In accordance with the doctor's orders, Nathan has not been to work these past few days; and though, beyond admitting a 'wakeness aboot the knees' and a proneness to 'shiverin',' he makes no specific complaint, I have noticed that daily he becomes more beholden to Betty, and that he very willingly goes off to bed a good two hours earlier than his usual retiring-time.

There are some who, by their very backwardness and reticence, attract attention and excite curiosity. I have met many such, both professionally and socially, and the breaking down of their reserve has always been interesting; but, than the case of Nathan Hebron, none has more substantially repaid the time and trouble which the process of thawing involved. To outsiders I presume Nathan is an enigma. Not so to us who live with him. I needn't attempt to explain the feeling of confidence which he inspires, or the peculiar power which he unconsciously exerts in our little household circle. Words cannot convey it—it must be experienced to be understood; and though Betty is always to the fore, always taking the initiative, I know she feels that somewhere in the background, almost without her immediate knowledge, but ever in her reckoning, is the force, the power, the quiet, unobtrusive, dependable Nathan. And yet, strange to say, could I probe to the quick of his feelings, I know I should find that, in his 'stablished estimation, Betty, and Betty alone, stands for everything that the term 'bulwark and tower of strength' conveys.

Of late I have been wondering how best I can advance Nathan's worldly interests and lighten his burden without taking him away altogether from the calling of his choice. Somehow I don't think he would be happy without a spade in his hand and denied access to leaf-mould. He is too old to fit into a new groove, and I must remember that were I, even with the best intentions, carefully to uproot an old tree from amongst the shadows and replant it in the sunshine it would surely die. Still, I should like to do something to make his gloaming life easier. I have often felt sorry for him, leaving his comfortable house on inclement mornings, working his day's darg, and returning when darkness had long settled down. Outdoor work under favourable weather conditions is agreeable enough; but when it is carried on under a cold, leaden sky, amidst frost and snow, and in biting winds, it is stripped of much of its pleasure and poetry. Thinking in this strain, the idea came to me that I might erect glass-houses in our garden here, and encourage Nathan to devote the whole of his time to the cultivation of tomatoes. I have already mentioned my scheme to the doctor, and he approves of it; but I have said nothing to Betty or Nathan. I must see to it one of these days.

I had a long, pleasant ramble this afternoon. The air was clear and invigorating; I was feeling braced up and buoyant; and as for Jip and Bang, I never saw them in a more sportive, energetic mood. We walked through Rashbrigs Moss, past Dabton Loch, and round by Longmire, where I called and spent an hour with Farmer Russell. Bang killed a rat in the steading just before we left, and he wagged his stumpy tail and tried to raise his tattered ear all the way home. The dogs preceded me into the house, and I stumbled after them through the darkened lobby and into the darker dining-room.

'Hallo, Betty,' I said as I entered; 'not lit up yet?'

Betty was over at the window in the act of pulling down the blind, which, strangely enough, she always does before she lights the gas.

'Oh, it's you, Maister Weelum,' she said. 'It's that dark I can scarcely see ye;' but she continued standing inactive, looking round at me with the window-blind cord hanging loose in her hand. The firelight was low, and the light which came through the window from the village lamp across the street made the darkness only more visible. I could make Betty out, silhouetted as she was against the window; but, though all around was in black shadow which my eyes could not penetrate, I had the feeling that some one else was present. As I peered around, a tall visionary figure moved to my right, and Betty came toward me from the window.

'This is Miss Stuart,' she said, 'the lady that's pentin' wee Isobel Jardine's picter. She's been workin' at it a' efternoon. I was tellin' her aboot your new yin, an' I asked her in to see it.—An', Miss Stuart, this is my boy—my wean I used to ca' him—Maister Weelum, or raither, as I should say, Maister Russell. Mrs Jardine an' me were tellin' ye aboot him. Imphm!' And as Betty breathlessly finished her introduction, and, without further ado, turned to break the fire into a glow, Miss Stuart and I gravely bowed.

I couldn't see our visitor's face, but her figure was strangely familiar to me, and my pulse quickened.

'Miss Stuart,' said Betty, 'will ye please sit here till I licht the gas?' and she wheeled the easy-chair, which usually stands opposite mine, within the radius of the glow from the fire.

'Oh, thank you very much, Mrs Hebron,' said a voice I knew well; 'but I'm afraid I must be going. I'll—I'll not sit down, thank you. Mr Russell will be'——

'Delighted to see you seated, Miss Stuart,' I interposed. 'I have very few lady visitors these days, and I do assure you you are welcome.'

'Eh! that's weel said, Maister Weelum,' Betty chimed in; 'and it's true too.—Ye canna but sit doon, if it's only to please him, no' to speak o' me;' and, as Miss Stuart graciously complied, she bustled out to the kitchen for a match.

