GILES Sympelton ran from the glen. The lad was light of foot, and inspired with a worthy errand. Headlong, over burn, and ditch, and hedgerow he plunged on—past the long woods of Strathoran—past the gate where stood some of Lord Gillravidge’s household, sheer on to the Tower. The door was open—he darted in—rushed up stairs—and in headlong haste plunged into Mrs. Catherine’s inner drawing-room. Mrs. Catherine herself was seated there alone. She looked up in wonder, as, with flushed face and disordered hair, and breathless from his precipitate speed, the lad suddenly presented himself before her.

“I want your carriage—I want you to send your carriage with me—for a dying lad—a sick boy who has no shelter. Give me your carriage!”

“Young man,” said Mrs. Catherine, “what do you mean?” She rose and approached him. “You are the lad that was in temptation at Strathoran. Have you seen the evil of your ways?”

“Your carriage—I want your carriage!” gasped poor Giles Sympelton. “Order it first, and I will tell you afterwards.”

Mrs. Catherine did not hesitate. She rang the bell, and ordered the carriage immediately.

“Immediately—immediately!” cried the lad. “The cold may kill him.”

“Sit down,” said Mrs. Catherine, “till it is ready; and tell me what has moved you so greatly.”

The youth wiped his hot forehead, and recovered his breath.

“The cottagers up the glen—their name is Macalpine—Lord Gillravidge has evicted them. There is not a house standing—they are all unroofed. The people have no shelter. And the lad—the dying lad?”

Mrs. Catherine rose. Amazement, grief, and burning anger contended in her face.

“What say you? The alien has dared to cast out the Macalpines of Oranmore from their own land! I cannot believe it—it is not possible!”

“The lad is dying!” cried young Sympelton, too much absorbed with what he had seen to heed Mrs. Catherine’s exclamation. “They are covering him with cloaks and plaids—they say the cold will kill him. It is a terrible sight!—old men, and women, and little children, and the dying lad! Not a roof in the whole glen to shelter them!”

Mrs. Catherine left the room, and went down stairs. An energetic word sent double speed into Andrew’s movements as he prepared the carriage. Mrs. Euphan Morison was ordered to put wine into it; blankets and cloaks were added, and Mrs. Catherine, with her own hands, thrust Giles into the carriage.

“Bring the lad here, to the Tower: come back to me yourself. Bring the aged and feeble with you, as many as can come. Mind that you return to me your own self. And now, sir, away!”

The carriage dashed out of the court, and at a pace to which Mrs. Catherine’s horses were not accustomed, took the way to Oranmore.

Fitzherbert and Whittret had left the glen, with their band of attendants. The Macalpines were alone; the shadows of the March evening began to gather darkly upon the hills. In Big Duncan’s roofless cottage, on a bed, hastily constructed before the fire, and shielded with a rude canopy of plaids, lay the sick lad, shivering and moaning, as the gust of wind which swept through the vacant window-frame, and burst in wild freedom overhead, shook the frail shelter over him, and tossed the coverings off his emaciated limbs. Mr. Lumsden stood beside him. In the first shock of that great misfortune, the minister endeavored to speak hopeful, cheering words—of earthly comfort yet to come—of heavenly strength and consolation, which no oppressing hand could bereave them of.—Homeless and destitute, in the stern silence of their restrained emotions, the Macalpines heard him; some vainly, the burning sense of personal wrong momentarily eclipsing even their religion; some with a noble patience which, had they been Romans of an older day, would have gained them the applauses of a world. These brief and lofty words of his were concluded with a prayer. The March evening was darkening, the wind sweeping chill and fierce above them. The tremulous old man leaned on the sick lad’s bed; the grandmother crouched by the fire upon her grandchild’s stool. Big Duncan Macalpine stood on his own threshold; without, close to the vacant window, stood the neighbors who could not find admission into the interior, and from the midst of them the voice of supplication ascended up to heaven, “For strength, for patience, for forgiveness to their enemy.”

