After this, the pleasant months went by with nothing but Andrew’s and Jamie’s visits to mark them, and, every now and then, a sough of sorrow from the big house of Braelands. And now that her own girl was so happily settled, Janet began to have a longing anxiety about poor Sophy. She heard all kinds of evil reports concerning the relations between her and her husband, and twice during the winter there was a rumour, hardly hushed up, of a separation between them.

Isobel Murray, to whom at first Sophy turned in her sorrow, had not responded to any later confidences. “My man told me to neither listen nor speak against Archie Braelands,” she said to Janet. “We have our own boat to guide, and Sophy cannot be a friend to us; while it is very sure Braelands can be an enemy beyond our ‘don’t care.’ Six little lads and lassies made folk mind their own business. And I’m no very sure but what Sophy’s troubles are Sophy’s own making. At any rate, she isn’t faultless; you be to have both flint and stone to strike fire.”

“I’ll not hear you say the like of that, Isobel. Sophy may be misguided and unwise, but there is not a wrong thought in her heart. The bit vanity of the young thing was her only fault, and I’m thinking she has paid sorely for it.”

All winter, such vague and miserable bits of gossip found their way into the fishing village, and one morning in the following spring, Janet met a young girl who frequently went to Braelands House with fresh fish. She was then on her way home from such an errand, and Janet fancied there was a look of unusual emotion on her broad, stolid face.

“Maggie-Ann,” she said, stopping her, “where have you been this morning?”

“Up to Braelands.” “And what did you see or hear tell of?”

“I saw nothing; but I heard more than I liked to hear.”

“About Mistress Braelands? You know, Maggie-Ann, that she is my own flesh and blood, and I be to feel her wrongs my wrongs.”

“Surely, Janet There had been a big stir, and you could feel it in the very air of the house. The servants were feared to speak or to step, and when the door opened, the sound of angry words and of somebody crying was plain to be heard. Jean Craigie, the cook, told me it was about the Dower House. The mistress wants to get away from her mother-in-law, and she had been begging her husband to go and live in the Dower House with her, since Madame would not leave them their own place.”

“She is right,” answered Janet boldly. “I wouldn’t live with that fine old sinner myself, and I think there are few women in Fife I couldn’t talk back to if I wanted. Sophy ought never to have bided with her for a day. They have no business under the same roof. A baby and a popish inquisitor would be as well matched.”

It had, indeed, come at last to Sophy’s positive refusal to live longer with her mother-in-law. In a hundred ways the young wife felt her inability to cope with a woman so wise and so wicked, and she had finally begun to entreat Archie to take her away from Braelands. The man was in a strait which could end only in anger. He was completely under his mother’s influence, while Sophy’s influence had been gradually weakened by Madame’s innuendos and complaints, her pity for Archie, and her tattle of visitors. These things were bad enough; but Sophy’s worst failures came from within herself. She had been snubbed and laughed at, scolded and corrected, until she had lost all spontaneity and all the grace and charm of her natural manner. This condition would not have been so readily brought about, had she retained her health and her flower-like beauty. But after the birth of her child she faded slowly away. She had not the strength for a constant, never-resting assertion of her rights, and nothing less would have availed her; nor had she the metal brightness to expose or circumvent the false and foolish positions in which Madame habitually placed her.

