For these five years had not been so peaceful as their predecessors—the face of this home country was much changed to some of the old dwellers here. Dr. Logan, old and well-beloved, was in his quiet grave, and Katie and her orphans, far out of the knowledge of the parish which once had taken so entire an interest in them, were succeeded by a new minister’s new wife, who had no children yet to gladden the manse so long accustomed to young voices; and the great excitement of the revolution at Melmar had scarcely yet subsided in this quiet place;—least of all, had it subsided with the Mistress, who, spite of a lurking fondness for little DesirÉe, could not help finding in the presence of Mary of Melmar a perpetual vexation. Their French habits, their language, their sentiments and effusiveness—the peevish invalid condition of Marie, and even the sweet temper of Madame Roche, aggravated with a perennial agitation, the hasty spirit of Mrs. Livingstone. She could not help hearing every thing that everybody said of them, could not help watching with a rather unamiable interest the failings and shortcomings of the family of women who had dispossessed her son. And then her other son—her Cosmo, of whom she had been so proud—could see nothing that did not fascinate and attract him in this little French household. So, at least, his mother thought. She could have borne an honest falling in love, and “put up with” the object of it, but she could not tolerate the idea of her son paying tender court to another mother, or of sharing with any one the divided honors of her maternal place. This fancy was gall and bitterness to the Mistress, and had an unconscious influence upon almost every thing she did or said, especially on those two days in every week which Cosmo spent at Norlaw.

“It’s but little share his mother has in his coming,” she said to herself, bitterly; and even Marget found the temper of the Mistress rather trying upon the Sundays and Mondays; while between Cosmo and herself there rose a cloud of mutual offense and exasperation, which had no cause in reality, but seemed almost beyond the reach of either explanation or peace-making now.

The Sabbath morning rose bright and calm over Norlaw. When Huntley woke, the birds were singing in that special, sacred, sweetest festival of theirs, which is held when most of us are sleeping, and seems somehow all the tenderer for being to themselves and God; and when Huntley rose to look out, his heart sang like the birds. There stood the Strength of Norlaw, all aglist with early morning dews and sunshine, wall-flowers tufting its old walls, sweet wild-roses looking out, like adventurous children, from the vacant windows, and the green turf mantling up upon its feet. There ran Tyne, a glimmer of silver among the grass and the trees. Yonder stretched forth the lovely country-side, with all its wealthy undulations, concealing the hidden house of Melmar among its woods. And to the south, the mystic Eildons, pale with the ecstacy of the night, stood silent under the morning light, which hung no purple shadows on their shoulders. Huntley gazed out of his window till his eyes filled. He was too young to know, like his mother, that it was best when nothing happened; and this event of his return recalled to him all the events of his life. He thought of his father, and that solemn midnight burial of his among the ruins; he thought of his own wanderings, his hope and loss of wealth, his present modest expectations; and then a brighter light and a more wistful gaze came to Huntley’s face. He, too, was no longer to be content with home and mother; but a sober tenderness subdued the young man’s ardor when he thought of Katie Logan among her children.

Seven years! It was a long trial for an unpledged love. Had no other thoughts come into her good heart in the meantime? or, indeed, did she ever think of Huntley save in her elder-sisterly kindness as she thought of everybody? When this oft-discussed question returned to him, Huntley could no longer remain quiet at his window. He hastily finished his toilette and went down stairs, smiling to himself as he unbolted and unlocked the familiar door—those very same bolts and locks which had so often yielded to his restless fingers in those days when Huntley was never still. Now, by this time, he had learned to keep himself quiet occasionally; but the old times flashed back upon him strangely, full of smiles and tears, in the unfastening of that door.

Thinking certainly that at so early an hour he himself was the first person astir in Norlaw, Huntley was greatly amazed to find Cosmo—no longer choosing his boyish seat of meditation in the window of the old castle—wandering restlessly about the ruins. And Cosmo did not seem quite pleased to see him; that was still more remarkable. The elder brother could not help seeing again, as in a picture, the delicate fair boy, with his long arms thrust out of the jacket which was too small for him, with his bursts of boyish vehemence and enthusiasm, his old chivalrous championship of the unknown Mary, his tenacious love for the hereditary Norlaw. Huntley had not seen the boy grow up into the man—he had not learned to moderate his protecting love for the youngest child into the steady brotherly affection which should now acknowledge the man as an equal. Cosmo was still “my father’s son,” the youngest, the dearest, the one to be shielded from trouble, in the fancy of the elder brother. Yet, there he stood, as tall as Huntley, his childish delicacy of complexion gone, his fair hair crisp and curled, his dark eyes stormy and full of personal emotions, his foot impatient and restless, the step of a man already burdened with cares of his own. And, reluctant to meet his brother, his closest friend, and once his natural guardian! Huntley thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and drew him round the other side of the ruins.

