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32X

St. Veda'S

'! I*.'

THE PEARL OF ORE'S HAVEN

ANNIE S. SWAN

▲OTBOR or 'aldersyde.' 'carlowrie,' 'gates or
'briar and palm,' cto. wio.

VVII^r.IAM l-iK'K ,( .S

EDINIiUlUjH AM. I.ONhON
OLIPllANT. ANDERSON it i-i:ilKIER

1889

56004S

Entered according to Act of the !':iriiariicnt oT CaniKia. in lli£ year
one thousiind oit^lil liuniliTd aiul iij;lit.v-iiinc, l)y V\'ii,ma.m Hkiugs,
Honk Steward of llie Mctliudisi IJook and I'ublisliing House.
lui'uuLu, ul ihu Depai'lincnl uf A^riculiuiu.

''^-

•I

BiK3Z2Z'nr::i^;;il3c

. ,'^^»Hta'*mmi»>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

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

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

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.'

* Ar<! the Haven hoats out, Archie 1 '

* Only a few. I hope and exju'ct they will have run into
.shelter hefore now. We have too many fatherless l)airns in
the Haven already,' said Sir Archie, a grave look stealing over
his face.

An expres.sion of sweet i)ity came into the eyes of Lady
Grant at these words.

' The .sea is .so cruel, I thiidx, Arcliie. It must be terrible
for these poor people to have those they love so con.stantly
exjjosed to danger. Surely they grow accustomed to it, else
how can they bear it ? '

' There are some things, Lily, to whicli one never grows
accustomed. Janet Erskine told mo only yesterday that
when the skipi)er is out she cannot sleep. Every gust of
wind goes to her heart.'

* JUit Janet E:skine is not quite like the other women in
the Haven, Archibald. She broods on things. You know
how she has taken the loss of her little girl. I am often very
anxious about her.'

* Yes, she is certainly a peculiar type of woman, but an
excellent wife and mother, Lilian. Qi.lte an example to the
rest. Shall we go, then ^ '

L;idy Grant rose, with a slight reluctance, and slipped her

i !

ST. VEDA'S.

} i

t' !

liaiul throiij^'h her husband's arm. Together they left the
(h'awiiig-rooni, and began to ascend the stairs to the tower.

It was a narrow little chamber, quite round, with a storm-
window commanding an uninterrupted view of the sea. Sir
Arcliie set down the lamp he carried, turned its light to the
wall, then the two stood in silence for a few moments con-
ti'ni[)lating the scene. It was wildly, magnificently grand.

For some days a heavy, impenetrable mist had hung low
over land and sea, and the fog-horns had sounded night and
day. In that weird, wet mist had been hid strange low winds,
which sent a sad moaning along the wintry shore. But on
the day of the storm the wind suddenly ceased, the fog wa3
swept aside as if by an unseen hand, and for some hours an
absolute stillness reigned. There was not a motion in the
heavy air, but the sea heaved tumultuously, the wildfowl flew
in screaming circles, and wise mariners made for some shelter-
ing haven, knowing that soon the elements would be at war.
Ab sunset, a wild sunset, wdiich dyed the waters a blood-red
hue, the wind rose with a sudden gusty shriek, the rain swept
down in torrents, the white horses became battalions on the
dark exi)anse.

AVithin an hour a terrific storm was raging on the sea.
The noise of the breakers thundering against the Castle rock,
mingling with the hurrying clamour of the wind and the piti-
less dash of the rain, was almost deafening ] the white spray
cast by the angry billows beat ever against the storm-winJow
in the tower. There were gleams of light on the raging
' aters, the steady radiance of St. Abb's, which never faltered ;
the far-away g'eams of the May Island and the Bell Kock, and
the occasional fitful sinning of the moonlight wdien the clouds
were momentarily swept aside. These but served to add to the
gloom by revealing tlic fury uf the storm. Lady Grant shivered
once more as she clung more closely to her husband's arm.

' Oh, Archie, I hope none of our people are out I There is
uothintj but certain death on that fearful sea ! '

THE CASTING UP OF THE PEARL.

[t the
cr.

sturin-
i. Sir
to the
ts con-
nd.

ng low
;ht and
■ winds,
But on
fog wa3
ours an

in the
)wl flew

shelter-
1 at war.
)lood-red
in swept
5 on the

the sea.
tie rock,
tlie piti-
ite spray

wini^ow
le raging
faltered ;
tock, and
ic clouds
dd to the

shivered

arm.

There is

■A

- J

' ^lany a gale as stilF have our boats weathered, my darling,'
said Sir Ari;hie cheerfully. ' But I fancy none will be abroad
willingly. There will be no spare anchorage in Eyemouth
harbour to-night. It is a grand sight, Lily.'

' Yes, but I like sunshine and quiet seas, Archibald,' said
the young wife, tunung away with a faint sigh. 'It weighs
upon my heart to think what sorrow this one night may cause.
Come, let us go and see if the children have been able to sleep
through all this din.'

' In a moment, Lilian. See, there is a rocket. I fancied I
heard the liring of a gun a little ago. There is a ship in
distress somewhere near us — on the Scaur, I fancy. I must
go down at once.'

* Out in that fearful storm, Archie % '

' Yes • v^'hy not % My wife, if there are human beings in
distress, would you ask me to sit by the fireside while they
perish? No Grant has ever shown hin\self a coward, Lilian.
You would not wish me to be the first. " Sir Archie," they
will tell you, " has always been the foremost in the rescue
work.'"

* 1 am a great coward, and selfish, T feur, as well. But you
will not recklessly risk your life,' said the young wife, trying
to look and speak more bravely.

' I have never been reckless, Lilian ; because I have always
found life s,"oet. It is sweeter now than ever,' he said, with
fond emphasis,. ' If I am iate, you will go to bed and keep
your heart (piite at rest.'

' Oh, I could not sleej). 1 shall wait ; perhaps I may be
able to do sonicthing for the rescued.'

' Now, that is my own brave, dear girl,' said Sir Archie
heartily. ' Come, then, you must arm me for the fray.'

She saw that he was eager to be gone. Like all his race he
loved deetls of daring and danger ; fear was a word without a
meaning to Andiibald Grant. She went with him to the gun-
room, and with her own hands helped lum to don his water-

ST. VEDA'S.

proof ovoralls. He was tying his sca-ca| over his ears, when
a servant knocked at the door.

' It is a message from the Haven, Sir Arcliie,* she said.
'There is a wrock on tlie Scaur, and they are trying to land
the crow with the rocket. They are waiting for you.'

' Tell them I am on my way,' was the loud and cheerful
answer. ' AVliat kind of a vessel is it 1 '

* The hoy can't tell. Sir Archie.*

'All right; I'm going. Now, my darling, good-bye. Pray
that our work may be successful ; that is what you can do.
(iod bless you.*

He caught her to his heart a moment, and with a smile was
gone. She could not but smile as he left her, he was so eager
to be at his post. And well might they love Sir Archie, he
was aye witli the distressed in their t'mo of need.

^leanwhile, on the narrow sliore, down at the Haven, a
stirring scene was being enacted. The little hamlet lay to the
eastward of St. Abb's, and was comparatively sheltered from
the storm. The houses were grouped together in the slope in
straggling confusion, as if each man had planted his homestead
down to please his own wdiim. This irregularity gave a
picturesque touch to the place, which was dear to the artist's
heart. ^lany a ' bit ' from Orr's Haven had been transferred
to canvas. There was a little school and schoolhouse built on
:in exposed bit of grassy ground, about which every wind that
lilew played at will. The school served a double pur{)ose, and
was used for an occasional service on the Sabbath 'lay. Tlie
h"ttle rude harbour was well sheltered, and commodious enough
for tlie Haven boats. It was quite blocked this night, having
given sh'.'lter to some unfamiliar craft. Surely every man,
woman, and child in the Haven was gathered on the shingly
lieach. The women had taken shelter under an old boat,
which, being partially raised, broke the force of the wind.
They talked together in fearful whispers, and watched with
ifitense interest the operations of those in charge of the rocket

\\(

He
of

al
ar
aw
Iha

sail

will

Kls]

THE CASTING UP OF THE PEARL,

?hen

liiuil
3erlul

Pray
in do.

le was
) eager
hie, he

iven, a

J to the

sd from

lope in

linestcad

gave a

artist's

nsferred
milt on
ud that
ose, and
V. The
enowgh
., having
Lvv man,
shingly
3ld boat,
he wind,
hed with
Ihe rocket

■H)[)!iratiis. Tlicy had waited some time for Sir Archie, hut
the <h"str('ss signals had been so heartrendin , that ihcy IkmI
licguii work withont him. Jnst as he came down tlw ihm.I
'vith his long swinging trea<l, the life-preserver was for i'-
first time hanled from the wreck to the shore. A cry I.imL.
t'nim the lips of the women when they saw that tlir lii-^
^;lll^('ring survivor was a woman. In a moment they li •!
"athered ahout her, where she lay drenched, cold, and en!..!;!
less on the sand. Her fignro was enveloiicd in a lar^^c clM.k,
and when it was thrown open, and they saw a l)a''y at In i
hrea.'it, a thrill of pity ran through the whole crowd. Tlir
cliild thus exposed to the cold night air uttered a slirill cry,
and opened its innocent eyes in wonder.

* Puir crater ! Pair wee, drookit lammie !' said one pitying
nintlicr to another.

' Here are the blankets, Adam ; we'll tak' her to our housi-.'

These words v/ere uttered in such a decided voice, tl it
instinctivLdy the vomen fell back, and allowed Janat Krskine
to have her way.- She was a tall, striking-looking young
woman, v;ith strong, finely-marked features, and a decj),
thoughtful blue eye. As she bent over the prostrate woman,
her sliawl fell back from her dark head, and revealed a h)ok
of exquisite tenderness which made her sometimes harsh face
ahnost beautiful. She lifted the child from the mother's
arms, and clasping it close to her own warm heart walked
away, motioning the men to follow her. It seemed natural
that she should be obeyed, for there was not a dissenting voice.

]>efore 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

ST. VEDA'S,

They carried the woman into Janet Erskine's house, and
laid her on the hed in tlif^ ' ben room,' as she directed them,
an<l then began to use all the means of restoration within
their knowledge. Janet did not take any part in this wcu'k,
e,xcej)t to tell them where to get tlie things they needed. She
s(HMn('d absolutely engrossed with the child. She sat down at
the lire, and, rapidly divesting it of its garments, wrapped it
in some of her own baby's things. Then she fed it with milk
and water, and the ex])ression on her face; while thus engaged
was indescribable. It was a mingling of tenderness and com-
])assion, and hungry, passionate pain.

' It seems needless to try ony thing else, Janet,' said one of
the women. ' She's no' deid, for her heart's beatin'. AVe'll
hac to get the doctor till her. Eh me, I wunner wull there be
ony mair weemin or bairns i' the ship ?'

Just then there was a stirring in the kitchen box-bed, and
])resently a small figure in a red night-gown sli[)pcd from it,
and ])attered with bare white feet across the floor.

' Oh, mother, mother,' he cried, in ecstasy, when he paused
at her knee, ' Elsie 'tome back ! Elsie 'tome back ! '

There was a moment's silence in the kitchcm. The women
standing in the room doorway looked significantly from one to
ancither, wondering how Janet Erskine would take this refer-
ence to the loss of the little baby, whose death had so nearly
turned her brain. She had been ' queer,' as the Haven folk
had it, ever since the child's death.

' Elsie 'tome back ! Elsie 'tome back ! — me 'tiss Elsie ! ' re-
])('a<"ed Janet Erskine's little boy, and, getting down op his
little bare knees, he laid his fair, flushed cheek beside the dark
one on his mother's knee. It was a pretty sight.

A convulsive sob shook Janet Erskine's frame, and the first
tears she had shed since her baby's death rolled down her
cheeks like rain.

.I'M

l^i

ic, and

thorn,
within
; work,
. She
own at
[ippd it
,h milk
,'ngag('d
id com-

ono of

AVo'll

there be

bed, and
fi'oin it,

e paused

c women
111 one to
lis refer-
50 nearly
ven folk

sie ! ' re-

n or his

the dark

the first
iown her

CHAPTER IL

IN THE MORNING.

^^ HE storm spent itself before the dawn, bnt the
\W^J&^t'^ sun rose above a quivering sea, and long rolling
iw ^jB.vn breakers tipped with foam continued to fret the
base of the cliirs. The shore was strewn Avith
drift wood, and out upon the Scaur the wreck of
the ill-fated vessel could be observed, with her hull
partially submerged. She had proved to be n
merchantman from India bound for Leith. Out of her
twenty-seven hands, nineteen were saved by the efforts of the
v^oastguard and the fishers of Orr's Haven. Tlie captain was
among the lost, and none of the rescued could give any account
of the solitary lady ]iassonger, except that she was a friend of
the captain's. The doctor came from Eyemouth to Orr's
Haven during the night, but could do nothing for the poor
young creature, who died shortly after his arrival at Andrew
Erskine's house. In answer to iiis questioning, Janet Eiskine
atliiLtd'd that once the woman had partially regained conscious-
lu's, and looking round had said, in a weak whisjier, 'Take
care of Annie.' Janet understood her to refer to her child.
'ill!' doctor was naturally anxious to know whether any papers
had Ikh'U found on the womaTi, but to all his further inquiries
danet Erskine simply shook her head. She was a woman of

' m

ST. VEDA'S,

few words at all times, but on this occasion seemed even more
reticent and self-contained than usual.

Doctor Purvis had a genuine respect for Janet Erskine, but
he was not sure whether he liked her or not. Certainly she
never exerted herself to be apjreeable or pleasant.

' I fancy you will not let the poor little waif seek far for a
home, Mrs. Erskine,' he said, as he was leaving the house.

A strange, swift smile dawned on Janet Erskine's resolute
li{)s, and the doctor fancied he saw her arms tighten about
the child.

' Ah, well, she will be safe with you, be she gentle or
simple,' he said, with a kindly smile ; * and she will fill the
place of the bairn I could not save for you in the spring.'

So saying he went his way.

Had the mother and child been in any house but Adam
Erskine's, the women of the village would have been gathered
in it discussing the living and the dead with that curious
minuteness of detail they love ; but Janet Erskine was no
gossip, and it was seldom indeed that any neighbour woman
sat down by her fireside. The few who had dropped in that
morning had ere long slipped away again, feeling intuitively
that they were not made welcome. So they stood about in
groups at the doors discussing the stirring events of the pre-
vious night, but, as was natural, their chief interest centred in
the drowned girl (she was little more) and the child who had
escaped unscathed the perils of the sea. While they were
thus occupied, the announcement that Lady Grant was in
sight created a little stir among them. Sir Archie's wife had
made herself greatly beloved in Orr's Haven, though they had
been rather dubious at first about a lady from heathenish
France, as they called it. She took a hearty and kind interest
in all their aliairs, and many a gift f und its way from the
Castle t ) the cottages under the cliff. They went forward to
meet her, eager to tell the story of the night. She listened
with interest, but walked on as she did so, and when she

'I'

j.l:;

IN THE MORNING,

en more

:ine, but
linly she

far for a
lOuse.

I resolute
ten about

gentle or

II fill the

:ing.

lut Adam
gathered
it curious
,e was no
ur woman
id in that
ntuitively
about in
f the pre-
centred in
who had
hey were
nt was in
wife had
I they had
heathenish
nd interest
^ from the
forward to
he listened
when she

reached Ad.-im Erskine's cottage they fell back a little, though
they would fain have entered with her. But Janet Erskine's
cold, grave face kept them in a wholesome awe. Lady Grant
knocked at the door, as was her invariable custom. She
would not enter the poorest cottage in the Haven without
showing that courtesy which she exacted for herself. Iler
very fastidiousness in such little things only endeared her the
more to the peo|)]e. Janet Erskine loved Sir Archie's wife
with a love which was touched with reverence. There were
other great ladies wdio came visiting sometimes in the Haven,
and to whom Janet declined to open her door. Perhaps there
was a dilFerence.
v||| Janet Erskine's little boy opened the door, his chubby,
sweet face rosy and shining with his morning bath.

* What a big boy my little Adam has grown ! ' she said,
bending to kiss the child, who, with a gesture of confidence
and love, slipjied his little hand in hers, and led her into the
house. Janet Frskine rose at once to receive her, with a quiet
native courtesy ind grace quite her own. She set a chair for
the visitor, and then bade little Adam put the bolt in the
door.

' They come in on me, my lady — the neighbours, I mean —
and \ don't like it,' she said, half apologetically. ' I thought
it queer when I came from the North ; nobody seemed to call
their fireside their own.'

She spoke with the correct and pretty Tnvernessian accent,
which contrasted strongly in Lady Grant's ears with the
broad speech of the women she had just left.

'Come back, /dam, and don't trouble Lady Grant,' Janet
added, seeing the child still clinging to the lady's hand.

* How can you say "trouble," Janet, when you know how
I love chilth-en, and that he is just the age of my Archie,'
said the gentle lady of St. Veda's. * And is this the little
waif cast up by the storm 1 AVhat a pretty little thing ! '

She bent forward and touched the infant's dimpled cheek

ST. VEDA'S.

' itli her soft forofingor. At that moment she was struck by
If look of passionate and hungering love in Janet Erskine's

>i'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

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}

li:;

/ I!.'

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

iiiii

IN THE MORNING,

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

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

li I

ST. VEDA'S.

* 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

IN THE MORNING.

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

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.

■I •

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

TWENTY YEARS AFTER.

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

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.'

1 yes, thank you ; ami, do you know, Archie is cominj

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

iiii

iii

^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.'

;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.'

TWENTY YEARS AFTER.

'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

( '

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.

k up the

rk.

not think
e mother.

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-

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.

•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

ST. VEDA'S.

* 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,

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.'

I ;l

I M

i '

I'i

•J '1

3<5

ST. VEDA'S.

' 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, (pii<!
l)ride. 'He is not oidy welldooking, lie is good. ^VhateAi'i
Annie may think, she'll never get a better husband. And i;
she isn't kind to Adam, III iind it very hard to forgive hci.'

* Ihit, j\Irs. Erskine, if Annie does not love Adam as -
should love the man she marries, she cannot help tliiit. :S

A TROUBLED HEART,

'nr, Avlien

theiir

[isis Ktlu'l,

he luid no

for lier, I

^,r (Irynoss.
liss kllu'l.
It'll a ni;iii
5 an end to
niu have 1

1 think she

she o\i;j;ht.
ct hcv try
become of

)U:; in stovf
alk in ihr
ur tlisnosuil

ore arc fe^v

f;ht\V, (lUirt
AVhilt('\r:

1 And li
r'lvo her.'

lain as -ir
that, ^^i■■•

has always looki'd (Hi him as her hrotlKM". It. would ho very
.lilliculi Inp licr t'» think of iiiin in any other way. Vou must
hr ju-t 1(1 Anni"' as well as to Adam.'

' Why shnuld -he n A Invc him as a wife should? She has
knnwn him all \v'\ lit'f. Where will she ;j;i't another half so
-mil? I have :ilways nuaiit them to marry, and so has father.
All our .i^i-ar, and it is a .uoodly i)i('kle iiow, will i;o to them.
It would he very stupid of tln'iu not to marry, 1 think.'

JMlid rose rather wearily to lu-r feet. The discussion vexml
and wearied her. ller sympathies were entirely with Annie,
as was natural, hut she eould not I'efuse to adnut the; litness of
-laiiet l'!rskiiu''s planuiu:^'. It oll'ered, ecrtainly, th(.' easiest and
ni-ist sati.>fartory 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 »

111

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

::^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.

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

•|l

\':\\

! ■

■1 t

( t

1 1 i

1 f '\

ST. VEDA'S.

' 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 ha<l suddeuly
iallen athwart the cheert'id suuslur.e of the suuimerday. And
vrt there was no vi>ilile 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-,

A TROUBLED HEART.

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-

niiuhvtion

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

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'

ST. VEDA'S.

I:. '-'-

■■'■4

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

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.

(

' 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><!.:v;^^-:^i.^:^:<Kcg§^;5g^s^;^^g5^s^:

now "J If

nil, I am
b for her.

it a cause,
said Lady
lias called
lofs on the

,s gone to

3ur father

ir, Archie

J! rant, and

two years

;. It had

lething of

life. Sir

lis son fur
had bctni

-4

liUi will),

lad lovdl

, or cruif-t!

ith Adam

e weighty

-■■%-

1 decide.

-i^

CIIArTER Y.

ARCHIE THE YOUNGER.

'•' •^^Tjlp'^ TIE lido had turned at sunset, and M'as flowing
r;."^f ; 1 iu on the pohljly slioro at Orr's Haven M-ith a
'V -: \!§_^. Vi suhdued and musical murmur which miiiLi;le(l

*'y

,.^ pli'as.iiitly with the hum of voices in tlm still
cvcnin:^' air. It was a Ln'ely summer ni;;]it, and
nir)st of the. Ilavon folk were out of doors. The sea
wall was lined with fishermen smoking their ])ipes of
]i;M(e, and the haihour was hlled with the, boats which would
;:'! oil' a-ain in the morning. It was a i)ietures(|ue scene,
eiiiiaiic(Ml hy the ladiaiici) ca-;t by the suns;'-*; glo^i', Avhicli still
liii-;-! I'rd redly on sea and shore. The iiglit was g(^tting A'ery
,icv, when there, came striding manfully down the village
iaae tlu^ stalwart li^ure of a youth Avearini' a li^ht covert coat
Mill a tweed cap. The fragrant scent of his cigar was wafted
111 till' loiiii'cr.s at tlu^ wall even beft)r(> 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

':)

! !

ST. VEDA'S,

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

<ft<

Laird tells me?' said Johnny, with a broad giin. ' V.'e'U hae
to put ye in at the heid o' the i)olh "SVull we no'?'

.<(■(' 1
\ lew

M
and
li.dirl

% 1

■4 a I It IK

•'.| 'ars;
:| Alvli

J >ll-d

Icngt

^;_-J!. - .-. .-.■i.i«l3*V--J

ARCHIE THE YOUNGER.

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 <ire as brisk as bees. There's to be a waddin' at the
skipper's after the draive.'

'(•h, is there 1 I haven't heard that,' said Archie Grant,
with an indillerence he M'as far from feeling.

'<)(>, 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

■ ••!.

■

57: VEDA'S.

■■i

}

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.

* 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

■il

ST. VEDA'S.

' 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 ha<l not a care or responsibility in tlic
wtudd.

It was now quite dark, hut a glorious moon was risin/
ledly at the ed^c of the sea; and as Archie (Jrant strMlJnl
round hy the clills, the Aveird and exquisite light began l'
touch the surface of the water. He paused once or twice, aini
looked out to sea with admiring eyes. In all his far travels
he told himself, he had seen notliin'' liner than the rui:'"t'J

ARCHIE THE YOUNGER,

itics, ami is

How can

the water ?

prospect of

ow wIicIIk r

a' Avhcn ye

liini to the

l)art. Did

lever a.-aiii

CO in their

inm peine we

■:'i
j

huhlie-tiino
purpose to

mar. You

;Jits in tlic

1 the Jauvi

with some

>n, })h'a>;aiit

■"'

[i what they

^et, my lad.

■ .;-

over it, I'or

5 rant strode

ility in t

lie

was risiiii'

ant strnllni

it bogau t '

r twice, aiiu

far travels

the ru'4''t'i.i

co.i^t line and the fann'liar waters of his native lan<l. lie felt
ill iio hurry to f,'o home. Th(!ro were sonic thing's lie wanted
til tliiidv out, so lie liglited another cigar, ami strolled leisundy
id nu the linn helt of sand skirting the hase of the eliil's. The
lidi' had itidy hi'gun to How, and at high water there was no
fouling under the clills. What frowning, mighty rocks they
were 1 hollowed out hy the roll of many a wild billow, and
inti-rsected with caves and fissures once dear to the smuggler's
sdul. ]\Iany an old story was told of the lawless days of the
snm;^glers, and many a precious hoard has been hidden in the
Very shadow of St. Veda's itself. There was a curious
stairway cut a\\> of the solid face of the rock, and giving
anient to the battlements of the Castle; a means of access
us'il l;y very few. It had always been Archie Grant's
favourite way home from the village at ebb tide, and many
a hairhroadth escape he had made risking the 'near cut 'in
jnM'ilous conditions, whiidi would have horrified his mother
li id she hcen aware of them. Ihit Archie Grant had always
till 1 ju-t as much as he dared at home, and they really did not
know what a iiare-brained, reckless boy he had always been.
The lishcr folk knew, however, and only loved liim the more.
Aivhie Grant was disappointed over his home-coming to Orr's
Haven. He had pictured it often and often in his imagination,
and the r'ality seenicd a very conimo" place afliiir. He even
fi It iiu});itient of it, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar.
Vriiy had he found it so poor after alH Becaueo he had
missed Annie I'.rskine's smile, which was of more account in
his c_) s tl.iaii it had any ri ht to he. Oh, but this young life,
■■■vlicn l(tve takes it in hand, is a tani^led web 1

A\ hy h;al An hie Grant not asked for Annie Ersk!ne by
nMHic that night ? AVhy had the announcement that a
ininiiigo between her and Adam was in contemi)lation gone
to his heart with a sudden bitter stiii''? AVhv did everythincc
seciu (lull, Hat, and nnprolitable, because he had not looked on
hei' bwcct f.ice? The old story. Ay, but in this instance it

i r

;

^ ii

ST. VEDA'S,

mii^'lit liavfi boon Lottor had tlicrc l)ccn no old story, liowevor
swi!(!t. Fnr what (toiild tlici'e ho. in cuiniiion h(!tvvi'cn Annie
Krskino and ti.) heir of 8t. Veda's? She hcloiigod to tlie
people; nay, slie was Adam Krskine'a by viituo of all his
father and mother had done for her. "Wiiat more filtiiiL,' or
heantiful, Archie Grant asked himstdf biLterlv, than that thcv
two should weil, and live a length of useful, happy days in
the cottaj,'e, as Adam Krskine the elder and his wife had done
before them? There could he no other ending; and yet to
pieture Atmie Krskino sj)ending her life in tliat two-roomeij
cottage, bringing up Adam's children and attending to his
fishing gear, as did the other wives and mothers in the Ilavcii,
seemed perfectly intolerable to Archie Grant. lie tosseil
away his cigar, half smoked, and audibly called himself a
* confounded fool.' Kevertheless the sore, bitter, unhapjiy
sensation remained.

Suddenly he caught sight of something which made his
heart give a great bound. It was only a girl's figure in a
dark dress, sitting on a big boulder, with a little shawl drawn
cornerwise over her bare golden head, and her face turned
out to sea. Her attitude struck Archie strangely. It was
dejected, and the expression in her face, as well as he could
see it, seemed unspeakably sad. Why, if Adam Erskino and
she were betrothed lovers, was she here on the lonely shore ?
and why, if she was on the brink of a happy bridal, did lit r
face wear the downcast look ? An unspeakable longing ruslnd
into the heart of Archie ('rant. Here Avas his opportunity;
here he could hear from Annie's own lips whether she had
missed him ; here they could meet and talk unobserved. He
took a step forward, when suddenly the thought of Adam
Erskine struck him — Adam the honest and true, who loved
this girl with a great love. Why should he seek to come
between them, to cast any shadow on their happiness and
peace ?

In his hesitation he stood still, but Annie turned her head

ARCHIE THE YOUNGER,

, liowevor
'cn Annie

'(I to tilt'

of all liis

filtini,' or

that they

ly days in

liad dono

lul yet to

vo-i'ooino(l

iig to lu's

le Ilavcii,

le tossi'il

liimsi'lf a

unliapiiy

made liis
gnre in a
wl drawn
cc turned
It was

lie could
kino and
ly shore?

did her
ig rushed
ortunity ;

she had
red. lie
Df Adam
ho loved

to come
tiess and

Pi.ddnnly, as if conscious of an approat hing presence, and ho
knew that she saw him.

She rose hurriedly to her feet and drew h-T wrap yet
fiiitlicr over her head, hut not until he had seen th(! (piick
uid Luming blush which ruae to hur face and dyed it red.

'. !

. I

■I

her head

awwiiiiiiij^e^iiiwwwro^^ am n

tlH :• N .1

1^^

in,;i

CHAPTER YI.

CROSS CURRENTS.