Little by little, the facts of the unhappy case leaked out, and were warmly commented on by the fisher-families with whom Sophy was connected either by blood or friendship. Her father’s shipmates were many of them living and she had cousins of every degree among the nets—men and women who did not forget the motherless, fatherless lassie who had played with their own children. These people made Archie feel their antagonism. They would neither take his money, nor give him their votes, nor lift their bonnets to his greeting. And though such honest, primitive feelings were proper enough, they did not help Sophy. On the contrary, they strengthened Madame’s continual assertion that her son’s marriage had ruined his public career and political prospects. Still there is nothing more wonderful than the tugs and twists the marriage tie will bear. There were still days in which Archie—either from love, or pity, or contradiction, or perhaps from a sense of simple justice—took his wife’s part so positively that Madame must have been discouraged if she had been a less understanding woman. As it was, she only smiled at such fitful affection, and laid her plans a little more carefully. And as the devil strengthens the hands of those who do his work, Madame received a potent reinforcement in the return home of her nearest neighbour, Miss Marion Glamis. As a girl, she had been Archie’s friend and playmate; then she had been sent to Paris for her education, and afterwards travelled extensively with her father who was a man of very comfortable fortune. Marion herself had a private income, and Madame had been accustomed to believe that when Archie married, he would choose Marion Glamis for his wife.

She was a tall, high-coloured, rather mannish-looking girl, handsome in form, witty in speech, and disposed towards field sports of every kind. She disliked Sophy on sight, and Madame perceived it, and easily worked on the girl’s worst feelings. Besides, Marion had no lover at the time, and she had come home with the idea of Archie Braelands tilling such imagination as she possessed. To find herself supplanted by a girl of low birth, “without a single advantage” as she said frankly to Archie’s mother, provoked and humiliated her. “She has not beauty, nor grace, nor wit, nor money, nor any earthly thing to recommend her to Archie’s notice. Was the man under a spell?” she asked.

“Indeed she had a kind of beauty and grace when Archie married her,” answered Madame; “I must admit that. But bringing her to Braelands was like transplanting a hedge flower into a hot-house. She has just wilted ever since.”

“Has she been noticed by Archie’s friends at all?”

“I have taken good care she did not see much of Archie’s friends, and her ill health has been a splendid excuse for her seclusion. Yet it was strange how much the few people she met admired her. Lady Blair goes into italics every time she comes here about ‘The Beauty’, and the Bells, and Curries, and Cupars, have done their best to get her to visit them. I knew better than permit such folly. She would have told all sorts of things, and raised the country-side against me; though, really, no one will ever know what I have gone through in my efforts to lick the cub into shape!”

Marion laughed, and, Archie coming in at that moment, she launched all her high spirits and catches and witticisms at him. Her brilliancy and colour and style were very effective, and there was a sentimental remembrance for the foundation of a flirtation which Marion very cleverly took advantage of, and which Archie was not inclined to deny. His life was monotonous, he was ennuye, and this bold, bright incarnation, with her half disguised admiration for himself, was an irresistible new interest.

So their intimacy soon became frequent and friendly. There were horseback rides together in the mornings, sails in the afternoons, and duets on the piano in the evenings. Then her Parisian toilets made poor Sophy’s Largo dresses look funnily dowdy, and her sharp questions and affected ignorances of Sophy’s meanings and answers were cleverly aided by Madame’s cold silences, lifted brows, and hopeless acceptance of such an outside barbarian. Long before a dinner was over, Sophy had been driven into silence, and it was perhaps impossible for her to avoid an air of offence and injury, so that Marion had the charming in her own hands. After dinner, Admiral Glamis and Madame usually played a game of chess, and Archie sang or played duets with Marion, while Sophy, sitting sadly unnoticed and unemployed, watched her husband give to his companion such smiles and careful attentions as he had used to win her own heart.

What regrets and fears and feelings of wrong troubled her heart during these unhappy summer evenings, God only knew. Sometimes her presence seemed to be intolerable to Madame, who would turn to her and say sharply: “You are worn out, Sophy, and it is hardly fair to impose your weariness and low spirits on us. Had you not better go to your room?” Occasionally, Sophy refused to notice this covert order, and she fancied that there was generally a passing expression of pleasure on her husband’s face at her rebellion. More frequently, she was glad to escape the slow, long torture, and she would rise, and go through the formality of shaking hands with each person and bidding each “good-night” ere she left the room. “Fisher manners,” Madame would whisper impatiently to Marion. “I cannot teach her a decent effacement of her personality.” For this little ceremony always ended in Archie’s escorting her upstairs, and so far he had never neglected this formal deference due his wife. Sometimes too he came back from the duty very distrait and unhappy-looking, a circumstance always noted by Madame with anger and scorn.

