And now there was a second and longer probation in that gaunt town of Edinburgh, without any miniature to lie beside me on my work-table like a tickless watch, and help along the weary hours. And though the session before I had thought but little of the letters (and indeed there was nothing in them), yet this time there were none at all, which suited me far worse. For, as it seemed, the mere sight of the hand-of-write would have cheered me.

Henceforward I could only learn, as it were, by ricochet what was going on. My grandmother never set pen to paper. Her tongue to guide was trouble enough to her without setting down words on paper to rise up in judgment against her. True, my father wrote regularly to inquire if my professor had any new light on the high things of Plato, the Iberian flavour in Martial’s Epigrams, and such like subjects which were better fitted to interest a learned dominie who had lost the scholar of his choice than to comfort a young fellow who has only lost his sweetheart.

For her part Agnes Anne wrote me reams about Charlotte, but never mentioned a word as to the Maitlands, though she did say that Charlotte was a good deal at Heathknowes, and (a trifle spitefully, perhaps) that she did not know what took her there unless it were to see Uncle Rob! This poor Uncle Rob of ours—his reputation was in everybody’s mouth, certainly. He had been, so they said, a runagate, a night-raker, and in the days of his youth a trifle wild. But now with the shadows of forty deepening upon him, it was not fair that all the hot blood of his teens and twenties should rise up in judgment against him. Still so it was. And the reason of it was, he had not, as he ought, married and settled. For which sin of omission, as the gossips of Eden Valley said, “there was bound to be a reason!”

Charlotte herself did not send a line, excepting always the letters I was to forward to Tom Gallaberry at his farm of Ewebuchts on the Water of Ae. This at the time I judged unkind, but afterwards I found that Cousin Tom had insisted upon it, on the threat of going to her father and telling him the whole affair. For, in spite of all, Cousin Thomas was jealous—as most country lads are of college-bred youths, and he pinned Charlotte carefully down in her correspondence. However, I made him pay his own postages, which was a comfort, and as Agnes Anne and often my father would slip their letters into the same packet, after all I had only the extra weight to pay.

Still, I did think that some of them might have told me something of Irma. But none did, till one great day I got a letter—from whom think you? I give you fifty guesses—well, from my Aunt Jen. And it contained more than all the rest put together, though all unconsciously, and telling me things that I might have gone a long time ignorant of—if she had suspected for a moment I was keen about them.

From this information I hoped great things—at least a letter demanding pardon from Irma, or an account of how she had confessed all from that graceless and thankless forgetful besom Charlotte. But I heard nothing further till, one day going past after another, about a twelvemonth after amazing word came. It was when I was busy with some literary work I had gotten from one of the printers in the town—correcting proofs and looking out for misspellings in the compositions of an eminent hand. I will be plain—it was poor work, and as poorly paid. But I could live on it, and in any case it was better than slaving at tutoring. That is, as tutoring was at that time in Edinburgh—a dull boy whom none could make anything of, insolent servants, sneering elder sisters and a guinea a month to pay for all. However, I tried it and made some of them stop sneering—at least the sisters.

I was, I say, in the Rankeillor Street lodgings and Amelia was going out at the door with my tea-things—as usual calling me names for “idling within doors” when Fred was out at his classes. Freddie had private permission from one of the professors to read in his library, so often did not come home till late. But I stuck to my arm-chair and my printer’s slips like a burr to homespun. Suddenly there was a great noise on the stairs. “There,” cries Amelia, “that’s one of your countrymen, or I’m no judge of the Galloway bray!”

For, as I have indicated before, Amelia was far from imitating her mother’s English politeness.

The next moment the front door was driven in with a mighty brange against the wall (for Amelia had been out the moment before on the landing to throw some turnip-tops on the ash “backet”). A huge man in many swathes of riding-coat dashed in and caught me by the throat. Amelia had the two-pronged carving fork in her hand, and seeing her mother’s lodger (as she thought) in danger of being choked to death, without having regulated his week’s bill, she threw herself upon my assailant and struck vehemently with the fork.

The huge man in the many capes doubtless suffered no grievous harm. It had hardly been possible for a pistol-ball to penetrate such an armature, but still the sudden assault from behind, and perhaps some subtle feminine quality in Amelia’s screams, made him turn about to see what was happening.

The man was Fighting Anderson of Birkenbog himself, and he kept crying, “Where have you hidden her, rascal, thief? I will kill you, villain of a scribbler! It was because you were plotting this that you dare not show your face in the country!”

But every time he threw himself upon me, Amelia, who did not want for spunk, dug at him with the two-pronged fork, and stuck it through so many plies of his mantle till he was obliged to cry out, “Here, lassie, lay down that leister, or ye will hae me like miller Tamson’s riddle, that the cat can jump through back-foremost.”

After adjusting his coat collar he turned to me and demanded, in a more sensible and quiet way, what had become of his daughter.

At the question, Amelia went into one of her foolish fits of laughter and cried out, “What, anither of them?”

Whereupon to prevent misunderstandings, I explained that the young lady was my landlady’s daughter, and a friend of Freddy Esquillant’s.