A consultation followed. Mr. Lumsden was looking out eagerly for the chaise from Portoran. It could not arrive in less than an hour, Big Duncan said; and the minister with his own hands, endeavored to fix up more securely a shelter for the suffering lad.

“What are we to do?” exclaimed one of the Macalpines.—”Neighbors, what is to become of us?—where are we to gang?”

A loud scream from a young mother interrupted him; her infant was seized with the fearful cough and convulsive strugglings of croup. The poor young woman pressed it to her breast, and rushed to her own desolate cottage. Alas! what shelter was there? The roof lay in broken pieces on the ground; window and door were carried away; the fire had sunk into embers. She threw herself down before it, and tried to chafe the little limbs into warmth. Other mothers followed her. All the means known to their experience were adopted in vain. The terrible hoarse cough continued—the infant’s face was already black.

“What are we to do?” exclaimed the same voice again. “Are we to see our bairns die before our eyes? Duncan, we let them destroy our houses at your word! What are we to do?”

“If ye had dune onything else,” said Big Duncan Macalpine, “we would have had the roof of a jail ower our heads before this time—and it’s my hope there is nae faint heart among us, that would have left the wives and the bairns to fend for themsels.—Neighbors, I know not what to do; if we could but get ower this night, some better hope might turn up for us.”

His sister brushed past them as he spoke, carrying hot water to bathe the suffering infant—not hot enough, alas! to do it any good. The other women were heaping peats upon a fire, to make ready more; the old people within Duncan’s house crouched and shivered by the narrow hearth; the little children clinging to the skirts of their parents, were sobbing with the cold.

“Get ower the night?” said Roderick Macalpine, “we might get along oursels on the hillside; but what’s to come of them?” and he waved his hand towards the helpless circle by the fire—the aged, the dying, the children.

“Sirs,” said the old man coming forward, fancying as it seemed that they appealed to him, “let us go to the kirkyard. You can pit up shelters there—no man can cast ye out of the place where your forebears are sleeping. If they take all the land beside, ye have yet a right to that.”

The listeners shrank and trembled—the old man with his palsied head, and withered face, and wandering light blue eyes, proposing to them so ghastly a refuge. The Macalpines were not driven so utterly to extremity. It remained for these more enlightened days to send Highland cottars, in dire need, to seek a miserable shelter above the dust of their fathers.

The consultation was stayed—no one dared answer the old man—when suddenly Giles Sympelton was seen running in haste up the glen. He had brought the carriage as high as it could come, and now flew forward himself to get the invalid transferred to it. Big Duncan lifted the sick lad in his arms, and carried him away, while Giles lingered to deliver Mrs. Catherine’s orders.

“Let me take the old people with me,” he said, eagerly, to Mr. Lumsden. “The carriage is large—the old lady said I was to bring as many as could come. It is Mrs. Catherine Douglas, of the Tower—do not let us lose time, Sir: get the oldest people down to the carriage.”

The Macalpines did not cheer—they were too grave for that; but the lad’s hand was grasped in various honest rough ones, and “blessings on him!” were murmured from many tongues. Three of the most feeble could be accommodated in the carriage—at least, could be crowded beneath its roof, while the sick youth was placed on the cushions, and his mother sat at his feet.

“Is there anything more I can do?” said Giles, looking in grief and pity upon the agonized face of the young mother, sitting within the dismantled cottage waiting while her neighbors prepared another hot-bath for her child.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Lumsden. “I thank you heartily, young gentleman, for what you have already done. You may have saved that poor lad’s life by your promptitude. Tell Mrs. Catherine that every arrangement that can possibly be made for the comfort of the Macalpines, I will attend to. Good night—I thank you most sincerely. You will never repent this day’s work, I am sure.”

Giles lingered still.

“How is the child? will it die?” he asked anxiously of one of the women.

“Bless the innocent, the water’s hot this time,” was the answer; “it’s no moaning sae muckle. Eh, the Lord forbid it should die!”

