Just about the time Theodora's party were sitting down to a happy dinner in the Astor House, New York, Robert reached his home in Glasgow. He had confidently expected to see his wife waiting for him at Crewe Junction, and been disappointed and angry at her failure to do so. "Women are all alike," he muttered to himself, "they never keep an appointment, and they never catch a train." He wandered round the waiting-rooms looking for her, and so missed his own train, and had to wait two hours at one of the most depressing stations in England. For though the traffic is immense there, the stony, prison-like order, the silent, hurrying passengers, and the despondent-looking porters, fill the heart with a restless passion to escape from the place. Without analyzing this feeling, Robert was conscious of it, and it intensified the annoyance of his detention.

All the way to Glasgow he pondered on the singular circumstance of Theodora's failure to obey the telegram he had sent her. She had always been so prompt and glad to meet him, there must have been some mistake made in the message. He tried to remember its exact words, but could not, and as he neared his own city a certain fear assailed him. He began to wonder if his wife or child was sick—or if any accident had happened on their journey from Bradford to Crewe. But this solution he quickly dismissed as incredible. Theodora would have managed under any circumstances to send him word. She would not have kept him waiting and wondering. It was utterly unlike her. At length the anxious journey was over, but in hurrying from the train to his carriage, he noticed that the coachman spoke in an easy, nonchalant way, and that there was no sign about him of anything unusual or unhappy. When he reached Traquair House his mother and Isabel met him at the door, and Jepson unlocked his apartments, and began to turn on the light in the parlors.

"We shall have dinner in twenty minutes, Robert," said Mrs. Campbell, and Jepson added:

"Your rooms upstairs are prepared for you, sir."

No one had named Theodora, and he had not done so either. Why? He could not tell "why"; for her name beat at his lips, and inquiry about her was the great demand of his nature. He looked into her rooms, and the sense of emptiness and desertion about them was like a blow. David's cot had been removed, he saw that at once, and felt angry about it. And the perfect order of things shocked something in his feelings never before recognized. He missed sorely those pretty bits of disorder, that seemed to him now almost a part of his wife and child—the bow of ribbon, the little shawl or scarf over a chair-back, the small book of daily texts, and the thin parchment copy of "The Imitation" on her table; David's puzzle on the window seat, or his tiny handkerchief on the floor beside it.

Restless and unhappy he went down to the dining-room. His mother was in high spirits; Isabel still and indifferent. But it was Isabel who asked: "How much longer is Dora going to stay? The house is so lonely without her."

"The house has been peaceful and restful without her, and the noisy child. I am sure it has been a great relief," corrected Mrs. Campbell.

"I am anxious about Dora," said Robert with a touch of his most sullen temper, "she ought to have met me at Crewe, and did not do so. It was not like her."

"It was very like her. She is the most unreliable of women. I dare say we shall see her by the next train—perhaps we——"

"Mother, you are mistaken both about Dora and the train. Dora can always be depended on, and I waited for the next train, but she was not on it. After dinner I must telegraph to Bradford and elsewhere."

"Perfect nonsense! Let her alone, and she'll come home—no fear of it. She was, however, keen enough to get away—off before we had breakfast—and without a word to any one."

"Mother," corrected Isabel, "that was our fault. She came to bid us good-bye, but we neither of us spoke to her."

"Drop the subject," said Robert in a manner too positive to be disobeyed.

He himself dropped every subject, and finished his meal in a silence so eloquent, that no one had the spirit to break it. His mother looked at him indignantly, his sister kept her eyes on her plate, and ate with a noiseless deliberation, that was almost provoking. It was a most wretched meal.

"And all because that creature missed meeting him at Crewe," snorted the angry mother as her son left the room.

"You had better go to the library, mother, and find out what is the matter. I dare say it is business—and not Dora at all."

"I will go as soon as he has had a ten minutes' smoke. He is as touchy as tinder yet, Isabel."

But Robert did not go to the library. As he came out of the dining-room McNab walked up to him, and he spoke more pleasantly to her than he had yet done to any one since his return. "Good-evening, McNab," he replied to her greeting, "I hope you are well."

"As well as I ever expect to be in this house, sir. My dear young mistress left these jewels in my care—fearing what happened once before, sir—and I promised to keep them safe till you came home; the same I've done. And she left this letter likewise for you, and I hope there is no bad news in it, sir, for she was breaking her heart the day she was writing it."

"Breaking her heart? What about, McNab?"

"They were going to take the bit bonnie bairn from her—and him every night, as like as not, having a black life-and-death-fight wi' what they ca' croup. You know, sir?"

"I know, McNab. Thank you!" and instead of going to the library, he went into his own parlor, and locked both doors leading into it. Then he sat down with the letter in his hand. He looked at the neatness with which it was folded, addressed, and sealed, and he had a sudden memory of the joy and expectation with which he had once been used to receive such letters. He had no fear of bad news. He expected only Theodora's usual pleading for little David, and he thought it likely the removal of the boy's cot typified a more than common dispute concerning the child.

When he finally opened the letter, a small parcel fell out of it, which he laid aside. Then he read without pause or faltering, the following words:

"My Dear Robert:—A little while ago, you told me all that I possessed, that even my wedding ring, belonged to you. To-day I restore you all that you have given me, and with my raiment and ornaments, the dearest ornament of all—my wedding ring. You have broken every pledge it promised. You have treated me, and permitted others to treat me, with a sustained, deliberate neglect and cruelty that is almost incredible. To-day I make you free from all obligations to me, and my child. Do not try to find us. You cannot. We shall disappear as completely as a stone thrown into mid-ocean. But you know well, that I may be fully trusted to do all my duty to David. Oh, Robert, Robert, I cannot bear to reproach you! I love you, though I am leaving you forever. My father and mother go with me, and God and they are a multitude. I shall want for nothing but your love, and that was taken from me long ago. My love, my love! Farewell forever.

