For the first time since I was a boy, Betty had to waken me this morning. As a rule I lie for half-an-hour before getting up, allowing my mind to simmer over the events of the previous day, and planning how best I may spend the coming forenoon and afternoon. I had no need to make out any programme for to-day, however, as I had that all arranged last night.

I dressed hurriedly, and after spending a few minutes with Nathan, who, poor man, is abed, I sent off a telegram to Murray Monteith, requesting him to wire on receipt one hundred pounds on Miss Stuart's account to the local bank. When I had breakfasted I wrote him a long letter, and asked him to send me particulars regarding her interests in the Banku Oil Company. Then I went up and arranged with Mr Crichton the banker as to her account.

Walking along to the bank, I met Joe on his way down to Betty's. Joe's jacket is always closely buttoned, and he wears his tweed cap tilted on his head at the same angle as he would his glengarry when on parade. His hair is cropped short, the forelock brushed firmly and obliquely across his left temple, and showing prominently under the stem of his civilian cap. His trousers are always carefully pressed; consequently they never show a bagginess at the knees. He is not so tall as Nathan, nor has he the 'boss' appearance; but I fancied that to-day he had more than usual of the same serious Hebron expression; and when he gave me the salute, as he always does in true soldierly style, it wasn't accompanied by the customary cheery smile. He passed me at the regulation step, and from the fact that he was carrying a brown-paper bag bearing the name of John Nelson, Fruiterer, I surmised that Betty was contemplating an apple-dumpling for dinner.

My business with Mr Crichton was soon disposed of; but it took me some considerable time to dispose of Mr Crichton. He has a jocose, affable way with him, a pawky knack of leaving one subject and starting another; and when he is in a reminiscent mood, as he was this morning, he can be very dreich and very entertaining at one and the same time. Long ago, of an evening, he used to play chess with my father. He took snuff in those days—he takes snuff still, and treats others unstintingly, as Betty will know when my handkerchief goes to the wash—and when my father had lured him into an awkward position on the board his little silver box was seldom out of his hand. My recollection of him at that period is very hazy, and it is so closely associated with this box that it may be if he hadn't snuffed I shouldn't have remembered him at all. I notice he applies the stimulant always to his right nostril, never to the left, and he has a dainty and a stealthy way of conveying the pinch which contrasts strongly with that of Deacon Webster, whose recklessness where snuff is concerned is such that more is distributed on his shirt-front and waistcoat than is sniffed into the nasal receptacle. On the other hand, so cleanly and dapper is Mr Crichton that, were it not for the aroma of Kendal brown which ever lingers about him, you wouldn't know he used snuff at all.

After a couthie crack, which, in spite of my preoccupation, I enjoyed, I said good-bye and walked out of the bank, only to fall a ready prey to the blandishments of Douglas the barber, who inveigled me into his back-yard to see a cavie of Wyandotte chickens of which, as prize-winners, he had great expectations. Then, in his draughty lobby, I had to listen to an account of his first and only interview with Thomas Carlyle at Holmhill, of his photographing the Chelsea seer and 'snoddin'' his hair; also to a rÉsumÉ of a lecture on the Ruthwell Cross he had heard delivered by our fellow-villager, Dr Hewison, which pleased him, as he said, 'doon to the nines.' On reaching home I found, to my great disappointment, that Dr Grierson had called and had gone away. I wanted particularly to see the doctor, as I felt he should know that I had taken his advice and unburdened my mind to the lady of my dream.

When Betty came in to lay the table for my homely midday meal I noticed she was not quite herself, and that there was something unusual disquieting her mind. As I have said, I always allow her to unburden herself to me in her own way and at her own sweet will; but somehow I intuitively felt that in the present circumstances my rule should not apply.

As she moved silently out and in I watched her closely, and when she had finished and drawn out my chair from the table I put my hand on her shoulder. 'Betty,' I said, 'there is a sadness in your eyes to-day I have never noticed before. Is there anything worrying you?'

She looked up at me for a moment; then, putting her arms round my neck, she began to cry, quietly but emotionally. 'Oh, it's Nathan, puir falla, an' I'm sairly putten aboot,' she said between her sobs. 'It strikes me he's no' in a very guid wey; an', oh Weelum! if—if ocht tak's Nathan I dinna want to live.'

It was the first time for years she had, unasked, called me 'Weelum' without the prefix, and the old familiar way she pronounced it touched a chord in my heart.