Giles turned and ran down the glen, saw his charge safely deposited in the carriage, and, mounting beside the coachman, drove more leisurely to the Tower.

Before they had been very long away, the chaise arrived from Portoran. The infant’s sufferings were abated; it had sunk into a troubled, exhausted sleep. Mr. Lumsden filled the chaise immediately with the feebler members of the houseless community. It was arranged that the rest should walk to Portoran—it was twelve miles—a weary length of way, where the minister pledged himself they should find accommodations. Big Duncan and Roderick Macalpine voluntarily remained in the glen, to protect the household goods of their banished people.

The chaise had driven off—the pedestrians were already on the high road. Duncan and Roderick, wrapped in their plaids, had seated themselves by the peat-fire in Duncan’s roofless dwelling.—The stern composure upon the faces of these two men, lighted by the red glow of the fire, as they sat there in the rapidly darkening twilight, told a tale of the intense excitement of that day, and now of the knawing sorrow, the weight of anxiety that possessed them. Mr. Lumsden stood at the door, his pony’s bridle in his hand.

“Mind what I have said,” he cried, as he left them. “Keep up your hearts and do not despair. You will not need to leave the country—you will find friends—only keep up your hearts and be strong. God will not forsake you.”

They returned his good-night with deep emotion. This peaceful glen, that yesternight had slept beneath the moonbeams in the placid sleep of righteous and honorable labor—strange policy that could prefer some paltry gain to the continuance of the healthful homejoy of these true children, and heirs of the soil!

The two Macalpines sat together in silence, their eyes fixed on the red glow of the fire before them. By-and-by Roderick’s gaze wandered—first to the numberless little domestic tokens round, which spoke so pitiful a language—the basket of cakes was still on the table, the “big wheel” at which Jean Macalpine had been spinning so busily on the previous night, stood thrust aside in the corner. His eyes stray further—through the vacant window-frame he saw, upon the other side of the Oran, his own roofless house; he saw the cradle from which his child had been hurriedly snatched, lying broken within; he saw the household seat in which, only some five winters since, he had placed bonnie Jeanie Macalpine, a bride then, the mother of three children now. His hearth was black—his house desolate—Jeanie and her heart failed him: “Oh, man! Duncan!” exclaimed poor Roderick, as he hid his face in his hands in an agony of grief.

Big Duncan Macalpine’s dark eyes were dilated with the stern and passionate force of his strong resolution; his clear, brave, honest face was turned steadfastly towards the fire.

“Roderick,” he said, emphatically, “I daurna trust mysel to look about me. Keep your eyes away from the ruined houses—look forward, man. Have I no my ain share? is my house less desolate than yours?”

In the meantime, Giles Sympelton had arrived with his charge at the Tower; and having seen the sick youth placed in a warm room, with kindly hands about him, and the old people settled comfortably by the great kitchen fire, was finally solacing himself after the labors of this strangely exciting day, at Mrs. Catherine’s well-appointed dinner-table, with Mrs. Catherine herself opposite him. She was singularly kind. In spite of much temptation, and many bad associates, Giles Sympelton had remained unsophisticated and simple. The fear of ridicule, which might in other circumstances have induced him to resist the attractions of this stately old lady, with whom he had been brought so strangely in contact, was removed from the lad now—he gave way to the fascination. With natural naivete and simplicity, he told her his whole brief history; how of late he had written very seldom to his father; how he had become disgusted with Fitzherbert, and disliked Gillravidge, and was so very sorry for “poor Sutherland;” how he vowed never to enter Lord Gillravidge’s house again, if “that noble fellow, Macalpine,” were turned out of his; and, finally, how determined was he to keep his vow—to send for his servant, and his possessions, and to go into Portoran that very night: he was resolved not to spend another night in Strathoran.

