THE bright weeks of May stole on rapidly, and Anne had made no advance in her search. Little Alice Aytoun, when she came to visit her, clung round her neck anxiously, lifting up beseeching eyes to her face, but Anne had no word of hopeful answer to give. Her own heart was sinking day by day; the window of Patrick Lillie’s study was still shut up and dark; the old servant whom they had left behind them could give no information as to their return. Anne was compelled to confess to herself that her plan had failed—that except for her dim and mysterious knowledge of these singular Lillies, she had not made a single step of progress.

Then Lewis wrote letters, slightly querulous, requiring her presence at home—and Mrs. Catherine sent one characteristic note promising, “if ye will be a good bairn and come back, maybe to go with ye myself, when the weather is more suiting for the seaside.” She was doing no good in Aberford; so with a heavy heart Anne returned home.

The first day after her arrival at Merkland, she visited the Mill. With what strange feelings swelling in her heart did she draw the child to her side, and take into her own its small soft hand. The little strange exotic Lilie, the wonder of the quiet parish—was she indeed a Lilias Rutherford?—a daughter of the banished Norman?—her own nearest kin and relative?

“Jacky Morison’s been up this morning already, Miss Anne,” said Mrs. Melder. “Indeed, and ye may think muckle o’ yoursel, Lilie my woman—baith leddy and maid comin anceerrant to see ye, the first thing after their home-coming. She’s an awfu’ strange lassie yon, Miss Anne; ane would think she had gotten some word o’ the bairn that naebody else kens. She was aye unco fond o’ her, but now it’s Miss Lilie every word.”

Strange indeed! these intuitive perceptions of Jacky’s puzzled Anne greatly.

“That was what they called Lilie at home,” said the child thoughtfully.

“Ay, listen till her; I dinna misdoubt it, Miss Anne—the folk that sent a’ yon bonnie things, maun be weel off in this world.”

“Will you come and walk with me, Lilie?” said Anne: “see what a beautiful day it is.”

The child assented eagerly, and trying on her bonnet, Anne led her out. They went to the foot of the tree on which were carved the names of those two exiles—Norman and Marion. It was a fit resting-place for their sister and their child. Anne seated herself on the turf, and placed Lilie by her side.

“Can you tell me where your home is, Lilie?”

“Away yonder,” said Lilie, “far away, over the sea.”

“And what like is it?” said Anne, “do you remember?”

“A bonnie, bonnie place—where there’s brighter light and warmer days; and grand flowers far bigger than any in Strathoran; but its lang, lang to sail, and whiles there were loud winds and storms, and Lilie wasna weel.”

“Would you like to go home, Lilie?” said Anne.

“I would like to go to mamma. I would like to go to my own mamma; but—mamma doesna call yon place home.”

“What does she call it, Lilie?”

“When mamma was putting Lilie into the big ship, she said Lilie was coming home; and maybe she would come hersel for Lilie.”

“And how did she look when she said that?” said Anne.

The child began to cry.

“She put down her head—my mamma’s bonnie head—down into her hands, this way; and then she began to greet, like me—oh, my mamma!”

Anne drew the little girl’s head into her lap, and wiped away the tears. “You would be very glad to see mamma, Lilie, if she came here? she will come perhaps some day.”

“Do you ken my mamma?” said Lilie eagerly. “Did she tell you she was coming?”

“No,” said Anne, “but when she comes, you will take my hand, and say, ‘Mamma, this is my friend;’ will you not, and introduce me to her?”

The child looked brightly up:

“Eh, Lilie will be blythe! blythe!—but if mamma were coming, what would Lilie call you?”

“You would call me aunt,” said Anne, her eyes filling as she looked upon the little face lying on her knee. “Your Aunt Anne that found you out, when you came a little stranger to the Mill.”

Lilie rose to wind her small arms round Anne’s neck.

“But you’re no Lilie’s aunt—I wish you were Lilie’s aunt—then you would take me to live at Merkland.”

“Would you like to live at Merkland, Lilie?”

“Whiles,” said the child; “no in bonnie days like this, but whiles—Jacky says I’m a lady—am I a lady?”

“Not till you are old, like me; you will be a lady then.”

