IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I if 1^ 1^ l«Uu 111 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^= — „ f^n ► V] <^ ^;. ^a '3> ,^ "^y M Photographic Sciences Corporation \ 4 f'>%/r*i«^^jfWjmoi^!^mimf^<.''TK ■ .-v » CONTENTS. .e year iKUSGS, House, CHAP. I. TIIK CASTIXa UP OF THE PEARL, II. IK TIIK MORNINO, III. TWENTY YKAKS AFTER,. IV. A TIKJUBLED HEAllT, V. AUCIIIE THE YOUNGER, . VI. CUOSS CLUllENTS, VII. M'oUNDED PUIDE, . VIII. TWO "WOMEN, . , IX. ANNIE AT S>T. VEDA'S, , X. lUIED, . . , XI. love's Y'OUNO DREAM, . XII. JANET ERSKINE's JUDGMENT, XIII. COMING TO AN UNDEUSTANDIN XIV. 'll'uy's flittin',' XV. WHAT TIJE SKIPPER SAID, XVI. MORE LIGHT, XVII. THE LITTLE SISTERS, XVI II. KIND HEARTS, . XIX. A NEW TUUUBLE, XX. MY LADY GRANT, rAOC 7 15 24 33 43 52 60 68 76 86 94 104 114 124 133 142 153 161 171 180 CONTENTS, CHAP. XXI. ANOTHER BLOW, , xxn. wouniED, . • XXIII. TALKINO IT OVER, . XXIV. HOPE DEKKItKED, XXV. TIIK SKUIIET IN THE GAURET, XXVI. TIlKAsriiK ruovE, xx\ii. ST. veda'vS heir, XXV 11 1. AT nAV, . XXIX. Till', WHEEL OF FORTUNE, XXX. OIK l:l('ll RELATIONS ! . XXXI. A NO III Kit SHOCK, XX\i|. rilK iilAItoWS OF THE PAST, WXIII. fiodp NKV/S, XXXIV. I UK sWKKT WATKKS, XXXV. .^1 ITINU HKK HdlSK IN' oni>KI PAOR 188 ir»7 20*) 'J-2 I 24 -J 2r)0 2.'i8 2ti7 27-1 2S:i 2 '.•2 301 310 a in till fAOK 188 197 20t> 'Jl •'• 242 sno 2r»8 2»)7 271 28-.5 2*."- -aoi 310 jy*^iS^^S*^»^?!0 ST. VEDA'S. CHAPTER I. THE CASTING UP OF THE PEARL. ir, Archibalil, surely it is a tcrriljlc ni^lit ! Listen to tlic wind and tlio roaring of the sea ! It makes mc shiver ! ' Lady Grant shivered as she uttered these words, and, croucliing closer to the blazing log fire, lifted her largo soft eyes wistfully to her hus- band's face. lie smiled reassuringly, and laid his kind hand caressingly on the golden head he loved so well. • I do not like St. Veda's in winter, Archibahl, it has such a wild, cruel sea. Winter in St. Male was like summer in comparison with this.' *lt is not always cruel, Lilian; you have often admired the sunlight flashing on calm waters oven under the shadow of St. Veda's. Jiut you will grow accustomed to our storms, my dearest, and learn to love St. Veda's, as 1 do, in all its moods.' ' It is very grand, I know, to see the great waves like mountains of foam washing our walls, Archibald ; but some- times, especially in the niglit when I cannot sleep, I think how fearful it would be if our house were undermined.' 8 ST. VEDA'S, Arthilmld Grant lnu;^'1»C(l a little at his wifo'a foolish fancy. She was very young, and hiul heen reared on the sunny shores of southern Franco. It was not wonderful, then, that ^ho had found the wild, rude Scottish coast terrifying, especially in its wilder moods. She had lived under hluo skies, among flowers and sunshine, all her young life, until love of the true- hearted master of St. Veda's had hronght her to share his northern home. Archihald Grant of St. Veda's, Sir Archie as his people called him, was well worthy all confidence and love. He came of a noble race, and was fraidi, fearless, generous, warm-hearted almost to a fault. The (J rants of St. Veda's had always spent with a royal hand. The house had its darker pages too; it had known times of trouhle, hut thrnugh all these its honour had remained untarnii^hed. The Grants were nothing if not honourable and true. There had always been a Sir Archie in St. Veda's. The fisher folk in Orr's Haven, the hamlet at the foot of the cliff, could not remember a time when there was no Sir Archie to share their joys and sorrows, to replace lost boats and tattered nets, to make good other ravages made by the winter storms, and to stretch out a hand, never empty, to the widow and the fatherless when there was sorrow on the sea. St. Veda's was a weather-beaten castle, built on the frown- ing brow of a great rock, against which the waves beat rest- lessly and fretfully evermore. The quaint windows in tower and turret commanded a magnificent prospect, the whole sweep of the Forth, and beyond, the far-reaching and stormy North Sea. In summer sunshine the yellow sands and clustering townships on the Fifeshire coast were things of perpetual beauty. Lilian Grant would often stand at the tower windows in these golden days, fancying a resendjlance between that fringe of low-lying coast and the familiar sea- board ."-bj had loved in her childhood. She knew St. Veda's best in its wilder moods. Spring, summer, and early autumn were divided between London and i I i I anxl exc rest! THE CASTING UP OF TffE PEARL. ncy. unny , that cially mong 1 true- re his Vrchie ;e and iiirli'ss, of St. ,se luid (j rants 1. The \c cliff, 'chie to tattered storms, ind the frown- at rest- n tower whole stormy ds and [lilS of 1 at the lublance liar sea- Spring, don and St. M-.ilo ; iit tlu* lattur place tlicrr dwelt a witlnwcil .iii.l in valid niothcr, whose life had hi-on rohhod of its siiiishiiic wIm-m AivhihaM (Irant aU»le hiu' child away. Had ht-altii pi'iniittcd, Laiiy (Irant's mother would have made her home with iier son anil daughter, for in Archii)aM Grant «ho had tndy found a Two children had hlessed St. Veda's, a son and iu'ir, already toddling,' ahout, and a hahy <,Mrl a few months old. ' L<'t us ^'o up to th»! tower, Lilian, and see th(» Storm Kiii<; in his majesty,' said Sir Archie, hreakin^' the silence at len^'th. 'The wind has risen within the; last hour. I dimht then; will l)c dama^'e done hefore the morning.' * Arefore they reached the cottage Sir Archie met tliem. ' Tliat's you, Janet. What have you got — a l)al)y?' he said, trying to make his voice audible above the tuniuh nf wind and wave. 'They've done good work already, tlu'u.' Janet Erskine nodded, and went on. * Its a nuickle ship on the Scaur, Sir Archie,' said Adam Krskine next. 'But we canna tell boo mon\\s abuird her.' Sir Archie nodded, and strode on towards the crowd. ■J M ST. VEDA'S, k. They carried the woman into Janet Erskine's house, and laid her on the hed in tlif^ ' ben room,' as she directed them, ani'S. ' And *"he poor motlier is dead,' she said, without remarking 'I llie look. 'Did she speak, or give any information about I 1 -^elf before she died '? ' ' She woke up, my lady, about half-past one this morning, i-t before the di)ctor eame ; and when I went to her with the ilty, she said quiti; (iistitictly, "Take care of Annie."' ' Then the child's name must be Annie. Dear me, how i<-liing ! The sailors know nothing about her, Sir Archie !ls me.' ' No, my lady, so Adam says.' Janet Erskine spoke in a very low voice, and kept her eyes :.\i'd on the baby's face. ' How very, very sad ! ' said Lady Grant. * But perhaps there will be a clue found. If not, I think I must take her ;n St. Veda's, Janet.' Janet Erskine's colour rose, and she put her hands over the hild lying cooing on her lap. ' If you please, my lady, I shall keep the child, as her Miother bade me.' ' You, Janet ! But she would be a great charge for you. \''i\\ have Adam, and may have half-a-dozen other babies,* lid Lady Grant, with a smile. ' No, my lady. I know I shall have no more children, and shall keep this one,' said Janet Erskine, with a firmness M're was no mistaking. Her mind was made up. • What does your husband say V ' Oh, Adam will let me keep the bairn, my lady, because ' said this morning I looked as I used to look when I had • '0 Elsie on my knee,' said Janet Erskine huskily and with 'uving bosom. ' I understand ; forgive me, Janet,' said Lady Grant, . I kly. '/ shall never seek to take the little one from I liii. \ IN THE MORNING. «9 \ick by rskine's narking n about uorning, with the me, how r Archie her oyes b perhiipa take her over the as her for you. babies,' drcn, and firmness , because lien I had and with y Grant, one from you. So her name is Annie 1 Will you call her Annie Krskiner ' I suppose so, my lady. I think her mother was Scotdi from her tongue. Would you care, my lady, to go ben to the rnom. She is very peaceful and pretty to look at.