To such a situation, any tragedy was a possible culmination, and day by day there was a more reckless abuse of its opportunities. Madame, when alone with Sophy, did not now scruple to regret openly the fact that Marion was not her daughter-in-law, and if Marion happened to be present, she gave way to her disappointment in such ejaculations as—

“Oh! Marion Glamis, why did you stay away so long? Why did you not come home before Archie’s life was ruined?” And the girl would sigh and answer: “Is not my life ruined also? Could any one have imagined Archie Braelands would have an attack of insanity?” Then Sophy, feeling her impotence between the tongues of her two enemies, would rise and go away, more or less angrily or sadly, followed through the hall and half-way upstairs by the snickering, confidential laughter of their common ridicule.

At the latter end of June, Admiral Glamis proposed an expedition to Norway. They were to hire a yacht, select a merry party, and spend July and August sailing and fishing in the cool fiords of that picturesque land. Archie took charge of all the arrangements. He secured a yacht, and posted a notice in the Public House of Pittendurie for men to sail her. He had no doubt of any number of applications; for the work was light and pleasant, and much better paid than any fishing-job. But not a man presented himself, and not even when Archie sought out the best sailors and those accustomed to the cross seas between Scotland and Norway, could he induce any one to take charge of the yacht and man her. The Admiral’s astonishment at Archie’s lack of influence among his own neighbours and tenants was not very pleasant to bear, and Marion openly said:—

“They are making cause with your wife, Archie, against you. They imagine themselves very loyal and unselfish. Fools! a few extra sovereigns would be much better.”

“But why make cause for my wife against me, Marion?” asked Archie.

“You know best; ask Madame, she is my authority,” and she shrugged her shoulders and went laughing from his side.

Nothing in all his married life had so annoyed Archie as this dour displeasure of men who had always before been glad to serve him. Madame was indignant, sorrowful, anxious, everything else that could further irritate her angry son; and poor Sophy might well have prayed in those days “deliver me from my friends!” But at length the yacht was ready for sea, and Archie ran upstairs in the middle of one hot afternoon to bid his wife “goodbye!”

She was resting on her bed, and he never forgot the eager, wistful, longing look of the wasted white face on the white pillow. He told her to take care of herself for his sake. He told her not to let any one worry or annoy her. He kissed her tenderly, and then, after he had closed the door, he came back and kissed her again; and there were days coming in which it was some comfort to him to remember this trifling kindness.

“You will not forget me, Archie?” she asked sadly.

“I will not, sweetheart,” he answered.

“You will write me a letter when you can, dear?”

“I will be sure to do so.”

“You—you—you will love me best of all?”

“How can I help it? Don’t cry now. Send me away with a smile.”

“Yes, dear. I will try and be happy, and try and get well.”

“I am sorry you cannot go with us, Sophy.”

“I am sorry too, Archie; but I could not bear the knocking about, and the noise and bustle, and the merry-making. I should only spoil your pleasure. I wouldn’t like to do that, dear. Good-bye, and good-bye.”

For a few minutes he was very miserable. A sense of shame came over him. He felt that he was unkind, selfish, and quite unworthy of the tender love given him. But in half an hour he was out at sea, Marion was at his side, the Admiral was consulting him about the cooling of the dinner wines, the skipper was promising them a lively sail with a fair wind—and the white, loving face went out of his memory, and out of his consideration.

Yet while he was sipping wine and singing songs with Marion Glamis, and looking with admiration into her rosy, glowing face, Sophy was suffering all the slings and arrows of Madame’s outrageous hatred. She complained all dinner-time, even while the servants were present, of the deprivation she had to endure for Sophy’s sake. The fact was she had not been invited to join the yachting-party, two very desirable ladies having refused to spend two months in her society. But she ignored this fact, and insisted on the fiction that she had been compelled to remain at home to look after Sophy.