AM a f raid I have startled yon. I have hocn at

the Haven, and came ronnd this A\ay hecause I

like it hest,' Archie said Limitlv, and he did vaA

know wliy he could not speak her name. IL'

held out his hand, and Ainiie laid hers m it

for a moment, hut did not speak. The mot in::

causcid tiie Avrap to fall l;ack from her heail, and slif

stood before him in all ln-r fair young 1)('auly, making lii^

heart thrill and his jmlses throb Avith iui ex(piisite ha[»piu('s,s.

Could it bo, that the love he had llouted and laughed at as ;i

fahie and romance had come to hiui at last? It seemed a very

real and momentous thing at that moment to Archie Grant.

'I must go away home,' said Annie, at h-ngth, and Iht

voice sounded a little nusteadv. 'I should not be here so Lilf,

but one gets tired of sitting in the house. AVere you there T

' Yes.'

* You would see theui all, then?'

*Yes, all but you, and it was you I wanted to sec'

It was as if he. hid lost control of himself. Every thou^lit

or mis'dving concerning Adam Eiskine had lied at the nearer

siglit of Annie.

She drew her shawl close over her head, for her colour rose

9,nd her mouth trembled.

'The

' bee
'I tl

■'■ aliellt.

' So t
i ' The
, Annie.'

\ The ^
;|liii,:,^t'i'iii,

I 'Not
I 'Thci
tiiiusufd
i ' An;
.dii'ur mil

Vcsterda

■ K

■ -^ ''I'l

M\nlils,

^Aivj,i,>(;
;|]i'i\v met
; 'Ay, J

|cli;iiue I

' 1 )aiii

civei; la

' Vinu

aiiswcnM

'llet.

tin' llrai^
Ml is

■, She V
ptlif (K'liii

f;|ce eve
:;il'layiiiat(
'igruutest

ive "been at
y because I
ho did i!()l
name. IL'

hers in it
riio mot in:;
ail, and slu'
makinLT lii>

liai)|>incs.>,
^lied at as ;i

nicd a vi'ry
ie Grant,
li, and luT

ere so Lite,
oLi there r

CROSS CURRENTS.

* They will bo very glad up at the Castle,' she said gravely.
'Whyr

* liecaiise you have come back.'

' I think they are, though I am not very much to bo glad
aliout. Ihit 1 suppose it is a poor dog that isn't missed a liule.'
' So they say.'

* There are some changes in Orr's Haven since I went away,
Annie.'

Tlic sweet, familiar name fell at last from his lips with a
lin,L;criiig cadence.

'Not many. I cannot think of one,' she answered quietly.

'There are some important ones impending, I am told,'
]iuisu('d Archie.

'Arc there 1 I have not heard of them; but we nev-r do
hear niiieh of the gossip. I was speaking to Danny 'A'ehster
yesterday, tliough, and he was bewailing your home-coming.'

A ripple of annisemont dawned on her face as she saiil thesis
Winds. Sh(! had (juite recovered from her cvidcmt agitation at
Artliic ( irant's sudden appearance, anil her beautiful eyt.'S c(juld
iiiw meet his without a falter.

' Av, Dannv's a iiueer beggar. It was he who tcdd me of one
cli.uui' 1 had not antieipated, and which I can hardly believe.'

' hainiy is a gossii)-gatherer, and it's all lish that goes in his
civcL' lauuhed Annie. ' What was his newest news'?'

our marria'fe, t

V niarria<'o

\nn
Tl

see

far f

orwari

sure

Annie

■^wcrcd (piirtly, but h(U' bosom heaved.

' He tohl me you and Adam Erskine are to be married after

HI' Uiaive

It IS not true.

"^hi' was very angry he could see. Her eyes flashed, and
tlif denial fell sliort, sharp, and bitter from her set li[)s. Her

aee even (^fi'ciw

ayniate in this mood. rerha])S in Annie herself was the

pale. Archie Grant had never seen his old

jreatciit change of all.

ST. VEDA'S.

1 p

* Then j'^oii nre not going to marry Adam, Annie V

* I have told you. Ask Miss Ethel. She knows all ahoiit it'

* It will be a terrible disappointment for Adam, poor fellow,'
said Archie compassionately. Perhaps now he could afford
to be very kind to Adam.

' What have you to do with his disappointment, or with my

lifel' said Annie, with sudden, swift passion. 'You do not

belong to our class. Let us be happy or miserable in our own

way.'

' What has come over you, Annie ? You are terribly

changed,' asked Archie, almost anxiously. He did not add
what he felt, that this Annie was a thou>;and times more win-
some than the Annie of old. ' Ethel told me to-day that you
know now that you are not the skip^x-r's daughter,' he said,
presently, when she made no answer. ' Did ' —

' If they had only left me as I was,' Annie interrupted, in
her wild, impetuous way. ' They have or.ly made me miserable.
But, if they persecute me, I must leave them, that is all.'

* Persecute you, Annie ! They would never do such a thing.
Have they not always been most kind?'

' Oh yes ! I have never said anything but that. They
liave been too kind. They have laid on me a deljt of gratitude
I shall never be able to repay. Perhaps if I was to marry as
they wish, they might feel themselves repaid; but I shall never,
never do that ! '

'Whyr

' Because my life is my own, and I cannot live it just as
other people plan.'

' But, Annie, Adam Erskine is a splendid fellow. I am
sure you would be happy with him,' urged Archie, trying to
be loyal to his old friend ; but his eyes told a dillerent talc.
He was amazed at the change in the girl before him. It
was a twofold change. Her physical beauty had developed
marvellously in the past two years ; mind and heart seemed
developing, too, and awaking to the possibilities of life.

Mil

must

abnUt

iiiip
lilUe

CROSS CURRENTS.

ahont it'
)r fellow,'
lid afford

' with my
u do not
I our own

'. terribly
not add

nore win-
that you

' he said,

-npted, in
ni.serabk'.
all'

' Y(\=5, Adam Erskinc is a splendid fellow,' Annie repeated,
witli a strange mixture of moekery and pathetic earni'stness.
'It is a pity I cannot see just as others see. Good night ; I
niu.>^t go h(ime.*

'Annie, I am disappointed in my home-coming. I thonght
aliiuit yi)U a great deal when I was away,' said Ai(hie
iiii|i!dsiv(dy, not caring what he said, so that he kejjt her a
liltle longer.

'Did you?'

Nothing could be more unconcerned than her utterance of
tlicsi' two words, but she turned her head away a little, and
Id'kcd out uj)on the shimmering, moonlit sea.

' I wonder, did you ever give your old chum a thought,
Annie r he said, very reproachfully. 'I don't believe you
evi'i' did.'

' IVrliaps not.'

' Then you did not miss me even a little, Annie, and I was
a fiiol to think about you at all,' he said, with bitterness.

' rerha})S you were,' she said carelessly, but the sweet
colour rose rapidly in her cheek. She could not keep tJiat
back, though she would.

'Are we to be friends then, Annie 1*

' Yes, why not 1 '

' It^ won't be very easy to be friends now, Annie.*

' rcrhaps not ; I forgot. You have seen the world, and I
have seen nothing. We are very igjiorant here in the Haven ;
but it is not our blame. One cannot learn where there is no
ojiportunity.'

' This is not fair, Annie.'

'AVhynot?'

She drew her wrap round her with a quick, nervous gesture,
and a slight shiver shook her.

' Annie, do you know you are perfectly lovely 1 In all my
travels I have never seen any woman so fair as the Pearl of
Orr's Haven.'

I'J

i y\

\ 1

ST. VEDA'S.

' You niii=^t not spoak like vliat to mo, if yon ploasp,' saiil
Annie (juictly, but with an unmistakeablo touch of liautcur.
Yes, there was in Annie Erskine a <in'at clian^Lj^e. The child
liad become a woman, ami as such she mu>t be treated. ^lanv
a speech of a like kind had Archie Grant uttered in tlie old
<lays, when they had rambled together along the clifls, or
drifted idly in the >)y////re about the little coves and inlets;
speeches which Annie had laughed at, and answ* red back with
fpiick repartee and careless banter, but it was all at an end.
Had something sweeter and more serious come in its i)lace?

' lint yuu will let me see you sometimes, Annie. I cannot
boar to think that the old fiiendship is gone fur ever.' he said,
almost luunbly. ' I will promise to behave jusi as you would
like, and not to say anything to offend you.'

'The old days never can come l)ack,' said Anrie, with a
ring of weariness in her voice. ' I do think the world a
miserable place.'

' Not always, nor necessarily. It is a place in wdiich two
peoj)le can be boundlessly hajtpy if tliey love each other,' said
Archie, and took a step nearer to her. She was startled. Her
eyes met his for a moment in one strange, swift, (piestioning
glance, then she sped past him, and before he could recover
from his suri)rise, she was out of sight. lie hesitated a
moment, not knowing whether he should follow, and then,
acting on second thoughts, he continued his walk towards
home. Annie had not forgotten him. Tliat he knew, and
for the present he asked no more.

^leanwhile, she was sj)eeding along the sands as if some-
thing pursued her. Her head was down-bent, and she heard
no one coming, till suddenly she ran up against a figure
sharply turning one of the rugged promontories of the clitl's.

'Annie, bless me, what are ye flecin' at?' asked Adam
Krskine, and he took her by the arm, and even drew her to
his side, as if he had a right to do so. But Annie withdrew
herself from his touch at once, with a little petted gesture.

iiig,

i 1

gclll
.S'.Uil

CT^OSS CURRENTS.

ISP,' saiM

liantc'iir.

he child

!Manv

tlic old
clin's, or
1 inlets;;
iclc with

an end.
)la{;e ?
[ cannot

'le said,
III would

, with a
workl a

lich two
IT,' said
h1. Hit
>tionin;4
recover
tated a
id then,
towards
13 \v, and

if some-
le heard
1 fig' lire
clitrs.
I Adam
' her to
itlidrcw
lure.

' X"t1iin,c,' ; T lluai'^ht it was getting^ late, and I was hiirry-
JML,', that's alh AVherc are ijnii goinij?'

* Tin seekin' you. "Where hae ye bi'en?'
' Nowliere.'

'They've been wonderin' at hame. It's after nine, Annie.'

Ms it?'

Annie F.rskine could he very cool and aj^^gravating when she
Hked. She was so now, hut Adam was very [)atient, perhaps
too lonn-snirering for a girl like Annie. She was Iiigh-spirited
hd'si'lf, and hked daring in others. Archie Grant's demeancmr
liitUr suited lu.'r mood, and yet Adam was manly as well as
geiith'. Women are strange creatures, and a many-sided
s'aidy.

' If ye had hidden a wee langer at the Castle rock, ye wad
niayhe hae been drooneil for yer pains. See, the water's in
licre aheady. Let me lift ye ower.'

' Xo, I can cross myself,' said Annie, and with a nimble
bouiul she cleared the little inlet made by the incoming tide.
Shr (lid not ai)i)ear in the least disconcerted by the danger she
lui-lit have been in. But then the sea had no terrors for her.
She hned it, and in its roughest moods found the voice of a
friend.

' The young Laird was i' the toon the nicht, Annie,' said
Adam, when he was again by her side.

'Washer

Ad.un tlid not see lier colour rise, and lier words sounded
indillerent enough.

* He was in oor hoose for a wee while. I think he was
disiijijiointed at no' seein' you.'

'Maybe.'

The gill's manner was not encouraging — it was cold enough
to be unkind. Jhit Adam Krskine had appeared at a most
iiiMjiportime moment; just when Annie was wishing to be
aloiu!. I'erhaps she had certain sweet words to ponder in her
mind.

••t .

ST, VEDA'S.

* Ye are awfu' short the niclit, Annie. Hae I ofTcndit ye in
ony way ? ' asked Adam anxiously.

' You ! oh no ; you never offend anybody.'

* I wadiia ofTend you ony Avay, or hurt a hair o' ycr lioid,
Annie,' said Adam, with a simple earnestness which went to
Annie's heart. She had not a word to say. * But ye've never
been the same sin' ye kent ye didna helang to us,' he went on.

' No, that was a mistake,' said Annie quickly. * I M'as
happier not knowing than I am now.'

* It was my blame, Annie. I kent a' alang that ye werena
my sister, of course, an' after a while I began to wish ye didna
think it yersel'. I am sure ye ken what way. I'll no' be in a
hurry, Annie, if ye'll oidy i)romise that by and by ye'll think
about me differently. It's for my wife I want ye, Annie. I
hae lo'ed ye a' my life.'

Annie never spoke, and when Adam, in his quiet but
impassioned pli-ading, stooped from his tall height trying to
see her face, she turned it away. It was not a pleasant face
at that moment. The tenderness had all died out of it, leaving
it pale and stern and cold.

* I'm no' wantin' ye to be in a hurry, only to ken what I'm
thinkin' on,' paid Adam, taking courage from her silence.
' The auld folk's set on't, as ye ken. There's a guide pickle
gear, an' the skipjjcr says he'll build a twa-storey hoose for us
on the Skule lirae. An' when I get a boat o' my ain — the
Bonnie Annie, ye ken, that we've often spoken o' — we'll
get a servant lass, for I wad never bear to see ye workin'
amang my lines an' nets, Annie. If I had my way, ye wad
never lift yer wee finger. But ye'll gie me some hope, Annie;
it'll gar me work an' save wi' a faur better heart.'

Still Annie never spoke.

Poor Adam, instead of advancing his cause by dwelling on
the plans tl 3 old folks had made for their future, only filled
the rebellious heart at his side with bitter anger.

* Weel, what d'ye say, Annie % will we say next year 1 ' said

CJ^OSS CURRENTS,

:Ut ye in

'cr lu'id,
went to
ve never
went oil.
* I was

3 wereiia
ye didna
)' be in a
'11 think
nnie. I

Liiet but
rying to
ant face
, leaving

^liat I'm

silence.

e pickle

e for us

lin — the

— we'll

workin'

ye wad

, Annie;

llincj on
ily lilled

iV said

■■*,

Adam, trying again, but in vain, to see the dear fare ho loved.
' Mullicr tiiinks about- \ugiist or September, afore tin; weatlier
^'(■ts ower eauld, an' we'll liae a bit trip to Kdinburgh, and
inavbt^ ( llesca.'

' Tni not a bundle of L^oods to be bought and sold as tliev
tliiiik lit. You can tell mdther that next time she I'\\s jtlaiis
f(ir me,' said Annie hotly, and her words fell chilly on Adam
i'.i'.-laiie's ears and heart.

' W'iiat d'ye mean, Annie? Of cr)ni'se, it's for yon to say
wli 11 and wlieri' it's to lie. Thei'e's naebody wantin' to buy
and sell ye, lassie. lUit ye will tak' nu! soiik; day. 1 couldna
li\- wiiiinot ye nno, I think. An' it's the, best thing w(! can
(1 ii'. We eaiiiia iiye hat' faiher an' mother an' the auld house,
yr k( 11. an' we're no' l)iither an' sister, wliat(^ver folk may say.
ll did weid ciieiudi wheii We Were bairns, but it'.s dill'ei'eiit ikmi.'

Tin'y liad now reached the village, and a few more sle[>s,
t i!<cii ill :-ilciic(', broiiglit them to their own door.

Ai'iiie made a iiKitii-ii to enter at once, without uttering a
Will' I. -iM.d (ir liad, liui Adam's strong yet gentle hand on her
arm detained her.

' No" yet, Annie ; ye maun say sonu'thing to me, my dear.'

She l('(il;i(l up at him then with laige, wide, calm eyes.
I'l iiiaps it was natural that she should compare; his tall, loose
tiaiic wiih the graceful [ihysi([ue of the young Laird of iSt.
\ ' da s. It was not ^Vdam's blame, })oor lad, that the com-
paiiMMi \\-;is iKit in his favour.

• \e maun t<dl me al'oie I gang all' the morn, for we'll no'

he at haine aii'ain for a weidc or i

uair ' sai(

1 Ad;

im eaiiK

stb

wiiina sav me nav a'tlu'Li'ilher, Annie T
niiist, Adam.'
niiies Voice I'auL!: 'Hit (dear, cold, decisive as a bidl in tli

-til

iii'-;lit air.

ou are onl\" mv lnoLher, am

le as oitl as

iiiarry yiui, lhoiit;h I lived to 1

trieil tu make u}> my mind to do it all the time

d 1 could ne\'er
Methusali'h, and

Jii:

•(

'^i^*'-

%^^r^z-r4gS^!^jt^X -57?*

1^^- ^^i^^jg^- a^ - .^ -j^^-^^ gi^-Q

'i"-^^'"-^-r^"

i^^ii^^^a

cuArTrr. yil

WOUNDED rrjDE.

I'll

'^a^tJIfXXIE -went str;ii;jjlit to Iho little slpcping-closet,
f([F m I "\vliicli Avas tlio only corner in the. liouso she coiikl
%^ f/k^ call Lor own, and shut herself in. It M'as a very

^5^^')>(^ tiny ehunilicr, with a curious round window like

fi^^y^') a port-hol", which even in stoi-niy weather Annie

f^^JfT '^ ke})t wide o].<>n. She s:it ddwn on the Led, and
'^'^^^ fiilding her arms across Iku" chest l)e,L,'an to think.

Adani weiit into the kitcluui to lind his mother sitting alone
hy the lire. The ski})per was already fast asleep in the l)ox-
l)ed. Janet Erskine, for a wonder, was idle; the coarse hlue
jersey she had heen knitting had fallen under the fender
among the ashes. In her ahstraction she had not noticed it,
though a cinder was smouMering on her hall of M'ooh

' AVcll, where's Annie ? ' she asked abruptly, turning her
head at her son's entrance.

' Awa' to her hed. The skipper's sleepin', I see. I'd better
turn in, too, I suppose,' said Adam, laying his ca^) on the
window board, and sitting down to pull off his boots.

* AVhcrc was she^'

'Alang the sands. I met her just round the corner.'

' Imphni ! She would meet the Laird. lie always goes
home that way. AVliy is she away so huiry-liko to her
bedr

WOUNDED PR IDE.

'I vexed Annie tlio niilit, niitlier. I think we've maybe
no" dune fair to lier.'

' llnw ? We liavo .^iven lier cvcrytliinj;. She lias been like
u\\\ own baiin. She's a spoiled, j^etted thing, Adam, and slui
ncetls a liriii hand to guide her.'

.laiiel lu'skin(! did not lower her voice, and every word fell
(■nld and distinct on Annie's ears as she sat on the b(!d in the
Idlilty closet. Very well, too, did Janet Erskine know she
would hear.

' Wheesht, mither; she'll hear ye I'm no' denyin' we've
Im'cii guid till her, an' Annie kens that hersel',' said Adam,
in a low voice, lie felt in sore need of sympathy, and yet he
tVlt no desire to ask it from his mother, ^^'dy, before he
wint away, he must make it clear to her what tlu^y might
expeet of .Vnuie noAV.

' r>ut what I've thochfc an' spoken o' maun never be.'

'Why?'

' IJecause I ken brawly Annie disna fc(d that way an' never
will,' said Adam. ' I'd better tell 3a', mither. I spoke till her
llie nirht, an' she gied me my answer.'

' Ay, what was that % '

Janet Krskine's voice had a rasping sound in it, and her
eyes Hashed ominously.

'She jist telt me plainly she Avould never marry me, an' I
ken she's in earnest. I'm tellin' ye, mither, because I want ye
to }iit it oot o' yer mind a'thegither. We'll try an' be as we
were afore. I wish, noo, I had never socht to tell her any-
tliing alioot it,' said Adam, and he leaned his head on his
hand. To see her idol thus dejected, made to sutler by a girl's
eaiclcss hand, was bitter as gall to the proud heart of Janet
Kiskine.

'Ay, and where did Annie get her fine notions, I wonder 1
"\\ ho is she, a pauper child, to set herself above mij son?' she
t>aid, with a slow, intense passion, half terrible to see.

Wheesht, mither,' said Adam a trifle wearily. ' Ye dinna

tft

ST. VEDA'S.

I'll

nndorstand Annio. It's no' tliat nva. Slie'.s thonht o' mo as a
bi'itlier owcr hw^, an' slit; canna clian^c! noo.'

* JUit, if slic l»a<l a j)Mrti('l('. of gratituilo in Irt, slio would (]>
anything for you, Adam.'

Listening to tlioso words, Annio Kiskino bit lior white lips
till they Lied. It cost her a fearful elFort to hear them, and
keep silent.

* I'll tell 3'ou what it is, Adam. The Castle folk have
spoiled her, and she aetually thinks, I believe, that the young
Laird liimsel' might look at her. Oh, I have watched her. A
vain, em})ty thing, Annie has grown of late. She is not the
bairn she was, nor the bairn she ought to have been, brouglit
up in this house. I'll never forgive her for this, Adam.'

'"Wheesht, niither, ye dinna ken what ye are sayin'. Ye
inaunna forget that Annie's yer baini nearly as muckle as !
am, an' ye maunna mak' ony dill'erence. She has never kenl
ony ither liame, an' she lias aye been a guid bairn. It wad \ir
a shame to turn again' her noo, jist because she winna dac
exactly as avc want an' hae planned.'

'Ay, ay, that's just what your father '11 say, Adam, and
you'll botli set mo aside for that chit of a girl. Iler face is
fairer than mine, but she'd never sacrifice herself as I would
for either of you. I doubt, Adam Erskine, the same house '11
not hold Annie and me after this.'

Adam sat up now, thoroughly alarmed. He had never seen
his reticent, self-possessed mother so moved, and he feared tli(>
conse(]uences. In his anxiety to smooth the way of life foi'
the dear girl he loved, he forgot his own pain. Whatever
happened to him. nothing must hurt or vex Annie.

'JMither, ye maun be reasonable. "What for should the
same boose no baud Annie an' you 1 What wad ye dao wi'
her 1 AVhaur wad ye send her, noo 1 '

' Better than her's gone to service before, Adam, and will
again. It would take the pride out of her. She knows
nothing about the hardships of the world, and is not sensible

WOUNDED PRIDE.

of hor moroio.3. I'll spoak to tlic minister's wife nlmnt ;:;ottiiij^
Ikt a place for six mntitlis. At the cml of that liiiic if shn
d'lcsn't take you, ay, and gladly, my iiaiiu' isn't danct {-'rskine.'

'Annie a p^km;!' Adam smilctl. ' Vc'll never mak' a
servant oot 0' oor Annie. Xael)ody wad t ak' her. She's
ower like a ledd}'. An' if she did L^a:),"; she wadiia hidi^ a
week. 2s\i, na. Jf ye sjteak ahout scndin' Annie awa*, I'll
^'an,^' too. I'll 'iiay])e seek a jdace in the liehtsjiip. S(», if
Annie ^'anp,'s, \\\ gang. Ye'U ken if ye wad like the house
without ])aith tie l)airns.'

Adam spoke pleasantly, but there was an undercurrent (»f
seriousness and determination in his voice which told thai he
was not jesting altogether.

' You on the lightship! You wor.^l stop ahout as long as
Annie would at service. Adam Krskine, I wish I hadn't takcii
in the bairn at the wreck. Little did I think I was nursimr
her to my own vexation.*

' Oh, dinna speak sic nonsense. It's no' that long sin' I heard
ye tellin' the minister's wife Annie was mair guid to ye than
seevin servants. It's a' my blame. I could bite my tongue
oot when I think o't. If only I had held my peace. I'll no*
gang till my bed or ye promise no' to mak' ony dillerence to
Annie. She's as guid as ever she was.'

'I can't put her before my own,* said Janet Erskinc donrly,
quite forgetting that in their childhood slui had cherislicd
the orphan waif with an almost sellish tenderness, which had
sometimes made her own little boy feel out in the cold.
Annie had done her })art ; she had for a time tided an aching
void in Janet Krskine's heart, which time had now healed.
Annie was an alien now, and as such Janet I^rskine judged
her actions. All her life Janet Erskine's will had been law to
those about her ] Adam, her husband, being geiille, ])liable, and
willing to be managed, perhaps it was not wonderful that she
took so badly with any contradiction now. Annie had always
been obedient to her adopted mother, and had only rebelled

• I

' i,

ST. VED.rS.

M I

wlioii Jiinnf r.islxino cluiinod tlio ri^'lit to ninp out hnr Ufo fnr
luT. All llic fill's I'lillifiil, williii;jf scrv ico, wliidi, llinni;1i
oflcu distasteful, liiul Ix'cti iicifdriiicil ^\■itIltlUt u iiimiiiiir,
lic'causo slio hatl u loving, giatcful licait, was foigdttni I»y
JaiiL't KiskiiKi iKiw. She was a narrow- miiuliMl woman.
Onco prcjudicctl, li.'r heart was as liard as tlie netlier mill
stone. Adam loved liis motlier with a dutiful and lilial love,
hut he was not hliiid to lur injustice towanls Anniu ; nay, he
censured it with all his lieart and soid.

He ro^e to his feet with an iuipatieut jostnro. His niothei
saw it, and saw, too, the di.-satisjied look on liis fai;o. Ilei
own darkened a little, and she shut her lips toi^ciher with a
sudden |)ressure. She, too, was set aside for Annio, whoso
least wliini was luon; hindiu'' in tlio eves of Adam than her

• ' K.'

exiire.^sed <hsire I Janet Krskiiic slept littlo Hint night. Her
lli-hland juide was up in arms; h(>r anger, slow to rouso,
hurned iigainst Ainiie with a slow lait steady fire. It was
very causeless, hut who can reason with a pi'ejudiced, jealous
woman? And Annie 1 She, too, slept hut little, and in her
bosom a tumult raj',od. She had overheard the greater part of
the conversation, a iact Avhieh Janet Ju'skine knew very well.
Perhaps on that account she had made her remarl<s in a louder
tone than was necessary to reach Adam's ears alone. Jn the
silent night watches Annie brooded over the injustice done
to her, and trie*! to make some jilans of action foi' the futuie,
l»iit her heart was too sore. She felt herself east out of the
heart of the woman she had heen tau-'ht to love as a mother.
That to a L;irl of Ainiie I'j'skine s warm, impulsive, allectionatc
teni] ei'ament could only mean a hitter giief. Ujipermost in
her mind thron-h all that dreary night there was a feeling of
deep giatitude to Adam, who had so nobly defended her, ami
advocated her cause, even while his heart was yet sure over
her ahruj»t answer to his wooing. Ay, Adam EL'skiue Wii.s
holhin;'' if not iienerous and true.

\'ery ear.y in the morning, before the sunrise, A inio rose,

WOUNDED PRIDE.

«S

111'

;iIm1, (lri'.<'«ill^' llM-^Hly, sIi'i'ImmI out of tin- linU-;(». Sl|(' fflt

pent up in Iht nariMW IhmI ; \w\' Inait. wii- Imrstin^i' wiih tlio

iH'W \\('i,_Iit (if cure la.tl upnn it. Slic iMii>t 1 ut dt' iln r-,

iKMi' the sea, to f-fck in lln' t(»s»iin,n', mui uiui in,^' \va\«'s tliat
.-viii]iatliy ami (•()niiiaiiii>n>lii|i they lia^l nc\('r yci den Cil her.
Till' fdtlai^c 'Iiior was (inly (m the latch, aii'l she slipp d • ut so
iHiisclcssly that even .I.iiii't, wlui iiad duly fallen i it>i a lill'iil
ilnsc, was iKit (li-;t U'licil. The iiKiiiii ilj air, U' >h, wcct, and
ki( U, kissed Annie's hot cheek as she met it at t e do p|'.
Iu\"hiMlai'iIy she drew a loii.u', deep hreatli It w i>! as if sin.'
liicalhed the fi'e-li, free air > f hcaveii al'ier In i.i; .-liul in some
i^leoiuy diin.Ljeon. 'I'lie Ilaveii was a leep; not a i;ii of l!fo
\i iMe. uoi' even one faint curl ot hliie smoke a>ein linn' to liitj
skv. Hut the liirds were up, and far away in tie' va-t expansn
(if .-ky a lark was trillin;^ it-^ swet t son:^, its ;4reet.n,L!; to ilio
new day. Tli(! tide was neaily lull, aiul the swelliiiL( waters
];i[ip:iin' tin; keels of the hoats in ill'' harhour made a low and
siKiiliinn nudody wliidi fell 1 ke a heni-'iii of peace on Annie
laskine's lieart. She turned towards St. Ahli's; a curious
feel 111; made her shrink from tlie way she liad walked Ji few
liDiiis lu'fore, aiid where, as it seemed to lier, she had met a
crisis in her life. The tide heincr full, tin; sands were for-
hi Men, so she s|ied alon^L;; th(! road l)y th(j sea-wall, j)ast the
s(,'li(Milliouse, and ihroiigli the stile into the palli leadin;j; up the
hraes. Th(! dew was wet on the grass, and the sleejiy gowans
liad teardrops yet in their yellow ey< s, waiting to he kissed
iiw.iy hy the sun. There was an exquisite stillness in the air,
a liu>h as if Nature held her l)reath in iiwe before the approach
of the sun's iitajesty. There was a promise of the sunrise
alivady in the blush slowly spreading over the c istcru horizon,
and reilected on the shinin'^ sea. All these thiii'is of beau

Aimie Kvskine noted with keen and loviuLi

ey(

thcv had

ihva\ s hi-en joys to her ; they were comforts in this 1

lour
mou

of
ted

■sidness and perplexity concerning her future.
the upland path with hur' ied feet ; she wanted to see the

;

ST. VEDA'S.

