocles, by a single fibre of maiden’s hair over his head.

It was of no use that his friend Jackman rallied him on the point.

“My dear fellow,” he would say, “don’t you see that if you had really killed her, the thing would have been published far and wide all over the kingdom, with a minute description, and perhaps a portrait of yourself on the bicycle, in all the illustrated papers? Even if you had only injured her severely, they would have made a sensation of it, with an offer, perhaps, of a hundred pounds for your capture, and a careful indication of the streets through which you passed when you ran away—”

“Ay, that’s what makes the matter so much worse,” Barret would reply; “the unutterable meanness of running away!”

“But you repented of that immediately,” Jackman would return in soothing tones; “and you did your utmost to undo it, though the effort was futile.”

Barret was usually comforted a good deal by the remarks of his friend, and indeed frequently forgot his trouble, especially when meditating on botanical subjects with Milly. Still, it remained a fact that he was haunted by the little old lady, more or less, and had occasional bad dreams, besides becoming somewhat anxious every time he opened a newspaper.

While Barret and the skipper were thus taking what the latter called an easy day of it, their friend Mabberly, with Eddie and Junkie and the seaman McGregor, had gone over the pass in the waggonette to the village of Cove for a day’s sea-fishing. They were driven by Ivor Donaldson.

“You’ll not have been in these parts before, sir?” said Ivor, who was a quiet, polite, and sociable man when not under the influence of drink.

“No, never,” answered Mabberly, who sat on the seat beside him; “and if it had not been for our misfortune, or the carelessness of that unknown steamer, I should probably never have known of the existence of your beautiful island. At least, I would have remained in ignorance of its grandeur and beauty.”

“That proves the truth of the south-country sayin’, sir,—‘It’s an ill wind that blaws nae guid.’”

“It does, indeed; for although the loss of my father’s yacht is a very considerable one, to have missed the hospitality of the laird of Kinlossie, and the rambling over your magnificent hills, would have been a greater misfortune.”

The keeper, who cherished a warm feeling for old Mr Gordon, and admired him greatly, expressed decided approval of the young man’s sentiments, as was obvious from the pleased smile on his usually grave countenance, though his lips only gave utterance to the expression, “Fery true, sir; you are not far wrong.”

At the Eagle Pass they halted a few minutes to breathe the horses. Eddie and Junkie, of course, jumped down, followed by James McGregor, with whom they had already formed a friendship.

“Come away, an’ we’ll show you the place where Milly fell down. Come along, quicker, Shames,” cried Junkie, adopting the name that the skipper used; for the boy’s love of pleasantry not infrequently betrayed him into impudence.

With a short laugh, Mabberly turned to Ivor, and asked if Shames was the Gaelic for James.

“No, sir” replied the keeper; “but James is the English for Shames.”

“Ha! you are quoting now—or rather, misquoting—from the lips of some Irishman.”

“Weel, sir, I never heard it said that quota-ashun wass a sin,” retorted Ivor; then, turning to the stupendous cliff that frowned above them, “Hev ye heard of the prophecy, sir, aboot this cliff?”

“No. What is it?”

“It’s said that the cliff is to be the scene of a ghost story, a love story, and a murder all at the same time.”

“Is that all, Ivor? Did the prophet give no indication how the stories were to end, or who the murderer is to be, or the murdered one?”

“Never a word, sir; only they wass all to be aboot the same time. Indeed, the prophet, whether man or wuman, is not known. Noo, we better shump up.”

In a few minutes the waggonette was rattling down the slopes that led to Cove, and soon afterwards they were exchanging greetings with old Ian Anderson, the fisherman.

“Iss it to fush, ye’ll be wantin’?” asked Ian, as he ushered the party into his cottage, where Mrs Anderson was baking oat-cakes, and Aggy was busy knitting socks with her thin fingers as deftly and rapidly as if she had been in robust health.

“Yes, that is our object to-day,” said Mabberly. “Good-day, Mrs Anderson; good-day, Aggy. I’m glad to see you looking so much better, though I can’t see very well for your cottage is none of the lightest,” he said, glancing at the small window, where a ragged head, with a flattened white nose, accounted for the obscurity.

“There might be more light,” said Ian, seizing a thick thorn stick, and making a sudden demonstration towards the door, the instant effect of which action was an improvement in the light. It did not last long, however, for “Tonal’,” after watching at the corner of the cottage long enough to make sure that the demonstration was a mere feint, returned to his post of observation.

“Yes, sir,” remarked Mrs Anderson; “Aggy is much better. The fresh air is doin’ her cood already, an’ the peels that the shentleman—your friend—gave her is workin’ wonders.”

“They usually do, of one sort or another,” returned Mabberly, with a peculiar smile. “I’m glad they happen to be wonders of the right sort in Aggy’s case. My friend has been out in India, and his prescriptions have been conceived in a warm climate, you see, which may account for their wonder-working qualities. Can we have your boat to-day, Mr Anderson?”

“Oo, ay; ye can hev that, sir,” said Ian, summoning Donald to his presence with a motion of his finger. “Tonal’,” he said, when ragged head stood at the open door, “hev we ony pait?”

“Ay, plenty.”

“Co doon, then, an’ git the poat ready.”

The boy disappeared without reply—a willing messenger. A few minutes more, and Ivor and Ian were rowing the boat towards a part of the sea which was deemed good fishing ground, while the rest of the party busied themselves arranging the lines.

Strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. They were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of Billingsgate and similar markets—plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size.

The surroundings were cognate. Curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with “skarts” and other frequenters of the wild north.

“Oh, what a funny face!” exclaimed Junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. Its observations induced it to sink promptly.

“Let co the anchor, Tonal’,” said Ian; “the pottom should be cood here.”

“Hand me the pait, Junkie,” said McGregor.

“Shie a bit this way,” shouted Eddie.

“There—I’ve broke it!” exclaimed Junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it.

“Never mind, Junkie. You can have mine, and keep it,” said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances.

“An’ don’t try it on again,” said Ian. “Here iss pait for you, my poy.”

A few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant.

“Hi!” burst from Eddie, at the same moment that “Ho!” slipped from McGregor; but both ceased to haul in on finding that the “tugs” were not repeated.

“Hallo!” yelled “Tonal’,” who fished beside Junkie, on feeling a tug worthy of a whale; and, “Hee! hee!” burst from Junkie, whose mischievous hand had caused the tug when ragged head was not looking.

In the midst of these false alarms Ivor drew up his line, and no one was aware of his success until a fish of full ten pounds’ weight was floundering in the boat. The boys were yet commenting on it noisily, when Ian put a large cod beside it.

“What a tug!” cried Eddie, beginning to haul up in violent haste.

“Hev a care, or the line will pairt,” said McGregor.

At the same moment “Shames” himself gave a jerk, as if he had received an electric shock, and in a few seconds a large plaice and a small crab were added to the “pile!”

“I’ve got something at last,” said Mabberly, doing his best to repress excitement as he hauled in his line deliberately.

The something turned out to be an eel about four feet long, which went about the boat as if it were in its native element, and cost an amazing amount of exertion, whacking, and shouting, to subdue.

But this was nothing to the fish with which Junkie began to struggle immediately after, and which proved to be a real shark, five feet long. After the united efforts of Ian and Donald had drawn it to the surface, Junkie was allowed to strike the gaff into it, and a loud cheer greeted the monster of the deep as it was hurled into the bottom of the boat.

Thus, in expectation, excitation, and animation, they spent the remainder of that memorable day.

Chapter Eight.

Jackman’s Wonderful Elephant Story.

“Once upon a time,” said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything...

“Yes,” murmured Junkie, nodding, “that’s the right way to begin.”

“But you must not interrupt, Junkie.”