In her absence I struck a light and lit the gas, and as Miss Stuart's eyes met mine we both smiled. Nathan on one occasion winked to me, and in doing so he established a paction between us. In the same way, but more emphatically, this smile awakened a feeling of camaraderie, a consciousness that the Fates were playing with us, and that we recognised the success of their manipulations.

'Betty has been talking to me a good deal about you lately, Miss Stuart,' I said as I drew in my chair. 'Somehow, from the first I associated you, the subject of her talk and the painter of Isobel's portrait, with my good Samaritan of Nithbank Wood; and I am not surprised to find that I was right.'

'Indeed, Mr Russell!' she said, and again she smiled. 'Well, I have been hearing about you also of late from both Mrs Hebron and Mrs Jardine; and, like you, I am'——But before she could finish her sentence Betty re-entered with a lighted taper, and in its warm yellow glow her face shone like a radiant moon.

'Ah, Maister Weelum,' she said, 'for aince ye've managed that "perverted" licht. Thae newfangled things are fashious, an' it's a cauld-lookin' licht; but there's economy in it, Miss Stuart—imphm! An', my me! excuse me, miss, but it does my he'rt guid to see ye sittin' in that chair.' And in a flash my mind went back to our crack, and I remembered her words, 'It's a gey comfortable-lookin' chair, that yin opposite ye, Maister Weelum; an', d'ye ken, I met a leddy the day that I wad like to see sittin' in it.'

'Betty,' I said, 'Miss Stuart and I are not altogether strangers; we have met once or twice in an informal way; but, now that we have been brought together to-night, under your auspices, don't you think—just to signalise the event—you might offer her a cup of tea?'

'Eh, Maister Weelum! you read me like a book. I was juist gaun to suggest that. The kettle's at the boil, an' it'll no' tak' me a meenit. Will—will I bring doon the tea-set frae the drawin'-room—your mother's, ye ken?'

'Yes, yes, Betty, if you please; and Miss Stuart will honour us in handseling it. It hasn't been used since I came here;' and before my guest could say 'Yea' or 'Nay,' Betty had disappeared.

I drew the chair nearer the fire, and, pipe in hand, was about to ask my vis-À-vis if I might smoke, when I saw her gaze wander round the walls of my room and ultimately rest on my picture.

'Oh, Mr Russell,' she exclaimed, as she rose to her feet—'why, that is surely the picture I painted?'

'It is, Miss Stuart,' I quietly said. 'It's the picture you had just finished the first time I saw you in the flesh, and I assure you I am very proud to be the possessor of it.'

She stood looking up at it, beating a tattoo with her fingers on the table, and I saw the warm blood mounting her neck and cheek.

'I hope you don't mind my having it?' I asked.

'Oh no; but—well, you must have put yourself to some trouble to get it—more than it's worth, I'm afraid, for it was presented to a bazaar many miles away; and, you'll pardon me, but I cannot understand your putting so much value on it. It is really not a good bit of work, though the subject appealed to me so much.'

'Now, Miss Stuart, please do not belittle my purchase—your labour of love, I may call it. I know a little about art; in fact, though I don't paint now, it has always been, and still is, my hobby, and in my judgment you have no reason to be ashamed of this example of your handiwork. As to my motive in buying it—well, I am a native of this village, as Betty has perhaps already told you, and to me it and its environs will ever be my earthly paradise. I know every step of the countryside around. As a boy I hunted in its fields, explored its woods, and fished its streams. During the years I have been settled in Edinburgh, never a day has passed but my thoughts have strayed homeward, and the identical spot on which you sketched this picture is the one, above all others, around which my most hallowed memories are centred. Whenever I thought of my quiet village home my mind meandered down the Gillfoot road, and the view which inspired you to this effort has always been with me, for it is, as it were, photographed on my brain.'

'Oh, I quite understand you,' she said slowly—'quite. But how did you find out where it was for sale?'

'Well, I had very little difficulty in that,' I laughingly replied. 'Talking of sales, though—pardon my introducing the commercial element into our conversation, Miss Stuart—but I would like very much to have a companion picture to this one, something local of course. I'll leave the price to yourself. There's no hurry, you know; only I should be sorry to miss the opportunity of procuring another, treated with the same loving skill.'

'How much did you pay for this one?' she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

'Well—I—I really cannot tell you exactly. You see, I didn't buy it myself. I happened to hear your clerical friend say something about the Laurieston bazaar; so I wrote to Ormskirk, my confidential clerk, giving him the few particulars I possessed, and he managed everything to my satisfaction. The price he paid for it will be noted down: he stated it in his letter, but as it was of minor importance I don't remember the exact figure.'

I had risen from my chair when she stood up to examine the picture; and, thinking she might be tired standing, I asked her to sit down. She made no response, however; and, lost in thought, looked long into the glowing fire.