•K "KlMi

suTirise from the edge of tlie ('lifF, aiul slio knew s]ie had only
a f(;w minutes to spare. How still it was! How snlciiin that
exquisite light on the cidm sea ; what a ivhuke to tlu' hunviiiL;
strife and unrest .n tlie lives of men ! Some sueh thought
touehed Annie Erskine's heart as she paused, a little out of
hieath, at the top of the hent, and the majestic heauty of the
scene was revealed to her. A curious fccliug of nearness to
the Infinite and Divim; stole into her heart, and she felt
at peace. I do not doubt hut that God often speaks to His
children throu'di His own creations, sometimes with the voiei;
of warning, hut oftener with the voice of mercy and love.
Annie Erskine wa. only an uudisci])lined, wayward girl, Avho
had never given many serious tlioughts to life. She had heeu
content to work in working hours, and dream when dreams
were sweet, hut something of the reality of life and its disci-
pline was being shown to her. ]}y widely diverging ])aths,
in a thousand various ways, we all learn tin; same lesson.
Experience is a many-voiced teacher, who, as we walk the way
of life, is continually at our side. Only with some she is nioiv
lavish of her smiles, to others her school is a v.ile of tears.
Annie Erskine leaned against a friendly boulder, ami alloweil
her (!Yes to wander at will across the sea. There were white,
sails here and there upon it, fluttering like liirds on the sur-
face, but nothing U) disturb its ineflable peace. The calm of a
summer morniug dwelt upon its breast, whose silvery hue was
gradually deejiening inlo gold. The sun was yet hid under a
great bank of billowy clouds, Axhich, however, wen^ rapidly
dispersed, leaving the horizon a glorious blending of crimsdu,
grey, and gold. Then in a moment of s])lendour the goMeii
radiance streamed do.vn on sea and shore, the ii[»ples fla>heil
gloi'iously in the sun, the; daisies o])ened yet wider their
sleeping eyes, the dew-dro})S sparkled like diamonds du every
blade of grass. The sweet sunbeams kissed the girl's fail'
cheek, and woooil a smile to her grave; I'.ps. It was im-
possible to resist the benign influence. It seemed to Annie

-I

WOUNDED PRIDE.

as if all lior troul)los of tlin night had nioltod away. Her
^;j)iiits rose once mnro. Ah, tho youthful spirit is a Imoyaiit
and lu'antiful tiling which can never be long repressed. When
she turned her eyes towards the Haven again, she saw sonu!
tiuurcs stirring on the pier ; the Ushers were up and ahout
their morning work. Shading her ey<'s she could see that the
(jdor of her home was o})en, and presently she saw the ski[)per
(•(ini<' cut and turn down to the harbour. Her heart warmcMJ
1(1 him, and her tears started strangely as she noted his stoop-
in- li^ure and grey hair. He loved her, she knew, and nothing
in llie wide world would ever change that love. She was his
'ain bairn,' 'his lainmie,' and a hundred other endearing
iiancs which she treasured in her heart. A sudden desire to
stc him before he went took possession of her, and turning
alinut slie began to speed back to the village. But she was a
mi!" and mon; from tliii harbour, and she had no idea how
lMn;4 she had been standing dreaming on the beach. Just as
sli" !■( a(lie<l the stile, the whole fleet sail"d slowly and beauti-
fully out of the cove, with the Janet Rae at its head.

CHAPTEK YIII.

m .,11,

TWO WOMEN.

NXIE waited at 11 lo, slilo, and ■watchod the lioats
until thoy were nearly a mile from shore She
had no desire to go hack to tlie lioiise. The two
who IcA'ed her were on the ttjssing sea ; to the
solitary woman in the cottage she was an eyesore
and a vexation. It was not a pleasant thought,
and as Annie hegan to move down the road a cloud
gathered in her sweet eyes, and her lips drooped pitifully,
telling of a sore, sore lieart. How was she to meet Janet
Erskine this morning, how perform her daily round of duty
with the memory of last night fresh in her mind 1 How were
the days to be put in until the Jtmet Roe should como hack,
and the skipper's benign influence should bo once more felt
in his own home *? These questions M'ere still unanswered
vvhen Annie reached the cottage door. It was open, but
when she went in the kitchen was empty. It was all tiilied
up, the hearth cleanly white-washed, the bed made, and ncit
a diity ci;p or plate to be seen. The breakfast was over
cvidentlv. Looking at the clock, Annie saw that it M'as half-
past seven. She Iiad wasted more than two hours out-uf-
doors. The bed was even made in her own closet, and Avhcii
she pushed oi)en the room door there was Janet busily dusting
the china ornunjeiits on the mantelshelf,

into t

tea.

these

Aniu'c

liaviu'

hard

speak

Wnld

knittii
it hai

fl'Olli
IK'SS i

Krski

•in he

'Imps

SOllK'ti

great
Krskir

TJVO WOMEN.

'I'm sorry I've stayed out so long, iiiothor,' Annie said,
quite liunil)ly. ' I sat by the stile and watched the boats go
out. You should have left me my work to do.'

' I didn't know when you might come in,' said Janet
I'.iskine, without turning her head. ' If you want anytliing
til I'at, yuu can boil the kettle with a l)it stick. I couldn't
k('('i» tlie l)reakrast ;iishes lying till dinner time for you.'

Annie turned on Ik^* heel and went back to the kitchen
willi (juiveriiig lip. Iler heart was bursting with a curious
luiiigling of indignation and grief, and she dared not trust
hcrs;'lf to speak. She went away out by the back door, and,
sitting down on her stool, began to mend an old net which
Adiai had declared would never be made to hold together.
She could not be idle, and her thoughts ke[)t time for an hour
or more with her busy lingers. Janet saw her out of the
hiH'k wii. low, and her heart was sore for her. She even went
iiilo tlie kitchen and set on the kettle to make her a cuf) of
tea. There was a curious conflict raging in the minds of
these two women, though outwardly both were perfectly calm.
Aimi(!\s oride had risen a little, for she was unconscious of
having don(> any Avrotig. She said to herself, witii a little
lianl jtressure of her pretty lips, that she would not willingly
speak to Janet Erskine again, unless she addressed a kind
word to her. So the forenoon wore away. Jan(;t Erskine sat
knitting at the fireside, and only rose to refill the kettle when
it had boiled drv ; but there never was a si'ni nor a sound
fnini the girl working in the sun. There was a painful still-
ness in tlie house ; it became intolerable at len-'th to Janet
Ki'skine, who rose and went out to the back door. And there
was Annie, curled up on the nets, with the sun beating down
on liL-r vellow hair and her flushed face. There were tear-
diop:^ on her eyelashes, and in her sleep her lips twitched
sometimes, as if the memory of her grief haunted her. A
great wave of yearning love swept over the heart of Janet
Erskine, and she hurried into the house with her eyes full of

'. <

^: -Hi

>i '

ST. VEDA'S.

tears. Oh, she did love tlie baiiii. If only she would hi,
<;o(hI and dutiful, liow happy they might all he, and what a
hrii^ht future they might anticipate. With hot haste she
made the kettle hoil again, and made the tea, and set out a
dainty little breakfast for Annie, with buttered toast, and a
morsel of nicely browned Hsh such as the girl loved. When
it was all ready she stole softly out again, and, gently touching
Annie's slioulder, called to her to rous(^ up. Annie awoke
with a great start, and sprang up witli a looi: of terror.

' Where am I '? ()\\ yes, I forgot ; I fell asleep. I was
very tired, mother, but I'll try to keep awake now,' she said
nervorsly.

' Hush, Annie, you are worn out. Fling these things down.
What's the use of wasting time over that old thing 1 Come
in, and get some breakfast. You are a foolish, wilful lassie,
and deserve a good scolding.'

At these kind words Annie's eyes filled again, but an excpiisite
smile crept to her trembling lips. She was easily touched ; a
harsh word stabbed licr to the heart, but the least touch of
kindness filled her heart with sunshine. Ay, the child needed
very gentle dealing ; her keen, highly-strung, sensitive nature
could only be to her a heritage of pain.

She followed her mother obediently into the kitchen, and,
sitting down, did ample justice to the tempting meal. lUit
she did not speak, nor did Janet, but knitted on at the blue
jersey as if for dear life.

' If you are done, Annie, put by the things and sit down
here, and we'll have a talk. Tliere are some things we luul
l)etter redd up as long as father and Adam's away.'

' Very well, mother,' said Annie quietly, but her hand
trembled a little as she gathered up the dishes and set thcni
aside. She put back the table in the wimlow, and, sitting
down on the end of the fender, beijan to play nervously with

the hem of her apron.

You werena sleepiu' last night, Annie, when Adam an'l

TWO WOMEN,

1110 were speaking in hcro^ began Janet Erskine, without lift-
ing her eyes from lier knitting.

' Xo, I wasn't sleeping.'

'Then you would hear some of what we were saying V

' I heard every word,' said Annie, and her voice shook.
' it wa3 like to kill lue lying there hearing it all.'

' I know you could hear, and I thought it as well you
sliDuld. yow, Annie, tell me what for you canna marry my
son Adam ?*

IShe laid down her knitting at this, and fixed her large keen
L'ves with calm iniiuiry on Annie's face.

'Adam told you, mother. 1 heard him (juite plainly. Wi'
was (iuit(.' right. How can I marry my brother?'

' But h(j is not your brother. lie is no more to you than
any other man, and I'm sure he is' a thousand times bettci-
than any one in the Haven or out of it that you know.'

' Yes ; I know he is.'

' Then what's the use of going on with all this nonsense,
Annie Erskine? Can't you behave like a sensible woman (
You are one-and-twenty now, and should have some sense.'

'Sense has nothing to do with thi>, .notluir,' said Annie, in
a low voice, but with tiimness. 'Although I think Adam tlm
best man in the world, next to father, that makes no diifer-
ence. I could never marry him.'

'^Vhy not?'

'I can't explain, only I know it is true,' was all that Annie
Siiid.

' Listen to me, Annie Erskine. I doubt you have gotten a
lot of silly notions into your head which will do you a lot of
harm. You have a bonnie face, and may Ije you know il too
well. Em an older woman than you, and I can give you a
good advice. L'nless you have grace with your beauty, you'll
come to grief. Y''ou mind what I say.'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Annie bluntly, and
with wide open eyes.

ST. VEDA'S.

•You don't want to know, I doubt,' said .Tnnot Er^^kinp,
with dry asperity 'There arc suiires and pitfalls (!vervwhere
for a young girl, especially if she has a face out of the c(unnion.
I'm telling yon }»lainly, Ann'e, because I want you to be well
warned. You'll never be safe till you get a good man to look
after you.'

'VVhy?'

Annie Erskine's ryes werm opened wide in wonderment
which was almost cliildish. She was only a child in many
things. She was very innocent. She had been sheltered in
that safe home wiih an encom[)assing care. Xo inijmre word
or jf'.st had ever fallen ou her ears, she had not tl:e remotest
idea of the sin and wickedness which abound in the v. .)ilil,
nav, wdiich existed in the verv village where she ]:ad lu-r
home. The skip|)er's home was as sacred and as pure as any
sanctuary, and Annie had grown up in it, a white dove, whose
wings had never been soiled even with the dust of the busy
world. She was thus totally untittcd to go forlh into the
world, to encounter its teniiitation and its troublous care.
Perliai)s Janet I'^r-kine knew that only too well.

'"Vou aggravate me, Annie,' she said cpiickly. 'Just let
me ask you another (im-stion. AVhat is to become of you if
you don't mairy Adam?'

' 1 don't know. I can work for myself somewhere. I
think God would not have saved me from the wreck if lie
had not meant me to have a corner somewhere, to fill.'

* Ay. but if W"' neglect the op[)ortunities God's jmividence
1 ts before us, what linn? II(Mven oidy bc'ps those who hell)
themselves. How tlo you know that God does not intend you
'o become Mrs. Adam Er.-kim^?'

' l>i' ause if Tie did, I shoid 1 feel diir rent about it/ s.iid

MUM' confii'i iilly.
A'l. I di n"t know that. I've had to do a good many
:.;s ;n my time which 1 d dn't like, and wouldn't have done
Ladn'l thought it was my duty plainly set for me to do.'

TIPV JVOMEN.

* 01), somo tliin.i;s ono can make, one's sflf do, Lut niarriaj^e
is ilill'civnt. Yiiu mnrriu'l tlu; man yon lovcil.'

'Well, I (litl love liim, but then; was anotlici', Aniiii', aiiil
I'm tcllin^u' you this for your •guiding. There was another 1
liked hetter when I was a foolish young girl lik(! you. Hut he
was a ne'er-(lo-well. who would just have been a hearlhivak to
me, and when niy father bade me send him about his business
I (lid it, because my father was a God-feaiing man, who knew
what was best for me. And after a bit 1 married Adam
Kiskine, ami have I ever rued it, Annie] Look how well oil'
I am to day.'

' Yes, but you hadn't been brought up \yith him like a
Ijr'ther. It is (piite dilfer nt with me.'

' Well, but that wouhl wear away. You met the T.aird last
night, I know, Annie. I ho[)e, my lass, that you an; not
setting your heart on them that's above y-ai. That's never
anything but a trouble and a grief.'

It was s(,'arecly fair to s[)eak so abruptly, and •'. was no
won h>r that the rich crimson swept up over AnnieV neck and
cheek and brow.

'Take heed what I say,' continued Janet Ei'skine, keeping
her eyes on her knitting, th lu^h she s iw the burning blush
on the u'irl's cheek, ' If it's for the young Laird you won't
look at AtVam, Annie, you'll rue the day. AYhat do you
think there could ever be between you, a lisher lass, and Sir

A re hi

e s s(m

'Nothing How dare you speak to me like that? Twill
it listen. It is not kind nor rie'ht. You inak(! me think of

Inm

I 1

Know

nothinir about. Oh, it is cru(d, cruel

She sprang up, her chest heaving, her eyes flashing, her
small hand clenched in righteous wrath. It was not right,
au'l for a moment Janet Erskine quailed before the young girl,
whose Womanly pride and indignation she had effectually roused.
She looked hke a queen in her anger. Even in that instant of
discomfort Janet Erskine was struck by her exceeding beauty.

ST. VEDA'S.

! ,
■ 1

'Sit down, Aniiio, and dun't be foolish,' slio said coldly.
*I am spca'-.ii^' to you for your good, and I will s[)eak,
whctluT you like it or not, because it is my duty. You know
nothing about the ways of young men, espe(;ially young
gentlemen like ^Fr. Archie. They think they have a right to
talk nonsent:(i to any pretty giil if she is in a diih-rent ])osition
from them ; and, if you believe all tlu^y say to you, you'll
liave yo he .nil "uough of lies antl foolishness.'

The c . L. '. wly died (nib of the girl's face, but left a
bright sea;! i-.p't burning on either ch(.'ek. She walked
away over to the wiiilow, and stood looking out on the little
bay, whose sun-kissed waves were breaking with a gentle
cadence on the shore. (Jh, tlu-re was peace there on the
shining sea ; a great Ionising to hide her new sorro^7S beneatii
it swept across the girl's throbbing heart. Life was very hard,
and human beings cruel.

Dumb things could not hurt, nay, they could comfort in a
silent, mysterious fashion without leaving any sting behind.

Still Janet Krskine's monotonous voice continued to sound
through the stillness. It was as if she had set herself a task
of so many sentences, which must be uttered at any cost.

'To come back, then, to the question, what is to become of
you when father and I are dead 1 Though Adam is your
brother, as you say, you could not live together without us.'

'Perhaps I shall die first — I hope so,' fell from the girl's
lips, more to herself tlian to her listener.

'That's a sinful thing to say ; but it's not likely you'll di"
first, and it is right to provide for the future. What do you
think -you'll do 1 Don't you think you'll be nnich better and
happier with a good husband like Adam than you would Ite
any other way? There'll be a lot o' gear, and Adam would
aye be bringing in. lie's not a spender. And about the gear,
we can hardly put it past our own that has been such a good
son to us.

' Do / want vour gear?' nuoth Annie hotly, roused asain.

TIFO WOMEN.

yon

and

(I lie

nnM

I A

' Wliy do you say such luird things to mo % I will not wait
iiiiotlicr d;iy to 1k! a burden on you. I daresay I can g(;t a
])l;b'(', a-^ you spoke of last night.'

.liini't Kvskine took alarm. She knew hor husl)and's
wdrsliip of Annie, and if ho wore to come home to lind Iut
none, with what words should she answer his (piestioning ?

' Come here, Annie,'

Annie turned round but slowly. Iler will rebelled, but the
li;d)it of obedience was strong upon her.

' Wi' 11 never redd this up, I fear ; and I see there's no hope
l'(ir Adam,' she said, trying to sp(>ak kindly, t^'ough her heart
was ii,L;ain as cold as ice towards the girl. ' x i 1. 'o to think
no nioie about it, and wi; 11 just slip into t^ : ol way again.
S(i don't look so glum. Will you try, Am '{' I didn't mean
to hurt your ftiflings, my dear. I was tryii g to sj)(,'ak for
your gooil. If I didn't love you, do y(j 'h'uk I'd wish nry
smm Adam to take y(jutowit'e? Isn't ho ino very apple of
my eye? Let me se(! you smile again, Annie, and we'll let
I'V^dUes be bygones,'

A wan, wintry smile did dawn on the girl's lips, and she
lied to nod her head. Janet Erskine's st<»lid nature mi'dit
liiid it easy to slip into tin; old way, and forget the; swift
iiiircnt whieh now milled it, but Annie's never again. There
was a shadi»w on her heart whieh not an Erskine among them
would ever lift away.

She went away out to the garden \vhere the sunshine lay
'Irowsily over everything, but her eyes saw it not. As she
-lood in the doorway, Ethel Grant's big dog came very
I'isnrelv round the end of the house. Missing his accustomed
v.i'lconie, he eanu! cbjse to the girl, and rubbed his head
uainst her gown, looking \\\> into her face with eyes which
vi-rt' ahuost human. Down on her kn(.'es went Annie

i>kine. and <-lasp('d her arms round the animal's neck.

'Oh, Major, Major, if 1 only could be a little girl again!*
>he sobb(;i|. ' It is so hard to grow up.'

: ■'

'■^S^^r^y^ji'^^^i^rfyr^,

she

I '#"*'

11.
ft

CIIArTER IX.

ANNIE AT ST. VEDA'a.

^"^||r3 TTAT'8 a morsnc^n from tho Ciistlo, Aimin ; it is

l,v;1 for you, and lliu iniui is to Avait an answer,' ja'hl
I ii ' '\

ij^jA Jan(;t J'nskino, A\hon slio canu^ out in tlic 1 a( k
'^'' ■->l^f door witli a luttor in her liand. Anuio t(i(>k it
rather listlessly, and tore it ojxn. It -was in
Cprr^ Ethel's writini,', and scaled with her ])retfy seal on
*^ the hack : — 'Dear Annie,' it l)egun, * Papa and Archie

arc away, and niamnu and I are to be all alone this afternnon
and evenin;.;. Do come up. I luivo a little hoarseness, and
mamma will not let mo out. — Yours, Ethel Grant.'

'Tell rhillii)s to tell jMiss Ethel 111 come by and by,
mother,' she said. 'I supjjoso there is nothing fur me to do
to day.'

'There is not much,' answered Janet Erskino slowlv.
*I>ut M'hat's the use of running aye to the Castle, Annie"?
It won't do you any good, nor make you any more contented
with our plain way of doing.'

'It won't ]nake any diilerencc, mother, and if ^liss Ethel

wants me I must go, for she has been a kind dear friend t >

nie,' said Annie quietly. 'Kit is the young Eiird you aro

afraid of he is away, as you can read for yourself in !Miss

Ethel's letter.*

Aimio did not liurry herself. But she did all the work alie

nito (1
l.atien

\t>

i-y,

ANNIE AT ST. VEDA'S.

(■(iiiM fiinl IviiiL,' to licr lian<'.. and then cliimi^ctl her dress ainl
niailt' licr liair stiai^ht. She always woni 1 Itic st-ruv, aii'l,
tliMiii;ii licr ^owiis were i;(»t iiiad(^ by a fashioiialdc ///<"//■••,

sh me tlicin with a erjicc wliich <^'avo them a styli- i|i: i ■

lici' own. II<'i' liat was a round bluo sailor straw, with ;i \Aw\,
naml. Thus attired Anuio Krskiuo looked us much a hely i>
Miss (Iraiit of St. Veda's. Major had elected to lemiiu ii
the cottage until Annie was ready, and watched all let' iiin\r
iiieiits with the most intelli;^'ent interest.

'I'm all ready, mother ; I'll not be late,' she said, lnokwiL;
into the kitchen when she was ready. 'Now, Major, you iiio-t
■j.atieiit of all dof,',t;ies, come away ! '

Annie went out liy the hack door, p,'atl»ored a han<lful I'f
jiink sea-daisies, and i)ut them mi at her throat, and went nil
siii,!4in,L; to the shore. Her spirits rose with the sunshine, nml
the fresh wind blowing in from the sea seemed to dispel for ;i
little the clouds which had been gathering nMiml her litf,
Annie Kiskine liked going to the Castle. Slu; felt at home in
the lofty rooms, the elegance and beauty and luxury were all
pleasant to her. Often she wIsIkmI slie had been born a lady
like Kthel (Irant, the life at the Castle was so much more
(■(iiigenial to her than lift; at tl'ie cottage. How fair the ^rey
(iM (Jastle, with its ivied turrets, looked in the mellow ha/.e
(if the summer afternoon! Annie had often admiidl it, but
t(t-ilay, as she came u]) tlie steep litthi path which led from
the stairs in the cliff, and saw the old ])lace in all its beauty,
her heart was tilled with a vague feeling of envy and strange
yearning pain. What a place to live and die in was that
wcatherdDcateii herita'^e with the hist<jries of a'^es written on
its hoary battlements, and the loves and hopes of geneiations
liiiMen in every clinging touch of the green ivy on its walls I
AVhy was so much given to some in this world, so little to
others? Such was the question Annie Erskine }»ut to herself
as she looked upon St. Veda's that summer day. Poor, riven,
undisciplined young heart ! You are not the first who has

I I

i I

'i;

ST. VEDA'S.

ttfil

■if

facod in Itittornoss the ))r(»l»l('iiis of life, fnr^'clful nwliilc of lip-
Oinnisciciit who dnctli all tliiiii^s well. Annie l!rsl<iiii' ncvci
went to the kitchen ddor at tlie Castle, and theiidiy ,ua\i'
great and serious dU'ence to the servants. She nt'Ver went at
till except hy aiu'cial invitation, and then she jiresented heiselt
at thi^ front ontranco like any ordinary ;^uest. She cdnld ikiI
eiidnre the; servants at tlu; Castle, their patronisin;^ familiarity
made her indi^^nant. The footmen hail not heen slow at iirst
to pay their complinieuJs -to the pretty lisher ^irl, hut they
liad n»'ver attempted it a second time. Annie Krskine tnok
no more notice; of them than if they had never spoken at
all. And after that time slu; never reco^iiised the men-
servants of St, Veda's. She could h(> very hauuhty when she
liked, and she had elFectually snubhed all her admirers. She
did not know why she slieuld ft,'el so, only she knew that
their looks made her heart swell with indi<.;nation. It A\as
not that she thou^^ht herself better than they were. She only
desired to be left alone. The lads of Orr's Haven hatl lorn,'
since hiarned that the ski[)per's lass was of dillerent stuil" from
the other women folk in the Haven. The men servants at
St. Veda's had been obliged to learn the same lesson, but it
had been a more diiricult task for them, they being pulled np
with their own conceit. Annie Krskine then was hated with
a mortal hatred in the servants' hall at St. Veda's. The maids
tossed their heads when they sjjoke of her, and predicted
that she would come to no good. It was as bitter as gall to
them to see her at home in the drawing-room or my lady's
boudoir, and to be obliged to wait on her there as if she was
a lady born. If ill-will could have poisoned the cup, Annie
Eiskine would not have enjoyed her afternoon tea at St.
Veda's. But she was quite unconscious of the animosity she
excited. She imagined they were all as indilferent to her as

she was

to tl

lem.

Lady (Irant's servants were all English, except the kitchen-
maid, who was an Eyemouth girl. They were smart young

• . '51

% rf)t

ANNIE AT ST. VEDA'S.

wonion. of cniii'sc, nmch ^ivcn to j^mv rildxtiis iinil Iki' tiiimiicil
cans and Mpi'oiis. One of tliciii caiiit' aci'i'ss tlic hall, in
answer to Annie Ki'skiiui's riiiLi; that al'tciniMiii, ami pritly
innuirnl lu'!' l)iisin('SH. Her manner was rmle ii the extreme ;
even Annie, in spile of jier abstraction, noticed it. Tiit Miss
I'.clla had lieen t(M» (jnick, for Kthel ('rant was in the ;iun-
iniiiii wlien tlie l)ell ran;^', and llic door, heiiiL,' a little ajar, sin-
heard the hduseniaid's words, and canu^ into the hall just as
Annie sh'pped into it.

' I thiidc you hav(i .f"i'ifott(Mi your i>lace, IsaheUa,' slie said,
with a sharpness she di<l not often cxhihit. ' Please to
ivipeiiiher in futui'c, tliat to l)e ru(h' to my frienil is to he
rude to me, anil will have the same conseiiuenees. Annie, I
am so ^dad to see you.'

She ^'rasped tlic girl's liantls in 1)oth her own and kisseil \\v\
hct'ore the eyes of Isabtdla, who (h'parled to the kitchen in a
crestfallen state, ])ut burning with new indignati«»n aL;ainst
Annie Krskine.

' 1 ho]ie the maids don't often speak to you like tliat,' said
Kthel CJrant anxiously, as she linked her arm in Annie's and
Ic'l her upstairs.

' It doesn't matter, ^Miss Kthel. Never mind about it at
all,' aiiswereil Annie; but her idie<'k was led still, and Ivilud
siw that the .girl's imjiei'tiiience had liuit her. Oh, these line
feeliu'^s of Annie l''a>kine's could never brin^' her anvlhin-'- but
]i,iiii. Many a time she had wished her natuie were less keen,
dint she could be indillerent as were? the others about her.
Wniii.ihood had as yet brought but little joy to Adam
Kiskines adopted child.

' Papa us in London, Annie. Is it not tiresome? It is so
\\\\\ at iSt. Veda's when he is away,' said Kthel, wisely tjian^^-
iuL;' the sul)ject, thoUL;"h resolving to in(]uire further int(t it ;
'and Archie has ridden over to l[oun<ls\\!)od lo ask for
Colonel Dalrymple. Did you hear that he was tiuown oil' ins
horse y(!sterday % If he is not seriously injured, Archie will

I I

ST. VEDA'S.

I Wt

iKil 1)(, lioini' till late, so iiKuunia jind I aroall alone. I tlionglit
tlii'i'i' WduM not lie very iiiucli to do at the cottaj^'e to-day.'

' Xo, tlicic isn't imu-'h. I coidd eome (|uite well. I hope
yu did not •j^d ydui' sdve throat sitting in the garden with nie
yesterday, Mise Ktlud?'

' ( >h nil, I was wakeful in t!i(> night, and got up to see the
iniion williMut putliiig on my dressing-gown; hut d<,>n't tell
niamnia. It is so tiresome when oni; fe'.ds well tt) have to
i'em"mhei' one has (o lie so leri'ihly careful. I 8up[)os(», now,
you wouidn"t he cold though you were to walk on the sands
without a di'essing-gown. Here is Annie, mamma. Isn't
she jtrettier than ever'?'