“But Jacky says I’m a young lady,” reiterated Lilie; “does Jacky no ken?”

“We will ask mamma when she comes,” said Anne.

The little face became radiant:

“Eh! when mamma comes!—will you be glad too, like Lilie?—and will they a’ be there? Papa and Lawrie? What way do you put your head down? then your eyelashes come upon your cheek, and then you grow like—”

“Like whom, Lilie?”

“My papa. If mamma comes, will they a’ come—papa and Lawrie?”

“Who is Lawrie, Lilie?” The name was a still further corroboration; there was something touching in the exile calling his son by his father’s name.

“Lilie’s brother. He is near as tall as you, and he’s like papa.”

“And you think I am like papa,” said Anne, tremulously.

“Whiles, when you hold down your head, and look sad.”

“Does papa look sad?”

“No,” said Lilie, “but when you look as if you would greet, then you grow like him; and Lawrie never greets, and yet he’s like him, too. What way is that?”

“And do they call you Miss Lilie at home?” said Anne, at once to evade the difficult question submitted to her, and to ascertain something of the worldly comforts of her banished brother. Mrs. Melder’s guess was no doubt correct: the box which had been sent to Lilie could come from no poor house.

“No papa, or mamma, or Lawrie, but the maids and English John, and Jose—for papa’s no like Robert Melder; he’s a rich gentleman.”

“And why did they send you here?” exclaimed Anne, more as expressing her own astonishment, than addressing the child.

“Lilie was very ill—had to lie in her bed—mamma thought I would die, and it was to get strong again. See,” Lilie disengaged herself from Anne, and ran away along the bank of the Oran, returning ruddy and breathless, “Lilie’s strong now.”

“And why did you not tell me this before?” said Anne.

“Lilie didna mind—Lilie didna ken how to speak;” and the child looked confused and bewildered. By means of her broken sentences, however, Anne made out that Lilie had been brought home by a Juana, a Spanish nurse, and had been accustomed to hear the servants in her father’s house speak the liquid foreign tongue, which she was already beginning to forget. That being suddenly brought into the rustic Scottish dwelling, and seeing, with the quick perception of a child, that its inhabitants were of the same rank as her former attendants, the child had naturally fancied that their language must also be, not the cultivated English, the speaking of which was an accomplishment, but the more ornate tongue which she had been accustomed to hear among their equals in her own country. Then Mrs. Melder’s dialect still further puzzled the lonely child, who, under the care of Juana, had spoken nothing but Spanish during the voyage, which she thought so long a one, so that the ideas of the little head became quite perplexed and ravelled; and it was not until she had mastered in a considerable degree this new Scottish tongue, that the more refined words learned from “mamma” began to steal once more into her childish memory.

But Anne’s attempted questioning, respecting the person who brought Lilie to the Mill, produced no satisfactory answer. The remembrance had become hazy already; and save for a general impression of discomfort—one of those vague indefinite times of childish suffering and unhappiness, which are by no means either light or trivial, howsoever we may think of them, when we are involved in more mature calamities, Lilie’s memory failed her. She could give no account of the interim, between her voyage under the government of Juana, and her transference to the rule of Mrs. Melder.

To Mrs. Catherine, Anne had said little of the Lilies—to Lewis nothing. Their connexion with Norman had nothing to do with the proof of his innocence, and though Christian Lilie’s strange words had occupied her own mind night and day since she heard them, she yet did not think it either necessary or prudent to make them a matter of conversation.

Again, she remained in so much doubt about this singular brother and sister—their strange seclusion, and grief, and inactivity—their mysterious and abrupt removal, which evidently was to avoid meeting her, perplexed herself so much that she did not venture to confide even in Mrs. Catherine. She brooded over her secret by herself; she slept little—rested little—took long, solitary, meditative walks, and much exercise, and felt herself more than ever abstracted from the busy little world about her. She was becoming a solitary, cheerless woman, cherishing in silent sadness one great hope; a hope with which strangers might not intermeddle—which was foolishness to her own nearest friends—which might never be realized upon this earth—nevertheless a hope in which her whole nature was concentrated—the very essence and aim of her being.

