WITHIN a week after these agitating events, Archibald Sutherland, in company with the anxious and attentive factor, rode into Portoran, to meet the third individual of their council, Mr. Foreman, and engage in a final consultation. During the days which had intervened since Archibald’s return, there had already been much discussion and deliberation between the two good men, who took an interest so kindly in his changed fortunes. Mr. Ferguson, who had a distant kinsman, the most inaccessible and hypochondriacal of nabobs, and under whose ken had passed various bilious, overgrown fortunes accumulated in the golden East, gave his voice for India. Mr. Foreman, whose brother had grown comfortably rich, on the shores of that river “Plate,” whose very name in mercantile mouths, seems to savor so pleasantly of golden harvests, spoke strongly in favor of South America. Mr. Foreman had been consulting with his minister, of whose business head, and clear judgment, the good lawyer was becomingly proud, and slightly given to boast himself; and it happened that, at that very time, Mr. Lumsden had heard from his brother, the clever manager and future junior partner of Messrs. Sutor and Sinclair’s, great commercial house in Glasgow, that Mr. Sinclair, the partner in Buenos Ayres, was in urgent want of an intelligent and well-educated clerk, and had written to his partner and manager, desiring them, either to send one of the young men in their Glasgow office, or to employ one of higher qualifications, if need were, and send him out without delay. Now it happened, wrote Mr. Lumsden’s brother, that the house of Sutor and Sinclair had divers other branches, in different parts of the world, and their clerks of experience having been drafted, one by one, to these, they were now left with none of sufficient age, or acquirements, to suit the fastidious Mr. Sinclair, whose letter had conveyed a delicate hint, that if it were possible, he should desire a young man of some culture and breeding to fill the vacant post. Mr. Lumsden’s brother further explained, that this was a quiet stroke at the less polished Mr. Sutor, who had previously sent a clerkship, in the shape of a great hearty, joyous, enterprising cub, of true Glasgow manufacture and proportions, born to make a fortune, but unfortunately, not born either to be or look anything beyond the honest, genial, persevering, money-making man he already was. Mr. Sinclair’s health was delicate; his mind, considering that he was a clever and very successful merchant, pre-eminently so; and the choice of his confidential clerk, puzzled Mr. George Lumsden and his principal sadly.

Mr. Foreman, on hearing of this, had written without delay to his minister’s brother, desiring to know whether poor Archibald—the ruined laird—might have any chance of suiting so peculiar a situation. His name, Mr. Foreman wrote somewhat proudly, was a sufficient voucher for his personal acquirements; he had been unfortunate, but the youthful madness which occasioned these misfortunes had been bitterly repented of, and there was little doubt that his ability, and earnest endeavor to redeem his lost ground, would carry him to the head of whatever he attempted. When Mr. Ferguson and Archibald entered Mr. Foreman’s private room, they found him waiting in nervous expectation for an answer to this letter. He knew the mail had come in; he had dispatched a messenger to the post-office half an hour ago, and was fuming now over the vexatious delay. In the meantime, however, he managed to explain the matter to his visitors.

“From all that I can hear, Mr. Archibald, is just the thing for you—without office drudging, and with a man who could understand and sympathize with your feelings. I do think we have been fortunate in hearing of it.”

Archibald shook his head. “You are too ambitious for me, Mr. Foreman. I would rather—it may be a sort of pride, perhaps, though pride sits ill on me—I would, indeed, rather not have my feelings sympathized with by strangers. I should prefer no manner of distinction.

“Well, well!” said Mr. Foreman, “neither there will be; only the situation is a superior one, and you would have in it the best possible opening.”

“Don’t think me ungrateful,” said Archibald. “I shall be very glad of it, if you think me at all likely to have the necessary qualifications. But in business, you know, I want experience entirely. I almost want even elementary knowledge.”

“No fear of that,” said Mr. Ferguson, “a good head and clear mind soon master the details of business—but India!”