“I wish you had gone! Oh, I wish you had gone and left me in peace!” cried the poor wife at last in a passion. “I could have been happy if I had been left to myself.”

“And your low relations! You have made mischief enough with them for Archie, poor fellow! Don’t tell me that you make no complaints. The shameful behaviour of those vulgar fishermen, refusing to sail a yacht for Braelands, is proof positive of your underhand ways.”

“My relations are not low. They would scorn to do the low, cruel, wicked things some people who call themselves ‘high born’ do all the time. But low or high, they are mine, and while Archie is away, I intend to see them as often as I can.”

This little bit of rebellion was the one thing in which she could show herself Mistress of Braelands; for she knew that she could rely on Thomas to bring the carriage to her order. So the next morning she went very early to call on Griselda Kilgour. Griselda had not seen her niece for some time, and she was shocked at the change in her appearance, indeed, she could hardly refrain the exclamations of pity and fear that flew to her lips.

“Send the carriage to the Queens Arms,” she said, “and stay with me all day, Sophy, my dear.”

“Very well, Aunt, I am tired enough. Let me lie down on the sofa, and take off my bonnet and cloak. My clothes are just a weight and a weariness.”

“Aren’t you well, dearie?”

“I must be sick someway, I think. I can’t sleep, and I can’t eat; and I am that weak I haven’t the strength or spirit to say a word back to Madame, however ill her words are to me.”

“I heard that Braelands had gone away?”

“Aye, for two months.”

“With the Glamis crowd?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go too?”

“I couldn’t thole the sail, nor the company.”

“Do you like Miss Glamis?”

“I’m feared I hate her. Oh! Aunt, she makes love to Archie before my very eyes, and Madame tells me morning, noon, and night, that she was his first love and ought to have married him.”

“I wouldn’t stand the like of that. But Archie is not changed to you, dearie?”

“I cannot say he is; but what man can be aye with a fond woman, bright and bonnie, and not think of her as he shouldn’t think? I’m not blaming Archie much. It is Madame and Miss Glamis, and above all my own shortcomings. I can’t talk, I can’t dress, I can’t walk, nor in any way act, as that set of women do. I am like a fish out of its element. It is bonnie enough in the water; but it only flops and dies if you take it out of the water and put it on the dry land. I wish I had never seen Archie Braelands! If I hadn’t, I would have married Andrew Binnie, and been happy and well enough.”

“You were hearing that he is now Captain Binnie of the Red-White Fleet?”

“Aye, I heard. Madame was reading about it in the Largo paper. Andrew is a good man, Aunt. I am glad of his good luck.”

“Christina is well married too. You were hearing of that?”

“Aye; but tell me all about it.”

So Griselda entered into a narration which lasted until Sophy slipped into a deep slumber. And whether it was simply the slumber of utter exhaustion, or whether it was the sweet oblivion which results from a sense of peace long denied, or perhaps the union of both these conditions, the result was that she lay wrapped in an almost lethargic sleep for many hours. Twice Thomas came with the carriage, and twice Griselda sent him away. And the man shook his head sadly and said:—

“Let her alone; I wouldn’t be the one to wake her up for all my place is worth. It may be a health sleep.”

“Aye, it may be,” answered Griselda, “but I have heard old folk say that such black, deep sleep is sent to fit the soul for some calamity lying in wait for it. It won’t be lucky to wake her anyway.”

“No, and I am thinking nothing worse can come to the little mistress than the sorrow she is tholing now. I’ll be back in an hour, Miss Kilgour.”