“No, I won’t do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?”

“Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points,” replied Jackman.

“Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the ‘rogues,’ as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These ‘rogues’ are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.

“For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don’t mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.

“Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.

“But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.

“This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there.”

“Troth, sor, an’ av it wasn’t for Chand Moorut (blissin’s on his great sowl, av he has wan, an’ on his body av he hasn’t) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin’, but me feelin’s overcomed me.”

“No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I’ll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.

“You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.

“The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would run amuck to the great danger of every one. It happened thus:—

“A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.

“‘Keep out of his way,’ cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. ‘There’s something wrong with him to-day. I won’t bathe him, I think.’

“‘Oh! he knows me well, and won’t harm me,’ returned the cutter.

“The words were scarcely out of the man’s mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. Of course the poor man was instantly killed. When this deed was done, Mowlah Buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. He became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. In this effort he failed. The mahowt, though old, was active and strong. He managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant’s hind quarters as to be just out of reach. Luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off.

“Had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. The poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. Finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as I have said, our Director had pitched his tent. My own tent was close beside his.

“The first I heard of what was going on was from Quin, who came running into my tent, where I was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. Quin’s eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, I assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment!

“‘Och, sor!’ gasped Quin, ‘Bowla Muk—no—Mowla Buksh—has gone mad entoirely!’

“I jumped up quickly, you may believe, for I didn’t often see that look on Quin’s face, and when I did, I knew well that something very serious was in the wind.

“‘Where away is he?’ I asked.

“‘Sorrow wan o’ me knows, sor,’ said Quin.

“Rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, I soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. In a few minutes I came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent Mowla Buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. On the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction.

“Of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking Mowla Buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. Besides, our Director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out.

“When I came up to the musketeers, I saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr.

“The Bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. After the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. The Bulrampore men were as good as their word. Smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. Being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. He started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions.

“Although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. He therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, I had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. He knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, I do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. All this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off.

“The men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. But Mowla Buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. Whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. Gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees near the tent in which our Director’s wife had been seated all the time—with what feelings I will not pretend to guess. In this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on.

“Strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. During one of these intervals he even succeeded in making Mowla Buksh partially sit down.

“‘Och! now or niver! Off wid ye!’ yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! I need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!”

“Ah! sor,” interrupted Quin, “don’t ye remimber how yourself was—but I’ll have mercy on ye! Go on, sor.”

“Well, I confess,” resumed Jackman, “that I was a little excited. However, the Bulrampore men echoed Quin’s advice in eagerly expressed Hindustani. The mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! Fortunately the excited Mowla either did not perceive or did not care. He rose up and recommenced his work of destruction.

“All this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes with which he was imperfectly bound. At last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction.

“At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.

“Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing—”

“Skippin’, sor, ye said.”

“Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him—”

“Oh! was he killed?” exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!

There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question which sudden anxiety had forced from him.

“But why wasn’t you killed?” he asked almost indignantly.

“Whisht! honey, an’ ye’ll hear, av ye’ll howld your tongue.”

“You must know,” continued Jackman, “that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.

“At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was ‘method in his madness.’ Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.

“I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, ‘Arrah! then, but he was heavy!’”

“An’ that must have been true—what-ever” said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.

“What you remark is true likewise, Shames,” said the skipper.

“Go on—quick!” cried Junkie, eagerly.

“Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.

“The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster’s face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying—as if it had been a mere kitten—head over heels into a small hollow!”

“Well done! Capital!” shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.

A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to “go on.”

“There is not much to go on with now, my boy,” continued the narrator; “for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.

“There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.

“Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?”

“Yes, but go on wi’ the hunt,” said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.

“No, no, boys; you’ve had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us.”

“Well, not much,” replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. “There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don’t expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we’ll be going.”

“Shames,” said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, “I wonder if a good thrashin’ like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?”

“Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don’t think it would,” replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.

“You are right, Shames,” said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. “It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient.”

“Then what for are ye always poonishin’ me, an’ tellin’ me to be coot, when ye say it won’t make me coot?” asked Donald.

“Because, Tonal’, it iss my duty to tell ye to be coot, although I cannot make ye coot, ye rascal!” answered the fisherman, sternly; “but I can make ye obey me by poonishin’ you—ay, an’ I wull do it too.”

Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when “poonishment” would cease to secure even obedience—at least in his case!

“You are right, Ian,” said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. “Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director’s aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre.”

“But I want to know,” said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman’s side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, “why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?”

“Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick,” said Jackman, laughing. “You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage.”

“There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie,” remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.

“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.

“Hold your tongues!” growled Junkie—the more classic “shut up” not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.

“You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant’s head are not of equal thickness,” said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. “The only point in an elephant’s forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull.”

With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.

Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother’s admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be “dood,” when her mother entered hastily.

“Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear.”

Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper’s mother—and love needs no persuasion.

As we have said, Mrs Donaldson’s little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.

“What caused the bruise, Maggie?” asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,—“Weel, mem, it was na Ivor’s fau’t, but the day before yesterday he cam in—fou—ye ken he’s fond o’ his glass, mem, an’ he was swingin’ aboot his airms, poor falla, an’ withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi’ sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye’ll no speak o’t to him—or to the laird.”

“You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time.”

“Thank’ee, mem, that’s just it. An’ he’s the best sons to me—whan he’s sober.”

Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.

Chapter Ten.

A Wildish Chapter.

It was the habit of our three friends—Bob Mabberly, John Barret, and Giles Jackman—during their residence at Kinlossie, to take a stroll together every morning before breakfast by the margin of the sea, for they were fond of each other’s company, and Mabberly, as a yachtsman, had acquired the habit of early rising. He had also learned to appreciate the early morning hours as being those which present Nature in her sweetest, as well as her freshest, aspect—when everything seems, more than at other periods of the day, to be under the direct influence of a benignant Creator.

It was also the habit of Captain McPherson and his man, James McGregor, to indulge daily in similar exercise at about the same hour, but, owing probably to their lives having been spent chiefly on the sea, they were wont to ramble up a neighbouring glen in preference to sauntering on the shore.

One bright calm morning, however, when the sky was all blue and the loch was like a mirror, the two seamen took it into their heads to desert the glen and ramble along the shore. Thus it came to pass that, on returning homeward, they encountered our three friends.

“It iss fery strange that we should foregather this mornin’, Mr Mabberly,” said the skipper, after greeting the young men; “for Shames an’ me was jist speakin’ aboot ye. We will be thinkin’ that it iss foolishness for hum an’ me to be stoppin’ here wastin’ our time when we ought to be at oor work.”

“Nonsense, Captain,” said Mabberly; “surely you don’t think that taking a holiday in a pleasant place like this is wasting time. Besides, I don’t consider you free from your engagement to me. You were hired for the trip, and that includes land as well as water, so I won’t give you your discharge till you have had a long rest, and recruited yourselves after the shock to your nervous systems occasioned by the wreck and the swim to shore!”

A grim smile played on the skipper’s iron features when reference was made to his nerves, and a flicker of some sort illumined the wooden visage of McGregor.

“You are fery kind, sir,” returned the skipper; “but we don’t like to be receivin’ pay for doin’ nothin’. You see, neither Shames nor me cares much for fushin’ in the burns, or goin’ after the deer, an’ there’s no chance o’ raisin’ the yat from the pottom o’ the sea, so, if you hev no objection, sir, we will be goin’ by the steamer that arrives to-morrow. I thought I would speak to you to-day, for we will hev to start early in the mornin’, before you’re up, for it iss a long way we’ll hev to go. Iss it not so, Shames?”

“Oo, ay,” replied the seaman, with more than ever of the nasal twang; “it iss a coot many miles to where the poat comes in—so the poy Tonal’ wass tellin’ me, what-Ë-ver.”