“I have houseroom for you,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Let your servant bring your apparel here—I am not straitened for chambers. You have done good service to the Macalpines, as becomes a young heart. I rejoice to have you in my house. You should send for your man without delay.”

The youth hesitated—met Mrs. Catherine’s eye—blushed—looked down, and muttered something about troubling her.

“You will be no trouble to me—I have told you that. What is your name?”

Sympelton looked up surprised and bashful.

“Giles Sympelton,” he said.

“Sympelton?” said Mrs. Catherine. “Was the bairn that died in Madeira thirty years ago, a friend to you?”

“My father had a sister,” said young Sympelton; “he was very fond of her—who died very long ago, years before I was born.”

Mrs. Catherine was silent, and seemed much moved.

“Friend!” she said, “I had one brother who was the very light of my eyes, and there was a gentle blue-eyed bairn, in yon far away island, who went down with him to the grave. The name of her was Helen. He died in the morning, and she died at night, and on the same day her brother and I buried our dead. If you are of her blood, you are doubly welcome!”

“My aunt’s name was Helen,” said Giles, “and she was only fifteen when she died. I have heard my father speak of her often.”

Mrs. Catherine was so long silent after that, that the young man began to feel constrained and uneasy, and to think that, after all, he had better try the accommodation of the “Sutherland Arm’s” in Portoran. All the circumstances of Mrs. Catherine’s great grief were brought vividly before her by his name. Helen Sympelton!—how well she remembered the attenuated child-woman, maturing brilliantly under the deadly heat of that consumptive hectic, who had accompanied Sholto to the grave.

She spoke at last with an effort:

“I have some country neighbors coming to me this night. You may not be caring for meeting them: therefore do not come up the stair, unless you like. Andrew will let you see your room, and you will find sundry pleasant books in my library; and, till your man comes, Andrew will wait your orders.”

Giles intimated his perfect satisfaction in the prospect of meeting Mrs. Catherine’s country neighbors; and after some further kindly words, and a beaming sunshiny smile, the old lady left the room.

Mr. Lumsden also had by this time received, and provided accommodation for, his share of the ejected Macalpines. The families of Roderick and Duncan were in his own hospitable Manse. Some of the others had been received, in their way down, into the farm-house of Whiteford. Duncan Roy had stopped to pour his story, in indignant Celtic vehemence, into the ears of Mr. Ferguson, and, with his pretty sister, Flora, had been taken into Woodsmuir. The others were provided for in various houses in Portoran—the most of them in genuine neighborly sympathy and compassion, and some for the hire which Mr. Lumsden offered, when other motives were wanting. They were all settled, in comparative comfort at last; all but those two stern watching men, who sat through the gloom of the wild March night, within the roofless walls of Big Duncan’s house, watching the humble possessions of the Macalpines of Oranmore.

His manifold labors over, Mr. Lumsden took a hurried dinner, and proceeded to dress. He had been invited to the Tower, to Mrs. Catherine’s quiet evening gathering of country neighbors. His sister endeavored to dissuade him, on the ground of his fatigue. Mr. Lumsden laughed—he always did laugh when fatigue was mentioned. Then it was absolutely necessary that he should see how poor Kenneth Macalpine had borne his removal: and then—probably Mr. Lumsden had some additional inducement, private to himself, which we cannot exactly condescend upon.Miss Lumsden excused herself from accompanying him. Her brother had done his part for the poor Macalpines—it was her turn now. The gray pony too was not quite so invulnerable as its master. It owned to the fatigue of the day, in a very decided disinclination to leave its comfortable stable, so Mr. Lumsden took his seat beside Walter Foreman in the gig, and proceeded to the Tower.

It was not unusual for Mrs. Catherine to have these gatherings. They were very simple affairs. She liked to bring the young people together; she liked herself, now and then, to have a pleasant domestic chat with the elders. Everybody liked those quiet and easy parties, to which the guests came in their ordinary dress, and enjoyed themselves after their own fashion, without restraint or ceremony; and everybody, who had the good fortune to be on Mrs. Catherine’s list of favorites, had most pleasant recollections of the ruddy inner drawing-room, at these especial times.