"Theodora."

Then he unfolded the bit of tissue paper which the letter contained, and out of it fell the wedding ring. He laid it in the hollow of his hand and looked at it. And as he looked, the storm in his heart gathered and gathered, until all its waves and billows went over him.

"Gone! Gone forever!" he said in an awful whisper—a whisper that came from a depth of his nature never plumbed before; an abyss that only despair and death know of. He rose and walked about, he sat down, he re-read the letter, he tried to think, and could not. He threw off his coat and vest, his collar and neckerchief; they lay at his feet, and he kicked them out of his way. "I am choking—dying!" he murmured. "Dora! Dora! Dora! Where are—you?"

The unfortunate man was torn with the most contrary feelings. He loved the adorable woman who had cast him off; and he hated her. Remorse for his own neglect and cruelty alternated with anger at his wife for the pain she was giving him. And she had robbed him of his child also, his child! Oh, he would have the child back, if he moved heaven and earth to compass it. There was no order, no method in his grief, one dreadful accusation followed another like actual blows, from a hand he could neither stay, nor entreat, nor reason with.

In hoarse mutterings, and fierce imprecations, he gave voice to a passion of grief and anger so furious, that ordinary speech utterly failed it. Frequently he struck the table or the piano frenzied blows with his hand—or he kicked out of his path chairs, stools, or whatever came in his raging way. Even Theodora's embroidery frame was thus treated, and then tenderly lifted and straightened, and put in its place. His restless feet and hands, his distracted walk, his mad motions, his distorted face and inflamed eyes, all indicated a tumult of suffering and despair, rendered all the more terrible by the shrill strain of half-religious oaths, which like flashes of hell-fire made the blackness of darkness in which he suffered all the more lurid and awful.

At length his physical nature refused to express any longer his mad sorrow by motion. He fell prone upon the sofa, and clasping his hands over his heart, he sobbed as only strong men in the very exhaustion of all other expression of feeling can sob. By this time it was late, the house was dark and still, and only the miserable man's mother was awake and watching. She felt that there was sorrow in the house, and when midnight came she went softly downstairs and stood at her son's door, listening to the soul in agony, moaning, sobbing, accusing, blaming, entreating, defying. She feared to let him know she was there and she feared to leave him. She was at a loss to account for a passion so amazing and uncontrolled. Stepping softly back to her room she reconsidered herself. In a couple of hours there was the crash of china falling, and her temper got the better of her fear. She went hastily and without attempt at secrecy, to her son's door.

"Robert!" she called, but there was no answer.

"Robert, Robert Campbell, open this door!" and she shook the handle violently.

He rose with an oath, flung the door wide, and stood glaring at her from eyes red and swollen and fierce with anger. "What do you want?" he asked. "Can you not let me alone, even at midnight?"

"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then what for are you sobbing and crying? I'm fairly ashamed for you. Do you know it's two o'clock in the morning?"

"I don't care what time it is. Go away."

"I will not go. You are demented—or you are wicked beyond believing."

"Go away!"

"I will not. What, in God's name, is the matter?"

"Theodora!" he shrieked, as he flung his arms upward.

"O, it is Theodora, is it? I thought so."

"She has left me, left me forever! She has gone, and taken my little Davie with her."

"Just what I expected."

"Just what you drove her to."

"Has that black-a-visored dandy staying at the Oliphants' gone with her?"

"Damnation, no! Her father and mother went with her."

"She says so, no doubt. Do you believe her?"

"Yes."

"Weel, I'm glad she's off and awa'. We'll hae a bit o' peace now."

"My heart is bleeding, bursting; I cannot listen to you."

"Such parfect nonsense! You ought to be thanksgiving. Who broke that vase to smithereens?"

"I did."

"It cost twenty guineas."

"I don't care a tinker's curse, if it cost a hundred guineas." He walked to the mantlepiece and flung down on the marble hearth a valuable piece of Worcester.

"My God, Robert! Have you lost your senses?"

"I have lost my wife and child."

"Good riddance of baith o' them."

"How dare you?"

"Dinna say 'dare' to me."

"Go away! Go instanter!"

"You will go first. I'll not leave you alane."

"If you don't go, I will call McNab and Jepson, and they will help you to your own room. Do you hear me?"

"Robert Campbell, go to your decent bed and sleep, and behave yourself."

"My God, woman!"

"I am your mother."

"God pity me! I can't throw you down, but——" then he lifted a white marble clock, and let it crash among the broken china. "Out of here!" he screamed. His usually deep, strong voice had been rising with every word he spoke, and his last order was given in a mad alto which terrified the woman browbeating him. It was not Robert's voice; its shrill shriek was the cry of extremity or insanity. She fled upstairs to McNab's room.

"Waken! waken! McNab," she cried. "Your master has lost his senses. Run for Dr. Fleming. Make him come back wi' you."

"What hae ye been doing to the poor man?" she asked sleepily as she put on her shoes.

"Nothing, nothing at all. Just advising him. It is that English cutty—she——"

"Meaning Mrs. Robert Campbell?"

"Call her what you like. It is her, it is her! She has taken the bairn and gone."

"Gone?"

"Left her husband forever. Be in a hurry, woman. Don't you hear the man raving like a wild beast?"