I let her have her cry out, and then I did my best to allay her fears. She sat down on my chair, and I drew in another and sat down beside her. 'Nathan's not very well, Betty,' I said; 'but he's always been a healthy enough man, not given to complaining and lying about, and you know you're so accustomed to see him strong and robust that you are apt to exaggerate anything which prostrates him and keeps him in bed. The doctor's not concerned about him to-day, is he?'

'I—I dinna ken for certain. He didna say so to me, but I imagined he looked that wey,' she said. 'Mebbe I read his face wrang. I'm trustin' I did, but—but I see for mysel' that Nathan's far frae weel.'

'Yes, Betty, we all know that; but I'm sure there's nothing serious. He's got a bad cold, a very bad chill, the doctor tells me; but with a good rest in bed and careful nursing he'll soon be up and about again.'

'I'm dootin' it's mair than a chill, Maister Weelum,' and she shook her head; 'an' it strikes me that Nathan kens it's something mair serious. He's tryin' no' to let on to me; but the mair he tries the clearer I see it. Ay, him an' me have come to that time o' life when we depend a guid deal on yin anither, an' lately I've noticed that he's been anxious to do mair for me than he's able. We lippen on yin anither in a quiet kind o' a wey, ye ken—never askin' or demandin', but aye expectin', an' aye gettin'. Ay, Maister Weelum, aye gettin' an' aye gi'in', an' it's through this wee peep-hole that Nathan an' me, an' ithers happily married like us, get a wee bit glisk o' a heaven on earth.'

I pondered over these words for a moment. 'Betty,' I said, 'that's a beautiful way of putting it.'

'Ay, it may be beautiful—it may be, I say, Maister Weelum. I'm no' a judge o' that; but it's true—an' I feel it's true; an' the best wish I can wish ye is that some day my experience in this will be yours.' And she wiped her cheek with her apron, and smoothed imaginary creases out of the tablecover with the back of her hand.

'And—and, Betty, you must love Nathan very much?'

'Yes,' she said promptly, 'I love Nathan; but no' so much as I have reason to, an' no' mair than he deserves.'

'And was Nathan the only sweetheart you ever had, Betty?' I suddenly asked.

She rose from her chair and turned her face to the window. 'Dear me, Maister Weelum, that's a queer question to ask! What put that into your heid?'

'Oh, I don't know, Betty. I've often wondered.'

'Ye've often wondered that, have ye? Imphm!' And she sat down again. 'Weel, as the wean I nursed an' the man I'm prood o', ye'll no' be denied an answer. No, Nathan's no' the only sweethe'rt I ever had. I loved anither man before I loved Nathan. I was aboot nineteen year auld at the time, an' if onybody had telt me then that Robert Frizzel wad never be mine I wad ha'e gane demented. Nineteen's a careless, haveral kind o' an age; but the he'rt can be awfu' glad an' joyous then, an' I must confess I had spurts o' happiness which carried me aff my feet in a wey I couldna understand later. The sun was aye shinin'; the birds were aye whusslin'. I gaed to my bed singin', an' I wakened singin'. Oh, I mind it a' weel. The mistress—your mother—somewey was against it; but I thocht I kenned best, an' mony a sweet bit stolen oor I had up at that same gate at the heid o' the gairden there. He was a nice-lookin' man, was Robert, a bonny singer, an' a great toss amang the lassies, an' to be singled oot frae amang them a' was in my estimation something to be prood o'. Weel, I heard something aboot him no' to his credit—something mean an' dishonourable. Nathan was comin' aboot the gairden even then; an', though he had never said ocht to me, I could see, an'—an' I jaloused, an' it struck me that he wadna ha'e dune the same. Weel, the first chance I got I asked Robert aboot it, an' he juist laughed an' made licht o't. I telt him I never wanted to speak to him again, an'—an' I gaed to my bed that nicht an' grat the sairest greet I ever had in my life. Ay, I juist put him oot o' my he'rt an' steekit the door. An' then Nathan somewey opened it again, an'——Michty me, Maister Weelum, your broth's stane-cauld!' And, without another word, she lifted the soup-tureen and went ben to the kitchen.

I never for a moment suspected Betty of having had a calf-love affair, and her characteristic recital of the episode was as unexpected as it was interesting. I asked the question which led up to it almost without premeditation, and not so much out of curiosity as from a desire to wean her pessimistic mind away from Nathan's indisposition. Poor body, she was always prone to meet her troubles halfway, and I feel so sure that her fears regarding Nathan are groundless that I do not reproach myself for interrupting her brooding thoughts.