Mabberly tried to persuade the men to remain a little longer, but they were obdurate, so he let them go, knowing well that his father, who was a wealthy merchant and shipowner, would see to the interests of the men who had suffered in his son’s service.

As they retraced their steps to the house the skipper gave Giles Jackman some significant glances, which induced him to fall behind the others.

“You want to speak with me privately, I think, skipper?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” replied the seaman, with some embarrassment. “But it iss not fery easy nor pleesant to do so. A man does not like to speak of another man’s failin’s, you see, but as I am goin’ away I’m obleeged to do it. You will hev noticed, sir, that Ivor Tonalson iss raither fond of his tram?”

“I’m afraid that I have observed that—poor fellow.”

“He is a goot man, sir, is Tonalson—a fery goot man—when he iss sober, but he hes got no power to resist the tram. An’ whiles he goes on the spree, an’ then he gits wild wi’ D.T. you know, sir. Noo, ever since we cam’ here, Ivor an’ me hes been great friends, an’ it hes been heavy on my mind to see him like that, for he’s a fine man, a superior person, is Ivor, if he would only let alone the whusky. So I hev spoken to him wance or twice—serious like, you know. At first he was not pleased, but the last time I spoke, he took it kindly, an’ said he would think aboot what I had been sayin’. Noo, it’s heavy on me the thoucht o’ goin’ away an’ leavin’ him in that state, so I thoucht that maybe ye would tak the metter up, sir, an’ see what ye can do wi’ him. Git him, if ye can, to become a total abstainer, nothin’ less than that wull do wi’ a man in that condeetion.”

Jackman was greatly surprised, not only at the tenor of the skipper’s remarks, but at the evidently deep feeling with which he spoke, for up to that time the reticence and quiet coolness of the man had inclined him to think that his mind and feelings were in harmony with his rugged and sluggish exterior. It was, therefore, with something of warmth that he replied,—“I shall be only too happy to do as you wish, Captain; all the more that I have had some serious thoughts and feelings in that direction. Indeed, I have made up my mind, as it happens, to speak to Ivor on that very subject, not knowing that you were already in the field. I am particularly sorry for his poor old mother, who has suffered a great deal, both mentally and physically, on his account.”

“Ay, that’s the warst o’ it,” said the skipper. “It wass the sicht o’ the poor wumin ailin’ in body an’ broken heartit that first set me at Ivor.”

“But how comes it, Captain, that you plead so earnestly for total abstinence?” asked Jackman with a smile. “Have I not heard you defend the idea of moderate drinking, although you consented to sail in a teetotal yacht?”

“Mr Jackman,” said the skipper, with almost stern solemnity, “it iss all fery weel for men to speak aboot moderate drinkin’, when their feelin’s iss easy an’ their intellec’s iss confused wi’ theories an’ fancies, but men will change their tune when it iss brought home to themselves. Let a man only see his brither or his mither, or his faither, on the high road to destruction wi’ drink, an’ he’ll change his opeenion aboot moderate drinkin’—at least for hard drinkers—ay, an’ he’ll change his practice too, unless he iss ower auld, or his stamick, like Timothy’s, canna git on withoot it. An’ that minds me that I would tak it kind if ye would write an’ tell me how he gets on, for I hev promised to become a total abstainer if he wull.”

That very afternoon, while out shooting on the hills, Jackman opened the campaign by making some delicate approaches to the keeper on the subject, in a general and indirect way, but with what success he could not tell, for Ivor was respectfully reserved.

About the same time John Barret went off alone for a saunter in one of the nearest and most picturesque of the neighbouring glens. He had declined to accompany his comrades that day, for reasons best known to himself. After writing a few letters, to keep up appearances, and to prevent his being regarded as a mere idler, he went off, as we have said, to saunter in the glen.

He had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder—a young lady painting! It would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. He knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of Milly Moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his—well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay.

Milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits.

“I’m very glad to have caught you at work at last, Miss Moss,” he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. “I wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me.”

“I thought it was just the other way. Did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately—and, to me, so incomprehensibly?”

“I did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils—in regard to which I know absolutely nothing? And as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and I the pupil.”

Upon this point they carried on a discussion until Milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. Barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on.

“You are quite sure, I hope,” said the youth, “that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? You know I would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. My great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it.”

How he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain.

Soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. It was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them—a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with MacRummle’s favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. But Barret saw nothing of it. He only saw a pretty hand, a blushing cheek and sunny hair!

The picture was not bad. There was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective—both linear and aerial—in places, and Turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. But Barret did not note that—though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! He saw nothing but Milly Moss.

It was a glorious chance. He resolved to make the most of it.

“I had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation,” he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said.

“I delight in it,” returned the painter, slowly, as she touched in a distant sheep, which—measured by the rules of perspective, and regard being had to surrounding objects—might have stood for an average cathedral.

Milly did not paint as freely as usual that afternoon. There was something queer, she said, about the brushes. “I can’t get it to look right,” she said at last, wiping out an object for the third time and trying again.

“No doubt,” murmured the youth, “a cottage like that must be difficult to—”

“Cottage!” exclaimed Milly, laughing outright; “it is not a cottage at all; it’s a cow! Oh! Mr Barret, that is a very poor compliment to my work and to your own powers of discernment.”

“Nay, Miss Moss,” retorted the pupil, in some confusion, “but you have wiped it out twice, confessing, as you did so, that you could not paint it! Besides, my remark referred to the cottage which I thought you were going to paint—not to your unsuccessful representations of the cow.”

The poor youth felt that his explanation was so lame that he was somewhat relieved when the current of their thoughts was diverted by a loud shouting in the road farther down the glen. A shade of annoyance, however, rested for a moment on the face of his companion, for she recognised the voices, and knew well that the quiet tÊte-À-tÊte with her willing and intelligent pupil must now be interrupted.

“My cousins,” she remarked, putting a touch on the cow that stamped that animal a lusus naturae for all time coming.

Another whoop told that the cousins were drawing near. In a few minutes they appeared in the path emerging from a clump of hazel bushes.

“They are evidently bent on a photographic expedition,” remarked Barret, as the boys approached, Junkie waving his hat with hilarious good-will when he discovered the painters.

“And Flo is with them,” said Milly, “from which I conclude that they are having what Junkie calls a day of it; for whenever they are allowed to take Flo, they go in for a high holiday, carrying provisions with them, so as to be able to stay out from morning till night.”

The appearance of the young revellers fully bore out Milly’s statement, for they were all more or less burdened with the means or signs of enjoyment. Archie carried his box of dry plates in his left hand, and his camera and stand over his right shoulder; Eddie bore a colour-box and sketching-book; Junkie wielded a small fishing-rod, and had a fishing-basket on his back; and Flo was encircled with daisy chains and crowned with laurel and heather, besides which, each of the boys had a small bag of provisions slung on his shoulder.

“Hooray! hooray!
Out for the day!”

sang, or rather yelled, Junkie, as he approached.

“Ramble and roam—
Never go home!”

added Archie, setting down his camera, and beginning to arrange it.

“All of us must
Eat till we bust!

“Junkie teached me zat,” said innocent Flo, with a look of grave surprise at the peals of laughter which her couplet drew from her brothers.

“Yes, that’s what we’re goin’ to do,” said Junkie; “we’ve had lunch at the foot of Eagle Glen, and noo we are going up to Glen Orrack to dine, and fish, an’ paint, an’ botanise. After that we’ll cross over the Swan’s Neck, an’ finish off the bustin’ business with supper on the sea-shore. Lots of grub left yet, you see.”

He swung round his little wallet as he spoke, and held it up to view.