She did not even reveal to Mrs. Catherine her suspicion her hope, that Lilie was the child of her banished brother. She cherished it in her own mind as a secret strength and comfort. She endeavored in all gentle ways to supply the want of the mother after whom the little heart yearned, and she was successful. Lilie began to call her aunt—to watch in childish anxiety for her daily visits—to wander about anywhere, unwearied and joyous, so long as Anne was leading her, and to look to her at all times as her dearest friend and protector. Then these childish confidences—these snatches, of dear remembrance of the far-away mamma—these glances into the household of the exile! Anne drew new invigoration, strength, and hope from these, in the darkest time of her depression.

Yet all endeavors for her great end were stayed—no one lifted a hand in the cause of the injured man—no one made any exertion to deliver him. In the bright sunshine of that leafy month of June her heart sickened within her. She longed to return again to the place where something might be done, where with a prospect of success, or without it, she might still labor; she might still engage in the search.

In the meantime, everything went on peaceably in the parish of Strathoran. Jeanie Coulter and Walter Foreman had made up their mind, and were speedily to be married. Ada Mina, in the glory of being bridesmaid and bride’s sister, had almost forgotten Giles Sympelton. Marjory Falconer was very remarkably quiet; she was “beginning to settle.” Mrs. Bairnsfather said, maliciously, “and it was high time.” Mr. Ferguson’s work was advancing in the bleak lands of Lochend and Loelyin. Mr. Coulter and he were very busy, and in high spirits. Lord Gillravidge had left Strathoran. The fair country, in the height of its summer beauty, had no attractions for Lord Gillravidge. There was no game to slaughter, and other kind of excitement, the quiet Norland parish had never possessed any.

Mr. Fitzherbert was left behind; he was now lord paramount at Strathoran, and a very great man, intensely detested by the Macalpines of Oranmore, and spoken of with bitter derision and disdain by all the other inhabitants of Strathoran. He had displeased Lord Gillravidge by being the occasion of Giles Sympelton’s desertion, and was left behind half as a punishment for that offence, and half as a promotion for counter-balancing good offices. Mr. Fitzherbert’s feelings concerning it were of the same mixed description. He was immensely bored with the intolerable weariness of the country, while at the same time he enjoyed his temporary lordship, and ordered and stormed magnificently in the desecrated house of the Sutherlands.

We should not have intruded ourselves into his disagreeable presence had that been all. But Mr. Fitzherbert in his dreariness, when he had exercised his petty despotism to its full extent—had cursed the servants, bullied Mr. Whittret, and asserted his predominance in various other pleasant and edifying ways—was forced to invent further amusement for himself. Surely, there never was an unhappy individual with small brains and a craving for excitement more miserably placed.

It chanced one day that Flora Macalpine, Mrs. Ferguson’s very pretty and very bashful nurserymaid, unwarily entered the contested by-way, while walking with the Woodsmuir children. Mr. Fitzherbert met her there, and the first harsh sound of his command to leave the road, was very much less disagreeable than the softening of tone which followed. Mr. Fitzherbert began to admire the pretty Highland girl, and to venture to express to her his admiration—to her, a Macalpine! Flora hurried from the by-way with her charge, in burning shame and indignation.

But Mr. Fitzherbert was not to be got rid of so easily. Flora did not know the might of ennui which made him seek out her quiet walks, and waylay her so perseveringly. She avoided him in every possible way; but still he found means to persecute her with his odious flattery and attentions. Flora was engaged, moreover, and tall Angus Macalpine, her handsome bride-groom elect, and Duncan Roy, her brother, were equally irate, and equally contented to have a decided personal plea for punishing the obnoxious jackal of Lord Gillravidge. So Flora reluctantly suffered herself to be made a party in a plan, which should ensnare her tormentor, and pour out upon him, in full flood, the rage and contempt of the Macalpines.

It was a beautiful evening in June: Mr. Fitzherbert had just received from Lord Gillravidge the much wished-for call to London.