He was not raving when McNab looked at him in passing. He was lying on the sofa perfectly still, with his hands clasped above his head. So the doctor found him a quarter-of-an-hour later. "You have had a great shock, Campbell," he said.

"A shot in the backbone, doctor. My wife has left me, and taken my son with her."

"I know! But were you not expecting her to do so?"

"No, no! Why should I?"

"How much longer did you think your wife could bear—what she had to bear? Come, come, you must look at this trial like a sensible man! I suppose you want to find her?"

"It is all I shall live for."

"Then you must sleep. I will go with you to your room, and give you a sedative. You must sleep, and get yourself together. Then you will have to make your face iron and brass, for all you will have to meet—advice and pity, blame and sympathy, but you will carry your cup of sorrow without spilling it o'er everybody you meet—or I don't know you. What made you lose your grip to-night?"

"Necessity, doctor. I had to, or——"

"I know."

"One towering rage was better than daily and hourly disputing. The subject is buried now, between my family and myself. It was a necessity."

"Ay, ay, and when Necessity calls, none shall dare 'bring to her feet excuse or prayer.' Your wife's flight was a necessity also. Keep that in your mind. You are sleepy, I see; don't look at the newspapers till the wonder is over."

The newspapers easily got hold of the story, and each related the circumstance in its own way. Some plainly said domestic misery had driven the ill-used lady to flight; others spoke of her great beauty and wonderful voice, and made suspicious allusions to the temptations always ready to assail beauty and genius. None of them omitted the world-weary taunt of the mother-in-law, and some very broad aspersions were made on Mrs. Campbell's well-known impossible temper, and her hatred of all matrimonial intrusions into her family. The story of her eldest son's unsatisfactory marriage was recalled, his banishment and exile and supposed death. Christina's flight from her rich, titled lover to the poor man she preferred added a romantic touch; and the final tragedy of the disappearance of Robert Campbell's wife and son seemed to the majority proof positive that the trouble-making element was in the Campbell family, and rested in the hard, proud, scornful disposition of the mother, and mother-in-law. There was not a single paper that did not take a special delight in blaming Mrs. Traquair Campbell, but all, without exception, praised extravagantly the beauty, the sweet nature, and the genius of her wronged and terrorized daughter-in-law.

Robert Campbell took no notice of anything, that either the newspapers or his mother said. One day Isabel showed him a remark concerning "the unhappy life of that unfortunate gentleman, the late amiable Traquair Campbell, Esq." "You ought to stop such shameful allusions, Robert," she said, "they make mother furious."

He looked at her with eyes sad and suffering, and answered: "Neither you nor I, Isabel, can gainsay those words. They describe only too truly our father's position. He was amiable, and he was unhappy."

"But, Robert, the insinuation is, that mother was to blame for our father's unhappiness."

"She was. Such accusations are best unanswered. If we do not talk life into them, they will die in a few days."

To those who did not know Robert Campbell, he seemed at this time indifferent and unfeeling. In reality he was consumed by the two passions that had taken possession of him—the finding of his wife and son, and the making of money to keep up the search for them. He spent his days at the works, his evenings were devoted to interviewing his detectives, writing them instructions, or reading their reports. Shabby-looking men, in various disguises, haunted the hall and library of Traquair House, and every single one of them gave Mrs. Campbell a fresh and separate attack of anger. They were naturally against her, they believed everything wrong said of her, they talked slyly to the servants, and would scarcely answer her questions; they trespassed on her rights, and disobeyed her orders; and if she made a complaint of their behavior to her son, he looked at her indignantly and walked silently away. Speech, which had been her great weapon, and her great enjoyment, lost its power against the smouldering anger in her son's heart, and the speechless insolence of his "spying men."

Very soon after his sorrow had found him out he locked every drawer and closet in the rooms that had been Theodora's. It was a necessary action, but he had a bitter heartache in its performance. The carefully folded garments, with their faint scent of lavender, held so many memories of the woman he longed to see. The knots of pale ribbons, the neckwear of soft lace! Oh, how could such things hurt him so cruelly? In one drawer of her desk he found the stationery she had begged her own money to buy. She had not even taken the postage stamps. That circumstance set him thinking. She was leaving England, or she would have taken the stamps—perhaps not—they might have been left for the very purpose of inducing this belief. Who could tell?

Meantime nothing in the life of Traquair House changed or stopped, because Robert Campbell's life had been snapped into two parts. Mrs. Campbell soon recovered her pride and self-confidence. She told all her callers she "had received measureless sympathy, and as for her enemies, and what they said, she just washed her hands of them—poor, beggarly scribblers, and such like."

Isabel's behavior was a nearer and more constant annoyance. She spent the most of her time in her own room with maps and guidebooks and writing, and the pleasure she derived from these sources was a pleasure inconceivable to her mother. "You are past reckoning with, Isabel," she said fretfully one day, "what on earth are you busy about?"

"I am planning routes of travel, mother, putting down every place to stop at, what hotel to go to, what is worth seeing, and so on. I have four routes laid out already. I am hoping some day, when I have made all clear, you will go with me."

"Me! Me go with you! Not while I have one of my five senses left me."

"I shall surely go some day. I might have been travelling ere now, but I disliked to leave you alone, after this trouble about Dora."

"There is no trouble about Dora, none at all. The running away o' the creature is a great satisfaction to me. I hate both her and her child."

"Robert is breaking his heart about them."

"And neglecting his business, and spending more money than he is making, looking for them. I might break my heart, too, but thanks be! I have more sense. Did I tell you the Crawford girls are coming to stay a week or two? I thought they would be a bit company to you. I suppose they can have the room next yours."