“Do you really wish to avoid me?” said the elder brother, with a pang. “What is wrong, Cosmo?—can you not tell me?”

“Nothing is wrong, so far as I am aware,” said Cosmo, with some haughtiness. His first impulse seemed to be to draw away his arm from his brother’s, but, if it was so, he restrained himself, and, instead, walked on with a cold, averted face, which was almost more painful than any act to the frank spirit of Huntley.

“I will ask no more questions then,” said Huntley, with some impatience; “I ought to remember how long I have been gone, and how little you know of me. What is to be done about this Pierrot? So far as I can glean from what my mother says, he will be an unwelcome guest at Melmar. What ground has my mother for supposing him connected with Madame Roche? What sort of a person is Madame Roche? What have you all been doing with yourselves? I have a hundred questions to ask about everybody. Even Patie no one speaks of; if nothing is wrong you are all strangely changed since I went away.”

“I suppose the all means myself; I am changed since you went away,” said Cosmo, moodily.

“Yes, you are changed, Cosmo; I don’t understand it; however, never mind, you can tell the reason why when you know me better,” said Huntley, “but, in the meantime, how is Patie, and where? And what about this Madame Roche?”

“Madame Roche is very well,” said Cosmo, with assumed indifference, “her eldest daughter is married, and has long been deserted by her husband; but I don’t know his name—they never mention it. Madame Roche is ashamed of him; they were people of very good family, in spite of what my mother says—Roche de St. Martin—but I sent you word of all this long ago. It is little use repeating it now.”

“Why should Pierrot be her husband, of all men in the world?” said Huntley; “but if he’s not wanted at Melmar, you had better send the ladies word of your suspicions, and put them on their guard.”

“I have been there this morning,” said Cosmo, slightly confused by his own admission.

“This morning? you certainly have not lost any time,” said Huntley, laughing. “Never mind, Cosmo, I said I should ask nothing you did not want to tell me; though why you should be so anxious to keep her husband away from the poor woman—How have they got on at Melmar? Have they many friends? Are they people to make friends? They seem at least to be people of astonishing importance in Norlaw.”

“My mother,” said Cosmo, angrily, “dislikes Madame Roche, and consequently every thing said and done at Melmar takes an evil aspect in her eyes.”

“My boy, that is not a tone in which to speak of my mother,” said Huntley, with gravity.

“I know it!” cried the younger brother, “but how can I help it? it is true they are my friends. I confess to that; why should they not be my friends? why should I reject kindness when I find it? As for Marie, she is a selfish, peevish invalid, I have no patience with her—but—Madame Roche—”

Cosmo made a full stop before he said Madame Roche, and pronounced that name at last so evidently as a substitute for some other name, that Huntley’s curiosity was roused; which curiosity, however, he thought it best to satisfy diplomatically, and by a round-about course.

“I must see her to-morrow,” he said; “but what of our old friend, Melmar, who loved us all so well? I should not like to rejoice in any man’s downfall, but he deserved it, surely. What has become of them all?”

“He is a poor writer again,” said Cosmo, shortly, “and Joanna—it was Joanna who brought DesirÉe here.”

“Who is DesirÉe?” asked Huntley.

“I ought to say Miss Roche,” said Cosmo, blushing to his hair. “Joanna Huntley and she were great friends at school, and after the change she was very anxious that Joanna should stay. She is the youngest, and an awkward, strange girl—but, why I can not tell, she clings to her father, and is a governess or school-mistress now, I believe. Yes, things change strangely. They were together when I saw them first.”

“They—them! you are rather mysterious, Cosmo. What is the story?” asked his brother.

“Oh, nothing very remarkable; only Des—Miss Roche, you know, came to Melmar first of all as governess to Joanna, and it was while she was there that I found Madame Roche at St. Ouen. When I returned, my mother,” said Cosmo, with a softening in his voice, “brought DesirÉe to Norlaw, as you must have heard; and it was from our house that she went home.”