In great glee he put the letter in his pocket, took his hat, and sallied out. His splendid hair, his magnificent whiskers and moustache were in the most superlative order. Flora Macalpine had intimated to him bashfully that she would be in the contested by-way, near the stepping-stones, at seven o’clock; it is always pleasant to be victorious. Mr. Fitzherbert had no doubt that the power of his fascinations had smitten the simple cottager, and accordingly in perfect good-humor with himself, and very much disposed to accept Flora’s homage, with the utmost condescension, he set out for the stepping-stones.

Close by the trysting place, in the slanting June sunlight, screening himself with the thick foliage of a “bourtree-bush,” stood tall Angus Macalpine watching for his prey. Flora, nervous and trembling, stood beside him; she felt she was very much out of place, and did not at all like her position, but that strong, thickset little brother of hers, Duncan Roy, was squatting at her feet, concealing the flaming red head, which might have alarmed their victim, among the surrounding leaves, and Angus, bending down his handsome head with its curling fair hair, and healthful, good-looking face, was very carefully supporting her, and guarding against her running away. So, after all, there was nothing improper in it, and she could not help herself. The idea of the compulsion comforted Flora.

Footsteps approached by-and-by. It was not Mr. Fitzherbert. It was George, the Falcon’s Craig groom, and Johnnie Halflin, to whom Duncan Roy had communicated some hint of his intention. The punishment was far too just, the fun far too good, for these mischief-loving lads to let it slip. They had come to assist the Macalpines. George was making horrible faces. His veins were perfectly swoln with the might of his suppressed laughter. Johnnie had a little pink pocket-handkerchief—a keepsake from Bessie—thrust bodily into his capacious mouth. The Macalpines were graver; a quiet glee was shooting from the eyes of Duncan Roy, and Angus sometimes smiled—but the smile was an angry one.

“But, Angus,” whispered Flora; “mind, you maun promise that you’ll no hurt him?”

“I’ll try,” was the emphatic response.

“Eh! but Duncan—Angus! Dinna hurt him, for ony sake.—Just fear him, or I’ll rin away this moment.”

It was easier said than done. That mighty arm of Angus Macalpine’s might have restrained a man of his own inches without any particular strain.

“We’ll no hurt him, Flora,” said Duncan encouragingly,—”We’ll only douk him, forbye—Listen! There he is—in behint the bush, lads. Angus, let Flora go.”

It was indeed Fitzherbert. They could hear his swaggering step as he advanced, whistling gaily.

“I’ll whistle ye!” exclaimed the angry Angus, in a strong undertone. “If ye were ance in my hands, my lad, ye’ll whistle or ye get out again!”

Flora had only time to speak another earnest remonstrance, when her admirer appeared.

The ambush had been skilfully contrived. The unsuspected Fitzherbert advanced gaily. Poor Flora trembled and shrank back—the instinctive delicacy of her simple womanly nature overpowering her with shame. To meet this odious man at all, if it were but for a second, was a disgrace to her, even though Angus and Duncan were waiting at her side.

Mr. Fitzherbert began a gallant speech—he attempted to take Flora’s hand. The girl shrank back to the shelter of the bourtree-bush—and in another moment, Fitzherbert was struggling in the stalwart arms of Angus Macalpine—an embrace as unexpected as it was overpowering.

“Haud the ill tongue of ye!” exclaimed Duncan Roy, as he seized the struggling legs of the unhappy adventurer, and held him fast. “If ye say another word, ye shall rue it a’ your days.”

“Do you want to rob me?” cried Fitzherbert. “I haven’t my purse on me, good fellows. Let me go, or you shall suffer for it.”

“Rob ye!” Tall Angus Macalpine seized his collar with an exclamation of disgust, and shook him violently. “Rob ye! Ye pitiful animal, wha would file their fingers with your filthy siller! Duncan, give me the plaid.”

The other two auxiliaries were standing by expending their pent-up laughter, Johnnie Halflin bestirred himself now, to hand to Angus one of the plaids that lay on the grass beside him.

Threats, entreaties, vociferation, rage, all were in vain. The plaid was bound tightly round the unhappy Fitzherbert, strapping his arms to his side. Then Duncan confined in like manner his struggling feet. Then they laid him down on the grass.

“Hushaba!” sung Johnnie Halflin as, with laughter not to be suppressed, they viewed the ludicrous bondage of their foe. “Eh, man, ye’re a muckle baby to lie there, and do naething but squeal.”