"Christina's room! Oh, mother, I wish you would put them somewhere else. You have a spare room."

"It is o'er near my own room. And they are apt to come home at night full o' chat and giggle, and get me wakened up and maybe put by all sleep for that night. What is wrong with the room next yours?"

"I don't like any one using Christina's room—and they will keep me awake."

"Nobody takes the least thought for my comfort."

"Why did you ask the Crawfords? You know Robert hates them."

"Robert is forgetting how to behave decently. He will at least have to be civil to the Crawfords, and that is a thing he has ceased to be either to you or me."

"Robert and I understand each other. He gives me a look, and I give him one. We do not require to speak."

"I wonder how I ever came to breed such unfeeling, unsocial children. If I get 'yes' or 'no' from your brother now, it is the whole of his conversation; and as for yourself, Isabel, you are at that wearisome reading or writing the livelong day. I'll need the Crawfords, or some one, to talk to me, or I'll forget how to speak. Now where will I sleep them?"

"I suppose in poor Christina's room."

"Poor Christina! Yes, indeed! I have no manner o' doubt it is 'poor Christina' by this time."

"Mother! mother! do not spae sorrow to your own child. I can't bear it. I think she is very happy indeed. If she was not, she would have sent me word. It is poor Isabel, and it is happy Christina."

"Your way be it."

The next day the Crawfords came, and were installed in Christina's room. Mrs. Campbell was in one of her gayest moods, and she said to Isabel: "I am not going to live in a Trappist monastery, because Robert is too sulky to open his mouth to me. I'll be glad to hear the girls clacking and chattering, and whiles laughing a bit. God knows, we need not make life any gloomier than it is."

For two or three days, the Crawfords had the run of the house. Robert went away, "on another wild goose chase" his mother said, just before they arrived; and his mother's words were evidently true, for he came home with every sign of disappointment about him. He looked so unhappy, that Isabel, meeting him in the hall, said: "I am sorry, brother, very sorry."

"I know you are," he answered. "It was a false hope—nothing in it."

"I would stop looking."

"You are right. I will give it up."

He went into the dining-room with Isabel, said good-evening to his mother, and bowed civilly to her guests. The dinner proceeded in a polite, noiseless manner, until the end of the second course. Then Robert lifted his eyes, and they fell upon Jean Crawford's hand. The next moment he had risen and was at her side.

"Give me the ring upon your right hand," he said in a voice that held as much passion as a voice could hold and be intelligible.

"Why, Cousin Robert!"

"I want that ring!"

"Aunt Margaret said——"

"Give me the ring. It is not yours. How dare you wear it?"

"I was bringing it back! Oh, Aunt Margaret!"

"Robert, I am ashamed of you!"

"Mother, I want Theodora's ring—the ring stolen from my wife years ago. I must have it—I must, I must!"

"Don't cry, Jean. Give him his ring. I'll give you a far handsomer one."

Then the woman threw it down on the table, and Robert lifted it and left the room.

Isabel sat until the tearful, protesting meal was over, and then she did the most remarkable thing—she went to her brother. He was sitting looking at the ring, recalling its history. He remembered going into Kendal one Saturday night, just after its receipt, and memory showed him again Theodora's delight and excitement, her wonder over its beauty, and her pride in her pupils' affection. He could see her lovely face, her shining eyes, he could feel her soft kiss, and the caress of her hand in his. Oh, what a miracle of love and beauty she was to him that night! He told Isabel all about it, and then he spoke of its theft, and of his frequent promises and failures to recover it for her.

"But, brother," said Isabel, "you have now quite unexpectedly got it back. It is a good omen. Some day, when you are not looking for such a thing, you will get its owner back, you will put it on her finger. I feel sure of it."

"I was a brute, Isabel."

"You were a coward. You were afraid of mother."

"No man ever had so many opportunities for happiness as Theodora offered me. I scorned them all. Why was I so blind, so unjust, so cruel? I am miserable, and deserve to be miserable. We can go to hell before we die, Isabel."

"Yes, we can, but we send ourselves there. 'If I make my bed in hell,' said the great seer and singer. It is always I that makes that bed, never God, never any other human being." And it was Robert Campbell, he himself, and no other, who had made his bed in that forlorn circle of hell, where men who have lost their Great Opportunity, weep and wail over their forfeited happiness. Poor Isabel, she remembered, and longed to remind her brother, that even there God was with him, waiting to be gracious, ready to help! But she was too cowardly, she did not like to give religious advice; she was only a woman—he would wonder at her. So she went away, and did not deliver the gracious message, and felt poor and mean because of her fear and her faithlessness.

This conversation, however, made a decided change in Robert Campbell's life. It had always been believed by the family, that Isabel, unknown to herself, had a certain occult, prophesying power; frequently she had proved that with her insight was foresight. So, though Robert said nothing to her when she told him the getting back of the ring was a good omen, he believed her and derived a singular peace and confidence from the prediction. At that very hour, he virtually put a stop to all inquiries, and to all search; he resolved to leave to those behind him the bringing back of his wife, and their reconciliation.

Carrying out this resolve compelled him to take account of the money he had spent in the quest for Theodora and his son, and the total gave him a shock. It had been an absolutely fruitless waste of money, and he had a fiery impetuous determination to restore to his estate the full amount. To this object he devoted himself, and if a man is willing to lose his heart and soul in money-making, he is sure to succeed.