Thus it happened that it was late in the afternoon when Sophy returned to her home, and her rest had so refreshed her that she was more than usually able to hold her own with Madame. Many unpardonable words were said on both sides; and the quarrel, thus early inaugurated, raged from day to-day, either in open recrimination, or in a still more distressing interference with all Sophy’s personal desires and occupations. The servants were, in a measure, compelled to take part in the unnatural quarrel; and before three weeks were over, Sophy’s condition was one of such abnormal excitement that she was hardly any longer accountable for her actions. The final blow was struck while she was so little able to bear it. A letter from Archie, posted in Christiania and addressed to his wife, came one morning. As Sophy was never able to come down to breakfast, Madame at once appropriated the letter. When she had read it and finished her breakfast, she went to Sophy’s room.

“I have had a letter from Archie,” she said.

“Was there none for me?”

“No; but I thought you might like to know that Archie says he never was so happy in all his life. The Admiral, and Marion, and he, are in Christiania for a week or two, and enjoying themselves every minute of the time. Dear Marion! She knows how to make Archie happy. It is a great shame I could not be with them.”

“Is there any message for me?”

“Not a word. I suppose Archie knew I should tell you all that it was necessary for you to know.”

“Please go away; I want to go to sleep.”

“You want to cry. You do nothing but sleep and cry, and cry and sleep; no wonder you have tired Archie’s patience out.”

“I have not tired Archie out. Oh, I wish he was here! I wish he was here!”

“He will be back in five or six weeks, unless Marion persuades him to go to the Mediterranean—and, as the Admiral is so fond of the sea, that move is not unlikely.”

“Please go away.”

“I shall be only too happy to do so.”

Now it happened that the footman, in taking in the mail, had noticed the letter for Sophy, and commented on it in the kitchen; and every servant in the house had been glad for the joy it would bring to the lonely, sick woman. So there was nothing remarkable in her maid saying, as she dressed her mistress:—

“I hope Mr. Braelands is well; and though I say it as perhaps I shouldn’t say it, we was all pleased at your getting Master’s letter this morning. We all hope it will make you feel brighter and stronger, I’m sure.”

“The letter was Madame’s letter, not mine, Leslie.”

“Indeed, it was not, ma’am. Alexander said himself, and I heard him, there is a long letter for Mrs. Archibald this morning,’ and we were all that pleased as never was.”

“Are you sure, Leslie?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“Go down-stairs and ask Alexander.”

Leslie went and came back immediately with Alexander’s positive assertion that the letter was directed to Mrs. Archibald Braelands, Sophy made no answer, but there was a swift and remarkable change in her appearance and manner. She put her physical weakness out of her consideration, and with a flush on her cheeks and a flashing light in her eyes, she went down to the parlour. Madame had a caller with her, a lady of not very decided position, who was therefore eager to please her patron; but Sophy was beyond all regard for such conventionalities as she had been ordered to observe. She took no notice of the visitor, but going straight to Madame, she said:—

“You took my letter this morning. You had no right to take it; you had no right to read it; you had no right to make up lies from it and come to my bedside with them. Give me my letter.”

Madame turned to her visitor. “You see this impossible creature!” she cried. “She demands from me a letter that never came.” “It did come. You have my letter. Give it to me.”

“My dear Sophy, go to your room. You are not in a fit state to see any one.”

“Give me my letter. At least, let me see the letter that came.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. If you choose to suspect me, you must do so. Can I make your husband write to you?”

“He did write to me.”

“Mrs. Stirling, do you wonder now at my son’s running away from his home?”

“Indeed I am fairly astonished at what I see and hear.”

“Sophy, you foolish woman, do not make any greater exhibit of yourself that you have done. For heaven’s sake, go to your own room. I have only my own letter, and I told you all of importance in it.”

“Every servant in the house knows that the letter was mine.”

“What the servants know is nothing to me. Now, Sophy, I will stand no more of this; either you leave the room, or Mrs. Stirling and I will do so. Remember that you have betrayed yourself. I am not to blame.”

“What do you mean, Madame?”

“I mean that you may have hallucinations, but that you need not exhibit them to the world. For my son’s sake, I demand that you go to your room.”

“I want my letter. For God’s sake, have pity on me, and give me my letter!”