“Ah! has the little wretch come back at last?” cried Mr. Foreman, darting into the outer office, and seizing upon his messenger, who, lingering only to watch the progress of one most interesting game at “bools,” which came to a crisis just as he was passing, had returned from the post-office with his load of letters. These were examined in a moment; one bearing the square Glasgow post-mark selected, the others tossed over in an indiscriminate heap to Walter, and Mr. Foreman, opening his letter hurriedly, re-entered the room reading it. It was decidedly favorable. Much of sympathy and compassion for the young man shipwrecked so early, much of regret for the downfall of an old house (for Mr. Lumsden was a north countryman, and knew the Sutherland family by name) were in it; but these Mr. Foreman kept to himself. The prudent manager of Messrs. Sutor and Sinclair’s Glasgow house, was rather dubious, as to a young man, who had managed to ruin himself at five-and-twenty, being quite a suitable person for a merchant’s trusted and confidential clerk; but proposed that Mr. Sutherland should come, for a month or two, to the Glasgow counting-house, to acquire a knowledge of the business, and enable them to form a better judgment of him, on personal knowledge. Mr. Lumsden’s words were quite kind, and perfectly respectful, yet Mr. Foreman delicately softened them as he read, and when he had concluded, looked triumphantly from Archibald to Mr. Ferguson.

“Well, gentlemen; what do you say?”

The factor gave in his adhesion; his own vague hope from India could not stand before a definite proposal like this. “It looks well, Mr. Archibald; upon my word, I do think it looks well.”

“It is quite above my expectations,” said Archibald. “I am perfectly ready to enter upon my probation at once—without delay. I accept your friend’s offer without the least hesitation, Mr. Foreman; write him, I beg, and tell him so, and let the time be fixed for the commencement of my apprenticeship—and then, if I satisfy my new employers—then, for the shores of that luxurious Spain in the west, and such prosperity as Providence shall send me there. Nay, nay; you look sorrowfully at me, as if I mocked myself; I do not—my second beginning is more hopeful than my first. I will do no dishonor—I trust—I hope I shall do no further dishonor to your kindness, or my father’s name: only let us have it settled upon, and begun as early as possible, Mr. Foreman. I have no time to lose.”

“I am glad! I am delighted!” exclaimed the honest lawyer, “to see you take it so well. If the first disagreeables were but over!”

“Never mind the first disagreeables, Mr. Foreman,” said Archibald, cheerfully. “I shall be the better of difficulties to begin with—if I only were begun.”

“We will not linger about that,” said Mr. Foreman, catching the contagion of his client’s cheerfulness, which, to tell the truth, was more in seeming than reality. “I shall write to Mr. Lumsden at once.”

Other arrangements had to be made before they left Portoran—the transfer of Alexander Semple’s lease to Mr. Ferguson being the principal matter which occupied them. Semple was a soft, spiritless man, of indolent temper; and no enterprise, and the bleak, unprofitable acres were certain to remain as unprofitable and bleak as ever during his occupancy. Already many times Mr. Coulter had sighed over them, and poured into the ears of their listless tenant vain hints, and unheeded remonstrances. Mr. Coulter was most pleasantly busied now devising the means for their fertilization, and, in company with Mr. Ferguson, had already taken various very long, wearisome, and delightful walks, partly from a neighborly regard for the interests of the broken man, and partly from his own entire devotion to his respectable and most important science, advising with the new farmer as to the various profitable and laborious processes necessary for these unpromising and barren fields. The rental Archibald Sutherland insisted should remain in the factor’s hands, or in Mr. Foreman’s hands, or in the Portoran branch of the British Linen Company’s Bank, if his zealous friends insisted on that, his own resolution being to spend nothing beyond the income he worked for, however small that might be at first. His own tastes had always been simple, and money the mere bits of gold and scraps of paper—had become precious in his eyes. There was little fear either that he should ever be a worshipper of the golden calf—the unrighteous Mammon. But Strathoran—his home—his birth-place—the house of his fathers!