So the weeks and the months passed, and he turned himself, body and soul, into gold and tried to forget. The loss of his wife and child became a something that had happened long ago—an event sorrowful, and far off. For there was nothing to keep their memory alive. No one mentioned their names, and the very rooms they had inhabited, had lost all remembrance of them. They were simply empty rooms now, for every particle of the lovely and loving lives that had once informed them, had been withdrawn.

Nearly two years had passed since Christina married, nearly as long since Theodora and David disappeared, and the big, silent Traquair House was a desolate place. Mrs. Campbell had no one but her servants to dispute with, for though Isabel's seclusion was constantly more marked, Robert would not listen to a word against his sister. She had been sorry for him, and forespoken good for him; he stood staunchly by all she did.

"Do you know that she is going away this spring, into all sorts of wild and savage countries, and among pagans and papists, and worse—if there is worse; with nothing but a woman nearly as old as myself to lean on. I wonder at your allowing such nonsense."

"Isabel knows what she is doing. She is going with Lady Mary Grafton. They will have their maids, and a first-class courier. I think she is doing right."

"And I shall be left here, all alone?"

"Do you count me a nonentity?"

"You are very near it, as far as I am concerned."

"I am alone, too. Will you remember that? You know whose fault it is." Then he rose and left her, and Mrs. Campbell was conscious of a secret wish that the good old quarrelsome days would come back, even though it were Theodora and David who brought them.

A few days after this conversation Robert had business in the city, and after it was finished, he walked leisurely down Buchanan Street. It was a fine spring morning, and there was a glint of sunshine tempering the fresh west breeze. Passing McLaren's, he saw a lady get out of a cab, and go into the shop. He followed her, and gently laid his hand on her shoulder, saying:

"Christina, sister!"

"Oh, Robert, Robert!" and she laughed, and cried, and clasped his hands.

"Come with me to my club," he said, "and we will have lunch and a good talk. You must have a deal to tell me."

"I have, I have! My cab is at the door. Will it do for you? You used to hate cabs." She laughed again and her laugh went to his heart, so he petted her hand, and said she was looking white and thin, and what was the matter?

"I had a little daughter only six weeks ago, the sweetest darling you ever saw, Robert. And I have a beautiful wee laddie, called Robert—called after you—he is nearly a year old."

"Then I must go with you and see my namesake."

"Do you really mean that?"

"I intend to give you this afternoon."

"I am so glad—so happy."

Then they were at the Club House, and Robert took her to a pleasant parlor and ordered a royal lunch, and a bottle of wine.

"We must drink the little chap's health," he said. "And now tell me, Christina, are you happy?"

"Yes, I am happy. I have some little anxieties about Jamie, but love makes all easy—and Jamie loves me and the children, and does his best for us. A man cannot do more than that, can he?"

"Have you ever regretted your treatment of Sir Thomas Wynton?"

"Never once! Wynton treated me handsomely, but you see, I loved Jamie. You understand, Robert?"

"Yes."

"I heard about Theodora, of course. It was hard on you, but I do not blame Theodora. Since I was a mother, I have wondered she bore David's treatment as long as she did. I would not."

When lunch was over, they drove to Christina's home, and Robert laughed at its location. "Why, you are barely a mile from Traquair House," he said. "How was it we never found you out?"

"Perhaps you did not care about finding me out."

"Perhaps. Yet I know Isabel never went out without looking for you, and she has put many advertisements in the papers."

"Well, I was neither lost nor stolen, Robert, so I never read advertisements." She laughed in her old mocking way. "But I longed for Isabel, and have hard work to keep away from her."

There was just time for Robert to see his namesake, and give him a gold token, and admire the baby in its mother's arms, and the mother with the baby in her arms, when there was the sound of a latch-key in the door, and then a gay whistle. "Here comes Jamie," cried Christina, all her face aglow with love and expectation. Jamie was a personality you felt as soon as he entered the house. Robert looked anxiously for his appearance; but he was not prepared for the young man who entered. He was so handsome. Not Robert Burns himself had a more winning face, or more charming manners. He came into the room laughing, and when he saw Robert, went straight to him with outstretched hand. "Glad to see you, Campbell," he said heartily, and Robert felt he was glad. "You will take dinner with us?" he asked, and Robert said he would. Then he brought cigars, and began to discuss with Robert a subject which was at that time very interesting to the city. Robert found him clever and amusing, and he had a way of illustrating all his points with stories so apt, and so amusing, you felt sure he invented them as needed.

They had a modest, cheerful dinner, after which Jamie played the fiddle and sang as Robert had never dreamed it was possible to fiddle and sing; and he fell completely under the man's charm. For he made fiddle strings of Robert's heart strings, with his wild Gathering Calls, his National Songs, and Strathspeys. It was impossible not to love the man, and whatever liking and admiration Robert Campbell had to give, he gave unresistingly that night to James Rathey. He went away reluctantly, though he had stayed some time after dinner, and when he clasped the beautiful hand of the violinist he held it a moment, and said: "You have made me happy for a few hours. I thank you! I shall not forget."

All the way home he was revolving a plan in his mind, which he was resolved to bring to perfection. With this object in view, he looked into the dining-room when he reached home, hoping to find Isabel there. But Mrs. Campbell was sitting alone with a newspaper in her hand. She looked bored and forsaken, and he was sorry for her. "Where is Isabel?" he asked.

"Where she always is, except at eating-times—in her room."

"I want to see her."

"Will not your mother do?"

"Not just yet. I may want you in a short time."

"And then I may not come. You are going to ask Isabel, whether it is prudent to tell me something, or not."

"Will you let Isabel know, or shall I send McNab?"

"I will tell her myself."