“What gars ye no fight wi’ your neives, like a man?” cried George.

“Do you no see? He’s putting a’ his strength into the feet of him. See, woman Flora, he’s walopping like the fishes in the Portoran boats when they’re new catched. He’s new catched, too. Gie him a taste o’ the water.”

“If ye had dune what ye had to do against us, like a man,” said Angus Macalpine, solemnly, addressing the miserable captive, who lay prone before these shafts of rustic wit, upon the grass at their feet, “we might have throoshen ye like a man, and gi’en ye fair play; but because ye’re a vermin that have creeped in to quiet places, where there was nae man to chastise ye—and because ye have tried to breathe your ill breath into the purest heart in a’ Strathoran, ye shall hae only a vermin’s punishment. Duncan, ye can get your shears. I’ll haud the sheep.”

Duncan advanced in grim mirth, holding a pair of mighty shears. Angus knelt down upon the grass, and held Fitzherbert with his arm. The operation commenced. The punishment was the bitterest they could have chosen. Duncan Roy squatting at his side, with methodic composure and malicious glee, began to clip, and cut away, in jagged and uneven bits, his cherished whiskers, his beautiful moustache, his magnificent hair. The victim roared and groaned, entreated and threatened, in vain—the relentless operators proceeded in their work—the scissors entered into his soul.

A light, quick step came suddenly along the path. They did not hear it, so overwhelming was the laughter of the lookers-on, till Marjory Falconer stood in the midst of them. Duncan’s scissors suddenly ceased. The victim looked up in momentary hope, and again shrank back despairing. He by no means desired to throw himself upon the tender mercies of Miss Falconer.

“What is the matter?” cried Marjory. “Flora, are you here! What is the matter? what are they about?”

“Oh! Miss Falconer,” exclaimed Flora who, between shame and laughter, was now in tears, “it’s the gentleman from Strathoran—and it’s Duncan and Angus—and he wouldna let me be, and they’re—”

An involuntary burst of laughter choked Flora’s penitence.—The lifted head of her brother, with its look of comic appeal, as he held up his shears before Miss Falconer, and silently asked her permission to proceed—the grim steadfastness with which Angus continued to hold the victim on the grass—the vain attempt of Miss Falconer to look gravely displeased and dignified—the fierce struggles of Fitzherbert—Flora could not bear it: she ran in behind the bourtree-bush.

Marjory stood undecided for a moment. She had great influence with the Macalpines and their class, as a strong and firm character always has. She thought for an instant of what people would say, almost for the first time in her life. Then she looked at the ludicrous scene before her—the just punishment of poor Flora’s persecution. The prudent resolution faded away—she yielded to the fun and to the justice. She could not put her veto upon it.

“George, do you go home—you are not wanted. Duncan, have you finished?”

“Na,” said the rejoicing Duncan, beginning with double zeal to ply his redoubtable shears. “He’s a camstarie beast, this ane—he tak’s lang shearing—but we’re winning on, Mem.”

George reluctantly turned away. His mistress’s orders were not to be trifled with, he knew. Little Bessie’s pink handkerchief was in Johnnie Halflin’s mouth again. Flora remained behind the bourtree-bush, terrified to look upon her tormentor’s agonized face. Marjory Falconer looked on.

The blood was rushing in torrents to her hot cheeks already.—She could have put an end to this if she would: instead of that she had encouraged it. She had yielded to the mirthful impulse: now she was paying the penalty in one of her overpowering agonies of shame.

“Now—now!” she exclaimed, as Duncan, with methodic accuracy, finished his operation on one side of Mr. Fitzherbert’s fiery countenance, “that will do now—let him go.”

The operators looked up in disappointment.

“Do let him go; let me see him released before I leave you.”

Duncan and Angus looked at each other.