“And, except this unfortunate sick one, she is the only child?” said Huntley. “I understand it now.”

Cosmo gave him a hurried jealous glance, as if to ask what it was he understood, but after that relapsed into uncomfortable silence. They went on for some time so, Cosmo with anger and impatience supposing his elder brother’s mind to be occupied with what he had just told him; and it was with amazement, relief, but almost contempt for Huntley’s extraordinary want of interest in matters so deeply interesting to himself, that Cosmo heard and answered the next question addressed to him.

“And Dr. Logan is dead,” said Huntley, with a quiet sorrow in his voice, which trembled too with another emotion. “I wonder where Katie and her bairns are now?”

“Not very far off; somewhere near Edinburgh. I think Lasswade. Mr. Cassilis’ mother lives there,” said Cosmo.

“Mr. Cassilis! I had forgotten him,” said Huntley, “but he does not live at Lasswade?”

“They say he would be glad enough to have Katie Logan in Edinburgh,” said Cosmo, indifferently; “they are cousins—I suppose they are likely to be married;—how do I know? Well, only by some one telling me, Huntley! I did not know you cared.”

“Who said I cared?” cried Huntley, with sudden passion. “How should any one know any thing about the matter—eh? I only asked, of course, from curiosity, because we know her so well—used to know her so well. Not you, who were a child, but we two elder ones. My brother Patie—I hear nothing of Patie. Where is he then? You must surely know.”

“He is to come to meet you to-morrow,” said Cosmo, who was really grieved for his own carelessness. “Don’t let me vex you, Huntley. I am vexed myself, and troubled; but I never thought of that, and may be quite wrong, as I am often,” he added, with momentary humility, for Cosmo was deeply mortified by the sudden idea that he had been selfishly mindful of his own concerns, and indifferent to those of his brother. For the time, it filled him with self-reproach and penitence.

“Never mind; every thing comes right in time,” said Huntley; but this piece of philosophy was said mechanically—the first common-place which occurred to Huntley to vail the perturbation of his thoughts.

Just then some sounds from the house called their attention there. The Mistress herself stood at the open door of Norlaw, contemplating the exit of the Frenchman, who stood before her, hat in hand, making satirical bows and thanking her for his night’s lodging. In the morning sunshine this personage looked dirtier and more disreputable than on the previous night. He had not been at all particular about his toilette, and curled up his moustache over his white teeth, the only thing white about him, with a most sinister sneer, while he addressed his hostess; while she, in the meantime, in her morning cap and heavy black gown, and clear, ruddy face, stood watching him, as perfect a contrast as could be conceived.

“I have the satisfaction of making my adieux, madame,” cried Pierrot; “receive the assurance of my distinguished regard. I shall bring my wife to thank you. I shall tell my wife what compliments you paid her, to free her from her unworthy spouse and bestow your son. She will thank you—I will thank you. Madame, from my heart I make you my adieux!”

“It’s Sabbath morning,” said the Mistress, quietly; “and if you find your wife—I dinna envy her, poor woman! you can tell her just whatever you please, and I’ll no’ cross you; though it’s weel to see you dinna ken, you puir, misguided heathen, that you’re in another kind of country frae your ain. You puir Pagan creature! do you think I would ware my Huntley on a woman that had been another man’s wife? or do you think that marriage can be broken here? but it’s no’ worth my while parleying with the like of you. Gang your ways and find your wife, and be good to her, if it’s in you. She’s maybe a silly woman that likes ye still, vagabone though ye be—she’s maybe near the end of her days, for onything you ken. Go away and get some kindness in your heart if ye can—and every single word I’ve said to you you can tell ower again to your wife.”

Which would have been rather hard, however, though the Mistress did not know it. The wanderer knew English better than a Frenchman often does, but his education had been neglected—he did not know Scotch—a fact which did not enter into the calculations of Mrs. Livingstone.

“Adieu, comrade!” cried Pierrot, waving his hand to Huntley; “when I see you again you shall behold a milor, a nobleman; be happy with your amiable parent. I go to my wife, who adores me. Adieu.”

“And it’s true,” said the Mistress, drawing a long breath as the strange guest disappeared on the road to Kirkbride. “Eh, sire, but this world’s a mystery! it’s just true, so far as I hear; she does adore him, and him baith a mountebank and a vagabone! it passes the like of me!”

And Cosmo, looking after him too, thought of Cameron. Could that be the husband for whom Marie had pined away her life?