After dinner I went through to Nathan's bedroom and had a short chat with him. He was assiduously reading The Christian Herald when I looked past the curtain of his bed, but on recognising me he at once stopped and took off his spectacles. 'Oh, it's you, Maister Weelum,' he said, as he laid aside his paper. 'I—I thocht it micht be Betty.'

At the back of the bed, and only partly hidden, was a copy of The Gardening World. I looked first at one paper, then at the other, and remembering his predilection for secular literature, I smiled. Nathan smiled also. I made no remark; neither did Nathan; but somehow I am surer now than ever that Betty is wrong in thinking that he considers his condition serious.

With Nathan in normal health and at his own fireside it is a difficult matter to keep the crack going; but with Nathan indisposed and abed it is well-nigh impossible. True, he answers any questions I put to him, but he never introduces a subject of conversation, and at his bedside, talking to him, I have always the strange feeling that he wants to put his head underneath the bedclothes.

When I had exhausted my news, and was wondering what next to say, Joe came in, and he had still the serious expression in his eyes I had noticed on meeting him on my way to the bank.

Joe is of great assistance to Betty at present, and his knowledge of housework, combined with his readiness to help, places him on a pedestal and makes him indispensable. I took the opportunity of thanking him for what he had done, and commended him strongly for his kindly services; and when I was going out, as an inducement to further exertions, I quietly slipped something into his hand that brought him to the salute with a most pronounced jerk.

Nathan was eyeing the stiff-as-starch Joe in surprise, as I gave him a good-afternoon nod. 'What's wrang wi' ye, Benjy?' I heard him say. 'Maister Weelum's no' an offisher; he's a gentleman.'

'That's exactly why I saluted him, Nathan,' said Joe very patly; and I was laughing quietly to myself as I re-entered my room.

Betty was what she calls 'bankin'' my fire; and, on looking round and catching the smile on my face, she wiped her fingers on her dust-cloth and smiled too.

'Nathan's a wee bit cheerier noo than he was in the foreday,' she said; and, after a pause, as a second thought, she added, 'at least he's as cheery as a Hebron could be in the circumstances.'

'Oh yes, Betty,' I said, 'he seems to be in a happy enough mood; but I think I have heard you say the Hebrons are not what one would call a hilarious family.'

'No, 'aith no, except Joe, an' him only sometimes—when he shouldna be. Imphm! Ye never met ony o' Nathan's sisters, Maister Weelum, did ye?'

'No, Betty. I didn't know he had any sisters.'

'Oh, weel, in a wey neither he has, for yin o' them lives in Auchensell an' the ither twae away in the back o' beyond, somewhere in Glencairn. They come to Thornhill only aince a year, at the Martinmas fair, an' of coorse Nathan stays at hame frae his wark, an' we've them doon here for their denner. Peasoup's a weakness o' the Hebrons, an' they're awfu' keen on pork ribs, so I mak' my bill o' fare to suit them. An' then, the time I'm cleanin' up, they a' sit roon the fire, an' Nathan smokes an' spits, an' his sisters sit strecht up in their chairs, lookin' frae the fire to the window, an' whisperin' to each ither. Ye see, Nathan brocht them up. They look on him in a wey as their faither, an' they defer to him even yet, an' aye wait on him speakin' first, so ye can understaun their tongues dinna gang juist like hand-bells; no, 'aith no, they do not. Nathan's fair, but they are dark an' swarthy, an' they a' wear black dolmans, 'lastic-sided boots, an' white stockin's, an' they aye come wi' umbrellas in their haun even though the weather's as dry as tinder. Thomasina frae Auchensell is the auldest, an' she's the only yin that has a family; an' when Nathan does say ocht it's aye her he speaks to, an' the ither twae juist sit an' mutter to yin anither, lookin' quite pleased an' satisfied. I'm used wi' them noo; but the first time I had them here I was at my wits' end. No' a word could I get oot o' them, an' Nathan—weel, I didna ken him very weel then either—he could hardly be seen for pipe-reek, an' it was only because I couldna do the deaf an' dumb alphabet that I didna try it on them. An' mair than that, Maister Weelum, here's anither very queer thing. Do you know that their men—their marrit men, I mean—have never been inside this door. I've never met them, no' even seen them; an' Nathan—weel, I dare say he wad be at their waddin's, but I question if he wad stop an' speak to them if he met them on the king's highway. Oh, I tell ye, they're queer! Ye micht marry a Hebron, but ye never get into the family.'