“Would you like some, Cousin Milly?” asked Eddie, opening his bag. “All sorts here. Bread, cheese, ginger snaps, biscuits, jam— Oh! I say, the jam-pot’s broken! Whatever shall we do?”

He dipped his fingers into his wallet as he spoke, and brought them out magenta!

Their hilarity was dissipated suddenly, and grave looks were bestowed on Eddie’s digits, until Flo’s little voice arose like a strain of sweet music to dissipate the clouds.

“Oh! never mind,” she said; “I’s got anuzzer pot in my bag.”

This had been forgotten. The fact was verified by swift examination, and felicity was restored.

“What are you going to photograph?” asked Milly, seeing that Archie was busy making arrangements.

“You, Cousin Milly. You’ve no notion what a splendid couple you and Mr Barret look—stuck up so picturesquely on that little mound, with its rich foreground of bracken, and the grey rock beside you, and the peep through the bushes, with Big Ben for a background; and the easel, too—so suggestive! There, now, I’m ready. By the way, I might take you as a pair of lovers!”

Poor Milly became scarlet, and suddenly devoted herself to the lusus naturae! Barret took refuge in a loud laugh, and then said:

“Really, one would suppose that you were a professional, Archie; you order your sitters about with such self-satisfied presumption.”

“Yes, they always do that,” said Milly, recovering herself, and looking calmly up from the cow—which now resembled a megatherium—“but you must remember, Cousin Archie, that I am a painter, and therefore understand about attitudes, and all that, much better than a mere photographer. So, if I condescend to sit, you must take your orders from me!”

“Fire away then with your orders,” cried the impatient amateur.

“See, sir, I will sit thus—as if painting,” said Milly, who was desperately anxious to have it over, lest Archie should make some awkward proposition. “Mr Barret will stand behind me, looking earnestly at the picture—”

“Admiringly,” interposed Barret.

“Not so—earnestly, as if getting a lesson,” said Milly, with a teacher’s severity; “and Flo will sit thus, at my feet, taking care (hold it, dear,) of my palette.”

“More likely to make a mess of it,” said Junkie.

“Now, are you ready? Steady! Don’t budge a finger,” cried Archie, removing the little leather cap.

In her uncertainty as to which of her fingers she was not to budge, Flo nervously moved them all.

“You’re movin’, Flo!” whispered Junkie.

“No, I’m not,” said Flo, looking round indignantly.

“There, I knew you couldn’t hold your tongue, Junkie,” cried the photographer, hastily replacing the cap. “However, I think I had it done before she moved.”

“And look—you’ve got the nigger in!” cried Junkie, snatching up the black doll, which had been lying unobserved on its owner’s knee all the time.

“Never mind, that’ll do no harm. Now, then, soldiers, form up, an’ quick march,” said Archie, closing up his apparatus. “We have got plenty of work before us, and no time to waste.”

Obedient to this rather inaccurately given word of command, Archie’s troops fell into line, and, with a whooping farewell, continued their march up the glen.

During the remainder of that beautiful afternoon, the artist and pupil continued at their “fascinating” work. Shall we take advantage of our knowledge to lift the curtain, and tell in detail how Milly introduced a few more megatheriums into her painting, and violated nearly all the rules of perspective, to say nothing of colour and chiaro-oscuro? Shall we reveal the multitude of absurd remarks made by the pupil, in his wild attempts at criticism of an art, about which he knew next to nothing? No; it would be unwarrantable—base! Merely remarking that painter and pupil were exceedingly happy, and that they made no advance whatever in the art of painting, we turn to another scene in the neighbourhood of Kinlossie House.

It was a wide grass-field from which the haycocks had recently been removed, leaving it bare and uninteresting. Nevertheless, there were two points of interest in that field which merit special attention. One was a small black bull, with magnificent horns, the shaggiest of coats, and the wickedest of eyes. The other was our friend MacRummle, taking a short cut through the field, with a basket on his back, a rod in one hand, and an umbrella in the other.

We may at once account for the strange presence of the latter article, by explaining that, on the day before—which was rainy—the laird, had with an umbrella, accompanied his friend to his first pool in the river, at which point their roads diverged; that he had stayed to see MacRummle make his first two or three casts, during which time the sky cleared, inducing the laird to close his umbrella, and lean it against the bank, after which he went away and forgot it. Returning home the next day our angler found and took charge of it.

That he had been successful that day was made plain, not only by the extra stoop forward, which was rendered necessary by the weight of his basket, and the beaming satisfaction on his face, but by the protruding tail of a grilse which was too large to find room for the whole of itself, inside.

“You’re a lucky man to-day, Dick,” murmured the enthusiastic angler to himself, as he jogged across the field.

Had he known what was in store for him, however, he would have arrived at a very different estimate of his fortunes!

The field, as we have said, was a large one. MacRummle had reached the centre of it when the black bull, standing beside the wall at its most distant corner, seemed to feel resentment at this trespass on its domain.

It suddenly bellowed in that low thunderous tone which is so awfully suggestive of conscious power. MacRummle stopped short. He was naturally a brave man, nevertheless his heart gave his ribs an unwonted thump when he observed the bull in the distance glaring at him. He looked round in alarm. Nothing but an unbroken flat for a hundred yards lay around him in all directions, unrelieved by bush, rock, or tree, and bounded by a five-foot wall, with only one gate, near to where the bull stood pawing the earth and apparently working itself into a rage.

“Now, Dick,” murmured the old gentleman, seriously, “it’s do or die with you if that brute charges, for your legs are not much better than pipe-stems, and your wind is— Eh! he comes!”

Turning sharply, he caused the pipe-stems to wag with amazing velocity—too fast, indeed, for his toe, catching on something, sent him violently to the ground, and the basket flew over his head with such force that the strap gave way. He sprang up instantly, still unconsciously holding on to rod and umbrella.

Meanwhile, the bull, having made up its mind, came charging down the field with its eyes flashing and its tail on high.

MacRummle looked back. He saw that the case was hopeless. He was already exhausted and gasping. A young man could scarcely have reached the wall in time. Suddenly he came to a ditch, one of those narrow open drains with which inhabitants of wet countries are familiar. The sight of it shot a blaze of hope through his despair! He stopped at once, dropped his rod, and, putting up his umbrella, laid it on the ground. It was a large cotton one of the Gamp description. Under the shelter of it he stepped quietly into the ditch, which was not much more than knee-deep, with very little water in it.

Placing the umbrella in such a position that it came between himself and the bull, he laid himself flat down in the drain. The opening was far too narrow to admit his broad shoulders, except when turned sidewise. The same treatment was not applicable to other parts of his person, but, by dint of squeezing and collapsing, he got down, nestled under the bank, and lay still.

On came the bull till it reached the basket, which, with a deft toss, it hurled into the air and sent the silvery treasure flying. A moment more and it went head foremost into the umbrella. Whether it was surprised at finding its enemy so light and unsubstantial, or at the slipping of one of its feet into the drain, we cannot tell, but the result was that it came down and turned a complete somersault over the drain, carrying the umbrella along with it in its mad career!

When the bull scrambled to its feet again, and looked round in some surprise, it found that one of its legs and both its horns were through and entangled with the wrecked article.

It was a fine sight to witness the furious battle that immediately ensued between the black bull and that cotton umbrella! Rage at the man was evidently transmuted into horror at the article. The bull pranced and shook its head and pawed about in vain efforts to get rid of its tormenter. Shreds of the wreck flapped wildly in its eyes. Spider-like ribs clung to its massive limbs and poked its reeking sides, while the swaying handle kept tapping its cheeks and ears and nose, as if taunting the creature with being held and badgered by a thing so flimsy and insignificant!