“Weel,” said Angus, smiling grimly, “he’s gey weel; ye’ll think again, my lad, before ye offer to lay your filthy fingers on a Macalpine, or ony ither lass in the countryside. Now, Duncan—”

They began to free him from his bondage. Angus took one end of the plaid which confined his arms—Duncan the other. The process was satisfactory, but by no means gentle; over and over they rolled him, and when the hapless Fitzherbert found himself at last at liberty, he was lying within the green verge of the Oran—the soft waters embracing him. His first struggle threw him further in; and when he rose at last, spluttering with wrath and water, his clothes wet, his face scarred with the pebbles, and shorn of its hirsute glories—all his tormentors were gone. Light of foot, and conversant with all the by-ways, they had dispersed, considerably against the will of the Macalpines, but in obedience to the command of Miss Falconer, and the entreaties of Flora.

In burning rage and mortification Mr. Fitzherbert stalked back to Strathoran. In the distance, upon the other side of the river, he could see the retreat of the Macalpines; it was a fruitless thing vowing vengeance upon them. He had done his worst; they were out of his power.

But Mr. Fitzherbert’s mortification and rage reached a climax when he looked upon his sad mutilation—cruel as Hanun the son of Nahash, and his artful counsellors of the children of Ammon, the scissors of the remorseless Duncan had swept away one entire half of Mr. Fitzherbert’s adornments. It must all go, cherished and dearly beloved as it was—the flowing luxuriance of the one side must be sacrificed to the barbarous stubble of the other.—Alas the day! How should he meet Lord Gillravidge! how account for the holocaust! Mr. Fitzherbert was fitly punished—he was in despair.

Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be!—nor like the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was impossible—no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame—but it deepened her repentance.

“Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?” she asked as she entered Merkland.

“Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne’s in,” said Duncan, preceding her leisurely to Mrs. Ross’s parlor. “She’s in her ain room—according to her ain fashion. There’s nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a bird, ye may tak my word for’t she’ll no live ony way lang.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Marjory. “Is Miss Ross ill?”

“Na. I’m no saying she’s ill,” was the cautious answer; “but taking lang flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to pingle her lane at a seam; I say it’s a clear tempting o’ Providence, Miss Falconer, and I have tell’t Miss Anne that mysel.”

Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne’s room. “Come in,” said Anne. Marjory entered.

The window was open—the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its thick fringe of foliage was parted here and there. Anne leant upon the window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim shores of the Forth in the still evening-time—the long, low, sighing of the waters—the desolate, gloomy house behind—the tall, gaunt figure stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand—these were before her constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be.

She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed, thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not speak, she turned round.

“Marjory, is that you?”

“What are you thinking of, Anne?” said Marjory. “What makes you dream and brood thus? There you have been gazing out these two minutes, as fixedly as if you saw something of the greatest interest. I am quite sure you don’t know what you are looking at, and, had I come forward suddenly, and asked you what river that was, you would have faltered and deliberated before you could be certain it was the Oran. I know you would. What is it all about?”

Anne smiled.

“It is not so easy to tell. You put comprehensive questions, Marjory.”

“And here are you making yourself ill!” exclaimed Marjory, impetuously; “dreaming over something which no one is to know; walking alone, and sitting alone, and defrauding yourself of proper rest and relaxation, and altogether, as plainly as possible endeavoring to manufacture a consumption. I say, Anne Ross, what is it all about? I have a right to know—we all have a right to know; you don’t belong to yourself. If you were not Anne Ross, of Merkland, I should begin to suspect we had some love-sickness on our hands.”

“And if you were any one else but Marjory Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, I should be very angry,” said Anne, smiling.

“Never anything reasonable from you since you came home; never a call upon any one but Mrs. Melder. Nothing but patient looks, and paleness, and reveries! I don’t see why we should submit to it, Anne Ross. I protest, in the name of the parish—it is a public injustice!”

“Very well, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray be so good as sit down now, and do not scold so bitterly. Did you come all the way from Falcon’s Craig for the sole purpose of bringing me under discipline?”

Marjory Falconer put up her hands to her cheeks to hide the vehement blushes which rushed back again; then, as she recalled the story she had come to tell, its ludicrous points overcame the shame, and she laughed with characteristic heartiness. There was not, after all, so very much to be ashamed of; but, as everybody exaggerated the extravagance of everything done by Marjory Falconer, so Marjory Falconer felt herself bitterly humiliated in the recollection of escapades which young ladies of much greater pretensions would only have laughed at.