Madame did not answer, but she took her friend by the arm and they left the room together. In the hall Madame saw a servant, and she said blandly—

“Go and tell Leslie to look after her mistress, she is in the parlour. And you may also tell Leslie that if she allows her to come down again in her present mood, she will be dismissed.”

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Stirling. “You must have your hands full with her, Madame. Nobody had any idea of such a tragedy as this though I must say I have heard many wonder about the lady’s seclusion.”

“You see the necessity for it. However, we do not wish any talk on the subject.”

Slowly it came to Sophy’s comprehension that she had been treated like an insane woman, and her anger, though quiet, was of that kind that means action of some sort. She went to her room, but it was only to recall the wrong upon wrong, the insult upon insult she had received.

“I will go away from it all,” she said. “I will go away until Archie returns. I will not sleep another night under the same roof with that wicked woman. I will stay away till I die, ere I will do it.”

Usually she had little strength for much movement, but at this hour she felt no physical weakness. She made Leslie bring her a street costume of brown cloth, and she carefully put into her purse all the money she had. Then she ordered the carriage and rode as far as her aunt Kilgour’s. “Come for me in an hour, Thomas,” she said, and then she entered the shop.

“Aunt, I am come back to you. Will you let me stay with you till Archie gets home? I can bide yon dreadful old woman no longer.”

“Meaning Madame Braelands?”

“She is just beyond all things. This morning she has kept a letter that Archie wrote me; and she has told me a lot of lies in its place. I’m not able to thole her another hour.”

“I’ll tell you what, Sophy, Madame was here since I saw you, and she says you are neither to be guided nor endured I don’t know who to believe.”

“Oh! aunt, aunt, you know well I wouldn’t tell you a lie. I am so miserable! For God’s sake, take me in!”

“I’d like to, Sophy, but I’m not free to do so.”

“You’re putting Madame’s bit of siller and the work she’s promised you from the Glamis girl before my heart-break. Oh, how can you?”

“Sophy, you have lived with me, and I saw you often dissatisfied and unreasonable for nothing at all.”

“I was a bit foolish lassie then. I am a poor, miserable, sick woman now.”

“You have no need to be poor, and miserable, and sick. I won’t encourage you to run away from your home and your duty. At any rate, bide where you are till your husband comes back. I would be wicked to give you any other advice.”

“You mean that you won’t let me come and stay with you?”

“No, I won’t. I would be your worst enemy if I did.”

“Then good-bye. You will maybe be sorry some day for the ‘No’ you have just said.”

She went slowly out of the store, and Griselda was very unhappy, and called to her to come back and wait for her carriage. She did not heed or answer, but walked with evident purpose down a certain street. It led her to the railway station, and she went in and took a ticket for Edinburgh. She had hardly done so when the train came thundering into the station, she stepped into it, and in a few minutes was flying at express rate to her destination. She had relatives in Edinburgh, and she thought she knew their dwelling place, having called on them with her Aunt Kilgour when they were in that city, just previous to her marriage. But she found that they had removed, and no one in the vicinity knew to what quarter of the town. She was too tired to pursue inquiries, or even to think any more that day, and she went to a hotel and tried to rest and sleep. In the morning she remembered that her mother’s cousin, Jane Anderson, lived in Glasgow at some number in Monteith Row. The Row was not a long one, even if she had to go from house to house to find her relative. So she determined to go on to Glasgow.

She felt ill, strangely ill; she was in a burning fever and did not know it. Yet she managed to get into the proper train, and to retain her consciousness for sometime afterwards, ere she succumbed to the inevitable consequences of her condition. Before the train reached its destination, however, she was in a desperate state, and the first action of the guard was to call a carriage and send her to a hospital.