Giles Sympelton paid another visit to poor Kenneth Macalpine after dinner. He found him sleeping pleasantly in the warm, cheerful, light apartment, his mother watching with tearful joy by his bedside, and Mrs. Euphan Morison sitting in portly state by the fire. Widow Macalpine whispered thanks and blessings, and added, that, “he hadna sleeped sae quiet, since ever they were warned out o’ the glen.” Giles withdrew with very pleasant feelings, and walking up to the room prepared for him, where his servant already waited, proceeded to dress.

This important operation was performed very carefully, some dreamy idea of “astonishing the natives” floating through his boyish brain the while. Giles, simple lad as he was, was yet a gentleman—he had no flashy finery about him—his dress was perfectly plain and simple. He was satisfied, however, and felt he would make an impression.

Ada Mina Coulter’s pretty, girlish face was the first he noticed on entering the room. He did make an impression. Ada knew very pleasantly, as she drooped her brown curls before the glance of the stranger, that the blue eyes from whence that glance came, belonged to a lord’s son—an Honorable Giles.

Mrs. Catherine introduced him, with kindly mention of his day’s labor, to her elder friends—to Lewis Ross and Anne—and then committing him to their charge, returned to her conversation with the fathers and mothers. Giles by no means made the impression he expected on that party—he had a feeling of old friendship for Anne—a slight idea of rivalry in respect to Lewis—but consoled himself pleasantly half an hour after, by Ada Coulter’s side, putting her into a very agreeable state of flutter and tremulousness. Ada was younger than Alice Aytoun—was but a little way past her sixteenth birth-day indeed, and was not yet accustomed to the homage of young gentlemen—and an Honorable Giles!

There was great indignation concerning the ejection of the Macalpines, and as soon as it was known that Giles had been present, a little crowd gathered round him. He told the story with great feeling; described Big Duncan Macalpine’s conduct with enthusiasm; touched slightly on his own fears for poor Kenneth; and laughed when he told them of his race. Mrs. Catherine drew near at that point of the story, and extending her hand over Ada’s curles, patted him kindly on the head. The Honorable Giles felt rather indignant—it was making a child of him. No matter—Ada Coulter thought him a hero.

A graver group were discussing the subject at the other end of the room. Mr. Lumsden told the story there. Mr. Coulter and Mr. Ferguson were bending forward to him with anxious faces.—The ladies were no less interested. Anne Ross leant on the sofa at Mrs. Coulter’s elbow. Marjory Falconer stood apart, with her hand upon the back of a chair, and her strong and expressive face swept by whirlwinds—indignation, grief, sympathy—all mellowed, however, by a singular shade of something that looked very like proud and affectionate admiration—of whom was Marjory Falconer proud?

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Lumsden, “you must assist me.—I have set my heart upon it, Mr. Coulter, that these families shall not be sent penniless to Canada. I don’t like emigration at all, but in this case it would be nothing less than banishment—what can we do for them?”

Mr. Coulter took a pinch of snuff.

“It is not a bad thing emigration, Mr. Lumsden; if there was no emigration, what would become of these vast waste lands? I suppose we might pour our whole population into the backwoods, and there would still be unreclaimed districts. Depend upon it, Sir, it comes very near a sin to let land, that should be bringing forth seed and bread, lie waste and desolate, when there are men to work it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Lumsden, “we won’t argue about that. It may be right enough—I only say I don’t like emigration; and we have abundance of waste lands at home, Mr. Coulter; but in the case of the Macalpines, it could bear no aspect but banishment.—I believe they would almost starve first. What can we do for them?”

There was a pause of consideration.

“Robert,” said Mrs. Ferguson.

Her husband looked round.

“When you commence your improvements, you will require many laborers—would not the Macalpines do? We were thinking of taking Flora to be one of our maids at Woodsmuir, you know—other people, no doubt, would do the same. What do you think?”