Then Robert went to his own parlor, and in a few minutes Isabel came to him. He took her hand, and seated her at his side. "Isabel," he said, "I have found Christina. I have had lunch and dinner with her. I have met James Rathey."

"Oh, Robert!"

"He is the most delightful of men. They are as happy as they can be."

Then Isabel began to cry softly. "Oh, Robert, Robert! Such good news! Tell me all about them!" she exclaimed. And Robert told her all that Christina had said, and all that Jamie had said. He described Christina's and Rathey's appearance, he told her about the babies, he even made a few remarks about the floor and the furniture.

"I must go and see her the first thing in the morning, Robert."

"How soon will you start on your travels, Isabel?"

"In ten days, if Lady Mary is better."

"Is she sick?"

"I heard this morning she had an attack of measles—very peculiar in a woman of her age."

"I don't know, I'm sure. What I want is, that Christina should come into my rooms. I am going to give her all the furniture in them—everything-everything except some clothing. While you are away, she will be company for mother, who seems pitifully lonely."

"That is mother's fault, Robert. These empty rooms ought to be——"

"I know. There is no use speaking of it. All that hope is over. Do you think you can persuade Christina to come home?"

"She would have some submissions to make to mother—will she make them?"

"I think so. Go and ask her."

"I will see her in the morning."

In the morning there was a joyful meeting between the sisters, and Christina was delighted with Robert's plan. She had often longed for the large rooms, the wide stairways and corridors of Traquair House. She hated small rooms, and common stairs, and cabs, and remembered longingly the days when the Campbell carriage was at her beck and call. She liked plenty of servants, and her own maid and nurse would be added to the staff in Traquair House. She would be relieved of all housekeeping cares, and of the oversight of the table, a duty she particularly disliked. Besides these considerations, she could again take her proper place in society. Robert would be certain to do something for Jamie, and then she would have her income for dress and social demands.

"It will be delightful, Isabel," she said. "Just what I wish, and Jamie will win round mother directly—he has that way with all women."

"Then come home about five this afternoon, and bring the babies with you, especially Margaret."

"Isabel, you mean?"

"No, no! You must call her Margaret. As Margaret she will open mother's heart to you."

About five that afternoon, Mrs. Campbell came into the big, empty dining-room. She was dressed for dinner, but there were no signs of the meal. She looked cross and forlorn, and began to grumble to herself, as she impatiently stirred the fire into a blaze. "It is too bad of Isabel," she muttered; "she cares for nothing but her own way. I am left to look after everything—house, callers, what not—and there is a ring at the door now! I hope Jepson heard it."

The next moment the room door was thrown open, and Christina, in a flurry of beautiful silk and fur, fell on her knees by her mother's side. She clasped her mother's hands in her own, and said softly: "Forgive Christina, mother. I have brought my little Margaret for your blessing. Oh, yes, you will bless her. And Christina is really sorry, and longs so much for her mother and her home—dear mother, forgive me?"

At the beginning of her entreaty, Mrs. Campbell had tried to take her hands from between her daughter's, but at the close they lay passive until she raised one, stroked Christina's face, and bid her rise. Then Christina took the little child, and laid it in its grandmother's arms, saying:

"Little Margaret asks you to forgive and love us, mother,"—and little Margaret won the day.

"May I stay dinner, mother, and talk to you?"

"Go up to your own room, and take off your hat and wrapping. You may leave the bairns with me. Yon is a bonnie wee lad, what is his name?"

"Robert Traquair."

"A wise like name! Bring him here, lassie—and what is your name?"

"Janet, ma'am."

"Weel, Janet, you may now take the boy-bairn to the kitchen, and show him to Mistress McNab, and tell her she will hae company to provide for. I'll keep the bit lassie mysel', till her mother is ready for her."

At six o'clock, as arranged, Robert came home and joined his mother and sisters, and they were all talking happily together, when Jamie Rathey entered. Robert met him with a hearty welcome, and Jepson coming in at that moment, to superintend the setting of the table, was told by Robert to lay service for two extra. And as Christina predicted, when the evening was over Jamie had fairly conquered the usually impossible Mrs. Campbell. He had waited on his mother-in-law as if he was her lover, he had told pleasant stories, and sang merry songs, and above all assured her, she was "the only mother he knew, who could bring up daughters able to make the state of marriage an earthly Paradise"; and with a charming smile he wished "that she had fifty daughters, so that Glasgow might boast of fifty perfect wives, and happy husbands."

Robert watched him, and listened to him, and wondered that a man of his tact and social genius, did not get on in the world; and after the Ratheys and their children had departed he said: "Christina has not done as badly as we believed, mother. What do you think of James?"

"The man is well enough—as a man," she answered with a sudden cooling of heart temperature, "but what about his capacities? Is he a good provider? Can he get hold of the wherewithal for a family's necessities?"

"He is on the Roll of Attorneys now, but it is hard for a young man to get a law business—it takes time. He is sure to make his mark, but I do not suppose he makes his office rent yet."

"I thought so."

"He is clever."

"Very. And if he is as clever with his fiddle as his tongue, I would be astonished if he made office rent."

"Why?"

"Because God has given to some men wisdom and understanding, and to other men He has given the art o' playing on the fiddle. But if a man is wanting law, he does not want a song, and he is naturally suspicious of the lawyer who mixes the two."

"I shall get him installed as attorney on some of the civic boards, and that will give him an opportunity to show himself as a lawyer. And, mother, I have given Christina the use of my rooms, and the furniture is hers now. I have given her it just as it stands—everything, except some clothing. When Isabel goes away, I thought you would be very lonely, and Christina and the babies will make things more cheerful for you."