* Lady Grant nodded. Janet Erskine rose and laid the child ill the cradle, little Elsie's cradle, which Adam hail brought down from the garret that morning. Until that day Janet Krskine had nt looked upon it since wee Elsie had slept in it for the last time. Little Adam, delighted, ran to the cradle, and kneeling down with his bare, chubby knees on the floor, began to talk and laugh to the baby, who crowed back to him delightedly. Lady Grant saw Janet's lips twitch as she looked at them, then she turned quickly away, and they entered together the chamber where the unknown stranger sk'[)t her last sleep. Janet Erskine drew up the white blind a little way, and then put back the fair linen sheet, the finest and best of her own providing, which had only been out of the fold for the first time the day that Elsie died. Janet Erskine had paid every honour to the stranger who had died within her gates. The face revealed to the pitying eyes of Lilian Grant was the face of a very young woman, and was not without its traces of care. It was a very sweet face, each feature, indeed, was perfect in its way, the mouth, especially, tender and touching. Her hair was very dark, and curled in short natural waves about her neck. Her small hands were folded placidly on her breast, and on the left there glittered a massive wedding ring. Tears rose to the sympathetic eyes of Lilian Grant, and even Janet Erskine's face wore a softened and beautiful exi)ression. ' There was a chain and a gold locket which I have not tak(>n oir,' said Janet. ' I noticed she often touched it last night, and her hand was on it when she died. I opened it this morning, my lady. There is the portrait of a gentleman Ml} f1 li:; / I!.' 20 ST. VEDA'S. in it, and some worcls eiignu'cd on the other sirle which I could not make out. Would you like to see it, my lady?' ' Oh no, don't disturb the doad, Janet,' said Lady Grant hastily. * Only I think you should have taken it otl' before. It mi.^dit help to prove the identity of tluj child.' 'Oh, my lady, if anybody is anxious about the child, they will not need the locket to convince them,' returned Janet Erskine quickly. 'Ah, I see you are determined to keep her, Janot,' said Lady Grant, with a faint smile. ' But you must allow me to do something fur })Oor little Annie too. I shall send a parcel of clothing down from St. Veda's for her.' 'Please, my lady, I have all little Elsie's things. If you will not be angry, I will just give them to her,' said Janet Erskine, in a troubled, eager voice. She seemed jealous of the least attention paid to the little stranger by any except herself. 'Janet, I think I must warn you, my dear,' said Lady Grant, with great gravity. ' You must not build your heart on the child, because in all probaltility you will not be allowed to keep her. It is a very uidikely thing that a lady, such as the poor young creature undoubtedly is, will have no kindred on the face of the earth. Depend upon it, there will be speedy in(piiries made about little Annie.' ' If her folk come, my lady, I'll give her np, but she's my own in the meantime,' replied Janet, and lifted the baby fron^ the cradle with a swift gesture, which seemed to say she would never let her go. Lady Grant did not like the look nor the gesture. They foreboded trouble, she thought, for Janet Erskine's passionate heart. It would be a terrible blow if the child were claimed by her mother's kinsfolk, and yet what else could be expected ? Lady Grant shook her head with a pitiful little smile as she bade Janet Erskine good-bye. She was not sorry to meet i iiiii IN THE MORNING, 91 which it, my J Grant before. M, thoy d Jaiit't let,' saiil )W me to . a parcel If ynu lid Janet ealous of ly except lid Lady our heart le allowed , such as |o kindred [e will be she's my )aby from say she the look )Ught, for laimed by pccted % kile as she to meet 1 Adam Erskino, the skipj)or, as he was familiarly called, a littlt' way from his own detor. Janet Krskine's husband was a {\\\<^ , stalwart, handsmiu' man, with a face which insiiired ready conlidcncc and K'Ve. He was 'looked uj) to' in ()rr"s Haven because he was a .11:111 who never diveri^'ed a hair's-brcadth from the way (»f u|>ri;4litness and trutli. He took oil' his hat to Sir Arehic's wife, anil kept it in his hand wliile he spoke to her. 'Can you walk a little way with nic, Captain Krskin<'? I liave been ([uiti; a long time beside Janet, and I am a little troubled about her.' '80 am I, my ledtly, so am I,' saitl the skii)per, in a low voice, as he put on his hat and turned to walk by the lady's side. ' I could almost wish, Adam, the poor lady and her child had been taken into any house but yours. Janiit has set her licart feirfully on the child already.' 'Ay, my leddy, it maybe the Lord's daela'. Janet was necdin' the bairn. She's never gotten ower wee Klsie,' said the ski[)per, and for a moment turned his eyes away to the heaving sea. Perhaps there was a dimness there which made him a little ashamed. ' I know she has been brooding all the summer, Adam. IVat it is the most likely thing in the world that relatives will turn up to claim the child. I have tried to warn Janet, and to prepare her. Have you not?' ' No, my leddy ; I've left it wi' the Lord. He can manage M'oeniin folk like my Janet better nor me. D'ye no mind He had a' kinds to deal wi' when He was on eartli, an' He aye took the richt wayl If He tak's the bairn awa', He'll gie the wife strength to bear it.' It was a simple and comforting faith, which touched Lilian Craut inexpressibly as it fell from the lips of the rough, strong, seafaring man. Ay, Adam Erskine was a giant in physical strength, but he had the heart of a little child. I ^11 111 1 1 % I li I tt ST. VEDA'S. if * It is not onay to iindcratand the Lord's dealings with us sonietinics,' said Lady Grant musingly. 'Why should Ho not have allow»'d you and Janet to kt>ep your little girl ? I know of none hetter fitted to bring up children.* ' Afebbe He thocht otherwise. I'll no' say hut what I've haen mony a sair heart ower my lamb, nor that I hinna been fell anxious whiles aboot Janet. She's no' like ither women folk, as ye've maybe seen, my leddy. She never shed a tear ower Elsie ; but, oh, it took a grup o' her, my leddy. Mony an' mony a nicht she never steekit een efter'd.' * I know she has deep feelings ; but she is a good, dear woman for all that.' * Ay is she,' said Adam quietly, but with emphasis which told that the words came from the heait. ' Well, then, we must just hope that little Annie will find a permanent home in the Haven,' said Lady Grant cheerfully. ' Isn't it quite like a romance 1' While these two were discussing Janet Erskine, she was peculiarly engaged in the inner room of the cottage where the dead woman lay. From the locked recess of her chest of drawers she took a little sandal-wood box, which was fitted with a silver lock and key. She set it on the toilet table in the window, slipped the bolt in the room door, and opened the lid. Then from out the box she took a number of folded papers, a few trinkets of Indian workmanship, and some old letters tied with a blue ribbon. She fingered the papers a moment. The impulse was strong upon her to learn what they contained, but she restrained her curiosity and laid them untouched on the table. Then with a hand which did not tremble she put back the sheet once more from the sweet face on the pillow, and, un- fastening the night-dress, removed the locket and chain from the dead girl's neck. Then she placed it in the bottom of the box among the other trinkets, laid the letters and papers above them, and shut down the lid. She put the box then in her 4 IN