Mr. Ferguson spent a moment in deliberation; then he looked up to Mr. Coulter inquiringly.

“Not a bad idea,” said the agriculturist.

“I was thinking of that myself,” said Mr. Ferguson. “There is not a very great number of them: we shall surely be able to keep them in the district; and there is always the hope,” the good factor endeavored to look very sanguine and cheerful—”there is always the hope of Mr. Archibald’s return.”

No one made any response; saving himself and Mrs. Catherine, no one was sanguine on that subject: they were very glad to join in good wishes for the broken laird; but saw all the improbabilities in a stronger light than his more solicitous friends could do.

“If he does,” said Mr. Lumsden, “if he ever can redeem the estate again, I suppose the Macalpines are safe.”

Mr. Ferguson looked with gratitude at the minister. It was pleasant to have his hope homologated even so slightly. “Safe? ay, without doubt or fear! there is not a kinder heart in all Scotland. How many men will there be, Mr. Lumsden? how many able men?”

Mr. Lumsden entered into a calculation. We need not follow him through the list of Duncans, and Donalds, and Rodericks; there were eleven fathers of families. Duncan Roy and his sister Flora were orphans; besides, there were six or seven young men, and a plentiful undergrowth of boys of all ages and sizes.

“Say sixteen men,” said Mr. Ferguson, “the rest could be herds, or—there is always work for these halflin lads. What do you say, Mr. Coulter?”

Mr. Coulter’s deliverance was favorable. Mrs. Catherine had urgent need of a plough-man, she suddenly discovered. Mrs. Coulter thought she “could do with” another maid. The Macalpines were in a fair way of being settled.

“Mind what I say,” said Mrs. Catherine, “its only for a time. They shall recover their ancient holdings, every inch of them; their right to the land is as good as Archie’s; the clansman holds it on as clear a title as the chief. Mind, I put this in the bargain; that whenever the estate returns to its rightful owner, the Macalpines return to Oranmore.”

Mr. Ferguson’s eyes glistened. He seemed to be looking forward to some apocryphal future gladness, which he dared hardly venture to believe in, yet to which his heart could not choose but cling. God speed the adventurer in the new world!

Mr. Lumsden proceeded down stairs immediately, to visit the aged and sick who had been brought to the Tower: in a short time he returned. The guests young and old were more amalgamated than before; they were sitting in a wide circle round Mrs. Catherine’s chair. They did not perceive the minister’s entrance: for some reason known to himself he stepped behind the window-curtain. He was looking out upon the clear, cold, starry night.

“Bless me,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “Mr. Lumsden is in high favor with us all. It’s a wonder a fine young man like him has not got a wife yet.”

Marjory Falconer looked thundery; she had been aware of a private telegraphic sign made by the hand of a certain tall dark figure, which was looking out upon the night.

“All in good time,” said Mrs. Coulter, “he is but a young man yet.”

“How old would you say?” inquired Mrs. Bairnsfather.

“Oh! one or two and thirty perhaps—not more.”

“Not more!” Mrs. Bairnsfather had a vindictive recollection of sundry invasions of her husband’s parish. “I’ll warrant him a good five years older than that.”

“Well, well,” said the good-humored agriculturist. “He is not too old to be married yet, that is a consolation.”

“What would you say to Miss Ada Mina!” continued Mrs. Bairnsfather. “Miss Jeanie, I suppose, I must not speak of now.”

Ada Coulter shook her curls indignantly. She, full sixteen, and receiving the homage of an Honorable Giles, to be “scorned” with a minister of five and thirty!

“Or Miss Ross?” said the mischief-making Mrs. Bairnsfather.—”They would make an excellent couple, I am sure.”

“I won’t have that,” said Lewis. “I have engaged Anne, Mrs. Bairnsfather; if she does not take my man, I’ll disown her.”

“Anne, I want you,” said Marjory Falconer: “come here.”