Happily this stirring incident was not altogether unwitnessed. Far up the valley it was observed by four living creatures, three of whom immediately came tearing down the road at racing speed. Gradually their different powers separated them from each other. Archie came first, Eddie next, and Junkie brought up the rear. On nearing the field the first wrenched a stake out of a fence; the second caught up a rake, that had been left by the haymakers; and the last, unscrewing the butt of his rod, broke the line, and flourished the weapon as a cudgel. They all three leaped into the field one after another, and bore courageously down on the bull, being well accustomed to deal with animals of the sort.

Separating as they drew near, they attacked him on three sides at once. Short work would he have made with any of them singly; together they were more than his match. When he charged Junkie, Archie ran in and brought the stake down on his skull. When he turned on his assailant, Eddie combed his sides with the rake. Dashing at the new foe he was caught by the tail by Junkie, who applied the butt of his rod vigorously, the reel adding considerable weight to his blows. At last the bull was cowed—if we may venture to say so—and driven ignominiously into a corner of the field, where he vented his rage on the remnants of the umbrella, while the victors returned to the field of battle.

“But what’s come of MacRummle?” said the panting Junkie as they gathered up the fish and replaced them in the basket. “I never saw him get over the wall. Did you?”

“No,” replied Archie, looking round in surprise.

“I dare say he ran off while we were thumpin’ the bull,” suggested Eddie.

“I’m here, boys! I’m here, Junkie,” cried a strange sepulchral voice, as if from the bowels of the earth.

“Where?” asked the boys gazing down at their feet with expressions of awe.

“He’s i’ the drain!” cried Junkie with an expanding mouth.

“Ay—that’s it! I’m in the drain! Lend a hand, boys; I can hardly move.”

They ran to him instantly, but it required the united powers of all three to get him out, and when they succeeded he was found to be coated all over one side with thick mud.

“What a muddle you’ve made of yourself, to be sure!” exclaimed Junkie. “Let me scrape you.”

But MacRummle refused to be scraped until they had placed the five-foot wall between himself and the black bull. Then he submitted with a profound sigh.

Chapter Twelve.

Stirring Events of more Kinds than One.

The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.

Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.

“Come aft, poys,” shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; “she’s trinkin’ too much; come aft, an’ look sherp!”

The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.

Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.

Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly’s waist and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, beloved, I’ll take care of you!” but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.

“Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye,” said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.

An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.

“Tak anither haul o’ the sheet, Maister Mabberly,” cried Ian.

Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, “snorin’” past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.

Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.

“We’re a’ richt noo, what-Ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.

Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!

“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”

“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.

They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.

“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.

At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!

Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!

A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.

And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl’s face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, “Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!” while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.

Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled “the Rescue,” whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives—many of them in the manner above described.

Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.

But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.

Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself—who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork—came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal’, who was not far behind him.

Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, “it was a queer way o’ feenishin’ off a fery extraor’nar Sawbath tay—what-Ë-ver!”

One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares—their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.

“I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill,” observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, “but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a ‘Woods and Forester.’”

“That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird,” retorted Jackman, with a smile, “because it is quite possible for the ‘Woods and Forester’ to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles.”

“Well, we shall see,” returned his host. “And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?”

“I mean to have a little picnic—all by myself,” said Milly; “that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson.”

“D’you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?” asked Mrs Gordon.

“Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her.”

“Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?” said the laird.

“Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions.”

There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to make one more effort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning’s discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.

Up in the nursery—that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys—poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, “I’ll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an’ I will go for a picnic too. Zere’s plenty places for you an’ me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an’ we will let muzzer go wid us—if she’s dood. So go, like a dood chile’, an’ get your things on.”

As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly “dood chile,” while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.

The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.

Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.

“Now I call this jolly!” said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.

“It is indeed,” returned Milly; “but I don’t feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart.”

“To both,” returned the boy, inarticulately.

“Do you think you could eat any more?” asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle—for Aggy was a facile giggler!

“No, I don’t,” said Junkie. “I’m stuffed!”

“Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it.”

“How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly,” grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.

“How old are you, Aggy?” asked Milly when he was gone.

“Sixteen last birthday,” returned the girl.

“Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!” said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.

“Why?” asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.

“Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age.”

“How old are you now, Miss Milly?” asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.

“Nineteen,” replied the other with a sigh.

Again Aggy’s pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.

“Here’s the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?”

“Yes, quite enough,” laughed the highly convalescent invalid.

“Well, then, come along wi’ me and I’ll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn’t come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an’ we won’t be long away.”

“Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return.”

She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.

Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the “rare specimens” that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.

Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle—which was watching him suspiciously—downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!

At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret’s power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised—if not alarmed—the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare “specimens” under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.

Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then—ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that “but then” often comes in to seal our fate—“fix our flints,” as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!—but then, was not the opportunity unsought—quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?

Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.

Milly heard him rushing—in reality, walking—and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing—well— She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.

“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago,” said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. “I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!” he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; “just look at all this!”

“It is very kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret,” said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. “And, oh, what a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am.”

“Indeed! Do you expect her soon?”

“Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now.”

Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret’s face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.

Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.

Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!

Serenity was stamped on the old man’s brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the “Woods and Forester.” The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.

From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen dÉbris of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.

“Ha! my puss, is that you?” he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. “I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the ‘rare plants’ you are so mad about. I think it is you, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you—and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you are a dear!”

He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.

“Yes, I’m right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can’t make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It’s so far off that—hallo!”

A sudden frown clouded the laird’s face as he gave vent to that hallo.

“The rascal!” he muttered between his compressed lips. “He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!”

The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.

“For shame, you young scamp!” he continued to mutter, “taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permitted but for that ridiculous science. Ha! they’ve let the whole concern fall—serves ’em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do you dare to grip my niece’s hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round— Stop!” shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.

That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.

“Certainly, sir,” said the laird sternly; “and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation with you.”

Barret was not a little surprised at the old man’s tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.

“And now, Mr Gordon,” added the youth, earnestly, “I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss’ sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love— Oh! you know well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!”

The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.

But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth’s confession.

“Observe, Mr Gordon,” continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, “the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable—but I have no fear of that!”

The laird’s features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.

“Well, well, Barret,” he said, “since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend,” he added, in more serious tones, “I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child’s life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I’m glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Suspicions, Revelations, and other Matters.

With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages—it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies!

She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.

Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a “clean breast of it,” as he had at first intended to do.

“Oh! Mr Barret,” she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly’s life. Now, don’t say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do—”

“But, dear madam,” interrupted the invalid, “allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours—”

“Sail under false colours! Explain!” repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. “What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, and she is not given to colouring things falsely.”

“Excuse me, Mrs Moss,” said Barret; “I did not mean that. I only—”

“I don’t care what you mean, Mr Barret,” said the positive little woman; “it’s of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won’t listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence.”

Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.

So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.

“Milly,” said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, “have you mentioned it yet to your mother?”

“Yes, John,” replied Milly, blushing in spite of—nay, rather more in consequence of—her efforts not to do so. “I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove.”

“Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me—since this morning?”

“Yes, John.”

“And she is still of the same mind—not shocked or shaken by my appearance?”

“She is still of the same mind,” returned Milly; “and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles—I—I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else.”

“Indeed!” said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.

“Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?”

“Yes; she wrote to me about it,” replied Milly, with an amused smile. “You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?”

“Milly,” said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, “I am that cowardly man!”

“Now, John, you are jesting.”

“Indeed—indeed I am not.”

“Do you really mean to say that it was you who ran against my— Oh! you must be jesting!”

“Again I say I am not. I am the man—the coward.”

“Well, dear John,” said Milly, flushing considerably, “I must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain.”

“I will explain,” said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly’s affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter.

“And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?” she asked.

“Not the remotest.”

“Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character.”

Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.

There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind—“and so modest” withal!

Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed—

“Talking of insolence, my dear—”

“Were we talking of insolence, mother?” said Milly, with a surprised smile.

“Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?”

“No—no. I—I only want to get the light a little more at my back—to keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about? I’m anxious to know.”

If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming!

“Well, of course you remember about that young man—that—that cowardly young man who—”

“Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. “I remember well. The monster! What about him?”

“You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him here—in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again—all but.” She added the last two words in order to save her veracity.

“You don’t really mean it?” exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. “With a bicycle?”

It was the mother’s turn to laugh now.

“No, you foolish thing; even I have capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous—frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable—I had almost said detestable—youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at such a pace that, as I have said, he all but ran into my arms and knocked me down.”

“Dreadful!” exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief.

“Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!”

As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!

“Why do you laugh so much, child?” asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits.

“Well, you know, mother, if you will compare a man’s laugh to a hundred hyenas—”

“I didn’t compare the man’s voice,” interrupted Mrs Moss; “I said that the cliffs—”

“That’s worse and worse! Now, mother, don’t get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked—this dreadful young man. What was he like?”

“Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour—nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him.”

“Did he not say he was sorry?” asked Milly in some surprise.

“Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena.”

“You said a hundred hyenas, mother.”

“No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don’t interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving.”

“I know it well, dear mother!”

“So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come.”

“No, and he never will come!” said Milly, with a hearty laugh.

“How do you know that, puss?” asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.

Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.

“Strange girl!” muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious—we might almost say captious—operations before the looking-glass. “The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!”

She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question—in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent—when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret’s sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.

“Milly,” said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, “what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?”

“Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt.”

As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levÉes costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.

Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.

One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.

“I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me,” she said; “yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don’t think I ever did hear a voice in a dream.”

Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied—

“I don’t know,” he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, “that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don’t you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs—each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before.”

“Philosophically put, Barret,” said Mabberly; “I had no idea you thought so profoundly.”

“H’m! I’m not so sure of the profundity,” said the little old lady, pursing her lips; “no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman’s voice, and Mr Mabberly’s, and the laird’s, and everybody’s.”

“Well said, sister; you have him there!” cried the laird with a guffaw; “but don’t lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?”

“Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, “he hasn’t told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?”

“No, not yet, Junkie,” returned Barret; “he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present.”

“Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I’ll go an call Eddie and Archie,” pleaded the boy.

“You will call in vain, then,” said his father, “for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late— What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!”

“That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?” asked MacRummle.

“Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried ‘Now,’ for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two—I don’t know how many—and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an’ shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen.”

“Oh, it’ll be the same as usual,” remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. “There’s always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, and he wagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an’ I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It’s a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won’t you tell about the elephants to us, Mr Jackman? There’s plenty of us here—please!”

“Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it—some wet day, perhaps.”

“Then there’ll be no more wet days this year, if I’ve to wait for that,” returned the urchin half sulkily.

That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.

“Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother,” said Giles.

“That will not I,” said Milly with a laugh.

“I have decided what to do,” said Barret. “I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in—”

“She’s alone now,” said Milly. “I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know.”

“Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes.”

Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.

“‘Richard’s himself again!’ Allow me to congratulate you,” cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. “But, I say, don’t you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?”

Barret looked at Milly.

“I think not,” said Milly. “As uncle often says of dear mother, ‘she is tough.’”

“Well, I’ll go,” said Barret.

In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.

“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; “there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with.”

“I thought, madam,” said Barret in a low voice, “that you would know me better with my cap on—”

He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.

“Forgive me,” cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.

“Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I’ve knocked her down again!” he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.

They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.

“Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock,” she said, in a faint voice.

“Indeed it has been, darling mother,” returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother’s hair; “and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?”

“I don’t feel hurt, dear,” returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; “and don’t you think that if I were hurt I should feel it?”

“Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are so much hurt that they can’t feel it.”

“True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see—no thanks to that—th–to John Barret.”

“Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it—”

“No wonder,” interrupted the old lady. “To think of my being violently knocked down twice—almost three times—by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us—I might almost say mixed up with us.”

“But, mother, he never meant it, you know—”

“I should think not!” interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic laugh.

“No, indeed,” continued Milly, with some warmth; “and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account—”

“Milly,” cried Mrs Moss quickly, “is all that I have suffered on his account to count for nothing?”

“Of course not, dear mother. I don’t mean that; you don’t understand me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done.”

“Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his conscience is not himself. People cannot avoid what conscience says to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, ‘we are all that you call us, and more.’”

“Well, that is exactly what John has done,” said Milly, with increasing, warmth. “He has said all that, and more to me—”

“To you?” interrupted Mrs Moss; “yes, but you are not his conscience, child!”

“Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I’m not, I am next thing to it, for he says everything to me!” returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush. “And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened.”

“Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been,” returned Mrs Moss. “However, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I have a great opinion of that young man’s knowledge of medicine and surgery, though he is only an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire forgiveness.”

Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message.

After careful examination and much questioning, “Dr” Jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.

It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot, Quin remarked to the housemaid,—“Sure, it’s a quare evint entirely,” with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.

“Aunt Moss is a buster,” was Junkie’s ambiguous opinion, in which Flo and the black doll coincided.

“Tonal’,” said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, “the old wumman iss a fery tough person.”

To which “Tonal’” assented, “she iss, what-Ë-ver.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Two Fires Subdued.

Barret, half ashamed of the wild anxiety he displayed, turned at once, sprang back into the burning house, and began to expend his energies in helping his companions and the men of the establishment to save as much as possible of the laird’s property.

While this was being done and the attention of every one was directed exclusively to the work of salvage—in which work Pat Quin shone conspicuous for daring as well as for all but miraculous power to endure heat and swallow smoke, Roderick, the groom, retired to the lawn for a few moments’ respite. He was accompanied by Donald, his faithful assistant, who was almost exhausted by his labours.

“Tonal’, poy, what iss it that Muster Archie wull pe doin’?”

“I think he wull pe takin’ the hoose!”

They had not time to make further inquiry, for just then the wind changed and blew the flames towards the part of the mansion that had been already burned, giving some hope that the other parts might yet be saved, and calling for the redoubled efforts of all hands.

Donald was right in his conjecture. Archie was indeed “takin’” the house! He and Eddie—having succeeded in rescuing the photographic apparatus, and, finding that no lives were in danger, and that enough people were already endeavouring to save the property—had calmly devoted themselves to taking photographs of the blazing scene from several points of view—a feat that was still possible, as daylight had not yet been diminished in power.

The change of wind, however, brought their operations to an abrupt close, for no idlers were tolerated. Even the women were summoned to stand in a row, and pass buckets from a neighbouring pond to the burning house.

The proceedings now had been reduced to some degree of order by Giles Jackman, whose experience abroad had tended to develop his powers of organisation.

The buckets were passed in uninterrupted succession from the pond to the house, where Mabberly received them at the front door, that being deemed the point where danger and the need for unusual energy began. He passed them in through the smoke of the hall to MacRummle, who handed them to Roderick and the butler. These last stood in the dense smoke of the staircase, at the head of which the tall gamekeeper, Jackman and Barret, were engaged in close and deadly conflict with the flames, intense heat, falling dÉbris, and partial suffocation. The rest of the people, headed by the laird, who seemed to have renewed his youth and become ubiquitous, continued the work of salvage.

By that time the party of warriors who fought the flames was increased by the shepherds and a few small farmers who dwelt in the neighbourhood. These being stalwart and willing men, were a valuable accession to the force, and did good service not only in saving property, but in extinguishing the fire. So that, before night closed in, the flames were finally subdued, after about one-half of the mansion had been consumed.