THE MORNING. n vith us iM llo ;irl1 I lat I've na boon ' women d a tear Mony Doel, dear (is winch ( will find lieerfuUy. I, she was where the she took a r lock and »w, slipped 'lien from ;w trinkets Ivith a blue le impulse id, but she the tabic, it back the w, and, un- chain from ktom of the apers above then in her i i pftr-ki't, and rotunuMl to the kitchen, wlioro little Adum Wiis wiitcliin^' tlio biihy while she 8l('i)t. A ran; smih^ swept across Jiinet's face. Just so the boy had been wont to watch l)y little Klsif's cradle in the sweet by;^'ono days. She jtiisx'tl throu-li the kitchen, and mounted the narrow step ladder to the j^'iirret. It w;is a very low-ceiled ]»lace — Janet's tall fi^^Mire (piite reached the roof. It was used as a lumber place for old nets and fishing tackle, and smelt wholesomely of tar and seaweed. On the rafters, in the farthest and darkest corner, there was a curious little recess, known oidy to Janet herself. It was filled with cobwebs, but she did not sweep them away. Among cobwebs and dust the sandal-wood case would keej) its secret safe for many a long day — the secret which evoi Janet Krskine did not know. In this matter she was honest according to her light. Perhaps the complete and willing ignorance of her adopteil child's identity lessened the magni- tude of the injustice thus blindly done to the little orphan cast up by the wreck. m ■I • h' CHAPTER III. TWENTY YEARS AFTER. X a fine summer afternoon a 3'onng and winsome girl came leisurely down the slope from St. ^^ Veda's to Orr's Ilavon. Slio M'ore a dainty f-^t^iv) iniislin dress and a bn)ad white sun hat, and in ^^^^/ her ungloved liands she carried a basket of floM'ors. She liad a blush rose in her belt, and one at her throat, and their tints were not more delicately lovely than that on her fair cheek. She was very lovely, Init it was a fragile loveliness; the delicate health of the only daughter of the house of Grant oftentimes cast a sore shadow on St. Veda's, As is so often seen, that fiail casket held a tender, unselfish heart, and a jmre and lovely mind. A noble mastiff, with a head like a lion, but with eyes fdled Avilh a human gentleness, walked with slow and stately stcj) by his young mistress's side. In summer v/eather, wln.'U ILthel (Irant almost lived out of doors, the dog was her constant comi)anion — nay, more, he was her protect'^r and her friend. During the dark winter months, when she was eonlined almost continuouslv to her rooms in the Castle, he was constantly by her side. His devotion to her was as hcr/.iliful as it was striking. Ethel Grant was the counterpart of her mother, and was loved as she had heen and was in Orr's Haven. There was not a man in the Haven who would 24 TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 25 v(\ wmsome from St. i a dainty hat, and in Laskt't of It, and one e delicately lovely, l)ut • the only ore shadow ket held a ■with cyos and stalely ther, Avhen i^r "was h:r ,'tect')r and en she was Castle, he her was as counterpart and was in who would not willinffly lay down his life for Sir Archie's wife and Sir Arcliie's dau<;hter. They hud been angels of love and mercy to many a shadowed liome among their people, and they had their reward. But Miss Ethel belonged to tliem in a peculiar way. Had she not been born on their own rocky heights ? Had she not been one of them since the days when she Hist came toddling down to the Haven, clinging to her nurse's hand, a stveet baby-angel who seemed to belong to another sphere 1 St. Veda's was very dear to Ethel Grant ; it was the place she loved best on earth. And when health demanded a warmer, more genial clime, she counted the days which must pass till she could again return to St. Veda's. There was a sweet smile on her face that summer afternoon as she came within sight of the handet, from which she had been absent so long. For seven long months she had been with her grandmother at St. Malo, until July sunshine took the edge off the wild east winds which swept up the Fiith. These east winds were more fatal than icy blasts to Ethel Grant. ' We must stand here, IMajor, just for a few minutes,' she said, when she reached the low sea-wall which separated the road from the beach, ' jusc to adtnire our own lovely Haven. Paws up, eyes straight ahead. Now, my Major, did you ever even see anything half so beautiful as that? Can St. Malo or San Remo touch it, Major? No, no, my doggie, for this is home.' Major wagged his heavy tail, and complacently rubbed his massive head against his mistress's arm. If he could have •spoken, he would have agreed with her, of course. She srt down her basket, and, taking; a seat for a moment >n the low v/all, looked out to sea with delighted eyes. Yet there was not very much to be seen, after all ; a little straggling hamlet scattered above the shingly beach, a tiny bay shut in by frowning rocks, a primitive harbour, where .ft it 26 ST. VEDA'S. iii li^ one or two fishing boats lazily drifted at anchor, and boyond a great ex})anse of glittering, sunny sea. To tb-^ eastward the grey towers of St. Veda's stood like sentinels to guard the hamlet from all harm, and to westward the grand promontory of St. Abb's, with the liglithouse gleaming whitely in the sun. It had its own beauty, and those who loved it had never found its peer at home or abroad. 'Oh yes, it is lovely, Major,' said the young lady, as her hand fell with caressing touch on the dog's noble head. ' This is as you and I love to see it. We don't like dark days and howling winds; they shut us up so, and are very cruel to us. "We like those tiny little waves singing in the sun, for there's sorrow in our hearts, my doggie.^ when there's sorrow on the sea. But conie, we must go and see Annie Erskine. Ah, Major, if you bark so loutlly with joy I shall bo the least bit jealous of Annie Erskine, shall I V Thus talking caressingly to her four-footed companion, Ethel Grant went on to the village, stopping often on the way, perhaps to pat some ^lare-headed urchin, or to ask a kindly question at the women mending the nets at their doors. They knew tliat she was going to the skipper's cottage, where it had always been her wont to rest a while. If they were a little jealous of the Erskines, they were not surprised at Miss Ethel. Janet Erskine had always held herself a little above them. They had never felt very kindly towards her from the first, and had been humbled to think that Adam. Erskine had not thought any Haven or Eyemouth lass good enough for him, but had to go away to the North to seek a proud and genty speaking wife. So they had had a prejudice against Janet fium the first, and very little effort had she made to overcome it. The skipper's cottage door was open when Ethel reuohed it. Before she could knouk. Major had bounded unceremoniously into the house, and in a mcment Janet Erskine was at the door, with u smile of honest welcome ou her face. Ill i i ^jM-r^ TJV£A'TV YEARS AFTER, «7 d boyond itwanl the f'uard the romontory 3ly in the ^ed it had dy, as her ohle head. ! dark days ;ry cruel to he sun, for re's sorrow ie Erskine. be the least companion, ften on the )r to ask a their doors. ,tuge, where they were a sed at Miss little above ler from the Irskine had I enough for proud and Lice against le made to II rcu^'-hed it. Iromoniously was at the * Oh, Miss Etliol, my doar, como away.' Sl»e took both the young Luly's hands in hers, and looked with tlie keen soHfitude of love into her sweet face. 'You are better? Como in, come in,' she said, and, hurrying into tlie kitchen, drew in the skipper's chair, and put her own cushion on it. ' Oh yes, I am ever so much better, thanks to dear grand- niolher; but oh, it is so pleasan.t to be at home. And are viui (iuit(^ well, -Mrs, Kiskine? and h'lW is the skipper and All ini and Annie?' 