"I might have been asked, if it would be agreeable?"

"I only met Christina yesterday. I went home with her, and I want her to have a better home—her old home, and you to look after her."

"Well, a mother's duty never ends, and I was never one to shirk duty. The rooms are all right—but as for the cooking and the kitchen——"

"Tut, tut, mother! You will look after the table as you have always done."

"There will be four more adults to provide for, not to speak o' the bairns' feeding and washing."

"James is able to pay whatever you think right. I will insure that to you. And, mother, it will be a joy to see you busy about the house again, ordering the meals, and keeping the servant girls up to mark."

"I always was a busy woman, Robert, and I will be thankful to have my hands full again. I am sure the thought o' Christina's playing and singing, and her goings out and in, and the visitors she will have, and the news coming with them, and the children, special the bit lassie wi' her soft black een, and her wonderfu' resemblance to mysel'—all these things, sure enough, will make the old house a deal more pleasant. But where will you keep yourself?"

"At my club. I have a room there anyway, and I shall always take my breakfast in it. Sometimes, I will come here for dinner, but Jamie will be the man of the house, and a better master than I have ever been—he will have more time to help you, mother."

These conditions, carefully considered and elaborated, were carried out with all the haste possible. But haste is not in a Scotchwoman's faculty. She can do many things well, but she must carefully prepare for their doing, and then move with care and caution.

A few days after this arrangement, Mrs. Campbell and Christina went out together to do some shopping found necessary for it. Isabel remained at home to answer a letter from the Grafton family. This letter gave her great anxiety; it said: "Lady Mary's illness had become more serious than was at first anticipated, and there was almost a certainty that she would not be able to travel at the time fixed; consequently, they would leave to Miss Campbell the option of changing the date, or of cancelling the engagement, as seemed best for her own pleasure and interest."

Poor Isabel was much troubled at this disappointment. She feared all was going wrong with her plans, and the thought of the coming invasion with the noise of the children, and the joyous hilarity of Christina and her husband, and her mother's renewed importance, was not, in her present mood of disappointment and uncertainty, a pleasant anticipation. She sat silent and motionless, her eyes fixed on the neatly folded routes she had prepared. And her heart sank low, and a few tears gathered slowly and remained unshed. "All my desires are doomed," she thought sorrowfully. "Nothing I plan comes to pass. How unfortunate I am!"

Then there was a tap at her door, and a maid told her there was a visitor. She rose despondingly, took the card, threw it on the table, and went slowly to the drawing-room. Before she had quite opened the door, she heard hurrying steps coming to meet her, and the next moment Sir Thomas Wynton was holding her hands, and trying to tell her how happy he was to see her again.

She had an instantaneous sense of hope and relief, and they were soon heart and soul in the conversation they both enjoyed. Very soon she went for the routes she had prepared, and showed them to the baronet, who was amazed and delighted:

"I never saw anything so beautifully and carefully done," he exclaimed, "and when do you start on Route No. 1.? I see it takes in Russia, Sweden, and Norway, and home by the Netherlands and Orkneys. Why, I never thought of that! How good, how excellent an idea."

"I intended leaving Glasgow in nine days, but Lady Mary Grafton, whose party I was to join, is ill with measles."

"Good gracious! Measles! I never heard of such a thing, what is the woman up to? She is not a baby or a schoolgirl, is she?"

"She is forty-four years old."

"Oh! And measles? How absurd! What will you do?"

"I was trying to decide, when you came. Can you help me? If you can, I shall be grateful. If I can find no one to go with me, I shall go alone."

"Nonsense, impossible! May I call early to-morrow morning?"

"Ten o'clock if you wish."

Then he thanked her for the sensible, interesting letters she had written him. They were "a kind of little newspaper," he said, "and I counted those days happy and fortunate on which I received one. I have brought you some laces. I noticed that you always wore pretty lace, and so whenever I was at a place where lace was made, I got a little for you."

"Oh, Sir Thomas!"

"And to-morrow morning, I hope I will be able to tell you something about a companion for your journey. Do you know Mrs. Foster?"

"No. I have heard of her only."

He seemed on the point of going, but did not go until Mrs. Campbell came home. Then he stayed to lunch, and sat chatting with the two ladies until three o'clock. Even then he seemed reluctant to go away.

"Why should he come here at ten o'clock in the morning?" asked Mrs. Campbell, when Sir Thomas had finally gone away.

"Lady Mary is too ill to travel. Sir Thomas thinks he can get me a proper companion. If not, mother, I shall go alone. I will not let anything disappoint me again."

"You will be talked of from Dan to Beersheba."

"I shall be doing nothing wrong, and I shall be happy. Let them talk."

In the morning Sir Thomas was in the drawing-room at ten o'clock, and Isabel, in a pretty lavender lawn gown, went with a smile to meet him. He looked at her with delight, and said: "I have found you a companion—one that will take the greatest care of you. It is myself. I will trust you with no one else."

"But, Sir Thomas," and she attempted to draw her hand out of his.

"No, no," he said, clasping it still tighter. "Sit here by my side, and listen to what I say. I love you dearly, wisely, with all my heart. I will make you Lady Wynton to-morrow, if you desire it, and you and I—you and I—will take all those excellently planned journeys together. We will travel slowly and comfortably, luxuriously when we can; we will see everything worth seeing. We will take a long, long honeymoon trip, all over the world. Say 'yes,' Isabel. May I call you Isabel?"

"Yes."

"My Isabel."

"I am your sincere friend."

"My wife! I want you for my wife."

"A wedding means a great deal of trouble. It would keep me back."