Lady (Jiant smiled, and extended her hand in kindly
w(deome to the skipper's lass.

' Kthei's tongue runs too fast; doesn't it, Annie? Sit
down, my dear ; 1 am very glad to see you. ]>ut you should
have taken her to your room to put oil' her hat, Klhel.'

'Oh, she'll throw it on the llooi- ; won't you, Annie? Do
you ki'.ow you look lov(dy in that frock and hat, and yet
t'lere is nothing particularly a' tractive in the garments
themselves; is there, mamma?'

' Nothing j)artieular. Annie has grace and style of her
own. JUit we must not say so many personal things, or
Annie will he frightened away. Did the hoats sail away this
morning, d( ar? '

' Yes ; just after sunrise. I was up at St. Ahh's, and saw
them. ^liiy I sit at this window, Dady Giant? The sea is so
line frcan this window.'

'Surely; sit anywhere you lik<', my dear. There is a
delightful luisket chair; it just lits into the corner.'

Annie carried o\er the chair, hut she did not sit down.
She felt very ciirious. The warm, richly perfumed n.ioni,
with its soft carpets and luxurious ajipointments opju'cssed
liei'. She wanted light, air, Ireedom ; her heart se<'med pent
in her bosom. She couhl not understand herself. She had

ANNIE AT ST, VEDA'S.

5 .S

mi iif'oii oiii<iv('(I these very luxuries wliicli seemetl to hurt
h, !• Im (lay. Laily(Jrant was watching her keenly. She felt
iiiM (• iiiicrcs'cd in her than ever. She was struck anew l)y
,lic ,u rl's iiativi! beauty and grace. There was notliing
((iiiiiiiMii aliout hi'r. In her coarse serge fri>ck she look'-d as
iiiinli a la ly as Kthel in her elegant tea-gown. Lady (j rant
lii'.a'i til wi-ave a romance al)out the girl's slender iigiire and
hri-ht liiMil, not dreaming that her real ]'fe stury was a
imiiaiirc ten times moie thrdling, and one which was yet
(1 <iii«"i ir, tn:i(h \ejy <:losely the honour and hajjpiness
:,! :-t. Veda's.

I'tlicl chattered away as she played little snatches on the
piau's and it was scarcely noticed how very silent Annie
I'.iskine was. She stuod still in the window, looking out
upnM the hlue ex})ause of sea, with the j>iclures(iue, lowdying
(■(last (if l*'it'e on tlu' opposite siile. It was a lovely picture.
Its 111 auty sank into the girl's heart, and soothed it as nothing
else ciinld have done.

'What a lot of hoats are out to-day!' she said presently.
' Aren't those sads just hk(; wings 1 II(j\v honnie they look ! '
' ( )li yes, they are lovely. I must show you something I
have fnr you, Annie, if yuu are a good girl. I did it at
-landman ma's nujstlyfrom memory, though I had an outline.
I'ldn't 1 put it in the ])ortfolio, mamma?'
' 1 t ink so ; but you are not tidy, Ktlud,' said Lady Grant.
' Let ine lielp you to hiok for it, Miss Lthel,' said Annie,
'1 !■ n^in:4 to her side.

■<i]i, never mild, here it is. Now, isn't that so like the
lla\en, Annie] TIk "e is your own house, and of course that
is ynu at till- door.'

'nil, h iw nice I How can ymi do it, ^[is> I'^tlnd ? It is
a'.l sii lil'i like,' exclaimed Annie as she lu'ld the sketch at
arin'^ len-th and feasted her <yes on it. It was a water-
<<'l"ur exipiisitely [)ainted. K'hel had sket(died it from on
leaid tlie ^'^^/////v/ out in the bay one day the previous

'\'

.'I

■ i

'» \

ST. VEDA'S.

;.ri

: ?

snnimor, and liail fiiiishod it at St. ]\ralo. It was a view
of t]i(; Ilavt'ii from the sen, and Avas a jx'i'fcct ])i('tm'(; ; IIp'
fci'liPL,' of the warm suidi,L;lit on the rcil roofs and tlic yi-llow
sands was 1)!>antifully j^rodnccd, Annie L:,az<'d at it in wondi i'.

'And is this for \\u\ Miss ImIic], for my own self to ]<(•(>])?'

* Yes, of course, and if you leavi," it wit'i lue I sliall liave it
framed 'v,\ Kdinburgli for you Avlien wo t^o next week. ( )]
don't look at tliat. It "vvas meant for Arelue, ])Ut is far to(i
handsome for him ; thou^li, of course, he said it was a
caricature. Do you think it 'dvC?'

'Very like,' said Annie br'elly, but quickly turned it tn
the other side.

' Well, sliall I keep it for the frame 1 '

'Not just now, Miss Mthel, if you don't r.iind. You s(>e I
have not a room of my (jwn to hang it in, and 1 couh. kfcj) it
in my box as it is.'

' Oh, very wcdl. When you set up housekee])ing, Annie,
we can easily get it framed. Ah, here comes tea. Isn't it
almost too hot for tea? Are there any strawberries in the
house, Isabella ?'

'None i)icked, ^Nfiss Ethel,' returned Isabella rather
sullenly, an<l with a glance at Annie Krskine, who at the
maid's entrance had returned to the window, and turned her
b»ack to the tea-table.

'Oh, well, nevt'r mincb Y''ou can go, Isabella. We shall
wait on ourselves, thank you. Come, Annie, and cut this
temitting cake.'

They lingered over tlu^ tea-table talking mei'rily, and Amiic
seemed (pnte herself again.

' N(tw, you chatterboxes, you can go into another room till
I write my letter. There is no jteace where you are,' said
Lady Grant, by and by.

' Let us go up ti the tower. Eh, Annie? I Avas up half
tli(! morning. You can almost see people walking un the
road at the East Ncuk, it is so clear.'

her

till
said

h:ilf

the

ANNIE AT ST, VEDA'S.

So they wont off' arm-in-arm.

' Oh, I must show you my new portrait. It has como
down from London. A very famous artist {)aintr(l it, and
papa is hi.nhly i)leased with it. He hung it himself in the
^^allcry this inorning.'

The picture gaUery at St. Veda's was not large, and almost
every available inch of space was covered with family'
portraits.

' Papa had to take one down to make room for mine, hut
he must find another place, he says, h(!cause I aui not hanging
where I -^aight to be. You see there is no room beside papa
ami mamma. 80 he says there must be an entire re-arrange-
ment of the jnctures. What an eartlupiake that will be !
Won't if? AVell, how do you like me 1 Doesn't ]\raj()r look
siileiidid'? Did you ever see anything so lovely as his head V
' Voui" face is so lovely I can't look at anything else.
i^ai are like an angel.'

' That's what papa says. It is the white frock, I suppose.
It is Ijccausc you all love me you think me nice ; isn't it,
Annie? Do you know, Amiie, papa had tears in his eyes
when he saw it, and I heard him say to mamma, "It is too
fra;4iled()oking ; she looks too ethereal for this worhl."'

' That's what I think ; but it is very, very like you.
When you are tired you look exactly like that.'

' Do n I sometimes feel pretty fragile, Annie. I suppose
I shall not live to be very old. I think \Y.\\n\ knows I may
not be very long with him, and tliat was why he wanted this.
He did not speak of having Archii; done. Sometimes I
have a great desire to live ; but other times when I am so
We ik as r was at grandmannna's this spring, I think I would
not mind. And life has always some trouble in it. If one
dii's yoinig, that is spared.'

' Vou mustn't die, Miss Ethel. AVe couldn't do without
you,' Slid Annie Erskine quickly and passionately. 'There
iuv others whose lives are not d'^ /Siecious. You must stay.'

lin

ST. VEDA'S.

ji ,' :'!

Ethel Grant smiled slightly, and shook her head. Tlio
shadow of an early dcatli had lain so long on her lieart, that
it had ceased to have any dread. It is a beautiful thing in
life that familiarity with its shadows can, rob tlu'm of tlicir
darkness. Ay, we are cared fi^-, indeed, by u . all-wise and
alldoving CJod.

'What do you think of this portrait now that is down]'
asked Ethel, turning to the light the canvas which stood un
the floor.

' It is beautiful, I think. The mouth is so sweet and
kind,' said Annie (piickly, looking with deep interest at the
portrait. ' Who is \iV

' That is poor Uncle Arcliie,' respondetl Ethel Grant with
a sigh, 'lie was })a})a's ehler brother, you knov, and ought
to have been Sir Archie. Did you ever hear the .slory ?'

* Xo, Miss Ethel, never.'

* lie was at College in Edinburgh, and while there made a

foolish marriage. We don't know wiio his wife w;is, but slic

was quite poor, and grandfather Aras tcn^'My angry. He was

a very proud man. Papa \>> not in the least like !iim in tliat

respect; and lie said h:: w^idd never forgive him. You see

Uncle Archie was so vo'cn^, only thrt'c-and-twcnty ; it was

very foolish. Of course grandfather could not disinherit him,

St. Veda's being entailed, and the title in direct descent, but

he forbade him the house, and said he would never live under

the same roof with him again. It killed grandmother. Sin-

was like me, ni^t strong. Uncle Archie went away to India

with his girl wife, and nothing more was heard of him.

When grandfather died every inijuiry was made, but no (dm-

was ever fountl ; so, of course, j)apa entered into jjossessimi.

1 have heard him say that at first he only held the place in

trust for hi>. brother; but, of course, as years went by, and

the.'C wen; no tidings of him, lie began to regard himself us

th(^ only master of St. Veda's. It Avas a terrible grief to papa.

I ij'jppose the two brother!: loved each other like David and

that

ANNIE AT ST. VEDA'S.

Jonatlian. Even yet lie can scarcely speak al)out Uncle
Archie.'

' I'nt how M'ere l)oth called l)y the same nanier a-^ked
Annie Krskine with intense interest.

'Oh, tlicy weren't. Pupa's own name is John. Ihit he
liail to take the name of Archibald. You see it has always
hceii Sir Archie. Isn't it a sad story, Annie? I often
wonder what became of the poor young wife, if she was left a
widow ill India alone.'

' Yes, it is a sad story,' said Annie Erskine with a slight
sliiver, and lieiiding down she looked long and earnestly at the
Insult iful face on the cair/as. The mobii", sweet-tenniered
mouth was langliingly curved. There was a smile in
Aifhihald (Irant's sunny eyes which had nothing in common
with the st(»ry of his life.

Annie Erskine looked long at the })icture, and carried it
away from St. Veda's photographed on her heart.

i I

■f- ! i

,»l

'i )

( i

t|l

CHAPTER X.

TRIED.

,i it.

li f

v'^'m

there is to be no marriage in the Haven this
year, Ethel tells nic,' said Lady Grant, in her
Tentle fasliion, finding herself alone with Annie

^'^

mjt^'^^f^ Erskinc, after tlu; girls returned from their
M'P^'^ raiuhle throngli the Castle.

1^3 'There will he some marriages likely, Lady Grant,

'^^^ hut I don't know how many,' returiKMl Annie; hut
her colour rose, for she knew quite well that Lady Grant was
not alluding to the subject in a general way.

'Ah, yuu naughty child, nicely you know that is not what
I mean,' said tlie lady, v,'ith smiling raillery, and keeping her
eyes fixed keenly on the girl's sweet face. Tliere was just a
touch of gentle patronage in Lady Grant's manner towards the
skippc's lass; but tliat, perhaps, was scarcely to be avoided.
Tiicre can hardly be an ecjual friendship in such a case ; and
yrt ]v(i'(d's "uanner was entirely free from the least hint of
])'-id ' vc distance. She had a curious feeling about Annie
Erski.;» ; her swift, delicate intuition seemed to tell her that
there \ is son:ething in common between them. Miss Grant,
lioweve . was not without a certain hauteur of manner when
occasion recjuired, but Annie ]u"skiiie had never seen that side
of her friend's nature. To her Ethel Grant was invarialily
sweet, kind, gentle- -almost sisterly in her manner, She

TRIED.

loved Annie Erskine, and her love was intensified by her
deep jiity for tlic girl so curiously placed, and so obviously
out (if tune with her surroundings.

'It is your niarriagc I am thinking of, my dear. So you
are not to make Adam happy this year?'

'If you mean that I am not to marry him, Lady Grant, you
are (piite right. I shall never marry Adam Erskine,' returned
Annie, and Lady Grant saw the snuiU brown hand clench on
her knee.

'C"me here, Annie, and sit by me,' said the gentle lady of
St. Veda's. * I love you very much, and I want to talk to yc^
a little about this. It has given me a great deal of thought.'

'I cannot be talked to any more,' cried Annie rebelliously,
and she rose to her feet as if she could not be still. ' Mother
has talked to me all morning. I have had my duty well
pointed out to me, Lady Grant, and I have refused to do it.
If everybody turns against me for it, then I must just go away
from the Haven. It will be easier than living in it as I am
just now.'

' ^ly poor dear girl, I am not going to point out your duty
to you,' said Lady Grant, in her kindest tones. ' If we attend
to our own duty in this world, Annie, we generally find that
we have not much time to teach duty to others. Our lesson
and our advice to our fellows can be given in actions more
than in words. I can see that you are very unhappy, that
your heart is hot and restless. I would be your true friend
if I could. AVon't you tell me something of what is passing
in your mindT

Annie was conquered. With a quick, sudden gesture she
turned, and kneeling by Lady Grant's sofa, buried her face
in the soft wraps, trembling from head to foot. She was not
weeping ; Annie Erskine's tears did not readily flow. She
could bear a great deal in silence, but her heart knew its own
bitterness and pain.

For a little Lady Grant did not speak, but passed her hand

? i ■'

lli!

i( ■

ST. VEDA'S.

gently to and fro on the girl's fevered head with a touch
infinitely caressing.

' I am very unhappy,' said Annie, in a low tremhling voice,
at length. 'Dear Lady Grant, I cannot stiiy any longer here.
Motlier has ceased to love me because 1 cannot do as she
would like.'

' But Adam '— -

' Oh, Adam is all that is good and true and generous. If
he were not so good it would be easier for me. There will
never be a better man than my brotlier, Adam Erskine,' said
Annie, with emphasis on the words in which she acknowlt'dgcd
the only tie she would ever recognise between Adam and hersi.-lf.

'But if you go away, Annie, what will Captain Erskine
sayl He could not live without you. You know how much
you are to him.'

' Oh, I know ; and I love him so that I would die for him.
I don't know what to do ! They have bound me with conls
which it will break my heart to cut ; and yet I must. How
can 1 live on, estranged from mother as I am 1 She is hard
i.ad cold to me. I heard her say myself to Adam, that uiilfss
I married him, the same house could not huld us nuw. She
cannot leave, so I must.'

' And where would you go % '

* To service somewhere. ^Fothcr says that hotter tlian I
have gone to service, and that it would teach me huiftility,'
said Annie, raising her head, and looking straight before her
with a cold, calm gaze. 'That's what I need; something to
break my spirit. I have got to think too much of myself. It
will do me good, as mother says, to go and knock about the
world.*

' My poor Annie, to knock about the world, as you put it,
would never do for a young, pretty girl like you. You are at
least safe in the Haven.'

'That is aow mother talked tliis morning. I do not under-
stand it. AVhy should it not be safe for me to go and earn

lianilr

TRIED,

inv (twii liviiij^'? ff a friendless woman cannot do tliat, wliy
is slit' Inirn at alH There is no provision made for her.'

'Hush! Anni" ; you are talking wildly,' said Lady (1 rant,
with gentle reproach.

'1 am not talking wildly. I am only asking a simple (pies-
tinn. Siipi)()se that father and Adam were to b(! drowned
some day, and mother were to die of grief at the shock, and I
should he left alone, what would 1 do? Xol)ody would keej)
a great idle girl they had no interest in. If I could not g(j
into the world to work what would become of wwV

'You perplex me, Annie, and yon suppose too many impro-
bahilities,' said Lady (Jrant, I'ather disconcerte(l hy the girl's
vehement and unanswerable (jucstioning. ' Jiesides, ytni are
not friendless. Do you suppose w^. would take no interest in
vour

Annie Erskinc cast an involuntary glance round the luxuri-
ous rojm, then at her own i)lain frock and brown, toil-hardened
haii'ls. It was as if she were measuring some distance between
herself and her surroundings.

'Yes, you have always been kind, and. if I came here as
Miss Ethel's maid, I should serve for love,' she said slowly.
'I could do that. I was wrong when I said I had no friends.'

Lady Grant was silent a moment, more and more per})lexed.
There were undercurrents in the nature of this girl before her
— undercurrents swift, passionate, and strong, which the gentle
mistress of St. Veda's felt, but could not fathom. A vague
sense of helplessness came over her as she looked at the tall,
straight, beautiful girl, with the appearance of a (jueen, ay, ami
tlie pride of a queen in her heart, though she wore the garb of
the people. What was to become of her? \Yliat could life
ho for this wild, undiscipl;ned spirit, but a liercc and iiery
contest to the very end %

'tSir Archie is away to London, Annie,' she said quietly.
'When ho conies back, we are to settle about going for a few
weeks to some mild inland place. Ethel's cough is lingering

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ill

ST. VEDA'S.

\^M^ Imii; this smniiior, like tlui cast winds. "Wo am not
(Iccidt'tl yi't wlicthcr to ^'o iioitli or south, lnit you will vuww
with us, Annie. It is niM'css.iry, I think, that you should
leave tlu^ Haven for a little just now to let the household
settlt! down into its old way, and Kthel will only l)e too glad
of your comiianionship. You will eonie, Annit;?'

'Only too readily, Lady drant. I am an uuL^'rateful ,L,drl, 1
know; Imt, oh, I do love ijou for all your kindness,' she said,
with a soh in her voice. As she spoke she stoo[)e(l and touched
with her lips the white jewtdled hand lying on the fur.

The act was simply done, and yet with ;i natural grace a
queen might havt' envied. Ont-e more T.ady CJrant was struck
with an indelinahle something in tlu> girl's look and manner,
which made her sjieculate anew regarding her identity, lid
hirthright woidd not hith'. Annie Krskino was a lady born.
She had emerged from rough girlhood into a gracious, queenly
woman, whose every gesture was instinct with an inhorn grace.
Who was slu>'? and what could her future be? These ques-
tions rushed to Lady Grant's lips and were nearly uttered.
Ihit rellecting that they might only unsettle yet more the girl's
already restless mind, she wisely held her peace.

'I must get away home, Lady Grant. I promised mother
not to ])e late, and the sun is setting,' said Annie presently,
hriuLriniJ her soUmuu eves hack from the radiant west. 'If,
if you still think of taking me with you, will you come and
ask mother al)out it? I am afraid to tell her anything. She
does not understand me as she used. She always thinks I am
feeling some bad, hitter thing in my lieart, when I am only
vexed. Life is ntit a pleasant thing, I think, except when we
are very little, and can play with llowers and pebbles in the sun,'

There was deep }iatlios in the girl's low, (piiet voice. It
went to her listener's lieart. At that moment Ethel came
into the room, wiili Major at her heels.

'Are you thinking of g''ing away. Annie? I suppose it is
nearly dinner time uow. Archie will not be home in time to

ilt!r

TRIED.

dine, I snjtposc. lie will hi' jtrnvokfil when lie (inds y<>n
hiivc lii'fii hric all at'tri iKidii JIow V( ry ;;rav<' ami solciiiii
Aiiiiif is ! Isn't she, niaiiiina ? She hinks as if slic had nil tln'
iitlaiis lit" the- nation \V('i,L;iiin,n' <in her heart."

Annie sniili'd as she hent over Lady (Irant's coneh and hadi'
lirr ^(M)(hhye. Their hands met in a warm, close pressure, and
tjiclv were tears in the elder Woman's eyes when the L^iil left
\\v\\ she t'elt slram;'cly drawn to her ; she marvelled at hei>elf.

Ijlnl ]»;irleil frum her on llic steps with a kiss and a wmd
(if liiiuliinn' faiewell ; ;ind Annie walkeil soherly down the
li;illM\v |i;illl to the ed;_;(' of the elitl', and hndiii^' tliat the tiije
u;is ill, and no fnotinL;' let'l at the hase ot" the ejiirs, she had to
I'liaee her sti'ps hy a eii'enitoiis jiath tlii'onn'h the scanty

w llaiel to the lod-c ;;'ates Never, it" she could help it, diil

Aiinii' l'".r>kine comt' tip the aNcnue to St. ^'edil's. .\s she
pi-Mij oiil hv the footpath at the lod,u-e th(^ sharp click of
linMt ; (• line soimdiii^ through the still excniiii.,' air. No need
fi 1 IcM' to turn her head up the road; she knew hy thi' wild
111, iu^- of her heait who was the rider. She walked i|uiekly
jia-t tile open i;ates toward the vill.i;^!' ; l)ut .Vrchie (Irant,
iiiounisin^ the slim, hlue-rohcd liL^ure, ^a\t' his horse the
i.jii, and came Up with her hcfore she had ,i^'one many yards.
I M' 'iMM^e, tliere was nothiiru' for Annie hut to stand still.
She knew verv well that if .-he walketl on tlu! voun^' Laiid
wiiuld liile hy her side to the very door of the cottaL^c
kiltie cared he for llav.Mi .n'ossip or IIa\'en looks. .Annie
I'.r-kiiie had hecitme the ih'arest thin;^^ on the earth to him.
wrnl he thought no shame, hut rather pride, to he seen hy her
s.'le. r,ut that day Anine I'lrskine had receiv<'d her lii'st
l--"n in worldly wisij((m ; her frank', unsuspecting freedom
liid hiM'u poisoned liy -lanet I'h'skine's \-enomous ton,L;ue. and
she veiled her eyes when she stood ou the road to speak a
luiinient with the Laird. There was no dilleituice in his
luauiicr, however; it was ea-er, frank, impetuuu.s, and his
eyes tulJ their uniiiistakuhle tale.

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Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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ST. VEDA'S.

'Why arc you away liome already? What a shamo, Aniiio,
W'hoAi y. u knew I wouUl be hurryin.Lj to sco you, and to walk
home with you,' lie said, with keen reproarli. 'Won't \n\i
walk slowly till I take l]lindi)it to the stable? I could lie
with you in ten minutes.'

'No, I'll not wait; I'm going homo. They arc waiting
dinner for you at the Castle.'

Her voice was cold as ice, and she did not look at him.
Iler niiinner was indilFerent, her face utterly unreadable.

'Oh, hang dinners !' he exclaimed, with all the imi)etuosity
of youth and love. ' What do I care for dinner when I can
see you? I have such a lot to say to you Say you'll wait
for me, Annie. It's not too much for a fcdlow to ask when
he's been away for two years from his old chum, too ! W hit's
to be kind to hi)n if she won't?'

The girl's lip twitched, and the rose she had in her hand
fell to the dusty road in a shower of crushed leaves.

'I'm going home,' she rei)eated, in the same culd, even tones,
maintained by a mighty eil'ort. 'Good evening, ^Ir. Archie.'

'I must have otfended you, Annie. If it was anything 1
said last night forgive me. I wish I'd never said it, thoiigli
every word was true, and ten times more if you oidy knew it.
Wait you must, and at the foot of the old stair to-night, when
the moon is up, just to talk of old times.'

' No, I won't.'

Her words were ungracious to rudeness. He could not
understand them.

'Are you going back on mc, Annie?' he asked, with an
earnestness which was almost comical, it was so dejectcil.
' Are the old times to count for nothing after all?'

' I wish you'd go away back to your fine Castle and never
speak to me figain,' she cried, flashing her magnificent eyes for
a moment on his face. Then she fled from him, leaving liiin
standing in perplexity on the road.

He turned Blindpit's head, but at the same time kept his

.!'

TRIED.

ovp on Annie's movements. It was as he expected. Slio did
iidt titin miind tlio bend to de.-'cenil the School \\\m\ hut kupt
straight alon'4 the hi.uli piitli wliich took her to 8t, Al)h's.

Then Airhie (Irant leisurely rode Jlliiidpit to the stuhlc,
aiiil, without .t^oni^i;' near the house, retraci'd his steps, and
followed Annie Krskine.

It seemed to Annie Erskine as she hurried alr)n,^ the hlull's
ill the dusk of tliat summer evening that too many trying
things W(.'re heaped upon her. Slu; felt as if she had no
strength left to bullet with a new temptation which liad
arisen fierce and strong in her heart. She walked vi'iy

rapK

11 V,

an(

d, i)assinLf hv St. Ahh's, whose white hiiildiuL's

stood out like ghosts in th'^ wavering evening light, she hegan
to desrend the rugged slope to a little creek shut in by
yawning rocks on either side, and absolut(dy screened from
\i('\v except from the sea. There was a little narrow strip of
shingly beach, ilotted with big boulders here and there, over
wliich the sea made a wild roaring in stormy weather, but
wliich were like stones of rest on a pleasant evening, inviting
tile wayfarer to be seated, and ponder for a little on the
mystery and beauty of the sea. It was a i)lace almost startling
ill its alisolute solitude, shut in by the high bents on all si(h;s,

)f tl

UK I giving a jieep oi tlie wiuespreaunig sea,

adi

hicl

1 can

hold

its secrets like the grave, and tells no tales to fret the weary
minds of man. Annie Erskine sat down there on a big rough
iHiulder, so near to the edge that the waves jilayed about her
feet. She folded her hands and turned her eyes out u[»ou the
waveless sea, asking dumbly, as of yore, for its whisper of
comfort and peace. It was bathed in an absolute calm, and
had the dim glory of the faded sunset on its breast. For the
first time in her life Annie Erskine found that there are human
tiuuliles too serious to bo comforted by ought but help —
human or divine.

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CHAPTER XI.

LOVES YOUNG DREAM.

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^1W:^7^T was a critical moment in the lives of those two
%5^,uJk\,'(i yo^nv^' people -when they met that summer even-
UW ^"o heneath tlie rocky sliadow of St. Abh's.
^ Anni(i was sitting listlessly on the stone, with
her fine eyes turned out to sea. She was leaning
^^ ^ a little forward, and the tips of her fingers touched
the cool, green water as it ])layed round her. She
heard the noise of the shingle under Archie (Irant'.s firm foot,
but she did not look round. Slie had a curious feeling at the
moment, a strange stillness seemed to cnveloj) her whole being.
She felt that slic was M'aiting for something to happen, that u
crisis had aj)proached, and she was prei)ared to meet it. She
neither hhislied nor showed any sign of emharrassment when
bhe tiirne(l her head to look at the young man.

*C<im(^ hack, Annie! How reckless you arc ; he cried
anxiously. * You know the treacherous sea as well as I.
Some day yo\i will be too late.'

'And Avhat though I should be too late to-night even'?' sin'
a>ked cahnly, as she allowed her whole hand to glide to and
fro under the water. 'There arc worse things than the sea, —
ay, and harder things to bear even than its cold waves. AVhy
have you come here after mel'

Her voice suddenly changed after the last sentence, and

! t

LOVBS YOUNG DREAM,

he.

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leii

luul

with a little passionate moveniont, she rose suddenly and
stepiK'd across the inlet to the shin^do.

*I have no peace anionc; you. Oh, how I wish I liud been
drowned tliat night with my mother!'

Slie gave her foot a passionate stamp, and picking up a
pehhie tossed it far out to sea. They hoth watclicd in silence
tlie eddying circles it made in its downward coursi*.

'Shall 1 tell you why you were saved, Annie?' asked
Archie, with all a lover's eagevness. ' It was hccause you
were destined to bless my life, and the lives of others.'

' Wiiose life have I blessed?' slie ask 'd in niock'ry. '1
have brought only misery to them at home. It would \\:\\k\
been far, far better for them if they had not ke[)t mc, and it
would have been better for me too.'

* lUit not for me, Annie, because I love you,' said Archie,
with a simple and maidy earnestness. She stodd vciy still,
loaning against a boulder, and again her eyes soui^ht the
shining sea. While they were thus fixed, a cuiinus and
lioautiful radiance glowed in their dei)ths, and the ^weet
colour rose ex(iuisitely in her cheek. These, to young love,
are signs of hope. Involuntarily the young man took a step
nearer to her, and a word of passionate endearment passed his
lips.

' Ilush ! oh, hush!' she said, almost in distress. 'Let me
bo silent a little, only a little, and thcu I will speak.' It was
not easy for him to obey her, but it was not for long, lie
stood close beside her, he leaned down till his handsome head
nearly touched hers. lie was anxious to see her face, whi(di
the summer gloaming was hiding from his gaze.