After this kindness had been done, Sophy was dead to herself and the world for nearly three weeks. She remembered nothing, she knew nothing, she spoke only in the most disconnected and puzzling manner. For her speech wandered between the homely fisher life of her childhood and the splendid social life of Braelands. Her personality was equally perplexing. The clothing she wore was of the finest quality; her rings, and brooch, and jewelled watch, indicated wealth and station; yet her speech, especially during the fever, was that of the people, and as she began to help herself, she had little natural actions that showed the want of early polite breeding. No letter or card, no name or address of any kind, was found on her person; she appeared to be as absolutely lost as a stone dropped into the deep sea.

And when she came to herself and realised where she was, and found out from her attendant the circumstances under which she had been brought to the hospital, she was still more reticent. For her first thought related to the annoyance Archie would feel at her detention in a public hospital; her second, to the unmerciful use Madame would make of the circumstance. She could not reason very clearly, but her idea was to find her cousin and gain her protection, and then, from that more respectable covett, to write to her husband. She might admit her illness—indeed, she would be almost compelled to do that, for she had fallen away so much, and had had her hair cut short during the height of the fever—but Archie and Madame must not know that she had been in a public hospital. For fisher-people have a singular dislike to public charity of any kind; they help one another. And, to Sophy’s intelligence, the hospital episode was a disgrace that not even her insensibility could quite excuse.

Several weeks passed in that long, spotless, white room full of suffering, before Sophy was able to stand upon her feet, before indeed she began to realise the passage of time, and the consequences which must have followed her long absence and silence. But all her efforts at writing were failures. The thought she wished to express slipped off into darkness as soon as she tried to write it; her vision failed her, her hands failed her; she could only sink back upon her pillow and lie inert and almost indifferent for hours afterwards. And as the one letter she wished to write was to Archie, she could not depute it to any one else. Besides, the nurse would tell where she was, and that was a circumstance she must at all hazards keep to herself. It had been hot July weather when she was first placed on her hard, weary bed of suffering, it was the end of September when she was able to leave the hospital. Her purse with its few sovereigns in it was returned to her, and the doctor told her kindly, if she had any friends in the world, to go at once to their care.

“You have talked a great deal of the sea and the boats,” he said; “get close to the sea if you can; it is perhaps the best and the only thing for you.”

She thanked him and answered: “I am going to the Fife coast. I have friends there, I think.” She put out a little wasted hand, and he clasped it with a sigh.

“So young, so pretty, so good,” he said to the nurse, as they stood watching her walk very feebly and unsteadily away.

“I will give her three months at the longest, if she has love and care. I will give her three weeks—nay, I will say three days, if she has to care for herself, or if any particular trouble come to her.”

Then they turned from the window, and Sophy hired a cab and went to Monteith Row to try and find her friends. She wanted to write to her husband and ask him to come for her. She thought she could do this best from her cousin’s home. “I will give her a bonnie ring or two, and I will tell her the whole truth, and she will be sure to stand by me, for there is nothing wrong to stand by, and blood is aye thicker than water.” And then her thoughts wandered on to a contingency that brought a flush of pain to her cheeks. “Besides, maybe Archie might have an ill thought put into his head, and then the doctors and nurses in the hospital could tell him what would make all clear.” She went through many of the houses, inquiring for Ellen Montgomery, but could not find her, and she was finally obliged to go to a hotel and rest. “I will take the lave of the houses in the morning,” she thought, “it is aye the last thing that is the right thing; everybody finds that out.”

That evening, however, something happened which changed all her ideas and intentions. She went into the hotel parlour and sat down; there were some newspapers on the table, and she lifted one. It was an Edinburgh paper, but the first words her eyes fell on was her husband’s name. Her heart leaped up at the sight of it, and she read the paragraph. Then the paper dropped from her hands. She felt that she was going to faint, and by a supreme effort of will she recalled her senses and compelled them to stay and suffer with her. Again, and then again, she read the paragraph, unable at first to believe what she did read, for it was a notice, signed by her husband, advising the world in general that she had voluntarily left his home, and that he would no longer be responsible for any debt she might contract in his name. To her childlike, ignorant nature, this public exposure of her was a final act. She felt that it was all the same as a decree of divorce. “Archie had cast her off; Madame had at last parted them.” For an hour she sat still in a very stupour of despair.