“Or Miss Falconer herself?” said the indefatigable Mrs. Bairnsfather turning sharp round, and directing the attention of all and sundry to Marjory’s face, perfectly scorching as it was, with one of her overwhelming, passionate blushes, “and that would secure the contrast which people say is best for peace and happiness.”

Miss Falconer tried to laugh—the emphasis on the word peace had not escaped her; she slid her arm through Anne’s and left the room. The dark figure behind the curtain, followed her with his eye; laughed within himself a mighty secret laugh, and came out of his concealment, to the immense discomfiture of Mrs. Bairnsfather, and the great mirth of Giles and Ada.

“That abominable woman!” exclaimed Marjory, as they went down stairs.

“Hush,” said Anne, “she is the minister’s wife.”

“The minister’s wife! there is never any peace where she is.—She is a pretty person to think she can understand—”

“Who, Marjory?”

“Oh,” said Marjory, with a less vehement blush, “it’s because John Lumsden is so popular in Strathoran—you know that.—Come, let us go and see Kenneth Macalpine.”

They did go; poor Kenneth was feverish and unable for any further excitement, so they spoke a few kindly encouraging words to his mother, and left the room. Mrs. Euphan Morison had retreated to her own apartment, and sat there by the fire sulky and dignified—the doctor had absolutely forbidden her administering to the invalid a favorite preparation of her own which she was sure would cure him.

Marjory and Anne turned to the great, warm, shining kitchen. The patriarch of Oranmore was dozing in a chair by the fire—the old man’s mind was unsettled; he had returned to his native Gaelic, and had been speaking in wandering and incoherent sentences of the church-yard, and the right they had to the graves of their fathers. An aged woman, the grand-aunt of Duncan Roy and Flora, who had brought up the orphans, sat opposite to him, muttering and wringing her withered hands in pain. She had been long afflicted with rheumatism, and the exposure made her aged limbs entirely useless. She had to be lifted into her chair—and aggravating her bodily pain was the anguish of her mind: “The bairns—the bairns! what will become of the bairns?”

The other Macalpine was a feeble woman, widowed and childless, to whom her honorable and kindly kindred had made up, so far as temporal matters went, the loss of husband and of children. She was rocking herself to and fro, and uttering now and then a low unconscious cry, as she brooded over the ruin of her friends, and her own helpless beggary. The firmament was utterly black, for her—she had no strength, no hope.

Marjory and Anne lingered for some time, endeavoring to cheer and comfort these two helpless women. Mrs. Catherine’s maids, carefully superintended by Jacky, had done everything they could to make them comfortable; and before the young ladies left the kitchen, Flora Macalpine had entered, and was at her aunt’s side, telling of the reception Duncan and herself had met with at Woodsmuir, and how Mrs. Ferguson had half promised to take her into the nursery to be “bairn’s-maid” to the little Fergusons. The old woman was a little comforted—very little; for if Flora was away in service, who could take care of her painful, declining years?

Jacky followed Anne and Marjory out of the kitchen. They were absorbed with this matter of the ejectment, and so did not observe her. Marjory drew her companion to the library.

“Do come in here, Anne. I don’t want to go up stairs yet.”

They went in, Jacky following—she seemed determined not to lose the opportunity.

“If ye please, Miss Anne—”

“Well, Jacky?”

Jacky hesitated—she did not know how to go on, so she repeated: “If ye please, Miss Anne—” and stopped again.

“What is it, Jacky?” said Anne, “tell me.”

“If ye please, will ye let me go with ye, Miss Anne?” said Jacky, in a burst. “I ken how to—to behave mysel, and to attend to a lady, and I’ll never give ye ony trouble, and I’ll do whatever I’m bidden. Oh, Miss Anne, will ye let me go?”

“What has put that into your head, Jacky?” exclaimed Anne.