'Ormskirk! Mr Ormskirk, your confidential clerk!' she repeated slowly. 'The name seems familiar to me. Oh yes, now I remember;' and she laughed cheerily, and gave me a blithe look. 'It is a coincidence, Mr Russell; but I was received once by a Mr Ormskirk of an Edinburgh legal firm. The name struck me as being unusual.'

'Well, Miss Stuart, so far as I know there is only one Ormskirk in our profession in Edinburgh, and he is with us—my firm, I mean—Monteith & Russell.'

'Monteith & Russell!' she repeated. 'And you are'——

'Well, I'm Mr Monteith's partner.'

She looked at me with surprise in her big dark eyes, and then slowly every vestige of colour left her face. 'You—you are Mr Russell! Oh, I am so glad to meet you! I have corresponded with you, and my father very often spoke of you. I am DÉsirÉe Stuart. My affairs are in your firm's hands. I am the daughter of General Stuart of Abereran. This is very bewildering!' and she smiled feebly through moist, lustrous eyes.

I was too astonished to speak. No suitable words could I utter in acknowledgment of this unexpected information. Never for a moment had I associated Miss Stuart the artist with Miss Stuart of Abereran. Somehow, I cannot say exactly what followed; but I have a dim recollection of hearing her apologising for sobbing, on the plea that I was the first person she had met since her father's death of whom, in his last illness, he had spoken with kindliness and affectionate regard. And I welcomed this with avidity as another link which bound me to her.

'Your father and I didn't meet often, Miss Stuart,' I said, after a pause, during which we had both been busy in thought; 'but we corresponded very frequently. I am glad to know he spoke of me with appreciation. Unfortunately I was confined to bed at the time of his death, otherwise I should have been with you; but my partner, Mr Murray Monteith, attended to everything, and has been giving your affairs every consideration.'

'Yes, Mr Monteith has been very attentive. I called at your office and asked to see you. It was on this occasion I met your Mr Ormskirk. Well, Mr Monteith received me, and reassured me on one or two points about which I was anxious. After all, I didn't tell him the real reason of my visit.'

'Indeed! And—and why didn't you?'

'Well, I somehow didn't like. I know it was very silly; but I just couldn't speak of it—at least to him.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to know that!' I said. 'Mr Monteith would have been only too pleased to help you with his advice. Is the matter you wished to bring before me still of consequence?'

'Yes. But it can wait. You know this is neither the time nor the place to talk business. Besides, I oughtn't to bother you about my affairs just now. You are still on the sick list, though I must say you look less the invalid to-day than you did the first time I saw you.'

'Thank you, Miss Stuart. I am glad to know I look better; certainly I feel much stronger, and I trust to be back to business soon. But do tell me now what you wanted to consult me about in Edinburgh.'

For a time she remained silent, and I watched with interest the run and play of her thoughts, as expressed in her mobile face.

'Don't you think,' she said at length, 'that all this is very queer—I mean our previous accidental meetings, the personal and business connection between us, and the fact of our sitting together in this room in this quiet little village? I feel we are known to each other, yet we are not acquainted. Oh, it does seem so strange and unusual!'

'Yes. The whole circumstances are rather remarkable, and I could tell you something—a little story in which you and I figure, which is even more mystifying; but we are wandering from the subject we had on hand. You haven't yet told me what I wish to know.'

'I cannot mention it to-night, Mr Russell,' she said. 'More than ever I feel I ought not to have broached it. Later I trust we shall have an opportunity of discussing everything. You don't mind my deferring it?'

'Just as you wish; but before we dismiss business, may I ask you a question?'

'Certainly.'

'Well, I had a letter from Mr Monteith the other day in which he referred to your affairs. By the same token, he is coming down to see your aunt, so we'll all meet and go into everything thoroughly. Well, what he mentioned in his letter with reference to you set me a-thinking, and I have been wondering since if you are aware of the fact that you hold four thousand Banku oil shares. Have you received any dividends lately?'

'I know,' she answered thoughtfully, 'that father, some time ago—when I came of age it was—transferred some shares to me, and from time to time he gave me what must have been dividends. I didn't trouble him for particulars; he always hated business chats, but more so after his last visit to India. I am sure he got a touch of sun, although the doctor would never admit it, and I purposely refrained from referring to business affairs, as it only annoyed and irritated him. Since he died I have received no money at all. As a matter of fact'—and she blushed painfully—'that's what I wanted to see you about. Aunt is awfully decent, and grudges me nothing; but surely I ought to have received something. It isn't very nice to be depending on her for every shilling, and—you understand, Mr Russell?—I'm perhaps too independent, and'——

'Oh, Miss Stuart, I am so sorry! This is a most unfortunate oversight. I must rectify it at once, and see that money is sent to you to-morrow. You have quite a large sum to your credit with us.'