That half, however, was still a source of great danger, the walls being intensely hot and the fallen beams a mass of glowing charcoal, which the least breath of wind blew into a flame. A few of the shepherds were therefore stationed to watch these, and pour water on them continually. But the need for urgent haste was past, and most of the people had assembled on the lawn among the furniture when the stars began to glimmer in the darkening sky.

“My dear,” said the laird, on finding his wife in the group, “it is all safe now, so you had better get off to rest, and take all the women with ye. Come, girls, be off to your beds,” he added, turning with kindly smile to the domestics, and with the energetic manner that was habitual to him. “You’ve done good service, and stand much in need of rest, all of you. The men will keep a sharp look out on what’s left o’ the fire, so you have nothing to fear. Off with you, an’ get to sleep!”

There was no hesitation in obeying the laird’s commands. The female domestics went off at once to their dormitories, and these were fortunately in that part of the mansion which had escaped. Some of the younger girls, however, made no effort to conceal a giggle as they glanced at their master who, with coat off, shirt torn, face blackened, hair dishevelled, and person dripping, presented rather an undignified appearance. But as worthy Allan Gordon had never set up a claim to dignity, the giggles only amused him.

“Duncan! Duncan, man, where are ye?” he called out, when the ladies and female domestics had gone. “Oh! there ye are—an’ not much more respectable than myself!” he added, as the butler answered to his summons. “Go and fetch the whisky bottle. We’ll all be the better of a dram after such a fight. What say you, gentlemen? Do you not relax your teetotal principles a little on an occasion like this?”

“We never relax our total abstinence principles,” returned Jackman, with a smile, as he wrung some of the water out of his garments. “I think I may speak for my companions as well as myself. Friendship has been a sufficient stimulant while we were engaged in the work, and gratitude for success will suffice now that the work is done.”

“Run, Donald, boy, an’ tell them to get some hot coffee ready at once! It’s all very well, gentlemen,” said the laird, turning again to his friends, “to talk of subsisting on friendship and gratitude; but although very good in their way, they won’t do for present necessities. At least it would ill become me to express my gratitude to such good friends without offering something more. For myself,” he added, filling and tossing off a glass of whisky, “I’m an old man, and not used to this kind of work, so I’ll be the better of a dram. Besides, the Gordons—my branch of them, at least—have always taken kindly to mountain dew, in moderation, of course, in strict moderation!”

There was a quiet laugh at this among some of the men who stood near, for it was well-known that not a few of the laird’s ancestors had taken kindly to mountain dew without the hampering influence of moderation, though the good man himself had never been known to “exceed”—in the Celtic acceptation of that term.

“Are ye laughing, you rascals?” he cried, turning to the group with a beaming, though blackened countenance. “Come here an’ have your share—as a penalty!”

Nothing loath, the men came forward, and with a quiet word of thanks each poured the undiluted fiery liquid down his throat, with what the boy Donald styled a “pech” of satisfaction.

Ivor Donaldson chanced to be one of the group, but he did not come forward with the rest.

“Come, Ivor, man, and have a dram,” said the laird, pouring out a glass.

But the keeper did not move. He stood with his arms crossed firmly on his broad chest, and a stern dogged expression on his handsome face.

“Ivor, hi!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a louder voice, supposing that the man had not heard. “After work like this a dram will do you good.”

“Oo, ay!” remarked one of the shepherds, who had probably began to feel the “good” by that time; “a tram of whusky iss a fery coot thing at all times—specially when it is coot whusky!”

At this profound witticism there was a general laugh among the men, in the midst of which the laird repeated his invitation to Ivor, saying that he seemed knocked up after his exertions (which was partially true), and adding that surely he was man enough to take a little for his good at such a time, without giving way to it.

The laird did not mean this as a taunt, but it was taken as such by the keeper, who came forward quickly, seized the glass, and drained it. Having done so he stood for a moment like one awaking from a dream. Then, without a word of thanks, he dropped the glass, sprang into the shrubbery, and disappeared.

The laird was surprised, and his conscience smote him, but he turned the incident off with a laugh.

“Now, lads,” he said, “go to work again. It will take all your energies to keep the fire down, if it comes on to blow; and your comrades must be tired by this time.”

Fortunately it did not come on to blow. The night was profoundly calm, so that a steady though small supply of water sufficed to quench incipient flames.

Meanwhile Giles Jackman had left the group on the lawn almost at the same moment with the gamekeeper; for, having been accustomed to deal with men in similar circumstances, he had a suspicion of what might follow. The poor man, having broken the resolve so recently and so seriously formed, had probably, he thought, become desperate.

Ivor was too active for him, however. He disappeared before Jackman had followed more than a few yards. After a few moments of uncertainty, the latter made straight for old Molly Donaldson’s cottage, thinking it possible that her unhappy son might go there. On the way he had to pass the keeper’s own cottage, and was surprised to see a light in it and the door wide open. As he approached, the sound of the keeper’s voice was heard speaking violently, mingled with blows, as if delivered with some heavy instrument against timber. A loud crash of breaking wood met Jackman’s ear as he sprang in. Ivor was in the act of rending the remains of a door from a corner cupboard, while an axe, which he had just dropped, lay at his feet on the earthen floor. A black quart bottle, visible through the opening which had been made, showed the reason of his assault on the cupboard. If there had been any uncertainty on the point, it would have been dispelled by the wild laugh or yell of fierce exultation with which he seized the bottle, drew the cork, and raised it to his dry lips.

Before it reached them, however, Jackman’s strong hand seized the keeper’s arm. A gasp from the roused giant, and the deadly pallor of his countenance, as he glanced round, showed that superstition had suddenly seized on his troubled soul; but no sooner did he see who it was that had checked him, than the hot blood rebounded to his face, and a fierce glare shot from his eyes.

“Thank God!—not too late!” exclaimed Jackman, fervently.

The thanksgiving was addressed to God, of course without reference to its influence on Ivor; but no words, apparently, could have been used with better effect upon the keeper’s spirit. His eyes lost their ferocity, and he stood irresolute.

“Break it, like a good fellow,” said Jackman, in a soft, kindly voice, as he pointed to the bottle.

“I broke one before, sir,” said Ivor, in a despairing tone; “and you see how useless that was.”

“Give it to me, then.”

As he spoke, he took the bottle from the man’s grasp, and cast it through the open doorway, where it was shivered to atoms on the stones outside.

Striding towards a pitcher of water which stood in a corner of the room, the keeper seized it, put it to his lips, and almost drained it.

“There!” he exclaimed; “that will drown the devil for a time!”

“No, Ivor, it won’t; but it will help to drown it,” said Jackman, in the same kindly, almost cheerful, voice. “Neither cold water nor hottest fire can slay the evils that are around and within us. There is only one Saviour from sin—Jesus, ‘who died for the sins of the whole world.’ He makes use of means, however, and these means help towards the great end. But it was not the Saviour who told you to lock that bottle in that cupboard—was it?”

An expression of perplexity came over the keeper’s face.

“You are right, sir; it was not. But, to my thinkin’ it was not the devil either!”

“Very likely not. I think sometimes we are inclined to put many things on the devil’s shoulders which ought to rest on our own. You know what the Bible says about the deceitfulness of our hearts.”

“I do, sir, an’ yet I don’t quite see that it was that either. I did not put that bottle there to have it handy when I wanted it. I put it there when I made up my mind to fight this battle in Christ’s name, so as I might see if He gave me strength to resist the temptation, when it was always before me.”

“Just so, Ivor, my friend. That ‘if’ shows that you doubted Him! Moreover, He has put into our mouths that prayer, ‘lead us not into temptation,’ and you proposed to keep temptation always before your eyes.”

“No, sir, no, not quite so bad as that,” cried the keeper, growing excited. “I shut the door an’ locked the accursed thing out of my sight, and when I found I could not resist the temptation, I took the key out and flung it into the sea.”