He saw its turrets rising from among the trees as he turned his horse’s head from the pleasant threshold of Woodsmuir, to which he now paid his first visit. These fair slopes and hollows, the brown moor running far northward, the gray hills in the distance, with the red glory of the frosty January sunlight on their bare, uncovered heads. What were they now to him? What? Dearer, more precious than ever; the aim to which he looked forward through a dim vista of hard-working years; a prize to be won; a goal to be attained; a treasure to be brought by his own toil! Was there no sickening of the heart, as the young man, born and nurtured in that proud old house of Strathoran, the heir of all its inherited honors, looked forward to the lifetime of toil that lay before him, obscure, ignoble, unceasing? The office in Glasgow where he should be put on trial, and have the strange new experience of unknown masters, on whose favor depended all his prospects; the still more dim and unknown counting-house of Buenos Ayres, with its exile and estrangement from home-looks and language. Was not his heart sickening within him? No! Who that has felt his pulses quicken, and his heart beat, at the anticipation of a clear and honorable future, filled only with unencumbered labor, a healthful frame, a sound mind, and a great aim in view, could ask that question? Sickness, deadly and painful, overpowered Archibald Sutherland’s heart when he looked behind; that wild lee-shore of weakness, those fierce rocks of temptation and passion upon which his fortune and his honor had made disastrous shipwreck. These are the things to sicken hearts and crush them, not the bracing chill air that swept the path to which he began to bind his breast. The hill was steep, the way long, rough, laborious. What matter? There was hope, and mental health, and moral safety in his toils; a definite aim at its summit; an All-guiding Providence, giving strength to the toiler, and promising a blessing upon every righteous effort, to uphold and bear him on.

The cloud that had passed over that little, blue-eyed, gentle girl at the Tower—the new interest which occupied the mind of Mrs. Catherine, were known to Archibald in some degree, and interested him deeply. But the great secret—that Norman lived yet to be toiled, and hoped, and prayed for—was not communicated to either Archibald or Alice. They knew only that their friends believed him unjustly accused, and intended to labor for proof of that—proof which might be difficult enough to find, after the lapse of so many years—but the fact of the engagement between Lewis and Alice, was quite sufficient to account for the suddenly awakened anxiety concerning Norman’s innocence.

The first week of the new year was past: the next day little Alice was to return home. They were all sitting in Mrs. Catherine’s inner drawing-room, about her cheerful tea-table—Mrs. Catherine herself, Alice, Anne, Archibald, and Lewis. The spirits of the young people had risen; they were all hopeful, courageous, and conversing with that intimate and familiar kindliness which unites so much more closely and tenderly on the eve of a parting than at any other time. Alice was to sing to them—to sing as Anne and Archibald begged—that song of the ‘Oran’ which had moved them so deeply on the night of the new year. The sweet young voice had grown more expressive since that time; the gentle, youthful spirit had passed through greater vicissitudes in that week than in all its previous bright lifetime, and, therefore, the song was better rendered—its tinge of sadness—its warm breath of hope—

Anne met Archibald’s eyes with a supplicating glance in them as the melody ended. Her own were wet with sympathetic tears. Yes, for him who must count so many years of toil before he could see the evening star rise calm on the home-waves of Oran, she echoed the prayer, but more deeply, and with a thrill of still devouter earnestness, for that exiled brother who already had borne the burden of the long laborious day, so far from home and all its comforts, so far from hope and honor.

Alice sang again, a pretty little pastoral song of the district, which was a favorite with Lewis. He was leaning over her chair, and Anne, approaching Mrs. Catherine, took the opportunity of asking her about this ballad—whether it really had any connexion with Norman, or was but linked to him, by her own fancy.