"Not an hour. We will meet in Dr. Robertson's parlor, each with a friend or two. My carriage will be at his door, and as soon as the ceremony is over, we will drive to the railway station, and take a train for London, be in London for dinner, and ready next day to start Tour No. 1, first landing-place St. Petersburg; eh, dear? Say yes, say yes, Isabel. Do!"

And how could Isabel say anything but "yes"? It was the dream of her life coming true.

"This is Wednesday," he continued joyfully, "what do you say to next Monday? Can you be ready for Monday?"

"I can be ready by Monday, Sir Thomas."

"We will drop the 'Sir,' my dear, forever. Now, I will go and arrange with Dr. Robertson for the ceremony at nine o'clock, Monday morning, and in the meantime, see your brother about the necessary business matters, and put all right at Wynton village for at least a year's stay. For after London, we will follow the route you laid out—nothing could be better."

And as this was one of those destined marriages, that may be delayed but cannot be prevented, every particular relating to it went as desired. Isabel in a pretty travelling suit, with her mother and brother, was at Dr. Robertson's at nine o'clock on the set Monday morning, and found Sir Thomas Wynton and his brother-in-law and sister, Lord and Lady Morpeth, waiting for them. It was a momentous interval for two of the party, but soon passed; for in twenty minutes, Isabel received the congratulations due to her as Lady Wynton, and then amid smiles and good wishes she began with her husband their long wedding trip, of all over the world.

"It is the last of my Isabel," said Mrs. Campbell between smiles and tears.

"No," answered Robert, "it is the beginning of Isabel. When she comes back we shall hardly know her. It is a real marriage; they will improve each other," and he turned away with a sigh.

Mrs. Campbell had really no occasion for tears. She was not inclined to weep, even when weeping would have been in order, and Isabel had not lately been notable, either as a help or a comfort, so that her mother felt it no trial to exchange her presence, for the pleasure of talking of her dear daughter, Lady Wynton, her journeyings and her experiences. There was also the returning home of Christina, the rearranging of Robert's rooms for her and her family, their moving into them and settlement, and these things engaged her warmest interest. She felt indeed that as regarded Robert's rooms falling to Christina's lot, she owed Providence a handsome acknowledgment. They had been prepared at an extravagant cost for an Englishwoman and a stranger, but had come, as it were, naturally, to her own daughter. But then she said: "Providence had always looked after the Campbells, and it was not likely that in this flagrant case Providence would forget its duty."

She was busy from morning to night until she had the new family under the same roof with her, and Robert also appeared to take a great interest in the change. He was very generous to his sister, and gave her freely all the beautiful furniture and ornaments he had bought for Theodora, even the piano would know her touch no more. All the books, music, and pretty ornaments and embroideries she had accumulated during her miserable six years of married life, she left behind her; and all were given to Christina. Christina had no reluctance in appropriating them. She began her new tenure in Traquair House by taking everything she could get, likely to add to her comfort or pleasure.

Robert was a great deal about the house while the change was in progress, afterward his visits decreased, until they settled into the Sunday dinner with his family. No one complained of his absence. Christina and Rathey introduced a new life—a life of constant visiting, gaiety, and entertaining; and Mrs. Campbell accepted it without dissent. Jamie Rathey indeed ruled her more absolutely than he ruled his wife. And she petted him, as she had never petted her own sons—ordered luxuries for his eating, gave him presents, paid his bills, and excused all his extravagances.

"Between Jamie and little Margaret, I am not my own woman at all," she admitted, and as time went on, it was difficult to say which of these two treated her with the most tyrannical affection.

Two erroneous conclusions are likely to be formed concerning Robert Campbell on this unlooked for transformation of life in Traquair House—one, that he had suddenly developed a most unusual generosity, and the other, that he had forgotten his wife, and become resigned to her loss. Neither of these conclusions would be correct. Few, indeed, of our actions ring true through all their depths, and Robert's generosity to his sister arose from a desire to make his own life more bearable. Those lonely, lifeless, deserted rooms, over which he had spent so much love and gold filled him with a terror he hated to face. If Christina would bring into them life and song, and the voices of children, perhaps their haunting misery might die out of his heart. He could not prevent Isabel leaving home, but he did dread the house with no one but his mother and himself in it. So when Christina stepped into both dilemmas, with a comfortable solution, he felt grateful to her, and it was pleasant to give her things, and pleasant to help Jamie Rathey, and to see the dark, silent house alive with mirth and company, and the prattle of little children.

But there was another Robert that none of these things touched, who in fact would neither see them, nor listen to them. This Robert sat hours motionless and speechless, dreaming of the woman he still loved—longing for her with heart-breaking accusations and remorse. Oh, to hear from her! Oh, to see her, if but for a moment! Would the hour for their reconciliation never, never come? This was the faithful, bitter cry of his best nature, as raking in the ashes of memory, he made of his lost wife a thousand lovely and sorrowful pictures. And this Robert Campbell, no one but Robert's angels, and Robert's God knew.

To the world in general he seemed to be harder than ever, indifferent to all interests but money-making, stripped even of his old time gloss and politeness, yielding only when necessary to get his own way. His kindness to Christina had been in the main kindness to himself, and the ready help given to Jamie Rathey was the result of several selfish reasons, united with that singular liking which men occasionally feel for some other man gifted as they never can be—an affection doubtless dating from some life anterior to this life. With these exceptions, Robert Campbell was the old Robert Campbell, a little older, and a little rougher, and the national emblem of the repellent Thistle, with its churlish command, "Hands off!" represented him very fairly.