“Would it not have been better to have flung the evil thing itself into the sea? You soon found another key!” said his friend, pointing to the axe.

“You say truth, sir; but oh, you hev no notion o’ the fight I hev had wi’ that drink. The days an’ nights of torment! The horrors! Ay, if men could only taste the horrors before they tasted the drink, I do believe there would be no drunkards at all! I hev lain on that bed, sir,” he pointed to it as he spoke, while large drops stood on his pale brow at the very recollection, “and I hev seen devils and toads and serpents crawlin’ round me and over me—great spiders, and hairy shapeless things, wi’ slimy legs goin’ over my face, and into my mouth, though I gnashed my teeth together—and glaring into my tight shut eyes, an’ strangling me. Oh! sir, I know not what hell may be, but I think that it begins on earth wi’ some men!”

“From all this Jesus came to save us, Ivor,” said Jackman, endeavouring to turn the poor man’s mind from the terrible thoughts that seemed about to overwhelm him; “but God will have us to consent to be saved in His own way. When you put the temptation in the cupboard, you disobeyed Him, and therefore were trying to be saved in your own way. Disobedience and salvation cannot go together, because salvation means deliverance from disobedience. You and I will pray, Ivor, that God would give us his holy Spirit, and then we shall fight our battles in future with more success.”

Thereupon, standing as they were, but with bowed spirits and heads, they laid the matter in the hands of God in a brief but earnest prayer.

While these two were thus engaged, the scene at the house had entered upon another phase. The weather, which all that day had been extremely changeable, suddenly assumed its gloomiest aspect, and rain began to fall heavily. Gradually the fall increased in volume, and at last descended in an absolute deluge, rendering the use of water-buckets quite unnecessary, and accomplishing in a very few minutes what all the men at the place could not have done in as many hours. But that which prevented effectually the extension of the fire, caused, almost as effectually, the destruction of much of the property exposed on the lawn. The men were therefore set to work with all their energies to replace in the unburnt part of the mansion all that they had so recently carried out of it.

In this work Ivor Donaldson found a sufficient outlet for the fierce unnatural energies which had been aroused within him. He went about heaving and hauling, and staggering under weights that in an ordinary state of body and mind he could scarcely have moved. Little notice was taken of him, however, for every one else was, if not doing the same thing, at least working up to the utmost extent of his ability.

Before midnight all was over. The fire was what the cook termed black out. The furniture, more than half destroyed, was re-housed. The danger of a revival of the flames was past, and the warriors in the great battle felt themselves free to put off their armour and seek refreshment.

This they did—the males at least—in the gun-room, which, being farthest from the fire, and, therefore, left untouched, had not been damaged either by fire or water. Here the thoughtful laird had given orders to have a cold collation spread, and here, with his guests, men-servants, boys, and neighbouring farmers around him, he sat down to supper.

Chapter Seventeen.

Conclusion.

“We are a queer lot, what-Ë-ver!” remarked one of the farmers, with a deep sigh and a candid smile, as he looked round the company.

The observation was incontrovertible, if charcoaled faces, lank hair, torn and dripping garments, and a general appearance of drowned-ratiness may be regarded as “queer.”

“My friends,” said the laird, digging the carving fork into a cold turkey, “we are also a hungry lot, if I may judge of others by myself, so let me advise you to fall to. We can’t afford to sit long over our supper in present circumstances. Help yourselves, and make the most of your opportunities.”

“Thank God,” said Giles Jackman, “that we have the opportunity to sit down to sup under a roof at all.”

“Amen to that,” returned the laird; “and thanks to you all, my friends, for the help you have rendered. But for you, this house and all in it would have been burnt to ashes. I never before felt so strongly how true it is that we ‘know not what a day may bring forth.’”

“What you say, sir, is fery true,” remarked a neighbouring small farmer, who had a sycophantish tendency to echo or approve whatever fell from the laird’s lips.

“It is indeed true,” returned his host, wiping the charcoal from his face with a moist handkerchief; “but it is the Word that says it, not I. And is it not strange,” he added, turning with a humorous look to Barret, “that after all these years the influence of Joan of Arc should be still so powerful in the Western Isles? To think that she should set my house on fire in this nineteenth century!”

“I am very glad she did!” suddenly exclaimed Junkie, who, having been pretty well ignored or forgotten by everybody, was plying his knife and fork among the other heroes of the fight in a state of inexpressible felicity.

“You rascal!” exclaimed his father; “you should have been in bed long ago! But why are you so glad that Joan set the house on fire?”

“Because she gave me the chance to save Blackie’s life!” replied Junkie, with supreme contentment.

The company laughed, and continued their meal, but some of them recalled the proverb which states that “the boy is father to the man,” and secretly prophesied a heroic career for Junkie.

Ten months passed away, during which period Allan Gordon retired to his residence in Argyllshire while his mansion in the Western Island was being restored. During the same period Archie produced innumerable hazy photographs of Kinlossie House in a state of conflagration; Eddie painted several good copies of the bad painting into which Milly Moss had introduced a megatherium cow and other specimens of violent perspective; and Junkie underwent a few terrible paroxysms of intense hatred of learning in all its aspects, in which paroxysms he was much consoled by the approval and sympathy of dear little Flo.

During this period, also, Mabberly applied himself to his duties in London, unaffected by the loss of the Fairy, and profoundly interested in the success of his friend Barret, who had devoted himself heart and head to natural history, with a view to making that science his profession, though his having been left a competence by his father rendered a profession unnecessary, from a financial point of view. As for Giles Jackman, that stalwart “Woods-and-Forester” returned to his adopted land, accompanied by the faithful Quin, and busied himself in the activities of his adventurous career, while he sought to commend the religion of Jesus alike to native and European, both by precept and example, proving the great truth that “godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life which now is, and of that which is to come.” MacRummle, during the same period, spent much time in his study, writing for publication an elaborate treatise on fishing, with a few notes on shooting, in the Western Isles. He was encouraged in this work by a maiden sister who worshipped him, and by the presence of an enormous stuffed eagle in a corner of his study.

One day, towards the close of this period of ten months, a beautiful little woman and a handsome young man might have been seen riding in one of the quiet streets of London. They rode neither on horseback, nor in a carriage, still less in a cab! Their vehicle was a tricycle of the form which has obtained the name of “Sociable.”

“See, this is the corner, Milly,” said the young man. “I told you that one of the very first places I would take you to see after our marriage would be the spot where I had the good fortune to run our mother down. So now I have kept my word. There is the very spot, by the lamp-post, where the sweep stood looking at the thin little old lady so pathetically when I was forced to rise and run away.”

“Oh, John!” exclaimed Milly, pointing with eager looks along the street; “and there is the thin little old lady herself!”

“So it is! Well, coincidences will never cease,” said Barret, as he stepped from the “sociable” and hurried to meet Mrs Moss, who shook her finger and head at him as she pointed to the pavement near the lamp-post.

“I would read you a lecture now, sir,” she said; “but will reserve it, for here is a letter that may interest you.”

It did indeed interest all three of them, as they sat together that afternoon in the sunshine of Milly’s boudoir, for it was a long and well-written epistle from old Molly Donaldson.

We will not venture to weary the reader with all that the good old woman had to say, but it may perhaps be of interest to transcribe the concluding sentence. It ran thus,—“You will be glad to hear that my dear Ivor is doing well. He was married in March to Aggy Anderson, an’ they live in the old cottage beside me. Ivor has put on the blue ribbon. The laird has put it on too, to the surprise o’ everybody. But I think little o’ that. I think more o’ a bit pasteboard that hangs over my son’s mantelpiece, on which he has written wi’ his own hand the blessed words—‘Saved by Grace.’”

The End.