'Annie, I love you,' he repeated. ' I want you for my w'\U\
my darling. I am in earnest. You daren't send nu; away.
Why, nobody could ever be your chum as I have l)een.'

A light laugh accomi)anied the last words, for he saw her
lips quivering into a smile. Dut still he c(Add not se<^ her
•yes, which would have revealed to him her heart.

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ST. VEDA'S.

iiti' ..,

' Annie !'

He lai 1 liis hiind on her shonlder, and slowly drew Ikt
closer, closer, until his aims enfolded her. So they stood ii
moriKMit in dt'ep silence, heart to heart, a, moment of hiipi'i-
ncss more rare than cither had ever tasted hefore. Oh that
we could leave them there ! Perhaps they will never be so
happy npjain anywhere.

It was Annie who m.'ved first, and she drew herself away
with a sudden, hurried gesture, just as if she had been sud-
denly reciilled to a sense of what ought to be.

'Let me go! How dare you?' she cried, and the quids,
hot colour ilic.ved, no»v swift and cr'mson through everv vein.
* How dare youV

' I dare because I love you, and V>ecause you love me. I
know you do, Annie Erskine,' said th<? young Laird fpiit.'tly.
'Look me in the face and say you don't, and I'll let you go.
You can't do it.'

Alas ! no. She turned about from him, and leaning h(>r
two arms on the jngged edge of the boulder, hid her faco.
Love him ! Ay, with all her heart and soul — better th.,n lifo
itself.

' Annie, don't go on,' said Archie, with something of the
old boyishness. ' It's no sort of use, you know, because you
belong to me, and you need not think I am going to let you
of!", because I am not.'

' What are you going to do, then ?' she asked, turning her
face to him once more. 'Suppose we do like each other in
that way, what then? It must be the beginning and the
end.'

' ^^ust it, though?' (jueried Archie (piickly. '1 think
differently. The beginning is that I love you, and you love
me; the end, or the other beginning, will be that we two
shall wed. I've made up my mind where we are to spend the
honeymoon, Annie Kr.-kine. We'll go on a yachting cruise
in the Mediterranean.'

LOVE'S YOUNG DREA.U.

i ii

• In tlie S/n{fi)'('?' slie asked, witli a little linnu.roua smile.
Kvcii ill thiit nmnicnt of ke«'n, (juick fft-liii;^' slu' had a jest ready.

'No, thank you ; my wife will he too precious to be risked
any more in the Sjnf/ire ; hut there'll he a new boat hiiilt fi>r
llic Haven creeks .^oon, and what do you think it will be
called?— the Bonnie Annie.'

There was a moment's silence, then Annie Krskine turned
I'.er head and raised her lar^'e eyes to the iian "some face bent

very solemn and

npnn lier m

lov(

lere was some

thinj

earnest in

that

aze

d the uii'ls sweet mouth took a

pathetic curve when she sjioke.

'You know as well as I that such a i\\'\\v^ could never,
never he. How couKl a poor tisher girl ever hope to mate
witli a (Irant of St. Veda's? What would your kinsfolk say?
Tlu'y would never, never consent.'

' Oh yes, they would. Look how they love you already.
Why, they would be delighted, I am certain.'

' Would they ? I know better. They love me in a way,
and are kind to me because I am a fisher girl, and because
they are sorry for me. But that would be ditferent. Do you
think your peojde are freer from pride of birth than others in
their station ? You know they are not. It would be a terrible
blow to them if they thought you were thinking anything
ahout me in that way. They would never forgive you nor me.'

'And if they didn't, what then? I'm my own master, am
I not? St. Veda's will be mine. They can't put it past me.'

' Can't they ? '

' No, uidess they were to break the entail, and I don't think
my father would do that; but what is the use of dwelling on
imaginary troubles? Suppose they could take St. Veda's
Irom me, — I would give it all up gladly for you, Annie, for
notlnng would be worth the having without you.'

' WouUl you give up St. Veda's, even?'

' j^t. Veda's ! the whole world if I had it. I tell you,
Annie Eiskine, you don't know what you are to me. I hardly

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ST. VEDA'S.

in: 11

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know myself. AVliy, tlio vory tlion^lit tlint your nanio slmulil
be coiij)l('(l in tliat way, ovcui witli Adam's, made iiic ncailv
mad. I nearly hated him, Annie, good fellow thou^Ji he is.
You daren't marry Adam Krskine.'

* No,' said Annie, in a low, ([uiet voice. ' AVhatever I d-i,
you need never l)e afraid of that.'

'Then you will allow nie to speak, Annie? Y<»u will let
me tell them h w I love you?' he said eagerly.

The girl was silent a mctment. She was strongly tempted,
and as a vision of what life miglit he with Arcliie drant ruse
up before her, the light of a great joy (hiwned on her fa(c.
]iut it was only for a moment. The memory of Lady (Jrant's
patronizing tone reeurred to her, antl the slightly-veiled imper-
tinence of the servants at St. Vetla's returned with a new .ina
bitter sting. Suppose that one day she should be their iiiis-
crc^s, and a?; sueh should exact their absolute courtesy, they
could not, and would not, forget what she had been. Her
pride rose at the thought, and gave her strength to resist tln'
temptation to throw everything but love to the winds. Lnvi'
alone could never satisfy absolutely a woman of Annie Krskiiie's
nature. She was too keenly sensitive to the other re(piire-
mcnts of life.

'I wonder,' she said, looking not at the young man pleadiiiL;
so earnestly for her love, but away beyond him to where tlie
moon was coming up fron^ among the night shadows ; ' I
wonder,' she repeated half-dreamily, ' whether you love iiie
well enough to do what I shall ask.'

'Try me, Annie. No knight-errant of yore ever loved laily
as I love you, my dearest,' was the (juick and passionate
response.

' Well, will you try to find out for me the secret of my
birth ? '

The young Laird's countenance fell. It was certainly ii<>
easy task.

' Annie, think what you are asking. I fear it will be

!,.:., '

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LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

almost an iiiiiio.^siLle quest. Bettor, far better, to let things
rcinain as they are. I slmll be proud and glad to wed you as
ynii arc, Annie, as the skipptir's daugliter or the Pearl of Orr's
Haven. Don't he so hard on me.'

Hut Annie only shook her head. She had set her heart on
iliis tiling; and until this mystery were solved for her, even
Imvc had only a fleeting eliarm. She had become in a sense a
creature of <me idea, and until she should learn the secret of
ihi' sea she should never be at rest.

'Suppose that I were to do just as you say,' she began in
I Iiiw, colli, passionless voice. 'Suppose I should think of
iintliing but my own selfish happiness; suppose I were to
!ii,iiry you, without taking a thought for your people, or
wlietlior such a marriage would be for your good, I know very
\\( 11 wliat tlie end of it would be. You know quite well that
1 .nil not fit to be your wife. I have not education, nor
I •iiiiiplishments, nor anything to fit me for such a position.
I'ojiiliaro me with your own sister, and you will know very
vrlj what I U'.ean.' '

'There can be no comparison between you. I love my
>!>ter, Annie, but beside her you are peerless,' quoth the young
I.iiiil hotly. 'If that is all your objection, it can never hold
I"! a moment.'

* Aftvr a time,' she went on exactly as if she had not heard
iiiia, 'when you found that I did not know the ways of great
'lies, and could not do honour to your house, you would
ii;4in to weary of the face you admire now, and then' — she
iililed with a (juiek breath, which was almost a sob, ' I should
!ii', hocause I loved you, and I saw that we had made a
'iii>take.'

' Aimie, why will you torment yourself and me with these
i' ^unl faiiciesl Couldn't you trust me more than that?
\> lull I have loved you ever since we were children together
III tht; Haven, do you think I could so quickly change?'

'I have read a great deal about marriage. It is a great

! • 1 :i

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lOO

ST. VEDA'S.

trial of faith aiw] love. I shouKl be afraid to mnrry as you
wisli me,' said Annie, aijpaieiitiy (iuite uiunoved by his pas-
sionate words — oidy apparently. In reality her heart \\\u
tlirol>l>in;,' nith the intensity of her pain. There had n^t
been very nuich sunshine in her life. She had had to lahcur
at menial toil, and find siieh brightness as she niJLjlit in the
austere routine of the household ruled by Janet Kiskine. li
showed stren^^h of will that slu; could make even outwardly
so good a stand. P'or it v.-as a sweet prospect Archie (Jraiit
held out to her. His love was honest and true; he had iidt
l)een playing with her, as Janet Krskine had said ; it was as a
wife he loved her, not an idle plaything to wile away a passing
hour. That very knowledge gave a sweetness to her courage,
even while it had its own bitterness.

'Then what am I to do? What is there to be between us?'
ho asked, drawing himaelf up, and speaking a little more
coldly.

Oh, how noble he looked, thought Annie, as she uplifted
her eyes to his face, to which the trembling moonbeams
seemed to give an unusual paleness. IIow noble ! and how
worthy a woman's love !

She turned her head one moment t'. m him, for just then
her courage failed her. He misundri.-Luud her, and his lips
took a sterner curve.

'I have oflered you as honest and true a love, Annie
Krskine, as ever man olFered to woman, and you have acknow-
ledged that you do care a little for mo. That being so, what
right have you to inflict such misery on yourself and niel
You will not marry Adam Krskine, you say. Is there any-
body else you would prefer to mel'

' No,' she said, in an almost voiceless whisper.

* Then, in the name of wonder, what do you mean ? ' lie

cried, in his hot-headed way. '1 never thought you a heartless

cocpiette, Annie. Don't let me think it now. Tell me exactly

what you wish — w hat you would like me to do — to prove that

rdo

or k

him.

III || 1
'1

K'-i"

^OVE'S YOUNG DREAM,

lOI

r (li> lovo you. If it is witliin reason or possiljjlitj', I'll do it,
(,!■ kiinw tlio rciisoii why.*

Sill' lic>it!it('<l aiidtlu'r nioiiKMit, and tlwii caiiio nearer to
him. lie would have taken her to his heart a^'ain, hut she
\\A\ up a dcprecatin;^' hand.

'1 will tell you,' she said, and her sweet voice was very
'4,iitlr, iiud had a tone of weariness in it. 'If you can dis-
cover who and what I am, and if my hirth would not dis^aace
yiiur iiiinie, — and I sometimes feed that it would not, — I shall
iiiiuiy you, if you still desire it, hut not hefcre.'

Aniiie (liant lauglnul.

'.Vnni(;, I n(!ver heaid anything,' so cool. "What do you
take ine for? Do you think I am ^'oin,^' to expend lahour on a
.scaich whieh may have such •» douhtful issue? I'll make a h(;tter
liarL,^ain than that, my sweet, and one ten times mon; leason-
alile. I'll do what I can to discover the secret of your hirth,
l)Ut ynu will marry me whatever the consecjue'iices. Will you
.sj^ii till! a;_;reement?'

She smilt.'d a little, thou^di her eyes were tronhlod. He
wuulil not leave his case entirely in her hands. Perhaps she
loveil him the hetter for his masterful way.

He saw her h(!sitation, and laughed outri,ij;ht. There was
sdiiittliin:,' at once hoyish and manly ahout Archie Grant, hut
his mind was ahsolutely fixed on one point — that he should
win Annie Erskine. And he helonged to a determined
race.

'Annie, I helieve you are convinced of your own unreason-
ahleness,' he .said. 'Come, is the hargain made?'

' L(>t us go away home. See, it is (juite dark. I am afraid
when I think what mother will say to me.'

'She shall say what .she has to say to me to-night, Annie.
Iloneeforth I am responsihle for you, and whoever speaks a
luush word to you will have to answi^r for it to me.'

It was impossihle not to be touched by these words, and by
the air of manly and protecting tenderness which accompanied

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109

ST. VEDA'S.

i \m

thorn. Tliey were passing sweet to Annio Erskino ; and the
teiirs wclli'd aiuldcnly in her eyes.

She stretched out hoth her hands to him, with a gesture of
love and trust which were elocjuent.

' Forgive mo. As long as I live I shall renioniber how you
have loved me. Whatever the end may he, I can alw.iys look
back on this night, and think about what you have said.'

'Then you do care a little for nic, Annie, njy dearest?'

'A great deal more than life,* she answered, and trembled
in his close clasp.

'Then lothing, please God, shall part us but death,* said
Archie Grant, and took off his cap as if he were registering' a
vow. They walked back to the Haven by the upland p;itli
arm-in-arm together, with the clear mooidight to guide thcin
on their way. Archie talked all the way, happy talk of tlie
future they were to share together, he said. Ho was so
absorbed in these glowing visions that he did not observe huw
very silent his companion was. Did she hearl Ah, yes;
every word fell like sweetest melody on ear and heart. Her
hiind was on his arm, and it clung there with a close and
tender touch. For this night, at least, she belonged to him;
she was his, chosen out from all the world to be his dearet^t.
8I10 had no hope ; looking forward, a prevision of sorrow was
with her ; she felt that she must meet and say good-bye to
love to-night. And yet why should she feel sol Was he not
at her side, strong, tender, and true, telling her again and
again that nothing should part them ? The lights were
twinkling in the hamlet as they descended the slope of the
upland path to the top of the school brae.

A man passed them, and peered curiously at them. Annie
tried to withdraw her hand, but it was kept a close prisoner.

' Do you think shame of me, Annie % Am I not a well-
favouicd suitor r laughed Archie Grant in the lightness of liis
heart. She said nothing, grudging the moments passing one
by one. It was quite dark when they reached the cottage.

liiii

LOVES YOUNG DREAM.

>o3

Kvcii till' it. •hen sliuttcis Were clnscd ; an unusual thinj,', and
wlii'li to Aniiir l)i>(l('(l ill.

'Will yini tfll inc! a^ain ?' slio said lnokfidy, a>* tln'y paused
(Ml tilt' >I<'|». i\s slic sj»(»ki^ luM' hand stnlc r.|> to his tall
slinuiilcr, and rested there with a clinj^in.u toiK.'li which sent a
(|iii(k lliiiil to Archie (Irant's heart. No need to record his
answer. For a moment Annie threw oil' her reserve, and let
liiiii know her heart. It was hecause ihe dull shadow of the
coiiiin^' ilesolation had already fallen upon hor. Within the
house, which was now no home, sht; felt that Janet Krskine
was waitin;^ to sit in judgment, and to darken uJicw the whole
horizon of her life.

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CHAPTER XII.

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JANET EnSKINE's JUDCJIENT.

think, if you don't mind it to-nig.it, it wonid he
butter for me to go in V.y myself/ •''iiid Annio, al"tcr
a little, releasing herself from the sheltering arms.
r,^ 'Eut, Annie, if tJicrc arc any hard woids to Le
said to you I must take the blame,' said Aicliio,
^i^ smiling, for he was at that moment so absolutely

happj" that nothing seemed a troul Ic or a care.
* Oh, there will be no hard words, at least I shall not mind
them to-night,' said Annie shyly; *and you know I j)ron:iscd
mother to be home before the darkening, and I am sure it is
nine o'clock or more. Pcrha})s she has gone to bed, but the
door is always on the latch. There i:rc no robbers in the
Haven.'

As she spoxe there was the noise of a wooden chair being
pushed on tho, stone floor, and a very ominous cough indicated
that Janet Eiokine had heard their voices, and wished them to
know it. Archie noticed Annie slart and the slight colour
rise ill her cheek, so he pushed open the door and marched
boldly in, keeping hold of Annie'.s arm.

*Goo(l evening, ^Irs Erskinc,' he said cheerily. 'Arc you
going to scold? Scold me, then, for I, and I alone, am
the delin(;ucnt. Annie and I have been star-gazing as fur as
St. Abb's. What do you thinic of that 1 '

JANET ERSKINES JUDGMENT.

105

*I don't think well of it, sir,' rcfspondtHl Janot Erskino. and
luM' face was as dark as ni^dit. 'What I think is that thi^
skii'i'tT will need to take Annie in hand, since I can't keep
licr from ])eing the talk of the place.'

Anility's face crimsoned, and unconsciously she clenched
her hands, Init she uttered no words.

'And if ijon thi!'.k it a riL;ht thing, Mr. Archio, to keep a
y luig girl out on these braes in the night, then ynu'U have to
1)0 taught differently,' continued the angry %v()inan, knitting
her brows and compressing her li))S. ' Youll please to remem-
ber, sir, that what's play to you is ruin to her. And now you
can go your way. Annie, it's time you were in ])ed. I have
iiauglit to say to you after this. It's tlie skipper, as I said,
who must deal with you ; and I wish he may l)e able, for a
uioit! headstrong, careless, indiH'crent girl I never saw.'

Up to Archibald Grant's face rushed all the hot blood of his
race, llis blue eyes flashed, and with one step he was at
Annie's side, and had his arm about her drooj)ing shouhb-rs,
for she looked crushed with the weight of Janet Erskine's
aiiLTcr.

'Address your remarks to me, if you please, TNlrs, Erskine,
and lie so good as to remember that when you are spi'aking t >
Annie, you are speaking to the future Lady (irant of St. Veda's.
Annit! put on your liat and come back to St. Veda's with me.
Tlicy shall know to nigh, what you are to me. I cannot leave
my future wife to be subjected to such insulting words.'

Still Annie never spoke. She was trembling from head to
foot.

A slow, bitter smile was on Janet Erskine's set lips wdien
she again found her voice,

'So be it,' she said, in a voice of curious calm. 'The future
Laily Grant is welcome to seek the shelter of St. Veda's. She
is not welcome here.'

Then Ann'e broke from her lover's side and, with a swift
passionate gesture, knelt on one knee at Janet Erskine's feet.

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Si: VEDA'S.

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Even the happiness of love could not take the sting from these
cruel words. To be told she was no longer welcome in the
home which had sheltered her since childhood was more than
she could bear.

* Mother ! mother ! ' she cried ; * don't be so cruel, so harsh,
to me. I do not deserve it. I have never disobeyed you but
in one thing, and I cannot force my heart. I cannot go away.
I have nowhere to go. Let me wait at least till father comes
home.'

* Get up, my darling ; you shall not kneel to her,' said
Archie hotly. 'Mrs. Erskine, if you have the heart of a
woman, much less of a motl-.er, bid her not kneel to you. I
cannot bear it. One day, 4nnic, this shall be atoned for.'

'I have said my say,' said Janet Erskine, turning coldly
away. * Let her go if she wishes. She has chosen between
us, but I shouiu like to see the faces of your kinsfolk this night,
Archibald Grant, when you take her up. I'm thinking you
have spoken in foolish haste.'

Annie rose then. Her tears were gone, her emotion, swift
and passionate though it had been, seemed to be pent once
more in her breast.

' I think you had better go home now,' she ^ lid quietly,
turning her sad, pathetic eyes on her lover's face., ' Nay, don't
say anything more. Mother is right. I could not go to St.
Veda's. Besides, I shali not leave my home here till fathci
bids me. It is his house, and he will be home to-morrow.'

*/ shall tell him how you have been treated if ijou, don't,' said
Archie gloomily, and darting an expressive glance at ^Irs.
Erskine's sour visage. ' Well, if you bid me go, I must. But
very early to-morrow, my darling, I shall be back, and my
mother will be with. me. There shall be no rv^petition of this
scene, I promise you.'

And before Janet Erskine's very eyes he took Annie in his
arms, and bade God bless and keep her ; and, without a
word, good or bad, to the elder woman, strode O'.i^ of the house,

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JANET ERSKINES JUDGMENT. 107

t i

After ho left there was a period of silence in Adam Erskine's
cotta^a' wliicli had soinethiiig terrible in it. Oh, if vdani,
(hvamiiiL,' swcu'tly on llie iiiooidit sea, could have seen Annie,
\\liit('-fac<'d and nii.^t'ialilc. standinj^ like a hunted thinp^, what
would he have said? flanet Erskine turned her back, and
licL^an to fold the white coverlet from olF her own bed. Iler
face at that moment was not pleasant to look upon. Her
causilcss an^cr against Annie had reached a height, and tlie
cliilil she had loved so well was for tlie time an object of
avci'.-inii to her. AVhy ? 8imj)ly because her will, whieli had
liitlirrto been paramount in the house, had received its first
(heck ai Ihe hamls of Annie. She had laid her plans for the
marrying of these two young people, and it was intolerable to
licr that there should be a sudden stop put to her planning.
llr.t in the end it would do her good.

She needed a sharp lesson; perhaps had it come a little
t'uilier she had learned it more easily. ^Meanwhile Annie was
thi' siiU'erer ; but in comparisdu with Janet Erskine, who was
till' prey of sellish, and even evil, thoughts, she Avas to be envied.

' Vi)U can go to your bed,' she said at length, in a short, sharp,
it'ikv fashion. * If vou want anytbin<' to eat, there is the
press - only don't speak to me. I wish to have no more to
sav to you. Tomorrow father will decide what is to be done.*

'Yes,' whispered Annie softly. ' To-morrow father will bo
Imto.'

Her voice was tremulous with tenderness. Very well did
Ai'.iiji' know how safe she was with 'father.' He never mis-
inuleistdoil, never misjudged her. She would be his 'dear
lahiiuie,' she knew, for evermore.

Janet Eiskine saw the sweet smile hovering about the girl's
iiiiiuth, and a fierce jealousy smote her anew. She felt that
Annie was making a comjjarison, and that it was not in her
lavdur. To what lengths will not a jealous, angry woman go.

'l)id you hear me tell you to go to your bed 1' she said
>?harji]y.

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ST. VEDAS.

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*I hoard, but I could not slnep. Let me sit liore for a
little. I will not speak nor disturb you,' said Annie nircklv.
She had been trained to obey, and though it was not llie
obedience of love, she gave it still.

' I suppose you want to sit and dream over the fim; lover
who has told you so many lies to-night. (_lirl, when I s:iw you,
who have been brought up in this godly household, standing
so shamelessly by his side, I wondered a judgment did not fall
upon you.'

'Is this a godly household?' asked Annie, in scorn, for she
was sorely tried. ' If you are godly, I would rather be as 1
am. You til ink the very worst of })eoi)le. It is better not to
be godly, I think, and to be more kindly.'

* Will you hold your tongue and not poison the place with
your wicked talk,' said Janet Erskiiie, with blazing eyes.
* You are uplifted because the Laird has spoken honied wonh
to you. I tell you, girl, they'll bring you nothing but shame
and woe. His wife ! Do you think they will ever consent 1
"Why, even he, in his sober moments, will repent. They are
a proud race ; and no nameless woman, I tell you, will ever be
allowed to share their name.'

Annie turned about and fled through the open door out into
the night. Oh, poor, riven, tortui"„'d young heart ! She may
be forgiven if her thoughts were wild and dark and rebellious.
Janet Erskine's words went home, and for a space faith and
love and hope fled far from Annie Erskine. The spray dash-
ing against the rocks was not Salter than the bitter tears which
burned her eyes.

INIeanwhilo Archibald Grant has reached his home, to find
his people anxiously awaiting his return.

'There is a telegram from papa, Archie,' his mother saiil,
meeting him in the hall. ' Where have you been, my boy 1
Your father wishes you to go u; to London to-night by the
mail. The message says the business is urgent.'

* To London to-night 1 ' quoth Archie blankly. ' Impossible.'

JANET ERSKINES JUDGMENT. 109

*Xow it is nearly so. "Where liave you been V querieil his
mother hastily. * I have done what I could. John has gone
to wire the mail to stop for you at Reston. Your porhnantcau
is ready. You must get something to eat, and ride oil' (»n
Hero at once. You can stable him at Reston, and Juhn will
go (tver ftjr him in the morning.'

'To London to-night,' repeated Archie blankly, 'lint I
can't ' —

'What!* Not often did Lady Grant speak so shin ply.
' Yon forget what you are saying, my son. Your fatlicr wants
yiiu. His wish is a comnnmd which must be ctlirycd. I
myself am anxious and troubled. I cannot imagine what this
pressing trouble can be. Have you not fancied your father
looking harassed and worried of late?'

'1 ilid not notice. If 1 must go, then, what time have 1 1
"Wlicn must I leave % '

'The mail is due at Eerv/ick at 12.15. You will know
Hero's speed better than I.'

'I have an hour yet, then. Has Ethel gone to bed, mother?'

' Yes. AVe could not imagine what had become of you.
"Where were vou?*

*I hr'.e been out with Annie Erskine, mother,' returned
Archie at once. ' Come into the library while I will tell you
8onietliing. I am going to ask you to be very kind to me,
mntlicr.'

The slightest possible shade of alarm was mingled with
Lady (liant's wonder as she slijiped her hand thiough her
sons arm and allowed him to lead her into the room.

' Am I not always kind to you, my son \ ' she asked, with
a sli,nlit smile.

'Oh yes; but you are to be extra special now. I want
you to extend j'our sweet kindness to sonieliody I love very
uuieli. Can you guess whom 1 '

'No, how can IV asked Lady Grant, but her face visibly
pak'd.

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ST. VEDA'S,

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Tlioy had now entered the library. Tho, ashes of the won.l
fire had hunicd low on the hearth, and there was a pleasant,
warm odour in the room. Lady (J rant turned up the lami) on
the table, and then looked anxiously at her son. A vague-
sense of uneasiness oppressed her.

'What do you mean, Archie 1' she asked, kindly enoui^^li,
but with a certain pride of tone which indicated a sliylit
disi)leasure.

' ^lother, I love Annie Er^kine ; I am going to marry Ikm-,'
he began impetuously. ' She is miseral)le down there. TIuil
woman Janet Erskine is not fit to have the care of her. Tf I
must go to London to-night, will you go down to the Haven
to-morrow morning and bring Annie up here ? '

« What ! '

There was no mistaking the clear, proud ring of the voice
now. Archie started, and looked concernedly at his motlu'v.
Her face, always pale, looked white in the dim light, and there
was no smile of kindliness upon it. He had not anticipatei]
any serious obstacle or objection. He knew that Annie was
beloved at St. Veda's, but he forgot that there is love ami
love. Lady Grant, in spite of all her sweetness and gentle-
ness, had her own pride. Birth, honour, prestige were dear
to her.

'Don't look so horrified, mother,' said Archie, with an
attempt at gaiety. * You know how lovely and bewitching'
Annie is. You can't wonder that I should have learned it to
my cost. She loves me, mother, and after she has been a
little while beside you and Ethel, she will be perfect.'

* I daresay. I think you must be mad, Archie. I am
amazed to hear you speak. Love you I I daresay she does.
She has fine ideas. I never thought what a frightful issue
might come of her visiting here. It was Ethel's whim.
Apparently we are to pay dearly for it. But of course you are
not in earnest.'

' Earnest ! ' repeated Archie blankly. * In the name of

JANET ERSKINES JUDGMENT,

III

woiiilor, why should T not he in oaruost ? "Would T \y?. likely
t(i say such a thing in jest ? I have always cared for Annie

tlmiij^li ahsence only has taught nie how much. She must.

and sliall he my wife, or I will have none. Ilesides, 1 have
iirniuised, and no CJrant ever hroke his iili_L;lited word. In
earnest! Why, I would have brought her to you to-niL;Iit if
she wouM have come.'

lie saw the mistake he had made, and was .n'lad. for .Annie's
sake, that she had not come. I^ady (Irant sat suddeidy down.
She felt faint and tremhlin;^, hut her face did not iclax.

Ai'chie was about to see the proud, hai'd side of his mother's
nature. Hitherto life had been all suii>liiue for her. We
were tliaid<less mor^ds if we did not smile in the sun. It is
the storm whitdi proves the grit.

' I think, Archibald, that you must be mad.'

P^)r the first time in her life she called him Archibald, and
the name sounded cold and distant in his ears.

'Mother,' he said anxi.risly, 'is it possihle that you will
not befriend Annie and me at this time'? Why, 1 thought I
had only to speak and it would be all right.'

' Yes, and you made a mistake. You are a foolish boy,
Archie, and we must send you away again to f(»rget this folly.
As for Annie, I shall see her to-morrow.'

There was a moment's silence. Then Archie drew himself
lip, and began to speak with a courage which made a man of
him. True, ay true to the heart's core was he, and wo'dd chj
honour to the motto of his race.