Jacky could not tell what had put it into her head, inasmuch as any explanation might have shown Anne that the singular elf before her had, by some intuition peculiar to herself, made very tolerable progress in the study of those important matters which of late had occupied so much of their thoughts, and hopes, and consultations in Merkland and the Tower: so she merely repeated:

“Oh, if ye please, Miss Anne, will ye let me go?”

Anne was somewhat puzzled.

“You are too young to be my maid, Jacky,” she said.

“Oh, if ye please, Miss Anne, I ken how to do—and I’m no idle when there’s ony purpose for’t—and I aye do what I’m bidden, except—” Jacky hung her head, “except whiles.”

“But Anne wants a great big woman, like me, Jacky,” said Marjory Falconer, laughing, “an old woman perhaps.”

“But if ye please, Miss Falconer,” said Jacky, seriously, “an old woman wouldna do—an old woman wouldna be so faithful and—and—” Jacky paused, her conscience smiting her: was not the Squire of the redoubtable Britomart an old woman? Whereupon there ensued in Jacky’s mind a metaphysical discussion as to whether Glauce or Mrs. Elspat Henderson was the best type of the class of ancient serving-women—remaining undecided upon which point, she had nothing for it but to repeat the prayer of her petition: “Oh, Miss Anne, will you let me go?”

“Do you intend to take a maid with you, Anne?” asked Marjory.

“Yes.”

“Then you should take Jacky by all means.”

Anne hesitated.

“You forget, Jacky, that it is not I, but Mrs. Catherine, who must decide this.”

“Oh, if ye please, Mrs. Catherine will let me go, Miss Anne, if you’re wanting me.”

“And your mother, Jacky?”

“My mother’s no needing me, Miss Anne.”

“Well, we will see about it,” said Anne, smiling; “as you seem to have quite made up your mind, and decided on the matter. I will speak to Mrs. Catherine, Jacky. We shall see.”

Jacky made an uncouth courtesy and vanished.

“Is it Edinburgh you are going to, Anne?” said Marjory, shooting a keen glance upon her friend’s face.

“I shall be in Edinburgh,” said Anne, evasively.

“Why, Anne!” exclaimed Marjory, “must one not even know where you are going? What is this secret journey of yours?”

“It is no secret journey, Marjory. I am going farther east than Edinburgh—to the sea-side.”

“To the sea-side!” Marjory looked amazed. “You are not delicate, Anne Ross. What are you going to do at the sea-side?”

“Nothing,” said Anne.

“Nothing! You have not any friends there—you are going away quite by yourself! Is anything the matter, Anne? Tell me what you are going to do.”

“I would tell you very gladly, Marjory, if I could. My errand is quite a private one: when it is accomplished, you shall hear it all.”

The blood rushed in torrents to Marjory Falconer’s face.

“You cannot trust me!” she exclaimed. “Anne, I do not care for Mrs. Bairnsfather’s petty insults. I have been too careless of forms, perhaps—perhaps I have made people think me rude and wild, when I was only striving to reach a better atmosphere than they had placed me in—but you, Anne Ross—you to think me unworthy of confidence!”

“Hush—hush, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray do not begin to be suspicious—it does not become you at all. I had a brother once, Marjory—as people say, a most generous, kind, good brother—whose name lies under the blot of a great crime. He was innocent—but the world believed him guilty. I am going to try—by what quiet and humble means are in my power—to remove this undeserved stain. If I succeed, I shall have a very moving story to tell you: if I do not succeed, let us never speak of it again. In any case, I know you will keep my secret.”

Marjory pressed her friend’s hand, and did not speak. She remembered dimly having heard of some great sorrow connected with Mr. Ross’s (of Merkland) death, and was ashamed and grieved now, that she had pressed her inquiries so far. Marjory Falconer, like Lewis Ross, was learning lessons: the rapidly developing womanhood, which sent those vehement flushes to her cheek, and overpowered her sometimes with agonies of shame, was day by day asserting itself more completely. A few more paroxysms, and it would have gained the victory.