'All well, thank you, ]\Iiss Etliel ; all well,' said Janet I'.i.-kine, sitting dmvn to her seam again in her usual (piiet iiiiiiiiicr. Twenty years had wrought comparatively litthi cliange in Janet Erskine. A few grey hairs, a line or two on ti.f l.iMad brow, a little hardening of the features, perhajjs, iiulicated that time had been at work. But she had kept her yniitli well. To look at her one would not think she was in her liftieth year. Her figure was still tall and striu'glit; licr nidvcments active, vigorous, nervous, as of yore, but she liad hail III) trouble to break her down. Her husband and sun had been spared through many perils, and their worldly atl'airs had prospered. She was ajiparently without a care. Ktliel Orant had a sincere resjiect for Janet Erskine, but she dill not quite understand her, and at times showed lier mother's vague distrust of her. She was not open or frank, she never ex]>ressed an o[»inion unless in direct answer to a que>tioii, and even then her words A\ere few and guarded. Janet Erskine would certainly never get herself into trouble with her ton'^ue. ' Are you all well at St. Veda's, ]\riss Ethel ? I hope Lady Grant is quite well again.' 01 1 yes, thank you ; ami, do you know, Archie is cominj 1 lonie to-morrow? We just missed each other in London. A\'on't you be glad to see liim, Mrs. Erskine. It is two years suice lie Nveut uw uy. ill I iiii (I iT i! iii i1 Il 28 ^7: VEDA'S. \ i m\ \ 'Ay, two years past on tlie thirteenth of June. It is a lont,' holiday, Miss Ethel.' ' Yes, but you know Archie has not been (^uite idle, Mrs. Erskinc. He has studied a <,'Ood dt.'al, and I know at St. Maio he was always about with the fishermen gathering 111 • all sorts of information. I think him greatly imi)roved, and I'm sure so will you.' * I don't know. Perhaps we did not see any need for im])r(n'ement, i\Iiss Ethel,' said Janet Erskine, with a slow smile. ' At least that's what the skii)per will tell you.' ' Oh, I have so longed to see the skipper, Mrs. Erskine. I see tne Janet Rae is not in the harbour. And how is Annie?' * Annie is quite well.' That was all, and it was said curtly, and with a slight compression of the li[)s, which made Ethel wonder. ' Where is she to-day, jNIrs. Erskine 1 ' ' In the garden at the lines, Miss Ethel. Nobody can see her there, you know. If there was anybody but me to do the lines, Annie wouldn't. She hates it, but she won't let me touch them.' ' She never sits about with the rest at the front doors, Mrs. Erskine.' ' 1 think I see Annie doing that ! There is a mighty differ- ence between her, Miss Ethel, and the otlu^r girls in tlu' Haven, and she prides herself in it.' ' But she is always good and dutif^d to you, and would do anything for you and the skipper, I am sure.' '1 am not complaining,' said Janet Erskine quietly. 'She is not an idle girl. I can't say that.' There was a lack of heartiness in that meagre praise whicli somehow chilled Elhel as she listened. Had some cloud arisen between Janet Erskine and her adopted daughter ! She Avould soon find out. ' I think I'll go out and see Annie, Mrs. Erskine.' ^M ;t is a loiifi; idle, Mrs. low at ^t. tlicring 111. )rovod, and ^ need for •ith a slow rou.' ■s. Erskino. Lnd how is th a slight pody can see ■ nie to do le won't let front doors, ;hty differ- jirls in the nd would do ietly. ' She )raise wliifl^ some cloiiil 1 daughter! e.' i TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 29 'Very well, ^liss Ethel, and I'll get your tea ready. Do you ri'iii luher the little brown teapot you admired so much *? It got broken when you were away, and Annie walked to Eyemouth and searched thrcjugh every shop in the town till she got one to match it. She said she wanted you to lind ever\ thing the Kime when you came back.' 'Dear Annie ! I hope everything is the same. I am afraid of changes, and of new things. Everything old and familiar is best, in my eyes at least,' said Ethel, as she rose to pass out into the garden. She had a vague sense of misgiving evun as she spoke; the changes she feared hnd already become realities. There had been some curiijus upheavals in the Erskine family of late, and the i)eace and unity of the hous'v hold was broken, never again to be restored. Perhaps it was Annie's blame. Ethel Grant stood for a minute just within the kitchen door, and looked at Annie Erskine, where she sat on her low stool, with the brown masses of the lines all about her fcrtt. She was not working at that moment, nor was she conscious that any one was observing her. Her arm was leaning on her knee, her cheek rested in her lirni brown hand, and her eyes were fixed on the distant hills, with a far-off, troubled expression. Of what was she thinking'? It would not be easy to divine. She did not know what a picture she made, but Ethel Grant's artistic eye took in every detail. The lissom figure, which even the coarse, badly-cut serge dress could not make ungiacefrd, the dainty foot and ankle, the rounded arm, and, above all, the wcll-poisL'd, proud, little head, with its crown of red-gold hair, anil the ex([uisitely featured face illumined by the large, dee]) blue eye, made Annie Erskine a lovely woman. Would her dower (jf beauty bring her weal or woe ? Ah, who could tell 1 Ethel Grant did not like that grave, deeply-troubled look on Annie's face. She was still silently wondering about it, when Major, careering wildly round tlie house, caught sight i 4 m k\ ( ' 30 ST. VEDA'S. I!l; :' I . I ■'.' f of Annie Erskino, and rushed upon her with a hound and a joyous hark. Tlie girl leaped to her feet with a sudden startled air, and looked round, expectantly, for Major's mistress. 'Dear Annie, how are you"? I am so very gUd to see you.' ' So am I, ^liss Ethel,' said Annie, and their hands met in the clasp of friendship, f.nd for a moment they looked into each other's eyes. There was a gulf between them, but love had bridged it over. *May I kiss you, Annie?' 'If you please, Miss Ethel,' Annie answered simply. So they kissed each other for the first time. 'Will you take my stool, ^fiss Ethel?' she said, sweeping aside the lines with her hand. * Yes, do, I can sit on this basket. When did vou come back V ' Only yesterday, and I am so glad to be at home again. Why, Annie, do you know you look perfectly lovely ? ' 'Do I, Miss Ethel?' The girl spoke quite unconcernedly, and she took up the line she had been baiting, and proceeded with her work. 'Do you like touching these sticky things, Annie?' ' Like it ! It is my work. Miss Ethel. I must not think whether I like it or not. I have to do it to save mother. You would not like me to leave it to her, would you?' She spoke like Janet Erskine, purely and correctly, but her voice was clear and sweet as a bell, and had none of Janet's harsher ring. ' How good you are, Annie ! I'm afraid I am not so thoughtful for my mother as you are for yours,' said Ethel sobcrlv. 'And how and where is Adam, Annie?' ' Father and Adam have gone to the deep sea fishing, and the boats will be in with the tide in the morning,' Annie announced composedly, though the colour heightened a little in her cheek. 1^ t # TWENTY YEARS AFTER. S« md and a il air, and ad to see ids met in )okod into \, but love in ply. So , sweeping iit on this ~)nie again. r k up the rk. ^o not think e mother. r y, hut her of Janet's ni not so aid Ethel 5hing, and ig,' Annie ed a little :?,>( 'Come, now, tell me all that has been going on in the ITavon since I went away, Annie. What weddings are to be after tlie " draive " this year '\ ' * I don't know. Miss Ethel. I never pay any heed to these things.' ' What do you heed, you naughty girl 1 I wonder will you take any heed when your own wedding comes off? When is iitoher 'I'll \)e angry, Miss Ethel, if you tease me like that.