“Oh, you students,” he said, and sat down to wipe his brow, having seen from the most cursory examination of our abode, wholly open to the view, and exiguous at the best, that certainly Charlotte was not hidden there.“She left home three days syne as if to go to Miss Huntingdon’s,” he said, “and ever since her mother has gone from one hysteric to another. So, knowing nothing better to do, and maybe judging you by myself in my own young days (for which I am sure I ask your pardon) I started out to make sure that everything had been done decently and in order. Though as sure as my name is Robert Anderson, I cannot think why you did not come and wed the lass decently at home——”

We were at this point in our explanation, Amelia’s ear was (doubtless) close to the back of the door, and Birkenbog was relapsing into his first belief, when I heard the key in the lock and the light foot of Freddy in the passage.

It came as a huge relief, for here was my witness.

He entered, and, seeing the visitor, bowed and deposited his books in the corner. He was for going out again, doubtless thinking that Charlotte’s father and I were at business together. So, indeed, we were—but not such as I wished to keep anyways private between us. I could not, with any self-respect, go on depending any longer on Amelia’s two-pronged fork.

So I said, “Freddy, bear me witness that I have not been out of the house this week, except to go to the printer’s with my work——”

“Fegs,” cried a voice through the jar of the door, “there is no need for Freddy to bear ye out in that. You have only to look at the carpet under the legs of your chair. It has gotten a tairgin’, as if all the hosts of King Pharaoh had trampled over it down to the Red Sea!”

But I would not keep the old man any longer in suspense.

“I fear, Birkenbog,” I said, “that you have given yourself a bootless journey. From what I suspect, your flown bird will be nested nearer home.”

“Where?” he cried; “tell me the scoundrel’s name.”

“Fairly and soothly, Birkenbog,” said I, “peace is best among near friends—not to speak of kinsfolk!”

“Aye,” said he, “fairly and soothly be it! But I have to ken first that it is fairly and soothly. Who is the man?”

“I do not know for certain,” I said, “but I have every reason to believe that your daughter is at this moment Mistress Thomas Gallaberry of Ewebuchts, on the Water of Ae!”

“Oh, the limmer,” he cried, and started up as if to fly at me again. His face was indeed a study. First there appeared the usual hot wrath, overlapping in ruddy fold on fold, and revealing the owner’s full-fed intent to punish. This gradually gave way to a look of humorous appreciation, and then all of a sudden, he slapped his thigh in an agony of joyous appreciation.

“Oh, the limmer,” he cried, “only a week since my kinsman Tam Gallaberry asks me brave and canny for the lend of five hundred to stock his Back Hill. He offered decent enough security, and as usual I took Charlotte’s opinion on the business. For it’s her that has the great head for the siller. Oh yes, she has that. And as soon as they gat the tocher, he’s off wi’ the lassie. Certes, but he is the cool hand.”

“If you allow me to judge, I should say the cool hand was Charlotte!” I ventured.

“Right, man,” he cried, “little do I doubt it! Tam Gallaberry has led a grey mare to his stable that will prove the better horse, and that he will ken before he is a fortnight older.”

Then he turned upon me, short and sharp.

“You have kenned this some while, I’m jaloosin’?”

“Yes,” said I, for I felt that he might have me awkwardly trapped if he went on, “that is one of the reasons why I did not come home. I knew that Charlotte had made up her mind never to marry me——”

“And ye took it like that?” he cried; “man, ye havena muckle spunk!”

“It was not generally so thought at the time of the assault on the great house of Marnhoul,” I answered; “and indeed I remember one old gentleman about your figure, with a white crape over his nose, that shook me by the hand and took my name down in his book——”

“Wheesht—wheesht,” he said, looking about uneasily, “siccan things are better never minted so close to the Parliament House where bide the Red Fifteen!”

“Well,” said I, “that’s as may be, but I cannot have it said by you or any man that I lack spunk!”

“Oh,” said he, “though I never was troubled that gate mysel’—there’s mony a bold man has turned hen-hearted when it came to a question of the lasses. There’s Freddy here, one wad never think it of him, but there has he gotten yon lass that nearly did for me with her twa-pronged fork. She’s a smart hizzy, and will make a lively wife to some man. But I maun e’en be riding back to put a question or so to the man that has stown awa’ my bit ewe-lamb and put her in fold by the Water of Ae.”

At that moment Amelia came in with a triumphant smile. “It’s a laddie from the post, and he winna gie up the letter unless you pay him sevenpence for postage dues and a penny for himself!”

“There’s the sevenpence, and clash the door in his face!” I cried. For I was bravely well acquainted with the exigencies of these post-office “keelies.”

But Birkenbog, who was in good humour at the way he had been done by his daughter, threw a handful of copper “bodles” across the table to Amelia.

“There’s for the messenger!” he said. And I could see that he looked at the letter when it came with some anxiety.

As I supposed, it was from Charlotte, and the thinnest and least bulky of her billets that had ever come up these stairs. I handed it across to him, where he sat newly glooming at me.

“Open it!” I said.

“Since when has Robert Anderson of Birkenbog taken to opening letters addressed to other men?”

“Never heed—not till this very minute, maybe. Open that one, at any rate!” And I ran my finger along the sealed edge.

This was Charlotte’s letter to me.

“Humph,” said her father, as he flung it across the table to me, “in my opinion ye are well shut of her! She will twist that Tam Gallaberry round her finger and then—whizz—she will make him spin like a peerie!”

He rose, and without any adieus stamped his way down the stairs, sniffing as he went at every landing. We stood at the window watching his progress along the street—capes swaying, broad bonnet of blue cocked at an angle on top, red double-chinned face looking straight ahead. Amelia came over to my shoulder and looked too.

But all she said was, “And now, when it’s past and gone, will ye tell me if Yon is what you learned folk caa’ an avalanche?”