“But something might yet be done; yes, something must be done. She would go instantly to Fife; she would tell Archie everything. He could not blame her for being sick and beyond reason or knowledge. The doctors and nurses of the hospital would certify to the truth of all she said.” Ah! she had only to look in a mirror to know that her own wasted face and form would have been testimony enough.

That night she could not move, she had done all that it was possible for her to do that day; but on the morrow she would be rested and she might trust herself to the noise and bustle of the street and railway. The day was well on before she found strength to do this; but at length she found herself on the direct road to Largo, though she could hardly tell how it had been managed. As she approached the long chain of Fife fishing-villages, she bought the newspaper most widely read in them; and, to her terror and shame, found the same warning to honest folk against her. She was heartsick. With this barrier between Archie and herself, how could she go to Braelands? How could she face Madame? What mockery would be made of her explanations? No, she must see Archie alone. She must tell him the whole truth, somewhere beyond Madame’s contradiction and influence. Whom should she go to? Her aunt Kilgour had turned her away, even before this disgrace. Her cousin Isobel’s husband had asked her not to come to his house and make loss and trouble for him. If she went direct to Braelands, and Archie happened to be out of the house, Madame would say such things of her before every one as could never be unsaid. If she went to a hotel, she would be known, and looked at, and whispered about, and maybe slighted. What must she do? Where could she see her husband best? She was at her wit’s end. She was almost at the end of her physical strength and consciousness. And in this condition, two men behind her began to talk to the rustle of their turning newspapers.

“This is a queer-like thing about Braelands and his wife,” said one.

“It is a very bad thing. If the wife has gane awa’, she has been driven awa’ by bad usage. There is an old woman at Braelands that is as evil-hearted as if she had slipped out o’ hell for a few years. Traill’s girl was good and bonnie; she was too good, or she would have held her ain side better.”

“That may be; but there is a reason deeper than that. The man is wanting to marry the Glamis girl. He has already began a suit for divorce, I hear. Man, man, there is always a woman at the bottom of every sin and trouble!”

Then they began to speak of the crops and the shooting, and Sophy listened in vain for more intelligence. But she had heard enough. Her soul cried out against the hurry and shame of the steps taken in the matter. “So cruel as Archie is!” she sighed. “He might have looked for me! He might have found me even in that awful hospital! He ought to have done so, and taken me away and nursed me himself! If he had loved me! If he had loved me, he would have done these things!”. Despair chilled her very blood. She had a thought of going to Braelands, even if she died on its threshold; and then suddenly she remembered Janet Binnie.

As Janet’s name came to her mind, the train stopped at Largo, and she slipped out among the hurrying crowd and took the shortest road to Pittendurie. It was then nearly dark, and the evening quite chill and damp; but there was now a decisive end before the dying woman. “She must reach Janet Binnie, and then leave all to her. She would bring Archie to her side. She would be sufficient for Madame. If this only could be managed while she had strength to speak, to explain, to put herself right in Archie’s eyes, then she would be willing and glad to die.” Step by step, she stumbled forward, full of unutterable anguish of heart, and tortured at every movement by an inability to get breath enough to carry her forward.

At last, at last, she came in sight of Janet’s cottage. The cliff terrified her; but she must get up it, somehow. And as she painfully made step after step, a light shone through the open door and seemed to give her strength and welcome. Janet had been spending the evening with her daughter, and had sat with her until near her bedtime. She was doing her last household duties, and the last of all was to close the house-door. When she went to do this, a little figure crouched on the door-step, two weak hands clasped her round the knees, and the very shadow of a thin, pitiful voice sobbed:—

“Janet! Take me in, Janet! Take me in to die! I’ll not trouble you long—it is most over, Janet!”