'And what about Joe?' I asked. 'Does he join these annual reunions?'

'Catch Joe sittin' in the hoose on a Thornhill fair-day. No, no, Joe's ower keen on the pea-guns, an' the Aunt Sally booth, an' siclike to ha'e ony time to help Nathan to entertain his sisters. He's a queer, queer mixture is Joe; but his he'rt's in the richt place for a' that. Ha'e ye seen him the day?'

'Yes; I met him on the street, looking rather melancholy, I thought. You—you haven't put him under the pledge again, Betty?'

'Ye thocht he looked melancholy, did ye? Weel, he's under nae pledge to me. It's no' that that's putten him aboot. Puir Joe! puir Joe!'

'What is it, then, Betty?'

She hesitated for a minute, and I at once apologised, thinking I was unconsciously prying into family affairs.

'Oh, it's no' that I'm hankerin' for, Maister Weelum. The fact is, it's in a wey concerned wi' a friend o' yours, an' I don't know very weel hoo to begin; but ye mind me tellin' ye aboot Joe gettin' the awfu' fricht meetin' a lady he thocht was deid an' buried? You an' me made licht o't; but Joe wadna be convinced, an' last nicht he saw the lady again, an'—noo, Maister Weelum, this is the queer bit o' the story—the lady was Miss Stuart.'

'How did he know that, Betty?'

'Weel, he was in the kitchen last nicht when I brocht her through frae Mrs Jardine's to see your picter, an' he was so putten aboot that he gaed strecht away hame to the Cuddy Lane withoot sayin' a word to onybody. This mornin' he spoke to me aboot it, an' asked her name, an' when I said it was Miss Stuart he nearly fainted. "Same name," he said, "and the same locket," an' that's a' I could get oot o' him; an' he was so dazed an' bamboozled that he couldna mind my messages, an' I had to write them doon on a bit paper. Noo, Maister Weelum, what mak' ye o' that?'

'Same name and the same locket!' I repeated slowly. 'Whatever could he mean by that?'

'I dinna ken. I asked him, but his lips shut wi' a snap like a handbag. If I hadna asked he wad ha'e telt me; the Hebron cam' oot there again, Maister Weelum.'

'Oh, Betty, it must be a foolish fancy. The chance of Joe having met Miss Stuart before has, of course, to be considered; but the lady he knew died twenty-four years ago. Miss Stuart must have been a baby then.'

'Mebbe it was her mother, Maister Weelum.'

In a flash the possibility occurred to me. I looked quickly and keenly at Betty, but her eye challenged my gaze clearly and without flinching.

'Ye're thinkin' I'm speakin' in riddles, an' keepin' something back; if ye do, ye're wrang, Maister Weelum. It was the locket that made me think o' her mother; it wad be a very likely keepsake for her to ha'e.'

'Betty, my dear, I don't doubt you. I am sure you are telling me all you know; you have no motive for keeping anything back. I—I am very much interested in Miss Stuart, more so than in any woman I know. There is some uncertainty connected with her affairs which, unless it is cleared up, will be to her disadvantage. I may be thinking too quickly, and the wish may be father to the thought; but it strikes me that a chat with Joe would clear the air. He is in Nathan's bedroom. Do you think he would come in and have a talk with me alone?'

'Oh, I'm sure he'll do that wi' pleesure. But, Maister Weelum, if it's ocht ye want to ken, ye maunna ask him questions. I ken Joe; he's a Hebron, an'—weel, ye understaun?'

I quite understood; and when, later, Joe came into my room I was busy examining a pair of old holster pistols which had belonged to my grandfather. 'Oh, it's you, Joe! I said. 'You're the very man I want. I know you understand more about these things than I do, and I should be obliged to you if you would kindly help me to clean them up a bit.'

'Certainly, sir,' he said with alacrity. 'I'll soon polish them up. But it's a dirty job; don't you bother with them. I'll see to them in the back-kitchen.'

In conversation with Betty or Nathan, Joe employs the Doric as they do; but, thanks to his service in the south and abroad, he is equally familiar with English as it is read, and in speaking to me he doesn't even betray the semblance of the Scots accent.

I hadn't bargained for his taking the pistols off to the back-kitchen, however. This wouldn't suit my plan. Joint operations were necessary for a crack such as I wanted. Accordingly I suggested we should cover the better-lit end of the table with a newspaper, and exercise care; and so it came to pass that in a few minutes Joe and I were up to the wrists in emery and oil, and our tongues going like Betty's hand-bells.