Time passed and brought the usual changes to the family of honest Wullie. Jamie had finished his college course with honor, and was now a teacher in one of the high schools of Edinburgh. Davie could no longer be called "the wee lad." He took his place beside his father, and with his youthful vigor performed as much labor as Wullie with his declining strength. Annie was now in the full flush of early womanhood. Her dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and bewitching manner had already won the admiration of many "neebor lads," who did not fail to get a sight of her every Sunday in the kirk. But she had completely captured the heart of Donald McPherson, Jr. To his great annoyance she did not seem to reciprocate his affection. But knowing her to be lively and wilful, he hoped she only feigned indifference and did not mean to allow herself to be lightly won.

It was at this time that a nephew of John Cameron came to spend a few weeks at Laird Erskine's. He had been educated with Jamie, and, as was quite natural, he called at the cottage to deliver a message and some presents from Jamie. In one of his rambles he took occasion to call a second time. He chatted pleasantly with Annie, and was pleased with her artless simplicity. When he was about to return to Edinburgh he called again to say good-by. He gave his hand to Annie as he took leave, and with a pleasant smile remarked, "I hope I shall see you again."

Poor Annie! It was the first time a fine gentleman had talked with her. She could not but observe the refinement of his manner and conversation. She contrasted him with the rustic lads of the neighborhood, and they sank into insignificance. She remembered his looks and his words, and pondered them in her heart. How she wished she had been born a lady, or had been educated like her brother Jamie! Her sunny face lost some of its color. She moved about her work mechanically, her thoughts wandering in the cloud-land of her imagination.

Mrs. Murdoch noticed the change in her daughter's manner. "What ails ye, lass, that ye dinna talk ony mair? Are ye no weel?" she asked.

"I am quite weel," said Annie, "but I dinna feel like talking."

Donald McPherson had been steadily gaining property ever since he stopped drinking. He now had sufficient means to stock a farm which he rented. He had also gained respectability by honest dealing with his neighbors and by a strict attendance at church. He had merited and gained the coveted name of douce Donald, which was not misapplied. Donald, Jr., being the only child, and of steady habits, Mrs. Murdoch placed no obstacle in the way of an intimate friendship between him and her daughter. In fact, she considered him a very suitable person to sue for Annie's hand. He was warmly received by all at the cottage; but Annie never showed him any preference above the other lads of the neighborhood. Her mother had long since realized that Wullie was right when he intimated that she was "heidstrang." Mrs. Murdoch was at a loss to know how to approach her daughter, for fear of driving her in the wrong direction; therefore she wisely concluded to let the matter alone. But young McPherson, who saw nothing in the way of settling in life, offered her his hand. She declined the offer. He was loath to accept a refusal. He pressed his suit, telling her that he had always thought of her as his future wife.

"Ye hae taen far too muckle for granted," she replied, "for I canna wed wi' you."

Donald's visits were discontinued. The mother, ascertaining the cause of his prolonged absence, remonstrated with her daughter.

"Annie, lass, what hae ye dune to young Donald?"

"I hae refused him, as was my privilege," she replied, with an independent toss of her head.

"Can ye no see where your interest lies? Donald is a clever lad, and would gie you a gude hame; and a' would be your ain when his faither and mither are gane."

"I dinna want a better hame than I have noo," retorted Annie; "and it is lang waiting for dead folks' shoon."

"Ye will drive the lad a'maist daft wi' your stubborn ways."

"Little danger o' that; but I canna help it if I do. Auld Muckle Geordie might tak it in his heid to gang daft aboot me; would I hae to marry him?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her mischievous eyes.

The mother laughed despite her efforts to the contrary, for Auld Muckle Geordie was an old lame piper supported by charity.

"Noo be a canny lass," she continued, resuming the stern expression of her countenance. "Auld Muckle Geordie has naething to do wi' Donald, who isna quite twa years older than yoursel, and naething can be said against him."

"I didna say onything against him. I only meant to shaw that a lass canna always wed ony ane that sets his heart on her."

"Ay, ony ane, to be sure! But where would ye find a better lad than Donald? Dinna pit your dish tapside doun when it rains parritch."

"Weel, mither, it will hae to rain parritch frae anither quarter before I set my dish to catch it."

"Annie, ye can never be tauld onything. But I hae kenned folk wha decided sae speedily that they had to repent at leisure."

Donald took the matter more to heart than Annie had anticipated. Wishing to get away from scenes that were constant reminders of his chagrin and unhappiness, he left home and took passage in a vessel bound to the West Indies. Annie then received cold looks from more than one pair of eyes. Mr. and Mrs. McPherson regarded her as the disturber of their peace and the desolater of their home. They could see no reason why their son should be refused by Annie Murdoch or any other lass. Even Annie's mother was reserved in manner towards her. But her native wit and vivacity often served her a good turn when the subject was broached, and she generally parried their censure with a counterstroke that made her victorious. So things remained till Jamie came again.

Jamie, though so learned and so well received in Edinburgh society, did not forget his parents in their humble home. Every year he spent with them at least a part of the summer, and they were none the poorer for his visit. From the time he first received a salary he had every year sent them a generous remittance; and when he visited them he did not come empty-handed. His coming was always anticipated with eager pleasure; and now when he arrived all were delighted. He took an interest in all their simple home affairs, and always inquired about the welfare of the neighbors. He liked to sit and talk with his mother. During a conversation with her he chanced to ask her how she liked young Mr. Cameron. Annie turned away her face at the mention of his name. She felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks; but it soon receded, for Jamie followed his question with the statement that Cameron was soon to be married to his cousin.

Annie, pale and trembling, sought the door.

"What ails thee, Annie?" asked the anxious mother; but receiving no answer, the truth flashed on her mind. "Puir lass!" said she; but Annie, refusing sympathy, withdrew from her mother, and hurried out to conceal her emotion.

"What ails Annie?" asked Jamie.

"I see it a' noo," replied his mother. "I ken why she refused young Donald McPherson. The puir lass maun hae lo'ed young Cameron."

Jamie was astonished. He questioned his mother, and learned that Cameron had been at the cottage but three times. "He is a kind-hearted, noble young man. I do not wonder that my little sister admired him; but it was folly to fall in love with him. Let us deal gently with the girl, and turn her thoughts in other directions."

The day passed; night wrapped the earth in darkness; bird, beast, and human creatures rested in sleep, save where the solitary lamp burned dimly in the sick-room or the aching heart forbade the eyes to slumber. Annie retired to her bed, but sleep came not. She had been rudely wakened from her young life's happy dream; could she ever sleep again! In vain she tried to dismiss her thoughts and find rest.

Finally she rose from her bed and stole softly to the window. Looking out of its narrow casement, she saw in the distance the outline of a clump of silver birches; then catching the scent of the clover from the meadow and the wild rose from the hedgerow, she said mentally, "This world is too bonny for tears. And why should I grieve for one who perhaps never gave me a second thought, and whom I had no right to love? It was but a childish fancy. I am no longer a child. From this hour I am a woman. I will tear his image from my heart, and be content with the lot that God has given me."

The midnight air cooled her brow and quieted her throbbing brain and aching heart. She again sought her couch, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber. The next morning she was calm, but not sad. Reason had prevailed.

Her mother was surprised at her self-control; but she said not a word to Annie upon the subject that was most in both their thoughts. Neither did Annie ever mention to any one her struggle and her victory. If she had supposed that any one possessed her secret, her mortification would have been as great as her grief.

Jamie felt sorry for his sister, but he did not dare tell her so. He only gave her his parting presents, bade her a cheerful good-by, and returned to his post.