* ' Will you 1 IIow funny to see you angry ! Are you very terrible, Annie? Come, now, tell mp what you were thinking of when Major so unceremoniously interrupted you. Your thouglits were very far away, Annie ; as far away, I believe, as the deep sea fi.'^hing. Eh 1 ' * I could not tell my thoughts even to you, Miss Ethel,' said the girl, quite gravely, and without heeding the signifi- cance of Miss Grant's last words. 'They were very wicked.' ' Wicked, Annie 1 Oh, nonsense. And you so very, very good,' 'I am not good at all. I am wicked and uncrrateful, I was thinking of things a fisher girl has no righ. to think about. I am making myself and others miserable, Miss Ethel.' 'Annie! What about T ' Oh, Miss Ethel, dear, I wish I could tell you,' cried Annie Erskine, and a great trembling shook her. 'After you went away thoy 'old me, and I have been miserable ever since.' 'Wluit did they tell you?' 'That I am not father and mother's child. Why did they tell me. Miss Ethel, when I was so content and happy ? I am not so now.' There was a ring of pain in the sweet young voice which went straight to Ethel's gentle heart. She drew nearer to her, and laid her soft hand very quietly on Annie's bare arm. ' They had to tell you, Annie, I think, because of Adam.' 1 ' 1 ; ( H ; ! » lil: ;l|0- 3a ST. VEDA'S, ' Wliy because of him 1 ' cried Annie, rehollionsly, and in her af^itntion slie flung olF Etln^l's clinging hand. ' We were far happier as brotlier and sister than we can ever be again. It was a shame, a cruel shame ! ' Ethel CJrant looked at Annie Erskine with troubled eyes. Tlie flushed face, the flashing eye, the heaving bosom indicated the surging of deep feelings in the heart. There was a great change in Annie Erskine. Where was the bright, blithe- faced, happy-hearted girl from whom she had parted with sunny jest and laughter only a few months before ? Janet Erskine had told her then of their intention to tell Annie about her birth, and Ethel had once or twice wondered how she would receive the romantic story. Curiously enough, it had come upon her as an absolute surprise. Perhaps twenty years had made the memory of that storm rather dim to the Haven folk. But the revelation had not had any good result, Perhaps, after all, thought Ethel, it might have been bettei to have withheld all when they could tell so little. But it had been the work of Adam Erskine the younger. It is easy to guess the reason why. i •Nl 1! iir:' 5ly, and in * We were : be again. ihled eyes, n indicated was a great rht, blithe- artcd witli re 1 Janet tell Annie idered how enough, it laps twenty dim to the good result. been bettei le younger. ti.^ss^i^-9':K'^^'^JR^F^'^:^r^. CHAPTER IV. A TROUBLED HEART. BW^^T^ f^^t^r fi '<^-"IiiI^ Annio,' said TAhcl Onnt, w'.th ^ uT after a vhilo, Annio, said TAhcl Onnt, ■vv;th ^ ^'('ullo gravity, 'youuill forget all t'lesc imp!(!a- saht thoughts, and settle down a';i:;i i.i happiness ^ and co'.itentiiiciit as bcroru.' Xi^J'l Annie shook her head. A'-^ *I am afraid I shall never bo conl.'n', any more, "^ Miss r.thel ; in the Haven, at hMst. I wan! to l.now what "Went before that miserable Avreck. There nniGt bo some- body belonj;ing to mo in tho ■world. I want to fin 1 tliat person.' 'Annie, dear, I don't know very much, bnt I have a f vVwt; that you Avould be far hapj)ierif you could make up your ni!..d to think no more about it. If there had been anybcdy very anxious about you, don't you think you would have been sought and found long ago?' Annie Erskinc cast down her ej'cs, and pointed with a con- teniiituous lingir to the bait-batfket and the lines lying on tho gravelly jiath. 'AVorking among these things all my days, jMiss Etheh Yes, I'll be veiy happy,' she said, with bitterness. * As Ling as it is for father, I like to do it, because I love him,' she said, wilh a break in her voice ; 'but after he is away (r-omo day, l.e says, he will sail away in the Janet Rae^ and never come back), and what will I do then %' \ ( ^ f 4 I ti 34 ST. VEDA'S. w * You would have your moth> r, Annie, and Adnm/ *I know 1 am a wicked, ungrateful girl. Miss Ktliol, hut 1 haven't felt to niotlior lately as I ought. She was m.t kind ahout the story when it was told me,' said Annie, willi a Hash of her heautiful eyes. 'I do not know why they tnld nic at all, if they could not tell me all. She would not answer a single question scarcely ahout my own mother. Was it not quite natural that I should want to know all ahout her?' * Yes, it was quite natural ; hut perhaps your mother might feel a little jealousy even of the dead, Annie. You know she has very deep feelings, and that she loves you very much.' * If sho is jealous of the dead, and there is no more to tell than I know now, why was I told at alH' repeated Annie, rehelliously. ' I was far happier hefore.' 'It had to be told, Annj'^, I know, because of Adam,' repeated Ethel Grant, for it was quite evident that the girl did not even vet understand the reason. •Why because of AdamT demanded Annie Erskine, turning her large clear eyes cahnly on her companion's face. ' Because he loves you, Annie ; not as a brother. The only happy ending I can see is for you to marry Adam.' Annie Erskine flung the lines from her, and sprang to her feet, the dusky colour flashing hotly in her cheek. 'If that is what they mean, they have made a mistake,' she said curtly. ' Let us go in now and see if mother has the tea ready.' ' Not yet, Annie. You are vexed with me.' ' Oh no, not with you ; oidy you do not understaml.* The girl passed her hand with a sudden, quick gesture across her brow. ' You look very reproachfully at me, Miss Ethel. If I say more, perhaps you will not speak to me again at all. Hut I cannot help that. I know they have done a great deal for me ; that they kept me from going to the pocrhouse, Avliere I suppose I should have gone but for them. But if I am to pay A TROUBLED HEART, S5 id, l.nt 1 iidt kiiul itli ii Hash »l(l mo at aiiswcr a Kvs it not Lhcr niiglit . know she much.' iiore to tell ted Annie, of Adam,' at the girl ine, turning The only ang to her listako,' she has the tea Ind.' tck gesture If I pay ill. But I |at deal for ?o, where I am to pay tliem har-k hy marrying Adam, thoy have made a mistak«(. I sliall nfvor ho Adam Krskiiie's wife.* ' Why, Annie 1 I am sure he is good and true.' 'Oil, I know very well what he is. Have I not known him iill my life? Ihit lie .s only my hrother. Kather than marry him, Miss Ktlicl, 1 would drown myself in the sea. Thai wdiiM not he very hard, not nearly so hard as living through sonic ihiiigs in the world.' She loiikcd as if she would i»ut her throat into execution, yt t she dill not speak excitedly. Her mannor had grown calm iiikI ([uict again. Ethel could only sigh. She folt vaguely that this gill was hcyond her, that there were depths in her iiatuic she did not understand. Did Annie Erskine herself uiuK'Tstaiid her own rebellious longings 1 I fear not. llcfnro any more could be said, Janet Erskine called to tliciii that the tea was ready, and bade them come in without .h'lay. ' A 10 you not coming in, Annie?* asked Ethel, as the girl scaled horsolf on the stool, and took up her line again. ' Not just yet. Toll mother I have been idling my time, and tliai I would stop for a little while,' answered Annie. So Eil.cl iv-ontorod the house, feeling that the girl was best left aidiic. It ha 1 always boon Efhol (ivant's custom to drink a cup of tea witli the Eiskiiios wlion she made an afternoon's call at the II ivni, and many a jiloasant minute, filled with sunny jest aiui lanu'liicr, had boon sj)ont over it. ]>ut a cloud had risen ahdvc the skipper's cottage. Ethel felt its chill shadow on her h' . it a> sli(> sat down in the old man's chair. ' Well, and what do you thiidc of Annie this time. Miss ! iImH' asked Janet Erskine, as she poured out the tea. It \'.i> evident, from her manner tiiat the answer was of some .i iiiciit, ttj hor. ■ I am troubled and anxious about Annie, Mrs. Erskine, ^ . i very much changed.' \y I ;l I M t i ' I'i •J '1 15 f. II 3<5 ST. VEDA'S. w ' Do 3'ou flunk so ? In wliat way ? * '81ic is not so li^'lit-lioartcd as slu; was.' * No, slie has never been tlic same sinr-o Xow Yoar, when father told her that slic diil not really beloiii^f tn iis.' * She had never even heard a hint of siuh a thin;.;, thenr * Never a hint.' 