'I am glad to know that;' and she smiled. 'But please don't put yourself to any immediate trouble on my account. I—I am all right for money at present. Unknown to my aunt, I sent two of my pictures to Glasgow last week. Yesterday I received—what do you think?—four guineas each for them;' and again the blood mounted to her cheek.

'Miss Stuart,' I said, in consternation, 'have you through our thoughtlessness been obliged to'——I didn't finish my sentence, for at that moment the door opened, and Betty entered with the tea-tray. Maybe it was a fortunate, certain I am it was a timely, interruption, as I was strongly tempted to act unprofessionally, and take a client to my arms.

We had tea brewed in my mother's old Worcester teapot and served in dainty cups of the same ware. The modern gas was extinguished, and the candles in the candelabra were lit. Nobody in Thornhill, or out of it, can bake soda-scones to compare with Betty's; no one can approach her in the lightness and pan-flavour of her toothsome pancakes, the 'gou' of her butter, and the aroma of her home-blended tea. As for her homely, kindly presence—well, only one other possessed its match, and she was sitting at Betty's right hand, admiring my mother's old china, praising Betty's scones, filling my heart with a gladness it had never known before. Ah, Betty Grier—my dear old Betty—I owe much to you! Before life was a reality to me, you cared for me and ministered to my wants. When I was cast adrift from moorings of my own making you took me in, nursed me, and tended me. For all this I thank you; but for bringing this little tea-party about I'll bless your name for ever and ever. Amen.

So far I have not been out of doors after nightfall. The village streets are not too well lit; the pavements are too uneven for my uncertain steps; but Miss Stuart couldn't go home unattended. Betty was very emphatic on this point, and of course I heartily concurred. Bang and Jip certainly came into the house with me after our walk; but they must have recognised in Miss Stuart a counter-attraction, and slipped away to their respective homes unobserved. Standing in the lobby with my coat and hat on, and thinking they might be keeping Nathan company in his back-room, I called to them several times, but all in vain; so Miss Stuart and I went out alone.

It was a clear, quiet, moonlight night, with that sharp touch of frost in the air which makes walking a pleasure. No winter night winds sighed in the bare, leafless limes as we passed down the street; no discordant sounds broke the stillness of the Gillfoot as we wended our way by its shadowy wood.

I had, of course, perforce to walk slowly, and in some unaccountable way my thoughts and speech seemed to keep in rhythm with my steps. This at first disturbed and annoyed me, as I was anxious to be vivacious and animated; but I soon found out that in certain circumstances conversation is not essential to good-fellowship.

When we reached the top of the Gillfoot Brae, and were almost opposite the little wicket to Nithbank Wood, we halted for a minute, and in silence looked down upon the scene, the natural features of which my companion had with such loving skill transferred to her canvas.

There are times when Nature asserts herself—thrusts herself, as it were, upon us, and emphatically proclaims her glory and power. It is good for us to come under her dominance then, for if we have within us a soul worthy of the name we cannot but feel our true position and standing in the great Creator's plan.

As I stood, with the woman I loved beside me, on that glamour-haunted spot, amidst scenes grand in their solemnity and hallowed by associations, myriads of twinkling worlds above us, at our feet peaceful howmes all bathed in moonlight, a fuller realisation of the true import of life was borne in upon me. And there, in a consciously chastened spirit, with Nature's sermon in my heart and her inspirations all around me, I turned to my companion, and falteringly told the story of my dream.

In silence and with wonderment in her eyes, she listened to all my heart bade me say, and when I had finished she slightly turned away from me, and her head was bowed. Then in a flash my mind reverted to her recent bereavement; and when I thought of her loneliness and isolation, the uncertainty of her prospects, and the shame and mental trials she would in all probability be called upon to bear, reproach came to me, and I felt selfish and mean in adding to her burden of mind.

'Miss Stuart,' I said, 'please pardon me if I have said anything amiss, or if what I have spoken is unwelcome or ill-timed, and a cause of unhappiness to you. If it is so, I am deeply sorry, but I cannot take back anything I have told you. God knows it is true, and my whole life will be devoted to prove to you that it is so. But for the present—well, doubtless you have plenty to think about, so please dismiss from your mind what I have said. If I may, I shall some day speak to you again. Meanwhile let me be your friend. Somehow, I think you need one.'

She looked gratefully at me with moistened eyes. 'Thank you very much. What you have told me is all so strange, so unexpected, and—and I feel it is all true. You are very kind. I do need a friend, and I can trust you.'

I am lying in my old truckle-bed. It is far into the morning, and sleep has not yet closed my eyes. Nathan has not been so well to-night, and his restlessness has kept Betty astir, but it hasn't disturbed me. And, somehow, I am not lonely. 'I do need a friend, and I can trust you;' these words, during the quiet hours, are often being whispered in my ear, and I would rather remain awake and hear them than slip into slumberland and lose them.