“What is it, Marjory?” said Anne.

The fit of shame returned.

“Oh! not much. Only I have been making a fool of myself again.”

Anne expressed no wonder; she only drew her friend into a chair, and asked:

“How?”

“I am going to tell you. I came here at once, you see, lest some one else should be before me with the news. Ah! and there you sit as cool and calm as though I were not entering my purgatory!”

“I don’t want to tease you further,” said Anne, “or I should say that when people make purgatories for themselves, it behoves them to endure patiently.”

“Very well: you don’t intend to be sympathetic. I am quite satisfied. Now for my confession. Most unwittingly and innocently, I premise, was I led into the snare. Anne Ross! turn away from the window, and keep your glances within proper bounds. If your eyes wander so, I shall forget my own foolishness in yours—and I don’t choose that.”

Anne obeyed, and Marjory told her story—sometimes overwhelmed with her own passionate humiliation, sometimes bursting into irrepressible mirth. It was very soon told. Anne looked annoyed and vexed. She did not speak. It was the sorest condemnation she could have given.

“You have nothing to say to me!” exclaimed Marjory, the hot flood burning over her cheek, and neck, and forehead. “You think I am clearly hopeless now. You think—”

“I think,” said Anne, “that Marjory Falconer, whom malicious people blame for pride, is not half proud enough.”

“Not proud enough!”

It was difficult to believe, indeed, when one saw the drawing-up of her tall, fine figure, and the flashing of her eye.

“Yes, I understand. You would be proud enough were you Ralph; then, for everything brave, and honorable, and true, the fame of the Falconers would be safe in your hands: but you are not proud enough, being Marjory. I fancy we should inhabit a loftier atmosphere than these boyish frolics could find breath in, Marjory; an atmosphere too pure and rare to carry clamorous voices, whatever may be their burden.”

“Gentle and mild,” said Marjory, attempting a laugh, which would not come; “perfumed and dainty. I am no exotic, Anne; I must breathe living air. I cannot breathe odors.”

Anne rose, and lifted her Bible from the table.

“The sublime of mild and gentle belongs to One greater than us; but I don’t want to compel you to these. Look here, Marjory.”

Marjory looked—read.

“‘Strength and honor are her clothing,’” and bowed her head, in token of being vanquished.

“You have nothing to oppose to my argument,” said Anne, smiling. “You are obliged to yield without a word. Let me convince you, Marjory, that we stoop mightily from our just position, when we condescend to meddle with such humiliating follies as the rights of women—that we do compromise our becoming dignity when we involve ourselves in a discreditable warfare, every step in advance of which is a further humiliation to us. I forgive you your share in this exploit with all my heart. I am not sorry the man is punished, though I would rather you had not been connected with his punishment. It is not very much, after all; but I do declare war against these polemics of yours—all and several.—I would have you more thoroughly woman-proud: it is by no means inconsistent with the truest humility. I would have you like this portrait; men do not paint in such vigorous colors now. Strength and honor, Marjory; household strength, and loftiness, and purity—better things than any imaginary rights that clamor themselves into mere words.”

Marjory was half angry, half smiling.

“Very gentle, and calm, and proper, for an example to me; and so nobody does us any injustice—nobody oppresses us? Very well: but I did not know it before.”

“Nay,” said Anne, playfully; “that is not what I said. But:

“Anne!”

“I am quite serious. There are few amongst us who are ruled more than we need to be, Marjory. The best mind will always assert itself, in whomsoever it may dwell—we are safe in that.—The weak ought to be controlled and guided, and will be, wherever there is a stronger, whether man or woman.”

“Strange doctrines, these!” said Marjory Falconer. “I acknowledge myself outdone. I give up my poor little innovations. Why, Anne Ross, what would the proper people say? What would the Coulters—the Fergusons—the whole parish?”

“Perfectly agree with me,” said Anne, “when it had time to think about it, without being shocked in the least. The proper people. You forget that I am a very proper person myself.”

“So I did,” said Marjory Falconer, shrugging her shoulders, “so I did. Patronised by Mrs. Bairnsfather, highly approved by Mrs. Coulter and Mrs. Ferguson—I almost thought, just now, that you were as improper as myself.”