'Most extraordinary, in a gns^ipinc,' place like this !* ' Ihit Annie never mixes with the Haven folks, Mi^s Kthel, and yon never spoke of it no more than we did; m) she had no way of knowing. Jt was Adam made father till her.' 'I fancied so. Adam must care a great deal for her, I tliink.' 'Ay, too much,' said Janet Erskine, witli a hitter dryness. ' It isn't care nor love with him — it's worship. Miss Ethel, He'd lie down and let her walk on him. And when a man gets to thiidv so little of himself. Miss Ethel, there's an end to all i)eace. A sober alfectiun is the best ; many a time have 1 told him that.' 'And what about Annie, Mrs. Erskine 1 Do you think she will marry him ?' ' Marry him ! Of course she will, and be glad, as she ought. She won't pick up anoth;»r like him in a hurry. Just let her try if she can. If she doesn t marry the lad, what is to become of her? She can't have father and me all her days.' * No,' I'^thel admitted, with a sigh. She saw trouble in store for Annie Erskine. It was plain she would not walk in the way mapped out for her. She keenly resented being disjioseil of as the Erskines had planned. ' Though I say it of my own son, ^liss Ethel, there are few- like Adam,' said Janet Erskine presently, with a slow, (piifartory solution of a ^rave dillieulty, hut — Is iheie not veiy often a 'hut' to all human i)Iaiinin,^f ? We need to he reminded at times that Omnipotence does not dwell on earth. It is only the Creator who can order and provide for the creature, danet Krskine was not peculiar in lu r fori^^etfuhu^ss of this. Hers is a singularly common failing'. Ktlud (Jrant saw that her mind was absolutely lixed concerning; Annie's destiny. ' I don't know what to say, Mrs. Erskine. But you will he •gentle with Aimi(>. She is your (diild almost as much as Adam. Don't hurry or force her. She feels things so in her heart.' ' I^verything we do will be for her good, Miss Etlud,' .said Janet, with a sliglit stillness. ' It is because' we l(>ve her like our own we ai'e willing for Adam to marry her. It is not every girl a mother willingly gives up her son to. Miss Ethid, as you may learn when you are a mother yourstdf. And I don't tliiidv it a good thing for girls to be left entirely to them- sidves when it comes to marrying. They should be guided by those who are older and know better than they do.' ' Peihaps you are right, Mr.s. Erskine ; but I cannot help ihinking that some marriages are best left to guide themselves. ! ( t » i* , \ i 111 i\ 38 ST. VEDA'S. ,, ,1,1 III Thorc are thinf:js, you know, in which even young girls have a riglit to jiulge for themselves,' said Ethel Giant, with .s})irit. * I hope my parents will never compel me to many a man I don't love.' ' You will promise, though, Miss Ethel, not to influence Annie, or j)ut her against Adam?' * I put Annie against Adam, iSFrs. Erskine ! I assure you I would do just the opposite. I think Adam a splendid fellow, and so does papa. So will Annie, some day, perhai)s, but you must leave her alone for a little. She is not the kind of girl to force into things.' ' She has too many whims and notions for me, ^liss Ethel,' said Janet Erskine, almost sourly. ' AVhen I was young, girls did as they were bid, and never were consulted about what they liked or didn't like. It was a better way than now. Well, are you going away, iMiss Ethel ? ' '• Yes, I must ; mamma will have had her nap, and will ))e looking for me. Archie will be home to-morrow, didn't I tell youl He will not ))e long of coming down to renew his acquaintance with you all. Just think, lie has not seen the Haven for two long years. Oh, I must tell you. In his very last letter I got at grandmamma's, he asked about Annie. fTust imagine what he called her, Mrs, Erskine. The Pearl of Orr's Haven. Was it not pretty? I forgot to tell Annie.' 'Don't tell her, Miss Ethel. The child's head is pack full of nonsense. She thinks enough of her pretty face. I scold father whiles for speaking s« plainly about it to her, but ln' thinks Annie won't spoil. Good-bye, then. Give my res^iects to Lady Grant and Sir Archie.' ' Good-bye, Mrs. Erskine. Be kind to Annie,' said the young lady, smilnig, as she book hands and went oil". Major following at her heels. She did not go back to the garden. Somehow, after her talk M'ith Janet Erskine, she felt that she would rather not see Annie again that day. As she wended her way slowly- up the steep slope of the ■1 14 ::^irls Viave ith spirit. : a man I influence sure you I lid f(;llo\v, )S, but you ind of girl [iss Etliel,' •oung, girls ibout what than now. ind will ))0 lidn't I tell renew his ot seen the In his very nnie. -Just avl of Orr's e.' is pack full .•e. I scold er, but lu' my res[)eels ' said the oir, ^lajor the garden. jlt tiiat she ilope of the A TROUBLED HEART. 39 vi]l;igo bran to the high road, her thoughts were wholly of the "irl she had left. She felt convinced that this was tlte bcf'in- uing of trouble for Annie Erskine, and her kind heart was busy devising plans to help and comfort her. She saw that Janet Erskine was steeling herself against her adopted child. So long as she had been subservient in every parti- cular, and had not thwarted her in any desire or aim, all went well ; but now that Annie had grown to womanhood, and seemed disposed to claim for herself a woman's privileges, Janet Erskine rose up in arms. Perhaps had the thing not concerned Adam's happiness, she might not have felt so bitter. Janet Erskine had her good points, but she was a hard and selfish woman at heart. At the lodge gates of St. Veda's Ethel Grant met her father on horseback. He looked well there : the master of St. Veda's had still a tall, splendidly- proportioned figure, and he was thoroughly at home in the saddle. Twenty years had somewhat changed him, however, and he looked his years to the full. He drew rein outside the gates, and stooped from his saddle with a smile at sight of his l)est-loved child. The tie between Sir Archie and his fair, frail daughter was one of tender and abiding strength. That smile, however, did not (piite conceal a certain anxious, even worried expression, which had struck Ethel the moment her eyes fell on her father's face. ' What is it, papa % Are you well, or are you vexed about something % ' she asked anxiously. ' Neither, my darling,' he answered hastily. * How have you enjoyed your walk % You have quite a rosy colour to-day.* ' Have I % Didn't I always say, papa, that nothing but the sea breezes of St. Veda's Would make we welH' she said, as she patted Hero's beautiful neck Avith a caressing touch. ' Are you sure you are quite well, papa ? ' Her tone was very anxious, and her eyes dwelt keenly on her father's loved face. It was a fine face, noble, honest, and true, the face of a good man. ; ■ ) ;|H i •|l \':\\ ! ■ > ■1 t ( t f 1 1 i 1 f '\ 40 ST. VEDA'S. m ' WHint Tiot'on have yon tnlcon, my swoot ? ' he pniM jijiiily. 