“It is Norman’s song,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Ye know, child, that I like ballads that have the breath of life in them. Langsyne, Norman left that with me; the author of it was some student lad about Redheugh, that he liked well, and it has lain bye me ever since. I desired the bairn Alison to learn it. I am an auld fuil to heed such bairnly things, child; but it pleased me to hear her father’s daughter singing that. There was a kind of forgiveness and peace in it to the memory of the unhappy callant.—It was a foolish fancy, was it not, for an auld wife? But silence! let us hear her.”

And so, next morning, little Alice, very sadly, and with many tears, went away; Lewis and Anne accompanying her to Portoran. Alice wore a little ring of betrothal upon her slender finger, and carried with her a letter from Mrs. Catherine, stating all the circumstances of her engagement, and their conviction that they could prove to Mrs. Aytoun’s satisfaction the innocence of Norman. It had been thought best that Lewis should not write himself, until Mrs. Catherine had explained his peculiar position to the mother and brother of Alice; and they had arranged that he should follow her, very shortly, to Edinburgh, to present himself to her family, and urge his suit in person.

Very sad also was the leave-taking of Bessie and her friends at the Tower. Johnnie Halflin had bought a pretty little silk handkerchief for her, which Bessie, in simple fidelity, vowed never to part with. Jacky had bestowed a book, and some very beautiful moss, from a gray, old tombstone in the graveyard on Oranside, which, tradition said, covered the last resting-place of the heroine of an old, pathetic ballad, current in the countryside. Bessie let the book slide thanklessly to the bottom of her little “kist,” and was sadly at a loss what to do with the moss, which however, was finally thrust into the same repository. Poor Jacky had chosen her parting presents unhappily.And at last, they were away. The frost had broken, through the night, and it was another of those dull, drizzling, melancholy winter days. Lewis placed Alice, carefully wrapped up, and protected from the cold, in the corner of the same coach in which she had seen him first. Little Bessie was seated by her side, and leaving the Tower and all its pleasant neighborhood lying dark behind her, Alice Aytoun was whirled away home.

It cost her no inconsiderable amount of exertion and self-denial to have the tears and sadness sufficiently overcome to meet her mother’s greeting as she wished to do. But Alice schooled herself bravely, like a little hero, and conquered. They were home, in the old familiar room, by the well-known fireside. Mrs. Aytoun was smiling, as she had not smiled before since Alice went away. James was half-ashamed of being so unusually joyous. They had all her news to hear, all her three months’ history over again, in spite of the long recording letters.

“And what is this?” said Mrs. Aytoun, taking her daughter’s small white hand, upon which glittered the little token ring. “Is this another of those delicate gifts of Mrs. Catherine’s?”

Little Alice could not answer; the blood flushed over her face and neck. She stammered and trembled. Mrs. Aytoun looked at her, in alarm and wonder.

“Read this letter, mother,” whispered Alice, at last, putting Mrs. Catherine’s letter into her mother’s hands, and sinking upon a stool at her feet. “It will tell you all.”

James had left the room, a minute before. Mrs. Aytoun, somewhat agitated, opened the letter, and Alice laid her head upon her mother’s knee, and hid it in the folds of her dress. Mrs. Aytoun read:

Mrs. Aytoun was greatly agitated. James had entered the room, and stood in silent astonishment, as he looked at Alice clinging to her mother’s knee, and the letter trembling in Mrs. Aytoun’s hand. “Mother—Alice—what has happened? What is the matter?”

Mrs. Aytoun handed the letter to him in silence, and, lifting her daughter up, drew her close to her breast: “My Alice! my poor, simple bairn! why did I let you away from me?”

The girl clung to her mother, terrified, ashamed, and dizzy.—She trembled to hear some fatal sentence, parting her for ever from Lewis. She fancied she could never lift up her blushing face again, to speak of him, even if that terror were withdrawn: she could only lean on that kind breast, and cling, as is the nature of such gentle, dependent spirits. Anne Ross’s words were true.—Had Mrs. Aytoun but said that she must never see Lewis again, poor little Alice would have submitted without a struggle, and would have been right; she was safe in that wise guidance—she was not safe in her own.