'Listen to me, mother. You speak to me as if I were a
hoy. I am four-and-twenty, and I am in dead earnest about
this. I shall make Annie Erskine my wife at any cost.
Whatever you may say you cannot but acknowledge that she
will not be a disgrace to our name. I have given you niv full
cmitidence, and I ask you, because I love yiju next host to
Annie, to be kind to her for my sake. Will you do it \ '

Xcxt best to Annie ! The mother's pride rebelled. Oh

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ST. VEDA'S.

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tlioso wnnion's lu-artH of ours ! What a mystery thoy arc !
How scUisli our lovu evi*n in its vory unsclfisliness ! ()nlv the
0(1(1 M'lio luiulc lis can undorstand us.

' You do me a 'ligli lumour,' she said coldly, and rose to
lier feet.

'Then you will not <,'o to the Haven tomorrow*?' he s.iid
([iiietly. '1 cannot j^o to London to-ni^ht. I have a duty to
the poor girl to whom I have passed my word. I shall wiic
pai)a that I can't come till to-morrow night.'

Lady (Irant had turned towards the fire, and stood with
her white hands clasped, looking down at the smouldering,'
asluis.

Her silk gown, sweeping the floor in its long train, gave ti*
lier really slight figure height and dignity. Archie Grant had
never thought his mother formidahle before ; he did imt
really know anything of her strengtii of will. She was
tliinking. How rapidly in such keen moments can a womauV
mind travel a vast space, and arrive at conclusions ! She
saw immediately that a little dijjlomacy was re(piii'ed to deal
with this headstrong boy.

At length she turned, and a smile dawned on her face.

* Don't let us fall out, Archie,' she said, with a sweet little
laugh. * If you are in love with Annie, of course we can't
help it. You must not be astonished at me. Y'our announce-
ment was so unlooked for. Of course I shall see Annie to-
morrow, and perhaps scold her for giving me this shock.'

A smile like a gleam of sudden sunshine instantly dispelloil
the gloom in Archie's face. Hi the fulness of his gratitude
he clasped liis mother in his arms and kissed her.

' Now, yoii are my own sweet, kind mother,' he said
heartily. * You irill be kind to Annie to-morrow, mother, and
see her very early. She is Avretchetl down there.*

' Yes, I will see her. If I am not able to go, I shall send
such a message as will bring her,' responded Lady Grant, still
smiling. 'Now, run, I would not have you disappoint your

SCIlil

, still

JANET ERSKINES JUDGMENT.

• irlicr for workls. I am so anxious about him, my boy, I
ciiiiiiiit rest.

'Oh, he will ho all right,' Archie assured her, for in a
iiiiiiiii'iit all his troubles seemed to have flown. ' You will
.•\|il,iin to Annie, mother, how I had to go away ; or, perhaps,
i hiitl better write a note. I have still time. I shall come

lown to-morrow niglit again it possible.

' Ves, yes ; I'll make it all right with Annie.'

' And you'll keej) h ' here. The thought of her life with
hit woinnn is intolerable to me.'

'And yet "that woman" has given her a mother's love
11(1 care for more than twenty years,* said Lady Grant, a
nllf diily. * B.it, yes, yes ; I'll keep Annie, if she will stay.'

The hitter half of the sentence was adroitly put, and
u.uld afterwards remove all responsibility from Lady Grant's
-linulilers.

Dut Archie, open and guileless as the day, suspected no
iMKlcrcTirrent, and went to pour out his heart in a hurriedly
written epistle to Annie.

Within the hour he was on his way to join the mail at
Rc6iun«

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CHAPTER XIIL

COMING TO AN UNDEIISTANDING.

XXIE EKSKIXJ'. passcil a .sleepless nii^Oit, ,incl
rose early. 81i(; had the kitchen fire lighted ami
the kettle singing befuro Janet J'lrslanc uwdlcc.
Annie was noiseless in her nu'VcMuents, ami
when she saw her mother soundly slee[)ing, she
slipped about on tiptoe, feai'ing to awake lur.
How thoughtful the girl was in little things, even
for lier who was so causelessly harsh !

There was a curious atmosphere in the skipper's house that
morning — a kind of quiet, settled calm. It was as it' the
worst ))last had passed. Janet Erskine dressed herself (jui-kly
and methodically as usual, and without sjieaking a word.
The breakfast was on the table by the time she was ready,
and Annie, dainty and fresh in spite of her weary night,
waitinc: for her.

'Did you hear the wind in the night?' Annie asApJ,
as she i)ut the sugar in the cups. She spoke quietly but
pleasantly enough, and Janet could nut but answer. '

'Xo. I had my sleep to divert me,' she answered. 'Are
the boats in ? '

' One or two. The Cynthy and the Katie Mori son are
outside the bar; but there is no Avord of father and .Vdaiii,
answered Annie. ' Are you ready ? Will I pour out the tua ? '

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 115

' Yi's, I'm ready. You've been very smart this morning, or
it's I who liave been very lazy. I see it's near ' igbt.'

So saying Junet Erskino drew in lier chair, and, witli a
8(jk'inn and rigliteous face, said tbe long grace. Slie was
coKftcious of no deviation from tbe right way ; it was Annie,
slie considered, wbo bad strayed. Janet was in ber own eyes
one of the 'uncoguid.* She thought she could not err. In
liLT treatment of Annie sbe imagined berself following the
(lictiites of Scripture. Sbe did not believe much in the gentle
rule of love.

'I see it's been a good stiff brc^^ze by tbe look of tbe sea.
Tliey've missed tbe tide, and can't be in now till the after-
noon. I wonder wbat luck tbey've had.'

• Xot mucb, I tbink. At least tbe Katie Morison did not
bring ill mucb, for I saw tbem unload ber,' Annie answered,
as she played with tbe bit of bread on ber plate. Tb.ere was
bacon on tbe table and poached eggs, but sbe offered to toucb
ncitlier. Janet saw well enougb wbat a poor pretence ber
eating was, but would not press ber. Sbe thought it all a
little piece of acting on tbe girl's part ; and yet, poor Annie,
her lu'art was beavy enougb.

Al)out half-past eigbt a page-boy from tbe Castle came past
the window, and knocked at tbe door. Ja?\et went to open it,
anil returned witb two sealed envelopes, wbicb sbe threw
down on tbe table without uttering a word. Annie quietly
lifted them, and sitting down began to read them without tbe
sliglitcst show of confusion. Janet, busy making the bed,
watched her from under her half- veiled eyes, and saw how
sweet was the glimmer of tbe smile which touched her lips as
she read. When she bad read both she let her hands drop on
her lap, and her eyes wandered through the half-open lattice
to where the morning sun was glinting on tbe sea. Janet
f^aw how absorbed she was, and a fierce d'^sire to know the
contents of these letters took possession of her. But Annie
did not offer them, but simply slipped them into her pocket,

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and began to clear away the breakfast things from the
table.

'I am going up to the Castlb after I have done up my
work,' she said after a wliile, a speech to wliich Jancit voudi-
safed no reply. And there was no other word spoken in tlio
cottage until nearly noon, when Annie was dressed to go up
to the Castle.

* I'm going into Eyemouth to-day,' Janet said, wlien slio
saw Annie all ready. ' If you come back before me, you'll i^it
the key above the door.'

* I'll be back in a little while,' Annie answered. 'Likely
before you go away.'

So saying she walked out of the door. She did not for a
moment dream of giving her mother any confidenee. She con-
sidered, and ])erhai)S rightly, that that right had been forfuittd.
It was not easy to forget the sting of last night's words.

The tic . was receding, and the beach under the clilT (piito
passable, so Annie chose the low road to the Castle. SIk; frit
very strange that morning. A sense of imreality dwelt with
her. It was as if she were walking in her sleep, or tiikiiij,'
part only in a dream in the drama of life. It teas a drama fur
Annie Erskine ; each day some new and exciting situation was
forced upon her. She felt no apprehension about her visit to
the Castle. Iler lover's note had been tender and reassuriiiL,',
and though Lady Grant's was not long, it seemed kind enou^^h.
It only asked her to come up as soon as possible to the Castle,
as she was not able to come down. But though Annio had
not much misgiving concerning her interview with Lady
Grant, there was little joyousness in her heart. A weight lay
on her spirits. She felt as if she stood on the brink of some
serious undertaking, the issue of which was shrouded in
uncertainty. But she was calm in the midst of it. She felt
that whatever transpired she would be able to meet it, and to
act in any emergency. A brave, fearless spirit was in the
girl, and her pride was a noble pride, which would not stoop

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 117

nor crii^i^c. Lu'ly Grant would find lier a nuitch for lior in
tliat respect.

\Vli('n slic arrived at the Castle she was admitted l>y
Isilicllii, who, not having' for^'otten thc! rcilfukf; her youn<;
lidv liad adinini>ter('d to her yesterday, lo iked at Annie with
iin favourahlu eye. Ihit she had tiie prudence to he outwardly
(ivil, and havinj,' already receivcil her instructions from her
mistress, ushered the skipper's Inss into the moriiin;4-rooni.
Lady (Irant had made an ell'ort and come down from her own
iilKutiiients eailier than usual to see Annie Krskine. She had
not slept much in the niglit, bein;^' kept awake hy her plan-
ning,' how to settle this foolish love ail'air satisfactorily before
ii should be too late. She looked very sweet and kind when
Annie, somewhat timidly, entered the room; and, couiinj^
swiftly forward, she took the girl's two hands in hers and
kissed her cheek. The tears rushed to Annie's eyes at the
kiiiihiess of her reception, and she took it to mean that she
was made W(deome by the mother of her lover.

'Come away, Annie. You look as fresh as a daisy this
nuM'iiing,' Lady Clrant said smilingly, and drew Annie down
Oil the couch beside her. She had a difhcult task to perform,
hut slie would win the day by gentle means. She did not
think Annie would be unreasonable or difficult to deal with.
She knew the girl's proud spirit, and that it would be a
material help in the settling of this delicate question. An
end mast be put at once and for ever to whatever had been
hi'twcen Annie and the young Laird. Lady Grant's mind was
([uito m;ide up on that point.

'And how are they all in the Haven this morning, my dear 1
Have the boats come in ? It blew quite a gale in the night.'

'Yes, 1 know. They have not come home yet, my lady,
tlinu^di there are one or two boats in the bay. The sea is
quite wild this morning.'

'Did you come by the shore?'

' Yes. Is Miss Ethel quite well this morning 1 *

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* Yes. She is not downstairs yet. Is she not a lazy
But you will not mind not seeing her to-day. I wished to see
you quite by yourself, and hoped you would come early.'

* Yes,* said Annie, and her eyes fell. Lady Grant laid her
hand reassuringly on hers, and began to speak in a low, kind
voice.

' Well, my dear, I suppose you have had a note from that
foolish boy of mine. You would be surprised to hear of his
sudden call away. Sir Archie seems to have some serious
l)usiness in hand. I hope it does not forebode trouble, but I
cannot help being apprehensive. And, now, what am I to
s.iy to you, Annie, about this affair?' Her voice was per-
fectly kind, there was no note of reproach or displeasure in
it, but it fell coldly on Annie's sensitive ear. She knew in
a moment that there was disappointment and regret in Lady
Lilian's heart.

* I don't know, my lady,' was all she said, and she did not
lift her head.

* My dear child, don't look so woebegone,' said Lady Grant
cheerfully. ' I don't blame you in the least, you may be very
sure of that. I know you too well, my dear. It is my
headstrong boy I blame, and I am going to show you how
absolute is my confidence in you by asking you to help me in
this matter. He told me last night that he had asked you
to be his wife. I suppose it is quite true 1 '

* Yes, it is quite true.'

* And what did you say ? Did you make any promise 1 '

' Annie did not speak. She did not choose to give up her
precious memories in answer to this cross-questioning.

'Well, Annie, you will not speak, I see. What do you
think of it ? Tell me that. Do you think, my dear, that you
would be happy as liis wife ? '

Still Annie did not speak.

*I wish you to be quite sure, my dear, that I haven't
brought you here to make you miserable, or to insist that you

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 119

sliiill ;:iv(! up any claim you may liave on my son,' said Laily
(liaiit, kindly ('nouL!;h still, th()n;^'li her voice unconsciously
hunliMicd a little. ' I only wish to lay the matter quite
iilaiiilv ])('f()re you. Younj^' ])eo})le, as I remember well in
my (iwii early experient.'es, do not stop to think anything
al)init wliat is prudent or for the Lest. I would save you
fiiiuiv mi>ery, my child, if I could. I have seen a great deal
iif uiihappiiiess resulting from hastily contracted marriages.
Will VdU let me point out to you the two sides of this
([iiolion, and tlien you will decide for yourself? Whatever
1k' ilic result, 1 will endeavour to be pleased. You see what
(niilidcuce 1 have in you, Annie. I am not so selfish as
many mothers woidd l)e in such a case.'

Annie bowed her head. She was not surprised. She
S'Tiucd to have expected to hear the death-kiujll rung for
Inr own sweet hopes. It was in keeping with the shadows
which played darkly round her life.

' We have only one son, Annie, and he is the pride and
linpc of our lives. Our darling Ethel we seem to hold by so
slender a thread, that we dare not build any hoj)es upon her.
IV liiaps that has made us look more to the boy. AVe have
.suriticed something to prepare him for a noble future. We
ait' not rich, Arniie, and sometimes care sits as darkly at our
ilcur as on any cottage threshold. We have destined our son
fnr a political career. Perhaps you do not quite understand
that?'

' No ; tell me what it is, if you please,' said Annie. She
wanted to know everything, so that she might decide; her
action. It was a matter of life or death to her.

'Very soon then, Annie, we hope and expect that he will
,<:o to London as a Mend)er of Parliament, where, if he serves
liis party with all his ability and strength, he will rise to a
u'lval jtosition ; we look forward to seeing him one of the
Ituders in the House. It would take a long time to exi)lain
the whole details of political life to you, Amiie, but one point

ill;:,

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1 wisli to mnko clear to you. Before a n,an can puccee 1
politically and socially in Lomlon, ho must have a wife vho
can be of material help to him. Althou^fli their iufluence js
unseen, it is the ladies, the wives of those in Parliament, who
make or mar the success of the party in power. The life of
a politician's wife. Annie, if she has her husband's interest at
heart — and if she has not she is no true wife— is a life of
constant anxiety and toil. His success is in her hands.'

'But how is that? Women do not go into Parliament or
make speeches.'

' Xo, but their social influence is very great. They must
be able to win people to the side their husbands take. They
must entertain and amuse and conciliate even those who are
unapproachable. A man wdiose wife is a social failure may
retire from public life, Annie, for he will never liave any
influence.'

Annie remained silent. She did not understand fully tlie
meaning of the words 'social failure;' but one thing .stood
out, oh, very, very clearly in her mind, that die couM be no
wife f(ir Archibald Grant.

' ^ly husband has been sadly hampered by a delicate wife.
Had my health i)ermitted, he would not have been living the
quiet life of a country gentleman. lie has sacriliced hiiiisrlf
for me, but his hopes have blossomed and his ambition
revived again in his son. Do you think, Annie, that y(ju
could fill the position I have sketched 1 Do you think you
could hide a sore and indignant heart under ])lea.sant smiles^
Do you think you could receive your husband's enemies with
courtesy and friendliness'? Do you think you couhl, by your
consummate tact, exercise an influence among the leaders of
London society which would be invaluable to him, and win
him support he could never hope to gain by any other means?
That is what he must have in a wife, or he may write IchaboJ
opposite his public life.'

Annie shook her head.

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 121

*Xn,' slie rcpliod, in a low voice. 'I slioulil be worse than
ipclcss, I sec; I should be a hiiidrauco. and a drng. I am
(rlad YOU have told me this. I could not have understood
it uihoi'wiso.*

Lady Grant's heart smote her, tlioni,di she implicitly
bi'licvcd every word she had uttered. It contained truth, no
doubt, but the truth was cxaLrgerated to make an insurmount-
alilf obstacle in the eyes of the girl before her.

'My child,' — her fingers closed softly and kindly over
Annie's tightly clasped hands, — * we could wi.<^h no sweeter,
dcaivr wife for our boy, and, so far as appearance goes, I am
certain you would create a sensation wherever you went.
Uiit in a little that would wear off, and peojile would see
only the defects. I would not hurt you, Annie, but you
must know as well as I that your upbringing has not fitted
you for such a position. It is impossible ever to efface the
traces of early training. You would be constantly reminded
and vexed by mistakes you would commit, and which would
lay you oi)en to misunderstanding and censure. The iiitricate
wtb of social courtesy and etiipu^tte caniujt be learned in an
lumr. I admit that it is foolish and trivial to place so
niiK h emi)hasis on such points ; but it is the little things
wiiieli sting, and I have before now seen a man's love
L'liange and grow cold because his wife so often, though
u'luiitingly, raised a blush to his cheek. Annie, it has
nude my heart sore, and had it been any one I loved, I

niiiM

lianlly have borne it.

Annie never sixtke. She sat, indeed, so motionless that it

'iiijit have been thought she was uninterested and indillerent.

!'• .1 it was not so. Oh, no ! Every woid said-: deep, deep into

' ' r heart, and would leniain there to niake a living sorrow.

■That is the darker side, Annie. I wish it were not so

If,' said Lady Grant. 'And now, my dear, you have to

vc iij) your mind. I can trust you. And if you still

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122

ST. VEDA'S.

can to lielp you. Oh, if I could have foreseen this twenty
years ago, 1 should have insisted on bringing you from the
wreck to St. Veda's.'

Lady Grant was sincere in what she said. She was not a
h(.'artk'ss woman, but she was not (juite prepared for \.\w,
sacrifice of s(!eiiig her one son marry a nameless girl from out
among the people. lie who, by right of his name ami
heritage, might mate with the highest in the land. Annie rn.so
to her feet. The little lace scarf, which had become unfastened
at her throat, she tied with fingers which did not falter.

Her face wore a calm, thoughtful expression, but in her
eyes there was a 'jurious dazed look which Lady Grant did
jiot observe. Siie wondered, moreover, to see her so calm.

'Don't hurry away, my dear. Sit down for a little, and let
us talk this thing well over. I have not said half I wanted.'

' I think we have said enough,' said Annie, in a low ^'■oici'.
' I think, if you please, I would like to go — away' —

The momentary hesitation at the last word had something
l)athetic in it. She liad been about to say 'home,' but
reJiK-inbercd that she had in reality no home.

'My cliild, I cannot let you go like this,' said Lady Grant
with real kindness, for her lieart wenL out to the girl before
her. ' You have not misunderstood me, Annie ^ You believe
I love you ? ^ly dear, if I loved you less I could not 1 r.ve so
spoken.'

'Yes; I know you are all that is good and kind, as you
have always been,' said Annie, with a little wi]\try smili'.
'"Will you read this note he — he sent me this morning, and
then tell me what 1 must do?'

Poor, i)roud, l)rave girl ! She would be loyal and true
whatever the (iost. She drew Archie's letter from her j)eckct,
and gave it to his mother. As she read it the passionate and
endearing wc Is touched the more s(dfish side of the mothers
lieart. She grudged Annie Erskine the love which had
proniptcid these woids.

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 123

'He is very much in lovo just now,' she said, a trifle cohlly,
as she hamU'd back tlie letter. ' It is for you, my dear, to
make up your mind. He will not listen to reason. I have
(Imu! what I can, and, whatever the future, shall have nothing
to reproach myself with.'

'And if I was to hold him to this promise I should have
pvcrytliing to reproach myself with,' said Annie drearily.
' I have made up my mind, lie will not need to write tliat
wnid yi)U said after his career through me. He will forget
me ami iiiaiiy, as he should, a great lady, who will be able to
.1(1 all \ I'U have said.'

'And you, my dear, brave, unselfish Annie,* said Lady
K'- iiiii iinpul ively, thraigh her heart gave a bound of relief.
Til' IV was iiiliiiite detci iiiii::ition in the girl's whole demeanour
wliirli lold that she had weighed her v/ords. MVhat will you
1I11I Would you like me to helj) you away from the place?
1 will do anything, Annie, that you think best. You know
Aivliic, Imw lic;;(l>lrong he is. I fear that if you saw him
■■t'lrii ydu d'Hld not holil out.'

"1 know. 1 will think about it. "Whatever happens I
~\\\\\\ not marry him. It would kill me to think I was any
l.iiiilrance to his success. You can trust me. Lady Grant.'

'Vol! will let me see you again, Annie. My child, my
Iitiiit is sore for you.'

' Von are very kind. You have taken a great deal of
liniiMe with me. Good-bye.'

Lady Grant felt loth to let her go. A vague uneasiness
liaunti'd iicr. She did not like that tpiiet, still, self-possessed
manner. It betokened an unnatural self-control. She could
have ilealt better with tears or hasty words.

Hut Annie would not stay. She said good-bye very gently,
ivciMvcd but did not return the parting kiss, and went
lii'i' way.

Never more to cross that threshold as Annie Erskiue,
never more.

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til

CHAPTER XIY.

'LUCYS FLITTIN'.'

'^ HE Mill ^vas shining very Lriglitly as Annie
"-;,^;^^ Krskino left lliu Castle entrance ami crossed the
|Al\ lawn to enter on the narrow jiatli leadin;^^ to tlio
*"-''^d shore. SIk; walked Avitli lier IiqmI down, and
did not see Ethel Avaving to her from one of the
upper Avindows. The daisies on the sward seemed
to dance hefore her eyes, "wliicli were dim with tlio
bitterness of her pain. It was all over — over for evcrmoie
— the hrief, Lrii^ht dream M'hich had for an Imur dis[)ersed the
shadows from her lifi;. The vision of that future, so full of a
boundless hliss, Avhieh she had pictur(>d.for herself in the silent
night watches, had liad its rude awakening, and once more she
•was face to face with the reality of life. Life ! AVhat was it
for her now? Coulil the continue the dreary routine at the
cottage, suhjeet to the vagaries of Janet Erskine's jealous
temper] Could she pass days in that solitary house, without
opening her li[)S to a creature^, or hearing a kimlly human
vcuc • ] 'So; such days must have an end. There was oiu;
Avay, she knew, Avhereby the old-time peace and comfort could
be restored She lingiu'ed a moment at the little stone gatc-
■\vav Avhich guarded the stair in the rock, and looked over the

expanse of tlie sea

Oh, 1

low fair it was !

Xotl

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hut

Bunshine and peace there. The }ellow sands of the File coast

124

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* LUCY'S FLITTIN':

125

were sijUstoning in the sun, and tlie whito winpjs of ninny a
plfHsure Itoat wcro fUittciing in every sheltered liavcn. On
the open sea tlie l)rnwn sails of tlie Hsliing l>oats wcn^ (illcd
with tlie softening hreeze, the wind had nearly fallen, and the
heaving of the water was stilled oneo more. Out somewhere
on that blue expanse were the two leal hearts who loved her
fleaily, and whom no eireumstances eould ever ehango. Tender
tlmughts of them hoth filled her yearning heart, and for a brief
sj)ii(c she was tem})ted, being wcsary of the struggle of life, to
think more kindly of the love Adam Krskine had od'ered her.
As his wife she would at least be at peaee, and would have
tlu; shelter of a good man's liftme, where no trouble woidd
touch her if he could kee[) it avvay. It seemed an easy way
out of the dilhculty with which she was beset. There were
only the two alternatives. She must either fall in with Janet
Krskine's planning, or put some great distance between them.
Till re was no other way. The primrose path of love wdiich
last night had opened up before her happy eyes, was to-day
shut fast by the iron gates of duty and unselfishness. Tiiese
two had helped her to decide. She loved Archibald '^■rant so
dearly that she would not mar his life. And yet her very
heart clave to him. Remembering the close pressure of his
arm, the earnest tones of his voice, the look on his face, her
counige almost faltered. Oh, all these had been to her •^o
passing sweet! A dry, bitter sob broke from her lips, she
turned open the gate, and hurried down the rough ste[)s with
fiilt'ring feet, her tears falling all the while. Her self-contml
was liroken now, and she was a very woman, crying for the
thing she had with her own hands put beyond her reach.
She sped home without litigeriug, as she often did, en the
pebbly shore; and when she arrived at the cottage, she fo-uid
the door locked, as she had expected and hoped. It would
have been no ordinary tri;d to have faced her mother just
then. The key was, however, in the overhanging tiles above
the door, and when she entered she locked it again behind

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ST. VEDA'S,

her. The fire in the Ivitclion was built up with a ' .cjnthovinp
coal,' and only ono dark red spot gliiinncnMl in the ronicr. It
was not cold, but Annie drew in a stool close to it, and, sittiii:;
down, covered hor face with her hands. The very stillness u[
death seemed to fill the house, the only sound being the slow-
ticking of the eiglit-day clock behind the door, a sound wliirh
had something strangely solemn in it. Once, even in tlic
midst of her deep thinking, Annie lifted her lie ad and looked
at the face of the clock almost in awe. Its voice seemed to
speak to her of eternity. She looked about the kitchen tlien
with dim, pitiful eyes. It was familiar, and, oh, how dear!
It was fdled with the bright, sweet memories of childhood,
which have no sting in them. IIow ofteii had she slept, tind
out with her playing in the sun, in that spotless white beil !
How often had she watched the red fiielight dancing on tlio
burnished tins and on the old china bowls and quaint blue
plates in the high rack above the dresser ! IIow often had
she as a child helped to polish the iron horses on the mantel-
shelf — how often had she been allowed, as a great privilege, to
play on the hearthrug with the china ladies and gentlemen,
and the big white and black dogs on the high shelf ! Quaint,
old-fashioned, country-like in all its arrangements, the place
was dear — ay, very dear — to the girl's heart.

She often remembered afterwards how oho had looked at
everything, and taken in every minute detail that afternoon.
It was as if she had photographed the place indelibly on her
memory and heart.

The clock struck two. Annie rose and went into the little
closet in the lofty room where her box stood. It was not a
large box, and she was strong. She took it by the two
handles, and carried it into the middle of the kitchen floor.
Then she opened the lid, and began to take out the things ono
by one. It was arranged in beautiful order. Ilcr Bible lay
on the top, and then there was a gay pastebc^ard box conlaining
ribbons, gloves, and luces, and the few inexpensive ornaments

* LUCY'S FLITTIN':

127

she poRsossed. Eiicli one was a gift, and lind its little story.
That iMirious rann^o brooch, cut in the shiijx' of a t]()l|»hin, the
skipper had brought from Yarnioiith lii>t siiinnicr, and the
lidg-oak harj) niMiintcd in gold, had conu; from Kildare when
the Janot Rat had gone ou an expedition to the lishing-
grounds in the Irish Sea.

Pxflow the little trilles there lay a snow' pile of dainty
underclothing, all sewed by her own hand.

'Too many faldals about them,' Jaiuit Krskine liad often
said; but Annie loved pretty things, and surroundecl herself
with them as she bad oj)]M»rtunity.

She took out each article, until she came to thi^ bottom of
the box, where, wrapped in tif.sue })aper, lay what was jieihaps
her dearest treasure. With tender lingers she unfohled the
juiper, and looked on tbe face of Archie Clrant. It was the
little sketch Ethel had given her, and with which tlu! girl
would never now part. Deside it there wasatiuaint netted silk
purse, througb wbich sbone some golden sover<'igiis. Annie
counted them out one by one — seven in all; there was also
some loose silver in the box among the trinkets. Having
carefully laid certain tilings on one side, sbe took down a
hliick leather band-bag from belli nd the door. It was an old-
fashioned thing, but roomy inside, and not heavy in itself.
Into that rece[)tacle she put the best of her underclothing,
th(.' little box containing her trinkets, and a thin morning
i;i)wii of dark blue calico. Then she made the colour-sketch
into a little roll, tied it with a silk thread, and laid it besi<le
her r.ihle on the top. It shut with dilliculty, for it was well
packed, but it was not too heavy for a strong girl like Annie
Krskine to carry even a good bit. "When tht bag was filled.
she replaced what was left neatly in tbe box, and carried it
back to the closet in the lobby. She had on her best frock,
which was very simihir to her everyday garb, only the serge
was liner; her blue sailor hat lay ready on tbe table. She
to.'k her waterproof mantle, her jacket, and a chinchilla fur

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■t

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c\\\)0 wliirli tlio sl<i|t|)or liad brDiii^lit from Etiglaiid, nnd for
wlricli lie was iMtcd by Jiinct for liis cxtraviiyiince. liiit in liia
oyos notliiiiL,' was too i^ooil for Annie.