'I iini porf(M'tl\- well. It is husinoss tlmt is tvoiililini;,' ivin. If yini iiiust know, you inquisitive elf, I am on my w.iy to see Piirvos. lie is worrying himself over a pretty story I shall tell, for your edilication and mamma's, some day.' ' Oh, is that all % ' said Ethel lightly. ' Why should you lo(»k so serious over Purves's vagaries? He has always oiiie of some kind in hand.' ' Yes, hut this is a trlHo more serious ih^r. n'^u^d. It is possihie even that it may take me to London. Ihit we shall see. I must go now, as Purves leaves his olhce at Inlf-past four, and, as you see, Hero (h)es not at all approve of this delay.' Kllud nodded and smileil. as her fathor gave the impa'iont animal the rein. She sti od wiiliin the gates a moment witcdiing him lide away, with all the love and pride of her heart in her eyes. AVIien Sir Ar- hie was away from the sweet gaze of those eyes his face cloiuh d, ami even ^Ight dimness secMiii'd to come hefore his i-yes, blotting out the familiar land- scajx' suirouudiug him. ' If it should he true ; if there were a parii le of fmnidation »r it.' he mutteied to hiuisrlf, ' in what wunls should I break it to l*'.iliil and hrr mother'?' I'tli 1 (Jrant wall.ed slowly up the av(unu> to the house, \. i. 'ering what had hapiuMh'd to change tlie current of her ihought. She had a curious feeling as if a cloud hailile sign of any ap]n'oaidiing gloom. The weet we^t wind blew warm and IVe-h ou her cheek, the sky was blue and lailliant, the glimpses of the sea through the ('.ily greeun ss of the Irec^s revealed a shimmering I'xpanse with scarcely a ripi)le ou its breast. She was glad, somehow, to I'eacli the house, and she ran up at onct'. to her mother's ilressing loinu. ' Were you wearying for me, mamma? I have had such a Wi It tlilll; ahsc ' '^ main ' '\ chilr her.' ".lllc Tin-, :4 i A TROUBLED HEART. 41 liil .(^iu'ly. nio. If ;iy to SCO y I shall ould you ys one of .1. It is we phall • h 'If-past e of this inipri'iiMit iiioinent ; lie of her , tlie sweet % t (liiiiness iliar land- '1 niiuhvtion A il I break :•* u' house, lit of her siuhh'uly ay. And )m. The , the sky ' rough the - expanse rte;. somehow, ■.'jj mothers i1 cii(>1i n i li»velv walk. Had you a nice sleep, and is your headache ^M•ne ? ' '(j)iiite gone, dear. I am glad you had a pleasant walk. Is it not very warm out of doors ] ' Ladv (iiant was not strong. The afternoon rest had hecome a necessary j)art of lun* life. 81ie was still the same gentle, Idving-hearted woman; the ccuitre of can? and devotion wliere- ever she went. Slui was, indet!d, a frail creature, madi; for sniisliine and happiness; sIk? seemed like one who would succuiuh at tlie lirst touch of sorrow or car(\ Neither of these had come near her since the day she had became Sir Aridiii'S wife. Mthel had inherited her mother's delicate constitution, but slie pii^si'ssed a brav(? spirit; and tiiere were hithh-n in her heart capabiliiies for cmlurairie and womanly courage which w« le tlcstined yet to amaze those who knew her. ' And what did vou tind. in the Haven alter your Ion'' exiled — a warm welcome, 1 know,' said Lady (^rant, with iniercst. 'Tell me all the news. How is Anne Krskinel' ' She is very well in health, mamma, but there are other tilings wrong. Trouble has been brewing in the lla\en in my ahsiii e.' 'What kind of Iroulder 'With the Erskines. It has made Annie miserable, nianim 1.' ' What ? The knowhulge that she is only their adopted cliild I Then she cannot care for Adam as he cares for Ih'r.' ' Xot at ])resent, I am afrai 1.' ' Will she ever can; for him in that wav do you thiid\. I'.lhi'H Annie is a very dainty girl ; and thongli Adam is a drill', godd. honest lellow, he is very uncouth.' ' Vou are right, mamma; he is not in the least like Annie. Mis. Erskine is very hard and bitt(!r against her — very un- Ju>tly, I think. Annie cannot help having these fine feelings, } i1^l ■\ \h' i n 42 ST. VEDA'S. I:. '-'- ■■'■4 M iind if slio (loos not care for Adam in tliat way, how can they make licr ? I wish I could sec the end of it.' 'I have always thonglit that Janet Erskinc did not do quite riL;ht about the child. There ought to have been inquiries made at the time of the wreck. I have long thought that Annie must be of gentle birth. Did you ever notice her feet and handp, Ethel T ' Yes, niamnia, I have ; but what is to be done now 1 If she will not marry Adam, and I don't think she will, I am afraid ^Nlrs. Erskine will make if, very unpleasant for her. Her heart is quite set on the match.' ' If they make Annie unhappy among them without a cause, Elhel, we must just take care of her, my dear,' said Lady (Irant, a trille absently. ' Do you kuow if any one has called this afternoon'? I thought I heard the sound of hoofs on the avenue when I v/as lying down.' ' It would bo Hero's hoofs, mamma. Papa has gone to lieston to see Mr Purves.' 'Has he? Mr. Purves is always worrying your father about something. By tliis time to-morrow, dear, Archie should be here. He will stir us all up,' said Lady Grant, and a gleam of love for her absent son lit up her face. Her heart was bound up in her one son, and the two 3'ear3 of his absence had seemed to her intolerably long. It had been his father's wish that the lad should see something of the Avorld before settling down to the business of life. Sir Archie himself was no politician, but he destined his son for a political cnreer, and with that aim in view he had beim trained. AVhether the fini-loving, hap})y-go lucky lad who, even when he had grown to young manhood, had loved nothinff better Hian to sfo off with the lierrinjr boats, or crui o se along the coast in the ^pifjire, shooting sea-fowl with Adam Erskine, would settle down seriously to consider the weighty allairs of the nation, was a question time alone would decide. r 1 ( ' can they t do quite inquiries light that :e her feet • r y^^lH^-^-- -^ >M^^M:^ JH T SM^J^^i^gig B ^ .^v.y> he came in sight. 'l.'s }*I;ii>ter Airchie, deil tak' him,' said Danny AVebster, a cro.-s -;;iained old marimu', who had outlived his time. ' 1 111 re 11 111! lie muekle ])eae(^, i' the I liven imo, lads.' T'lit lliou;;h I)anny said, 'Deil tak' him,' there were others wlio siiil, T.less the laddii^,' in their hearts, for Archie (irant ti.e yiii;i--.'r was even a greater favourite in the villaLTC thaii kSir An hit' himself. ' llullua ! Good evening boys ; and how's the world using 43 :i ':) rt ! ! 44 ST. VEDA'S, )i you all, oil V he called out -wliilo lin was yot a liundriMl yards off. Ill a momont they had closed ahout him, ,i;i'i[ipiiiLj him by the hand and bidding him, with one voice, a hearty welcome home. '80 you're ^'lad to see me back, lads?' he said cheerily. 'Not half so glad as I r.:n to he back. Ilulloa, Danny, are l/tm living ycf? AVe'll maybe get our cruise in the Kati/ Ann yet. What! "Won't you shake hands with an old chum? Aye keeping up the grudge against the laddie who stulled your chimney with divots, eh? That was Adam Erskine's id'}a, nnt mine, Danny. There's not as much originality in me. And how's everybody ? WIk/s born, and married, and dead in the Haven since I Avent away, eh? Xone of the latter, I know, when I see Danny, lie said he'd be in the niools before I came back. Danny, your not a man of your word.* Just the old teasing, fun-loving lad come back to them imchanged. Their hearts warmed to him as they looked on his bronzed and handsome face. ' lie's clean wud,' said Danny, in a loud whisper, which sent Archie oil" into tits of laughter. ' Thaidv you, Danny ; you'll keep me from having too canty a conceit of njyself,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye. 'Come, give me all the news. Johnny Frater, what knotty point are you exercised about just now?' Johnny Frater was the keenest politician and argufier in the Haven, and followed the course of national events with a terrible interest. Her ^lajesty's Minifsters and the Imperial Parliament periodically received very curious denunciations at the hands of Johnny. He had a choice repertidre, and nothing pleased Archie Grant better than to get this worthy started on a favourite grievance, and hear his original remarks. ! aaunna staun' for the Shire, Maister An-hie, the '( ll-d Icngt ^;_-J!. - .-. .-.■i.i«l3*V--J ARCHIE THE YOUNGER. 