But Mrs. Aytoun’s motherly lips gave forth no such arbitrary mandate. She rose, still holding Alice within her arm. “James,” she said, “that letter is a most important one: read it carefully.—We will join you again by-and-by.”

And leading and supporting her drooping daughter, Mrs. Aytoun went to her own room, and, seating herself there, began to question Alice.

And then the whole stream came flowing forth, hesitating and broken; how Lewis had travelled with her, and had been constantly at her side, ever since that momentous journey; how Anne had been her patient, kind, indulgent friend; how at last, upon that eventful New year’s night, Lewis and herself had been alone together—and then—and then—there followed some incoherent words, which Mrs. Aytoun could comprehend the purport of; how Anne came in, looking so chill and pale, and horror-stricken; how Mrs. Catherine next day took her into the little room, and almost broke the gentle heart that was beating so high now, with anxiety and suspense; how Anne returned at night with voice as tender and hand as gentle as her mother’s telling her that Norman was innocent; and then, how glad and happy they had all been together again—and then—if her mother could only see him—if she could only see Anne—they could tell her so much better!

Mrs. Aytoun was still anxious and pale, but her tremor of agitation was quieted.

“She must be a very kind, good girl, this Anne, Alice.”

Alice breathed more freely—if her mother had been very angry, was her simple reasoning, she would not have spoken so.

“She is very good—very kind, mother—like you, gentler than Mrs. Catherine; but she is not a girl, she is older than—than Lewis.”

Mrs. Aytoun smiled.

“How old is Lewis?”

The simple little heart began to beat with troubled joy.

“He is twenty-one, mother. It was his birthday just a week after I went to the Tower.”

Mrs. Aytoun did not speak for some time.

“Alice,” she said at last, “I must see this Lewis, and consult with James, before I make any decision—in the meantime you will be very patient, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, yes—I do not care how long—only—if you saw him, mother, if you just saw him, I know how you would like him!”

“Would I?” said Mrs. Aytoun, smiling: “well, we shall see; but now dry your eyes, and let us go back to James again.”

They returned to the parlor. James sat at the table, the letter lying before him, and his face exceedingly grave. He was very much disturbed and troubled. He did not well see what to do.

For some time there was little conversation between them—the mother and son consulted together with their grave looks. Little Alice, again sadly cast down, sat silent by the fireside. At last her brother addressed her with a sort of timidity, blushing almost as she did herself, when he mentioned the name.

“Alice, when does Mr. Ross come to Edinburgh?”

Mr. Ross! so cold it sounded and icy—would not Lewis be his brother?

“In a fortnight,” murmured Alice.

“A fortnight! then, mother, I think my best plan is to go down to Strathoran myself and make inquiries. In a matter which involves two such important things as the happiness of Alice, and the honor of our family, there is no time for delay. I shall start to-morrow.”

“Can you spare the time?” said his mother—while Alice looked up half-glad, half-sorrowful—it might keep Lewis from coming to Edinburgh—at the same time, James was so sure to be convinced by Lewis’s irresistible eloquence, and the gentler might of Anne.

“I must spare it, mother,” was the answer, “my ordinary business is not so important as this. What do you think—am I right?”

“Perfectly right, James,” said his mother, promptly, “I was about to advise this myself; and if you find anything satisfactory to report, you can bid this Lewis still come. I shall want to see who it is, who has superseded me in my little daughter’s heart.”

“Oh, no, mother—no, no,” cried Alice, imploringly. “Do not say that.”

James Aytoun rose and laid his hand caressingly upon his little sister’s fair hair. She had been a child when he was rising into manhood. He thought her a child still—and with the grave difficulties of this, very unexpected problem, which they had to solve, there mingled a half-mirthful, half-sad, sort of incredulous wonder. Little Alice had done a very important piece of business independently and alone. Little Alice had the sober glory of matronhood hanging over her fair, girlish forehead. Little Alice was engaged!