When all llicse tilings wore lying on tlio la1>le in the
window, Annie was ready for her jonrney. 8he was actiny
on a sudden inii>n!se, and yet then; was nothing nervous or
hurrieil in iicr nuttions. 81h! was perfectly calm, and arraiigei!!
everything as if on a premeditated [dan. It was now twenty
minutes to three. There was an old time-tahlc on the shelf
beside tin; hig UiMe, which she took down and consulted.
The train for the South passed Reston before half-past four.
She h ul not very much time, but there was something else to
be done. Slu; must leave some cx|>lanation of her disnj)pear-
aneo, lest tliey should thiidc the sea had claimed her. This
was tlie hardesi task of all. To whom should «he write 1
Not to Janet lu'skine, who w<iuld doubtless l)e glad to he rid
of her, nor to Adam, wdio had no right to know her move-
ments ; her farewell words must be written to her father, of
whom during the last few days she had .scarcely <lared to
think. I wonder shall I transcribe that letter — which was to
be worn next to the heart of Adam Erskine the elder till death?
They were very pitiful words, eloquent even in their brevity ;
they breathed forth the unspeakable yearning of the girl's
heart.

* DEAn, DEAR Fattier, — T am doing what you will never be
able to forgive me for. I am going away where you will not
see me nor know anything about me. When you come home
aiul hear what has hai)pened in your absence, you will under-
stand why I tl .1 it. I am going away because I am not strong
enough to do my duty here. Father, don't break your dear
heart about me. I have eight pounds, and I kmtw what I am
going to do. I know you will believe that I shall never, never
doanvthing you would luit like me to do. If you think about
nie, anil oh, I know you must, you can be suic I am minding
God and tile lessons you taught m» wherever 1 am. 1 promise

'LUCY'S FLITT/N':

129

that if I nm in any tr()ul)lc or clidiculty I will smid for you.
If yon don't hear, you will know I am well. l)i»n't seek aftt-r
uic, (Irar father, because I will not eonie l)ack for a Ion;,' time
Some day I sliall see you a;.Min, and hear y(»u say 1 am your
"dear laiiimie." I cannot write any more, because uiy eyes
aiv iiiniiin;,' over and my hand sliakini,'. Don't blame any-
liudy for this. It is my own doing. T(dl Adam to for'^"t, uie ;
l)Ul, uh, don't you for;^et, dear, dear father — Your loving

* Annie.'
It was a thoughtful letter, though a little rambling. She
liad oinitte(l nothing whi<di would make the shock less hard
f(ir the skipper. Slie knew her jtromise for the time of trouble
Wduld 1)0 a comfort to him. He believed in her implicitly,
.die knew; there was an absolute and ex(iuisite t'-ust hotweeu
tlifiii. It was to save him a keener pain that she left him.
Fur Adam Krskine loved his wife, too, and it is a terrible
tiling to be torn by two conflicting loves. There was a double
uii.-^cilishncss in Annie's action. It was for the sak(^ of the
two she loved best on earth that she was taxiing this step. It
iiiij^ht be imprudent; but God, who judges by the motives of
tlu' heart, wouhl watch over the child wdio was linding the
way of life so perdously hard. So we can let her go foith
without a fear. She sealed up the letter, and addressed it to
Ca](tain Krskine, and, setting it up on the mantelshelf, looked
ahdut her for the last, last time. And that was terrible. Oh,
it is a sore wrench for a young thing to quit all that is familiar
and most dear, and it was the nature of Annie Erskine to take
tilings deeply to heart. Her eyes were blind with tears as
thiy rested on each well-known object ; and as she looked, the
desire to carry something away with her filled her heart. It
was something to remind her of her father she wanti'd, and
the only thing she could see was his tobacco [touch, wdiich, for
a Wonder, he had forgotten. She smiled as she lifted it and
■--lil'l'i'd it into her pocket. Some day, perhaps, in haj)pier
•-ii'cu instances, she would restore it to him again. So, with

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ST. VEDA'S.

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many a linf,'crin!;» glance, Annie Erskino gatliercd together licr
little all, and turned her back on Orr's Haven. Th(! woiiicii
folk in the hamlet liked an early tea. and as the school was
not dismissed till four, the Haven Avaa like a d(;sertetl villai^'f
at that time. Annio went out by the front door, locked it,
and laid the key where she had found it, then went round to
the back, and through the garden to the little gate opening
out on the School Ih-ae. There was nobody in sight but a
travelling wife with a basket and a red cotton bundle in her
hand.

iVnnic pulled a sprig of peppermint and a handful of whiti!
roses f;-om beside tho gate, and not daring to look bark,
hurried away. It was a lovely afternoon — the August heat
tempered by the fresh westerly breeze blowing in from tho
sea. Tho sky was cloudlessly blue, relieved by sliafts of
snowy white. Annie walked on (piickly until she got to the
top of the little hillock, from which she would have her last
peep of the Haven. It had never looked fairer than that day
— its red roofs bathed in the warm suidight, and the blue .sea
in the foreground shimmering like a sheet of burnished gold.
Involuntarily the girl's eyes travelled from the ccjttage to the
Castle, which stood out in dar':, striking relief against thn
clearness of the sky. Cottage and Castle ! Should she (ivcr
look upon either of them again] She would never forget tliat
picture ; it would be her comfort yet in many a sad and
regretful hour. She dared not linger, for her heart was
breaking ; so, with a sharp, sudden breath, she turned away,
and so began her new life.

She took the field paths to Reston, fearing to encounter any
one she knew. She only met one person, the fanner of
Temple Hall, where she had spent many a hap])y evening.

' Hulloa, Annie Erskine, are ye for traiv'lin' T he said
cheerily, as he saw her bag. ' Ye'U be for the fower train
are ye ? '

* Yes, if I can get it. Is the mistress well 1 '

* LUCY'S rUTTIJSr,'

i3«

io tlio

t tlr,

(!V('r

t that

ainl

was

jiwiiy,

T any

icr of

saiil

' Hrawly. I'm ji.st <,Mun rooiid the fields, wondorin' wliaiir
I'm to lii'^iii tlie liairst (irst. The hule thin^''s come ii)»(>n U'j
like a clap o' tliundcr.'

' V<'s, it aeenis to be all ripe,' said Annie, looking,' on the
.((.IiK'H IicMh on both sitles of the path.

♦A* weel doon hy % Skipper ooti'

• Y(.'8. Good-hye, Mr. Robertson ; I must go on.*

' Ay ; if ye're to get the train ye haena muekle time. It's
ii(i' often ye truivel ; but young folk like a h<iliday. WuU it
1h' iaiig or ye ])e back 1'

* 1 duu't know.'

' That's a daft answer,' said the farmer, with his loud, hearty
\\\\v;\\. * Ye hac ower muckle cairryin' in this strong sun. If
Veil sent wonl up to Temple Ha', Jock wad hae brocht the
|iM\viii(; for ye. But we're a' unco independent in the Haven.'

Annie laughed too, and hel I out her hand.

' Weel, guid <lay ; dinna heat yersel', my ooman, an dinna
ic laiig o' comin' up. Ye're a fell favourite wi' the mistress,
i;i" sliij's gey kittle to please wi' lasses,' said the farmer, with
I twinkle in his eye, and, whistling to his collie, strode away.
Siiiiicthing impelled him to look after Annie when he had
-oiir ^^\\ a little, but she was out of sight.

' r micht hae ask<;d her wluire she's gaun. Kate '11 be
-jiiciin'. I've never heard that the Erskines had ony veesitin'
Illations ony gate. O'd, that's queer !'

Antiie was thankful he had not asked, and held bravely on
till' way, keeping ])y the field paths, which were not only
liiirttT, but took a mile or two off the way. It wanted but
liri'c minutes from the train time when she entered the
-iatioti, feeling hot and tired, for it wa;. important that she
-li'iiild not miss this train. vShe took ticket to Berwick, and
ami' out there to await the train from the south. Edinburgh
\\a,s her destination. She had time to get a cup of tea in the
iiitcrval, which wondeviully refreshed her, and liaving bought
a paper, she sat down very composedly in the waiting-room.

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ST. VEDA'S.

There was a wonderful self-possession about her. Slie had
travelled very little, but she had none of that nervous
awkwardness common to country folk who go on railway
journeys.

A few minutes before six, the express came ihunderiug iiiln
the station, and Annie took her place. Tliere was no otlier
8toppn<^fe before Edinburj^di, and it flew past Reston at a spci'ii
which made it impossible for Annie to see anything. Slif
had ho})ed for a glimpse of St. Veda's, a last glimpse beforu it
should vanish perhaps for ever. Tlie Haven, of course, was
hidden in the hollow.

It was a quiet and lovely evening when she arrived in
Edinburgh. 81ie knew a little of the town, having s})ent a
week in it once wath her father when he had brought her to
see the sights. Slie went straight to the Httle hotel in
Cockburn Street, where they had lived that week, and ask(.'d
for a room.

Curiously enough she was given the same one she had
occupied before. And there she had to make her phms and
decide what she was to do. She was cast on her own
resources. She had her living to make. She was now an unit
in the great city, and must take part in its hurry and its strife
She felt no fear. She had taken a momentous step for a
young girl, but she believed she had done right.

And because of that conviction she could ask God to bli'ss
her and to guide her feet in this new and untrodden path.

ill

CHAPTER XV.

WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID.

>?^^^.0^

S^ "

^NXIE was sittinc^ quietly reading in the waiting-
room at Lerwick when Janet Erskine returned
from lier M'alk to Evcmouth. Her business
tliero had entirely concerned Annie. There
lived in Eyemouth a distant connection of Janet's
who was niarrie<l to a lishcurer, and was, as the

country folk have it, ' in a gude way o' daein'.'
Janet Er.Ovinc had gone to ask ]Mrs. Renton to look out for

a ]>luce for Annie — that is, a situation as a domestic servant.

Th()Uj;h she had said the skipper was to settle thi; vexed

(lui'stidn, she had taken the management into her own hands.

Slu; (lid not for a moment dream that Annie, in the interval^

mi-lit strike out a i)ath for herself.
As she came along the headland from Eyemouth, she saw

thai, thou;4i the harbour was tilling, the Janet R(te was not

ill. She felt no alarm, however, for it was a calm and sunny

afternoon, with a soft, westerly wind scarcely milling the

li'isiiiu iif the sea.

She found the key where she had left it, and was surprised.

^^ liat if, after all, she had been too hasty in her conclusion'?

V> liat if Annie had been M'armly welcomed at the Cas.le'?

^^ liat if, after all, she should become the young lady of St.

^ cdu'sl AVould not that be turning the tables linely on licr?

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ST. VEDA'S.

■m1|.

She even smiled grimly to herself at the possibility of it. The
house was as she had left it, and the coal still smouMci'in.L,' in
till' kit''h<'n grate. A fire 'gathered' by Janet Erskiiie iicvii
went out. In everything connected with her own domain sh..
possessed unerring skill.

Annie had left no trace of her ' flitting,' not a thing \va>
out of its place. .Janet took off her bonnet and shawl, ami
changed her boots for her house shoes, and it was only when
she went forward to break up the coal that she noticed the
letter standing on the mantelpiece. She ])aused with llic
poker in her hand, and read the address, and a curious Idok
came on her face. She broke up the tire into a ruddy Ida/c.
hung the kettle on the swing; for, though she had had an
early cuj) of tea with her kinswoman, she was ready for
another after her four-mile walk.

Then she very cahnly took down the letter, and ojiened it.
What was meant for her husband's eyes of course could l)i' m*
secr(!t from hers ; besides, her heart was sick with ajipiv-
hension. A fear, almost like the fear of death, was ujxhi hiT.
If aught had happened to Annie, with what words should she
answer the two who would be home before the gloaming '
They would hold her responsible, she knew, and her sou was
quite aware that of late she had not felt and acted ipiitt'
kindly towards Annie.

vShe sat down while she read it. Self-possessed though she
was l)y nature, her limbs were shaking beneath her. Slu^ wa>
actually afraid to read what Annie, with poor, trembling haml,
had written for the eyes she loved. She read every wcid,
and then let the letter fall on her lap- and sat looking straight
before her. The kettle came to the boil, and poured bcaiiti-
fidly out on the polished steel fend(!r, and sent a little strcain
of water underneath the hearthrug ; but she never saw it.
She was thinking of the letter. It had given her a terri^lf
shock. The possibility of Annie leaving the house thus had
never once occurred to her. She did not know that ;i

WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID.

135

sensitive heart can only endure a certain amount, and, when
lliat limit is reached, that action becomxCS prompt and decisive.
Annie had oorne as long and as much as she was able, and
had then put an end to it. Janet Erskinc was startled. In a
niiimont she was brought face to face with her own conduct,
llcr heart was wrung with pain as she read the girl's j)athetic
Avoi'ds. There was not one syllable of reproach in the thing
from beginning to end, and yet it cut Janet Erskine to the
(luick. She was entirely left out. Annie's absolute silence
concerning her showed that her feeling must have been too
strong for words. In that sharp hour all the old, nweet,
bi'loved memories of her adopted child came thronging about
Janet Erskine with cruel swiftness She remembered only
her sweet, dear ways, her ready helpfulness, her sunny hearted-
noss, her willing obedience. She knew what she had lost,
how much the child was to her now that she was gone. Had
Annie come in at the door just then, everything must have
been cleared up, for Janet Erskine would have gone down on
her knees to her. At that moment there was nothing but
icinorse and self-reproach in her heart. But Annie at that
very instant was standing at the carriage window, as the train
was flying past Rcston, vainly endeavouring to obtain a
glimpse of the liome she had voluntarily left behind.

ffanet Erskine, as we know, feared the face of no man. She
liad never been accustomed to answer for her actions to any
one but herself, but she shrank from the idea of her husband's
home-coming. She wished the Janet Rae had been gone on a
long cruise instead of being hourly expected into port. Ay,
there she was ; her brown sails filled with the soft wind,
making direct for the Haven harbour. For the first time in
all her married life, the sight of the returning boat was not
weli-ome to Janet Erskine.

She had no time to plan how she would act or what she
should say. Do not imagine that she fancied any action of
hers required explanation or defence. She was perfectly

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136

ST. VEDA'S.

ri^'litcons in hor own opinion. She was the injnrerl, not the
inflic'tor of injury, Annie had brnut,flit a sciunhil on liicir
hnnu', anil for no reason but a silly j,'iiTs whim. So argurd
Janot Krskine with liorselF, as she set about gctlinf^ a niral
ready for her husband and son. She- Wiis absent-minded,
however, for she set tlie empty kettle on the fire again and
allowed it to sit,'tliere till the bottom war, red-hot. Then she
had to seek out anotlier one, and go out to fill it at tlic sj)ring.
She sliaded her eyes with her hand at the door, and looked
along to the pier. The Jnivt Rae was anchored, and they
were landing tlie spoil of the sea. Slie saw the glistening
sheen of the herring shoals lying in the boat ; evidently they
had had a good trip. Other wives were wont to meet the
boats ; she never did, so that there was nothing unusual in
her action that day. The two Krskines, however, wondered
that Annie was n'.t down. She it was who watched their
outgoing and their incoming, atid her welcome at the pier-
head was never wanting, in fair weather or foul. Sl^.e was
absent that day fur the first time.

Janet Erskine set out a substantial and tempting tea with

methotlical care. The incident of the kettle had recalled her

scattered wits. She made no more mistakes. There was a

hard-set expiession on her face, and her mouth was grim in

its r'ghteous indignation and wrath.

The brief periuil of tender regret had passed ; it was difiicrdt

to bidieve that it had ever existed. She knew there would he

a curious scene presently, when she had the two men to face ',

possibly she was nerving herself for it.

It was seven o'clock, and the train bearing Annie with it

had arrived in Edinburgh when the skipper and his son came

over the shingly slope to the cottage.

* I wonder whaur Atinie is] It's no' often we've to wait or

we get to the hoose to get a sicht o' her,' said the skijiper.
' No ; maybe she's awa' some gate,' Adam returned. He

was hungering more than usual for a sight of Annie's face,

WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID.

137

flimi^i lio liad quite' rclinquislied all liojje of ever ralliiiL,' licr
1)V the <leiir name of wife. Like his father, Adam Krskiiie
was uiiscHish ; lie would rejoice in the happiness of another,
■ veil at the expense of his own.

' Halloa, guidwife, here we are again ! IFoo's a' wi' ye 1 '
died the skipper, in his loud, hearty way, as his stalwart form
(liiiki'iicd the open door. ' That looks hame like, eh, Adam 1 '
he added, pointing to the table. ' lUit whaur's Annie ? '

'Annie isn't in,' Janet answered, with difheulty. 'Are
VdU wet? No; I see you are both (piite dry. C:)me and
have your teas. There's jilenty time to sjieak after.'

' Uut where is Annie? Is she at the Castle?' persisted
the skijiper.

' .Siie was there in the morning,' Janet answered, and averted
licr face as she began to pour out the tea. 'Draw in your
iliaii', laildie, and take a meal. I'm sure you're needing it.'

'Ay, but whaur's Annie V repeated Adam, for a vague
feeling of uneasiness oppressed him. The question the third
time repeatijd angered Janet Erskine, perhaps because it
showed how dear Annie was to these two.

'She's away. / don't know M'hcre,' she said, turning her
wliite face straight to her husband. ' I went to Eyemouth to
see Jean the day, and when I came back tl);'rc's what I fourid
insteail of Annie. Perhaps you'll be able to make more of it
than me.'

She took the letter from behind the tea-caddy on the
niaiitelpiece, and held it out to her husband.

'A letter! Wha is't frae ? But I haena my glesses,' said
the skipper wonderingly but not apprehensively.

Vou see he had not the least suspicion of the strange
lueKrijurrents which had been of late disturbing the even tide
'if life in his home.

' Here, Adam, lad, read it cot. It'll set ye better than me,
ony way.'

lie handed Adam the letter, and sat down on the arm of

i'l.

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^38

ST. VEDAS,

i-M!

Ills own clinlr to liston. And Adam Erskine road the Idtor
fi'oni ItoginniuL,' to oiid in tlio same voice, amid a silence Nvliiih
had somclliinu torril)le in it.

' Wiiat's t!io maitter wi' tlic bairn, an' what's com'd nwi r
h(n'V said the skii/pcr at len|^4li, and liis voice slmnk.
Instinctively he looked at his wife; so did Adam. Tlicy
had left Annie in her care. She was quite ready for tliciii,
but she did not at once sjjeak.

' What dis't )nean ava?' repeated the skipper, in a dazed way.
'Janet, what gars ye no'si)eak? Ye ken a'aboot it, or should ken.'

' It's easy enongli to know the meaning of it,' said Jaiict
Krskine then, wit'n a short, dry laugli, which was quite out
of place. 'She's tired of our plain living, and she's away to
better herself, if she can. There has never been any giatitinle
in her. Our plan is to forget her, and all we have done fur
her. That's all I have to say. Are ye coming to your tca.^T

There was another sih.Mice. The skip[)er sat still on the arm
of the chair, with his arms folded across his breast, and his eyes
looking out of the oixm window to the sea. The wind stealing
in played with the grey hairs straggling on his rugged brow.

He did not in the least comprehend the thing, and he was
vainly trying to come to some understanding of it. He had
left the l)airn he loved so well in good spirits, and ui)parciilly
haj)py — he had returned to find her gone.

The face of Adam Kiskine the younger, however, underwent
a change. It became dark with the passion of his feeliie^s',
and .seemed to be all lined and seamed as if a piough had
passed over it. He turned on his mother likci a lion.

'It is you that has driven Annie awa' frae hamo,' ho
thundered, and the ski[)per started to his feet in the greatnes.^
of his surprise. 'I've never haen a minute's peace lately for
fear o' something like this.'

'Adam, that's no' a way to speak to yer mither,' quoth the
skipi)er. 'My lad, ye'rc forgettin' ycrsel'. "VVliut fur daur ye
say yer mither drove Annie awa'?'

WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID.

139

But Adam would not be still. lie would have Lis say. In
a inoiiK'iit of tiiiio he had jumped to the right conclusion,
lie knew liis mother's relentless tcm})or, and her \V(Mring-out
iiwcllin.^- on one theme. lie also knew — alas, too well I — the
jinnid, sensitive soul of the dear girl he loved. Lov ■ had
sharpened Adam's faculties, and given to his eyes a clearer
vision.

' 1 will speak ! ' he continued, though in a less furious
Voice. 'I'm no' forgettin' what respect's due, but she canna
say that I'm no' richt. She kens hoo lang she sat here wi' me,
an' Annie lyin' wide waukin' in her bed, an' said things the
lassie couhlna forgt't. Tiiey were neither true nor kind.
V("ll maybe mind sayin' the same hoose couhlna hand you an'
Ainiie now. AVhat could the liairn dae 1 If sonu.'body had
to ,iiang, it maun l)e her. There was nae ither.'

The ski})iier passed his hand peri)lexedly across his brow,
and looked from one to the other queslituiingly. There
seemed to be a great deal he did not know. This was en-
tiivly a new revelation to him. He must know more in order
to understand the thing aright.

' Wliat for could tlu; same hoose no' baud oor Annie an
you, yuidwife, ony mair noo than then?' he asked, looking at
liis wife. ' iSlie's as guid a bairn noo as ever .'^In; was. To
nil' sh(! seemed a thoosand times better. She was the very
licht o" the hoose. AVhat gar'd ye be sac ill at her, Janet, if
ye Were ill, as Adam says?'

Hut Janet .^'rskine turned her back, and spake never a
Wdid. She even lifted the full cup of tea to her lips, and
took a mouthful, though it M'as like to choke her.

'She canna deny it,' said Adam the younger, and his voice
slii>nk alst), for his heart was aching intolerably. ' Sin' ever
Annie telt me honestly an' fairly, as ony true lassie wud, that
sill' wailna uiairry me, my mithcr fair turned against her. It's
niy hlanie. I say now, as I've said afoi-e, I wish my tongue
liail lu'en cutted oot afore I spoke o' mairryin'. But for a'

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140

ST. VEDA'S.

that, you had nao occasion to turn a;^'nin' Anuio,' he addn],
poiiitoilly, to his mother. 'If onybody iiiiclit feel sair it uuil
liae boon me, an' I said naething. Oli, I ken bnnvly hoo its
V)een. Ye've herpit on a' we've dune f(jr her, an' o' Iut Mik k
in<;i'atitude, till the crater couldna stuund it. May Gud fur-

^d'e us a'.'

'Is this true, Janet 1* asked the ^^kipper. His voice was
low and quiet, but his eye was stern and fixed, and seemed to
command his wife's attention. She turned her head slowly,
and looked him defiantly in the face. The crisis had coiiic,
and she was not going to stan<l in her own house and be
brought to account for the sake of the girl wlio had left tlicm,
I wish you to notice that she had convinced hers(df tliat
Anrde was base, ungrateful, and indiU'crcnt. She attadicd
no blame to herself. She was honest, according to her light;
but it was a narrow, prejudiced light, which required tlie
>ipirit of charity to broaden it.

'It is true what he sa3'S,' she made answer quietly. 'I
said she was ungrateful and undeserving, that she had made a
poor return for all we have done for her ; and I say it again.
I am glad she has gone away ; the same house could not have
iield her and me any longer. I went to Jean's this very (hiy
to see about getting a place for her.'

' Then ye took a fell lot ujion ye, my woman,' said tlie
skii)per, in a voice such as Janet had never heard before.
The lion in him was roused. He loved Annie with a great
h)Ve ; to him she seemed dearer at that moment tlian eitlier
wife or son. She had entwined herself about his heart with
her sweet ways and her constant and willing service ; her
Wright, winsome, hajjpydieartcdness had been the very suii-
sliine -^f his life. And out of his knowledge, wdien he was
altsent or unobservant, they had poisoned tlie mainspring of
I he girl's sweet young life, till there was no alternative left
liut the one she had chosen. He did not understand it all,
but a glimpse is sometimes sufficient. He reached out his

WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID.

lAl

hand for the letter, anil, putting on his specta;'les, reud it
through again.

'If she were here this mornin' she cunna he that f.iv a-.va'
but what we can get her yet,' he said presently. ' Admii,
my lad, get ye ready. Ye'll gnng yin road, an' I'll .uan-
aiiitlicr. ril no' sleep this nicht or I ken niair than 1 kni i
the noo. Ye can tak' up yer dishes, Janet, my \v(i!ii;iii. 1
(liiiiiii break bread i' the hoose or I g<'t at the bottom o' this.
She was at the Castle i' the mornin', did ye say?'

' Ay, an' if the young Laird is not at home yt/U better seek
tliciu both the one road,' said Janet, with a pointed, signi-
ficant scorn.

Up rose the cords on Adam Erskino the younger's brow,
till tliey stood out like knotted cords.

'May God forgive ye for that lee,' he said hoarsely. •■ Om\
ye no' be content wi' what ye hae dune already ? Dinni iii;il<'
ycr walk ony blacker than it is.'

Adam had forgotten where respect was due indeed, and lest
he should say more he hastily turned about, and went out bv
tho open door. His father followed him, but he took tlw
back way, and walked up the garden path to the little git^'
in the wall. His heart was like to break. His amjcr, iie\ ci
long-enduring, had vanished, and only the bitterness of bi-
loss remained. The glory of the sunset was on sea and land,
anil the pale ro.ses at the gate, which Annie had touched wiih
loving fingers a few hours before, were blushing under the
sun's parting kiss.

But fur the skipper a deep, dark cloud as of the ni-ht bad
settled down on his life. He folded his arms on the dyke,
and laid his grey head above them. The wind phiyed with
the ' love locks,' as Annie called the waving masses at his
temples. The old man was overcome with his grief. A great
sob shook him from head to foot.

* Oh, my lamraie ! ' he said brokenly, and the tears
streamed down his rugged face like rain.

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CHAPTEE XVI.

MOIIE LIGHT.

^ITE sldppcr did not long remain inartivo. In a

r~;i^ few minutes he rc-entorcMl the liotisc and Iu'ltuii

to divest himself of his rough seafaiin;,' cluthis.

His Avifu ■watched liim silently, sullenly even, luit

ho paid her no heed until ho "was dressed

'I'm gaun np to the Castle,' he said then, jn>t
as he "was leaving the house. ' I maun ho at the; 1 loLtum
o' this aforo I sleep. "What did ye mean, Janet, hy i^ayiu'
that wo might seek Annio an' tho young Laird the same
gate 1 '

* Ye may ask what ye like. I'll say no more ahout Irjr good
or bad, Adam Erskine, my man,' replied Janet stifily.

' But, Janet, ye maun speak. It's only you that can tliniw
ony liclit on tho business. Div yo no' care, my 'ooman, wli;it
conies owcr tho crater *? She's oor bairn, Janet ; we ttxik llio
responsibility o' her upbringin' upo' oorsel's efter tlie wrack.
AVe'll hac to answer for her welfare. I canna understand this
ava'. I thocht ye liket Annio as wool's I did.'

'I liked her wool enough; it is only men folk wh(3 worship
common clay, as you an' Adam have done. Eut I saw Ikt
faults. They have grown on her of late. She's lilled witli
vanity and conceit. She was by St. Al)b's last in'glit wi'
young Archie till after darkenin', an' when I rebuked her, slio

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143

stood Tip quite impudent-like "before me. lie said he intended
to marry her. Tliey sent for her to the Castle the day, but
what was said or done there I can't tell. They've not been so
koon about her as she imagined, or she would never have left.
That's the story, and I hopo it's to your liking. liut don't say
her name to mo again. I'm sick of the sound of it.'

Adam Erskine sighed, and, putting Annie's letter carefully
ill his breast pocket, trudged out of the house. He was vexed
ami wearied in spirit, for he was a mm of peace; and never in
all the years he liad had a home had there been such a strife
ill it. It grieved iiim to blame his wife, whom he truly loved ;
hilt he was a jusu man, and the whole thing was clear as noon-
(lav to him. lie knew Janet's faults as well as her virtues,
ami he saw that her jealousy and her seKishness had carried
her to an extreme. lie also had desired to see the two baiins
ho loved set up in a happy home of their own, and had lioix'd
to aee his grandchildren about his knees before he should take
his last voyage ; but, since Annie's heart was not with their
lilaiiniiig, he had given up his long-cherished hope cheerfully,
thciigh not without a pang of regret. The idea of blaming
Annie, or of seeking to coerce her into the path tlu^y had
niapiied out for her, had never once presented itself to his
miiul, and he felt very sore that Janet, a good woman in
the main, should have committed such a grave mistake.
' Weeiiiin's queer,' he said to himself as he went slowly up
the School IJrae. * Ay, it's true that naehody but the Lord
that made them can understand them. They're ower kittle
f'li' human nnderstandin'.* .>J'ot far past the school he met
Jdhii Robertson, the farmer, from Tem})le Ilall, driving in his
p;ig. They were old friends, and it was natural that the farmer
should draw rein for a word of talk.