45 iln^l yards [ipiiiL,' liim , a hearty 1 choorily. )nnny, aro Katij Aiin old cliuin? 'ho stuU'cd Erskiiie's ginality in arricd, and jne of th(i be in the an of your k to them looked on ^vliich sent aving too n his eye. lut knotty irgufier in ts with a Imperial nneiations titii'e^ and is worthy 1 remarks. I'rhie, the iWell hao •Of conr.'o, Jolinny, anything less woukl be unworthy of the Haven and of Johnny Frater.' ' Ay, an' yc'il hae to liaud forth i' tlie schnle. My eerty, .-ee if we dinna gie ye a gnid heeklin'. Yc; 11 hae to hae a' yci vii'ws weel icdtl \\\\ my man, or we'll foonder ye.' ' I hcHeve ye, Johiuiy. AVell, if 1 ever stand for the Shire, ami if I am (dected, 111 move for better legislation for tin- li>lier fiilk, my lads. I've l)een keeping my eyes ojien whil'' I've been away, and I've made uj) my mind on a few pniiits The liarbnurs and the trawlers will eateh it from nic, you ran di'peiid on that. lUit there's i)lenty of time to decide all \\\v>c matters yet. It's Haven needs I want. Ibiw's the skiliper? He's at home, is'nt he? I thought I saw the J(Uui l!if at anchor this afternoon.' 'Ay, she's in. The skipper's failed terrible this while, but the re>t , ay, they're wantin' to keep a' their gear to theii'scds',' s.iid l)a!iny AVebster spitefully. 'They say the lassie's n<>' raiin' abiiot him; but if Jen Erskine's set her mind on the w.eliliu", it'll l)e, if the warld should come till an end. She's a ihrawn limmer, if ever there was yin.' 'After the draive? That is'nt long. Is it reallv to take pkice V asked the young laird, looking for snuie more aathentic information than that given by Danny's cantanker- "us luiigue. Then the wliole gossip of the place was poured into his e;iis; but after the talk had drifted away from the Krskiiies, Aivliit' Giant eontinue(l to glance occasionally towards thiur 'ii'tnge, where the liirht i^leamed steadily out upon the gather- \\v' ilarkuess. ' ^\ ell, lads, there s aye something happening,' he said at length. ' 1 must away to-night, though, I'll just step I » \i ■ ••!. ■ 1 i I "1 46 57: VEDA'S. " \ ■■i 1 } across and ask for the skipper first. Good night to j'ou all just now.' With a nod and a smile he strode across the road, and ra]tped with the head of his cane av the skij)per's door. It, was opened by Aduni the j'ounger. Tall tlioii<,'h tlie yonnt,' Laird was, the skipper's son towered a liead above him. IJdtli were handsome men. Adam Erskine, still lacking the reline- ment and grace of his compeer, Imd a mai'ly presence and an open, lioncst countenance, lit by an eye which had never feared the face of man. lie was a giant in strength, but had the heart of his father, which was as that of a child in purity and tenderness. • llulloa, Adam ! ' * llulloa, Maister Airchie ! ' Such was their greeting, but their hands met as it was uttered in the strong grasp of fealty and love. They liad been inseparable playmates in boyhood, and many a daring deed and act of mischievous fun had they done both on land and sea. 'Twa deils ! ' Danny Webster had always characterized them. *Perfeck deils, or they wadna be leevin'.' 'Come in, come in, !Maister Airchie. Faither '11 be fell proud to see ye,' Adam said, as he held open wide the door. liut the skipper had heard the familiar voice, and in a moment was at the kitchen door with outstretched hand and smile of heartiest welcome in his fine rugged face. ' Eh, laddie, come in, come in. Yer very fit, like the callant's in the sang, has music in't,' ho said cheerily. • Janet, my ooman, here's the young Laird.' Even Janet Erskine thawed at sight of that winsome face, and with a smile she too bade him welcome home. A^ Archie Grant advanced into the kitchen, he cast one swift, expectant glance round, and satisfied himself that Annie was absent, then he sat down on the table and folded his arms across his broad chest. \ Tli-y \ see V( ' A 'M neitliei •^ lll'lHlIll have s Mill i \\\\\\ a iiuiita to 3'ou all road, and door, ll, he youni,' iin. liotli I he re 11 11 e- ce and an lad never , but had in purity as it was rhey liad a darinj,' botli on d always adna be be fell ic door, moment smile of ike the eheerily. me face, cast one ^If that 1 folded ARCHIE THE YOUNGER. 47 * Well, T must say it is pleasant to see all the kent faces. Tlif'V were tellin,^' me you were i^rowini; old, skipjier, b'lit I see very little dillerence,' he said ehe(- "'/. 'Ay, but lad, the auld timbers is gettin' ctifF. They'll n(.' lie laiiL,' or they're no' seaworthy,' said the ski[»[)('r. ' Ye'rtj irruwu a fell braw callant yersel', my man. Can ye no' sit ll Min on a chair wiselike, an' gies yer crack 1' 'I can't crack much to-night. You know I only got hom<> liy the four train, and I b'ft my fatber in the dining-roniu just when he was as anxious for my crack as anybody. 1 only wanted to shake hands and ask for everybody.' 'Ay, we're a wcel that's here. Whaur's Annie, mither'?' ' IIow should I know?' answered Jiinet T'rskine, with a kind of snjippish dryness which struck Archie Grant ver_\ unpleasiuitly. 'Oh, I thocht ye micht hac set her on an errant,' said the skij)|n'r meekly. 'There's Adam, too., wi' never a word to say for himsel'. There's a strappin' cha}) for ye, ^[aisler Airchie.' ' Ay, is he. Well, Adam, when are we to have another night at the herring iishing'? Do you mind our last esca])ade V 'l)iv I noT asked Adam.^ with his (piiet smile. 'Jt was neither your blame nor mine. Maister Airchie, that we werena th'uonetl langsyne.' 'You're right. Perhaps we bear a charmed life, or maybe we have some mischief to do in the world yet,' said the young laird lightly. ' AYell, I'm oif. Good night, Mrs Erskine ; ^'(Hid night, skipjjcr. A safe voyage ai.d good luck to th- Jtuiii Rue. V\\ 1)0 down when you come in. I'm going to have some fun in the Haven this summer.' Mlut, my lad, you have grown a man noo,' said the skipper, with a twinkle in his eye. 'It'll liardly dae for oor Parlia- candidate to be c '-y '•)■ trick Ye'll hae to tak' up yer heid wi' the wechty afl'airs o' the nation noo. my man. * ill .: : 4 i1 ■il I 48 ST. VEDA'S. i ' Isn't it a sliiimo, skipper? My fallici- li;ifo>? ]i(ilitic's, ami is j,fuiii<^ to shift Ills rcspoiisiliility (Hi to my slioiiiiU'r.s. IIow can lie expect me to take to lliem US a duek t;ikos to the water? .loliiiiiy Fraler is in ^reat lu^oo, Ailam, at the. prospect of hearing; me lioldinj^ foith in the sehook I don't know wlicther he or Danny will he tlie worst critic.' M »h, yell dae for Jolmny an' Danny and them a' when yo 'teH'in, Maister Airchie,' sidd Adam, as he followed him to the dour, wher(! they liiiL,'ered a moment, as if loth to part. Did somethini,^ whisper to eillier, I wonder, that never a^ain shouhl they so ])art with the old love and peace in their hearts ? 'Man, Adam, I'm ^dad to see you again. Just imagine we are fouraiid-twenty now. I think, on the whole, laddie-tinio is hest. It worries uk; to thijik that I have a ])urpose to fidlil, and that life is all hefore me to make or to mar. You ami I \V(!re never visited with such serious thou'jhts in the days when we cruised away on our own account in the Jduii Rill'. Why are you so awfully s(d)er, Adami' ' Ye"r(i richt ahoot the laddie-time,' said Adam, with some hitterness, and a momentary clouding of his open, pleasant face. 'Things look ditlerentat four-an'-twenty frae what they lid at fourteen.' 'Oh, hut we'll he jolly fellows for a long time yet, my lad. ^ii'od night, old fellow ; no use pulling a long face over it, for we 11 never grow any younger now.' So with a hearty grip they parted, and Archie Grant strode oil' whistling as if he han, })h'a>;aiit ■"' [i what they ^et, my lad. ■ .;- over it, I'or t 5 rant strode J' ility in t lie was risiiii' ant strnllni it bogau t ' r twice, aiiu far travels the ru'4''t'i.i CO co.i^t line and the fann'liar waters of his native lan