'diiid e'en, skipper. I saw your boat had gotten in again.
Man, I'm seekin' hairst folk. The whole thing cam' upo' us
like a clap 0' thunder, as I said to Annie the day. Ye be a'
wool doon hy r

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* A' wcol. Did ye see Anrtie the day, Johnr asked the
skii)i»('i', with a painful caj^'t'incss.

' Annie ? ay. I met lier on her way to the train, an' ;^'i( .1
lu'V ii loundcrin' for no' scttin' \\\> wird for Jock to brin;^' the
l)0wni(^ We're hand idle, ony way ; but, faith, tlien;'!! lie
steer, an' niuckle o'd tlie morn', an' for a month to conic. I
dinna think, skip^ier, ye're unco wee! like yer.el'. Onythiu;^'
bolherin' yel '

' What time did ye see Annie?*

* On the back o' three, up near The Priory, f^eein' to catdi
the four train.'

' Fowei', tha,t wad be the fower for Berwick. Whaur art'
ye gaun tlie noo, John?'

' Deed, 1 hardly ken. I'm seekin' folk. Ye'll no' ken 0'
ony that wad hire for the liair.st?'

* No, I dinna. Will ye drive me up to Rcston, John,, jist 1'
the noo ? '

* Ay, but what for?'

*I.et me up, an' I'll tell ye,' said the skipper, and with a
bound he was up T)eside the farmer.

* There's been a bit dryness an' temper i' tlie hoose the noo.
Wecmen are (jueer, ye ken, an' Janet, the wife, maybe expocks
ower mucklo o' a young crater, so Annie's taen't to heart an'
gaen aff. Ye'll no' ask me mair, John, i' the meantime.
Man, if onything comes ower the lassie I kenna what I'll dac.
She's as dear as she were my ain.'

' Mercy me ! '

Sore dumbfoundered was John Robertson by this piece oi
news.

'I thocht there was something by ordinar' about it a' tlii'>
efternune — faith did I — for you folk dinna traivel mucklc, n'c
niiiir nor oorsel's. Bicss mc, skipper, Annie awa' I Ti.ats
unco news.'

Ay is't, John, unco news,' said the skipper, and his fiimJ
saw his lip quiver.

i\TORE LIGHT

' I'm no' fcarcul that the biiirn, whnurover she may ganj»,
wiiiiia krcji tlic stiaiclit road/ said the skipper prt'sontly, and
Ilnii4 iij* Ills ht'ad a litth; proudly. 'TIumo never wa.s a
Iritrr Itairn, an' she lias the fear o' God in her heart. I'ut
\\\v'\\ I think on the crater awa' — f;uid kens whaur — I'm no'
Ht to hear it, John. She canna fecht nor fend for hersel'.
She's ane o' the folk that vshould be cared for. We hinna
cured eneuch for her, I doot.'

• Sl'e'll no' i^ang faur, skipper, never fear,' said the fanner
clit'crily. for he saw how his friend was moved. 'She'll no'
hide iiin;^' awa' frae you, lad. The very grund ye walk on's
dear till her. She says ye've been ten faithers till her an'
iiiiiir. I houp, hooever, that she'll come back afore the folk
kill. Orr's Haven's aye been a elashin' hole, an' it's no' gude
f(»r II young lassiti's !iame to be gaun frae mouth to moutli.'

To Adam Erskii.(; that seemed the very least of the trouble.
If Annie were only home again the tittle-tattle of the village
would be of little moment to him. And so he said.

' Had she ony siller wi' herV asked John Robertson, after
a bit, as they were driving through Coldingham village.

' Ay, she has a wheen bawbees. Her luck-pennies an' her
Nc'.v Year half-crowns gethercd thegither. She'll no' ken want
lor a wee, an' she sai<l in her letter that she'll never be in ony
troiiljle or want withoot lettin' me ken,' said the ski^jper
al) ciitlv. ' She said it, and the bairn never leed.'

' Sju! Ifft a letter thenr said John Robertson, with interest.
'That's what a' the young leddies oor Kate reads about in the
hniiddn journals dae. Stop or Annie comes hame, if I dinna
I'liiiicnt her about a' tliis.'

Tlic skipper smiled a melancholy smile, and then a silence
It'll upon ti em as they drove rapidly along the dusty road.
The tiirmer saw his friend was not inclined for talk, and so left
liiu! ill peace, and was soon absorbed in calculations as to the
forward state of his neighbours' fields for the harvest.

It was getting dark when they drove up to Reston Station,

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ST. VEDA'S.

and before the pony stopped the skipper had jumped ont. He
knew the stationniaster well, and went straight to the booking-
ofhce to seek him.

' Ye wad see my lassie gaing aff with the fower train tliis
afternoon,' he said, after a brief salutation had passed betwei.'ii
them. 'Did she tuk' a ticket for Berwick, or whaurl'

' I'll ask Georg" ; he's the ticket man,' said the station-
master readily, and went off to seek the ofhce boy.

' Ay, she took a ticket for Berwick, he says,' was the rej^ly
when he returned in a few minutes. ' She had some lui:^a<'c
with her, but she took it in the carriage with her. Nothing
wrong I hope % '

' Oh, no"' muckle : only a lassie's whummleerie,* iaid the
skipper, with a faint smile, and hurried away, afraid to be
asked any more questions. He had learned all he wanted to
know.

' I'll drive ye on to BerAvick if ye like, skipper,' said the
sympathetic farmer, when he heard the news. ' Ma^j's as
fresh as paint, and we'll hae the liairst mure for company
there an' back.'

The skipper shook his head. * It wad be a fule's errant,
John, though I thank ye kindly. Naebody kens Annie at
Berwick, an' to seek for a country lassie at sic a big station
wad be lookin' for a needle i'^ a stack. "What I lump is that
~\\Q, hasna gaen ower the Border. As long as she keeps on tins
side she'll no' come to muckle ill'

So in silence once more they drove over the hill to
Coldingham.

' Ye needna come by the Ha' gates, John,' said the skipper,
as they neared home. ' I'll sune dauner doon, and I've a ca'
to mak ony way on the road.'

' It's nae trouble, skipper. I'll drive ye wliaur ye like. It's
•i' I can dae, man, to help ye.'

' Thank ye kindly, again, John ; but I'll no' bother ye the
nil lit. I'm satisfied on ae pohit; an' we ken she gaed to

MORE LIGHT.

"ntrwick ony way. The morn I'll tak a laiiger journey, Ye'll
lid" siiy niuckle about this, Jolin, in the meantime.'

' No' nie. I'll no' tell a loevin' soul, har Kate. Faith, she'!'
ni"ct Ikt ecu oot nhout Annie ; she's that set uixm her. Keep
up vcr heart, skipper. She'll no' hi<le lang awa'.'

' 1 lioup no'. Gude-nieht ; my respects to the mistress.'

vSit saying, the skipper alighted from the gig, and trudged
away down the slope to the Haven.

(draining had given place to the sweet darkness of the
autumn night, and the harvest moon was just visible on the
rim of a silvery-edged cloud ; a few stars twinkled here and
tliiic among the night shadows; the sky was breaking up,
and within an hour would be gloriously clear. The skipper
felt the air sultry. He took off his caj), and wiped his brow
with his blue cotton handkerchief. Then he v. alked on,
keeping his cap under his arm, and allowing the soft night
wind to fan his brow. He had never felt so unhai)py and
depressed in his life — a great, dark shadow seemed to lie coldly
nil his heart.

The night had fallen, and where was Annie — the sweet
ehild he had so long sheltered in his home"? If she were alone
ill a great city, she would be alone indeed, and amid many
perils. He raised his eyes to the brightening sky, and though
iiis lip.^ did not move, that upward look was a deep-breath(Ml,
earnest i)rayer. Oh, the Lord wdio loved the children and the
pure ill heart would watch over his Annie wdierever she might
he 1 While it was his duty to seek her far and near, he need
III it causelessly torture himself so long as there was a heaven
ahiivi' him, the dwelling-place of a merciful and all-seeing (Jod.
lie v>as a grand old man, this rude fisherman. Devoid of
hnMk-l,.ai'ning or outward culture, he had a heart a king might
hivi' envied. He lived very near to Nature's heart, the. noble
"iiisic (,f the sea had filled his l)eing, he was incapable of an
i,L;iiiihle thought. And above and beyond all, his faith in the
Creator, of whose grand handiwork he was a constant witness,

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ST. VEDA'S.

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was absolute and unassailable. So he was sustained in tliis
heavy trial which had come ujion him. Just as he stcjiiMd
within tlie })assenger gateway at St. Veda's, the moon sIkhic
forth gloriously, and made a mystery of light and dark sliiul<i\v
among the tall trees in the avenue. Nine o'clock was ringing
from the stable tower when he approached the Castle dour.

Like Annie, it came natural to him to seek the front
entraiute, es])ecially to-night when his business was entirely
with the I.aird's folk.

' Is the Laird in, my woman?' he said to the smart Isahcllii
who answered his ring.

' No, Ca[>tain Krskine; he is in London, and so is Mr. Arehic.'

' Oh, are they ? '

He was jjuzzled for a moment how to act.

' Her ladyship is in the drawing-room. Captain Erskinc
Will you see her % '

'Is she? I'll see her ladyship then, niy lass, if ye'll be
guid enough to tell her I'm waitin' her pleasure. Tell her it "ri
important l)usiness.'

'Very well, come in.'

She showed him into the gun-room, turned up the gas, nnd
went up to her mistress. In less than three minutes she was
Ixick.

' You are to come to the drawing-room, Lady Grant says.'

' Very weel, my lassie,' answered the Captain, and obediently
followed her upstairs. lie was conscious of the soft carpet nu
which he was treading, of the subdued and lovely lights aluMit
him, of the vague, sweet ])erfuine of many plants; but ln'
oliserved no separate object, his mind being too much oc'cu}ii<il
by one thing.

'Ciooil evening, Captain. Come away,' said the sweet Vdico
of Lady (Irant the moment he crossed the threshold of the
drawing room. She came forward a little to meet liini, In r
silk roljes making a rustling as she moved. There was a lilt If
nervous anxiety in her manner; she wondered whether tlii--

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MOI^E LIGHT.

149

interview would relate to what had passed between Annie and
lier in the morning.

' 1 hope there is nothing wrong. It is usually in stormy
times you seek Sir Archie.'

' It's stormy enough the nicht, my leddy, an' I'm in a sairn
trouble than ony the sea ever made,' answered the Captain, ms
he stood with his grey head uncovered before the Laird's wife.
'Oor bairn, Annie, has gane awa', my leddy, an', kennin' slic
was here in the mornin', I made bold to come up and sj)i('i
wlicthcr you could throw ony licht on the thing, for I canna
lichtly understand it.'

Lady Grant began to breathe so violently that she had to
lean against a table for support.

'Annie away! Oh, impossible. Captain Erskine,' she
gasped faintly, for a terrible fear struck her chilly to the
lieart.

' It's ower true, my leddy. She gaed to Berwick by tho
fower-fifteen train ; but whaur efter that only the Lord kens,
Wliat was she up here this mornin' for, an' did she say ony-
thing that could in ony way explain what she's dune ? '

Lady Grant hesitated a moment, but only a moment. "What
she had said to Annie Erskine that morning had been the fruit
of a settled conviction, and was kindly meant. She would ho
true to the old man questioning her so earnestly. She would
keep nothing back.

' If you will sit down. Captain Erskine, I'll tell you all I
know. It may, and it may not help you,' she said very gently
and kindly. * Do sit down ; you look quite haggard and worn.'

To please her, the skipper took the chair to which she
pointed, but he sat on the extreme edge of it, being too restless
anii ill at ease to be comfortable.

* I don't suppose you can be aware that no later than last
niuht my son Archie asked Annie to be his wifeV began Lady
(ji'int, but she was interrupted by an exclamation of surprise
from the skipper,—

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* His wife ! Oor Annie ! Maister Archie ! * he said a little
incoherently, for he could scarcely comprehend it.

* Yes,' said her ladyship, with a sorrowful shako of her
head. 'It had come to that between them, out of all Ovii
knowledge. Captain. I see it is as great a surprise to you as it
was to me last night.'

The skipper sat in silence a moment, looking to the ground.
There was deep, unfeigned surprise in his heart, but also a
feeling of satisfaction that the young Laird should have
thought her so worthy of the highest honour he could give.

* That's news ; news indeed, my leddy,' he said at length, a
little anxiously. * An' what mair? Annie was up heie this
moriiin'. Was it aboot that % '

' It was. My son came to me last night immediately after
he had parted with Annie, and told me what had passed.
However foolish the boy is, he is true to the honour of his
race. Captain,' said Lady Grant, with all a mother's pride.

* A message had just come from his father, asking him to come
to London at once by the night mail. The business seems
very urgent, though I cannot understand it. He would not
go until I would promise to see Annie, or bring her up here.
From what he said, I gathered that she has not been very
happy of late with your wife.'

' So it seems, so it seems, my leddy, though I dinna ken
what way sic a thing could be,' said the skipper very sorrow-
fully. ' Ye sent for Annie, then ; an' what cam' o't ? '

Lady Grant waited a moment or two before she replied.

* I do not know h6w to explain myself. Captain. It is so
difficult and delicate a matter to deal with,* she said slowly.

♦ I sent for Annie, and we had a long talk. She is very dear
to me, and, as I said to her, we could wish no sweeter wife for
our son, but there are other drawbacks. Annie is very inno-
cent ; slie knows nothing of the world. You will understand
me more readily than she did.'

* Ay, my leddy, I understand. Ye wull believe that could

MORE LIGHT,

151

I hae preventit this it wad hae been preventit. Cottage and
castle are best ilk ane in their ain bit. There has been ower
muckle rinnin' back an' fore ; but I never took a thocht. An'
Avliat did ye say till Annie % '

' I laid the whole thing before her. I explained to lier
what in all probability would lie my son's career, and what
part his wife would be expected to take in it. She had not
thought of it at all, but she understood quite well. I left her
ipiite free to choose. I said I would be pleased cither way,
and she has chosen. But oh, Captain, had I thought for a
moment that she would leave you and the Haven, I shouh^
have kept her at any cost ! But I did it for the best.'

' Div I no' ken, my leddy, ye are a' that is guid, an' hae
ever been % It's hard to thole that them ye've been sae guid
till should be the anes to vex your heart. I see hoo it a is ;
it's as clear as day. Annie, puir lassie, kent that gin he cam'
back she wad be torn atween twa fires, as it were. She thocht
she wadna hae strength, an' so she's gane awa'. I aye lo'ed
my lassie, but she's ten times dearer now, for she has a bravo
heart, an' she'll raither thole than dae what's wrang. Oh, if I
but kent whaur she's to lay her heid doon this nicht, my
ledily, I wad bless the Lord for His mercy an' Ilis love ! *

' But we will find her ; we must find her. Captain. Archie
■will be like a lion when he comes home. He will leave no
stone unturned ; and if she comes back to be the future Lady
Grant, we must just be glad that she is so worthy of it. I
wish now I had said less this morning, but I did it for
the best.'

'Ay, ay, brandy div I ken that. "Weel, I'll awa' doon. I
umlerstaun' the thing noo, an' I'm gled I cam' up. I'll gang
nae mair to the sea or I ken whaur my bairn is. I'll maybe
no' bring her back after I find her, but she maun ken that I
never lo'ed her as I dae noo. Weel, my leddy, I'll be gangin'.
Guid-nicht wi' ye, an' mony thanks.'

The skipper's heart was lighter as he sought his home, and

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6*7: VEDA'S.

it t^'lowod with a new pride in his bairn. He loved her for li.r
noblr, self-sacriticing spirit; there was that in it which tuurlicil
his wlioh' being.

To tliiiik that she had been so near winning so groat a jjiizc,
and for conscience' sake she had put it away from licr. It
sliowed a noble resolve ; and even though he should grow sirk
with hope deferred in his search for her, he would ncitlicr
despair nor fear. Wherever she went Annie would do wull,
and carve out a good way for herself.

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CHAPTEK XVII.

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

H, dear mo, Phemie Seton, it's an impossibility fcr
mc to do another hand's turn this day. "We're
growing old, and it's no use trying to do what wo
haven't strencrth for.' With these breathless
words Miss Janet sank into a chair, and fanned
pL her hot, old face witli a fuatlier duster, with which

*■ ^ she had been sweeping down the lobby walls.

'I've been on my feet, Phemie Seton, since twenty minutes
to seven tliis morning. Why will milk children, I womler,
conje in the middle of the night; and there's a lot to do yet.
It's not in gentlewomen to do a servant's work, Phemie,
ami I think it was a mistake putting away Elizabeth Ann
Jackson.'

' You didn't think that, Janet, when yon met her in the
Meadow AValk in your best brocade, and when slic ate a pound
nf butter, at eighteenpence a j)ound, in the week,' saiil ^liss
EuiilK'niia with a sly, little smile, as she carefully mixed the
paint on tho palette, preparatory to putting the finishing
touches to a study of autumn flowers, at which she had
koii working all morning.

'We'll, well, Phemie Seton, you grumbled about the matter
yourself, though you're not a housewife, and will never be, do
what you like. Why, wc don't eat half a pound between us.

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It's my belief EHzalieth Ann Jackson fed the policeman ainl
the scavenger from her cu})board. And to see her turn ui;
her nose at sheep's-head broth — made as we tasted it at Lmly
Grizel Fraser's table — made one wonder a judgment didn't f.ili
on her,' continued ^liss Janet wrathfuUy, as she dangled Iki
little feet to and fro with an energy which did not yivc
evidence of weary limbs. It was a very high chair and vcrv
straight-hacked, and Miss Janet was a very short, slciidcr
person under live feet. JJoth the sisters were under-sized, and
so quaint and old-world in their ai)pearance, that it was tliu
custom for ribald and uncourteous young people to laugh and
stare at them in the street. They belonged to a bygone ago,
ami had not advanced with the times ; they were, beyond a
doubt, old-fashioned in all their ways and customs, as well as in
their appearance, but they were true gentlewomen, and their
hearts were as good as gold. They belonged to a good old
Edinburgh professional family, and had their own stron;,'
family pride, though they were very poor, — so poor, indeed,
that but for ^liss Janet's diplomacy they had scarcely had
bread to eat. She was the practical member of the family,
though some of their relatives were fond of saying there
wasn't a head between them. Miss Seton, or Miss riieniio,
as she was called, was a dreamer and a castle-builder, as full
of romance as a three-volume novel. She was not without
acconqdishments. She could play old-fashioned airs on the
piano, and accompany herself in the old ballads she had hoard
her mother sing, and she believed she had a genius for paint-
ing. That was a sore subject between the sisters, for ]\Iiss
Janet grudged the money required for painting materials. In
spite of Miss Phemie's belief in her own powers, she had
never been able to dispose even of one specimen of her art.
Sometimes, when funds were low and care pinching ]\Iiss
Janet's housewifely heart, she would give vent to a little out-
burst, and reproach her sirter for her waste of- time and niean-^.
Fine needle or lace work, she would say at such times, might

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

IS5

find a market and l)ring in a little to increase the household
store. Miss Plieniic listened in much silence to these periodiral
tirades, hut continued at the labour she loved. In the main,
however, the twain lived together in amity and peace. The
house they occui)ie(l was a good one, and their own un-
burdened property. It was a commodious flat in Northuni-
liorland Street, whi(di still retains a certain flavour of its
bygone selectness and gentility.

This house, with a small annuity of fifty-two pounds, had
been all that Gavin Seton, the soliciur, had been able to leave
bis young widow and three daughters at his untimely death.
Mrs. Seton made a brave struggle for oxistence. Swallowing
In r pride and prejudice for her children's sake, she took
bnanb'rs into her house, and with the proceeds liberally edu-
cated her children. Her boarders were mostly gentlenuui
siDilying at, or connected with, the University, and she sehlom
made any change. Those who were privileged to become
Mrs. Seton's boarders found in her house a home. As her
ilaii^l.ters grew up, howevi'r, Mrs. Seton began to feel that it
was not quite prudent to have young men in the house coming
in ('(intact with three pretty young girls. Her relatives came
down upon her in a body, and reju'esented how highly impru-
dent the system was, but not one of them (though all were in
atlluent circumstances) ollered any substantial solution of the
(birieulty. There were three healthy young women to be
cldthed and fed, and owing to their birth and connections it
was out of the question for them to seek to make their own
living. Without the boarders the question of existence
became a problem Mrs. Seton could not solve, so she continued
her course, while doing her utmost to Avarn her daughters, and
kcej) them entirely out of the way. Dut that was not easy.
They were youiig, and they liked a frolic. Then it was
nut to be supposed that the boarders themselves would or
ciiuld be indiderent to the young ladies. So, though they
wore very douce and well brought up young women, mild

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flirt.'itions diM nrise ; l>ri,t,'lit eyes watdiod the outf^oinc^s ami
iiK'()nmi<,'s of the hoarders, and so things went on until a
tlmnderlxijt fell on the widow's household.

The youngest daughter, Annie, her namesake, the pride nml
pet of tlie flock, went off one fine day with the yoiui^cst
hoarder, the haronet's son from the P'ast Coast — the youn;'
man who had specially Avon Mrs. Seton's heart, and whose
praises she was never weary of sounding.

lie took away her darling, and though he made her his wife
at once, his people refused to recognise lier, and the affair
made a complete breach between him and his father, wliich
resulted in lijs sailing for India with his girl wife. Then
Mrs. Seton dismisseJ all her boarders, and began a lifo of
austere rule and rigid economy for the remaining two.
Sn)arting under a sense of the wrong done her, the motJHT
made home a kind of prison for her other daughters. In a
sense the innocent were made to suffer for the guilty. As
was to be expected, Mrs. Seton's relatives visited her with a
great deal of censure. Advice is so cheap, and it is so pleasant
to heap blame on the head of the offender who has siilh red
through not paying due attention to that advice. 80 the
well-to-do and very p'-oper relatives crowed over the imlis-
creet and poor one, and said it served her right for so far
fop'^ettins: herself as to let her rooms to strangers, ^^'\\o over
heard of a laily connected, even remotely, with the Setons
lowering herself in such a Avay ? Ah, me ! so the worM's
tongue wags, and gives blame where only sympathy is ni«it.
Mrs. Seton bore her trouble in silence, and not willmut a
certain dignity, which made her sharp-tongued relatives h^M
themselves rather aloof. She wished ntjither their pity, llieir
advice, nor their blame, she said to Mrs. Christopher Seton,
the advocate's wife, who lived in Heriot Row, and drove an
awe-insj)iring equijiage. She oidy wished to bo left alone, to
live her life as she chose, and to attend to her own lilll«
afiairs. After such plain speaking what could Mrs. Christojiher

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

157

ilo l)ut flounce out of tlifi house in high dudgc on, and wash
htT liMud.s of her poor relations ? So the- roan horses,
the yt'Uow carriage, and tlie purple livery came no more to
Ndilliuuiberland Street. l>ut tliough Mrs. Seton tlius proutlly
liniv licr trouble, she never recovered from it, and from that
time licr health failed. No doubt she fretted after the bairn
wild had gone, with all the trust of love, away to the far shores
of India, but she never willingly s[)oke her name, and the giils
wi'ie forbitlden to do it. AVithin two years she died, and the
two sisters wj'r(^ h'ft, young women made old before their
time l»y carking care and the narrowness of their lives, to
cniitiiiuc the same monotonous round of existence. And s(j it
went on year by year; time advance*!, but they stayed behind,
ill tilt" world, ])ut not of it, a simple-minded curious pair, wiio
hail a j)ast girlhood to live ujion, but no present or future.
Till'}' had no hope of any new day bringing to them any
special brightness ; their chief ind only care was to make
ihi'ir meagre annuity provide food for themselves and their
liltlc maid ; their most exciting interest turning their ohl
,;'n\vns and trimming their ancient bonnets; and so we (ind
llitiii when their turn has come to take a part in this
history.

Whether it was that food had become dearer, or domestic
.^trvunts more extravagant and more difficult to keep, 1 can-
not say; but after lier exi)erience of Elizabeth Ann Jackson,
Miss .lanet liad found it impossible to keep the household
ixiii'uses within the prescribed limit, and had therefore dis-
piiistMJ with that improvident damsel's services. Since the
Miiy term (it was now August) the two Lidies had b"en scr-
vaiilh'ss. but Miss Janet was growing tired of the drudgery.
It (lid not come naturally to her. She had no method, but
iHil her work by fits and starts, and in very curious ways.
Soini'tiines the house was a sight to see, for Mis*5 Janet, being
t'l'ialic in her movements, sometimes took it in her liead to
go for a promenade in Princes Street at the fashionable hour,

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and would loavo whatever slio was at, attiro herself in her
Ix'st brocade and newest trimmed bonnet, and set off. ^liss
I'liemie was utterly useless in the house, and entirely at licr
sister's nierey. So their existence was one of extreme curicsity
and uneertuinty.

* Yes, I'm sick to death of this drudgery, and I'm gojufr to
'j^vi another serving woman at once, Phemie Seton. I'm wnn-
deling whether wo couldn't get a girl from that oriihanii^'e
Mrs. Christopher Seton patronises. I've a mind to go round
to lleriot Row this morning.'

'And have these ill-bred children of our cousin's lau''liin2
at you, Janet, as they did the last time wc called,' said Miss
Phemie. 'You will need to go yourself, sister, for I cannot
bear to see children so ill mannered to their elders.*

'Oh, poor things, they know no better. How can they
have any manners with such a silly, empty mother 1 Just a
l»cacock, Phemie Seton, just a peacock,' said Miss Janet with
■^ood-natured scorn. ' Well, it's a fine morning, and I'll go
and get dressed in my blue brocade. Are ye not coming out,
IMiemic •? '

Miss Phemie laid down her brush and looked, not without
longing, out of the window up to the strip of bright blue
sky visible above the narrow street. Her eyes ached witli
stooping over her easel, and she was tired for once of her
work.

'Well, I will, Janet; the gardens will be beautiful to-day;
and while you go to Mrs. Christopher's, I'll ask for the blind
girl in Howe Street.'

So the pair attired themselves in their rich but old-fashioned
garb, took their velvet reticules, their silk parasols, and sallied
forth as happy as children to enjoy the sunshine and the gay
shop windows. They never had a penny to spend, poor ladies,
to buy themselves anything new ; but they could look at all
the pretty things with eyes which had neitht^r envy nor
jealousy in them. They were even thankful that they were

Tim LITTLE SISTERS.

159

soouro from want, and that tlnsy hail a j^i^od roof ovnr tljom ;
lluMi tlicy wero Setoiirf, and was not tliiit in itself a i^Tcat deal
to he proud of 1 For tlio l)rand-n«'W iM'dplt? wlio lived in the
siilnnhs and drove in ^'ay carriii^'es, Miss IMicniie and Miss
.Iiiict liail a mild contempt. The best families still cluiij,'
with loving adbction to the north side of the town.

It was about one o'clock when, tired out with their jirome-
ii;i(lo, the two ladies came to the gardens, and, seeking out a
sliatly seat, sat down to enjoy the rest, and the riee biscuits of
which they made tluiir frugal luncheon.

Had Mrs. Chri^.Lopher Seton liappened to drive jKist in her
cirriiige, and observed her kinswomen thus occupied, doubt-
less she would have been api)ropriately horrilied ; but, as wasi
t(i In.' expected, the rich Setons were all out of town for the
season. Not one of the connection, and it had many branidies,
ever invited the two lonely maiden sisters to their country
[)laces for a change of air and scene, and the two iiad ceased
to expect it. Had the invitation come, it is pr(d)abl(i they
would have preferred remaining at home, where they were at
loast socune from ridicule and contemi)t.

'Do you know, Phemie Seton, I have been thinking a great
(leal about Annie all day, and I have dreamed about her three
ni.nhts running, and always saw her in a ship on the sea
Have YOU seen the old dream book lying about lately 1 I
must see wdiat a ship on water means.'

' Xuw that's strange, sister, for I have been troubled about
Aunic, too. Do you ever think about her, Janet, with little
children about her knees, our nieces and nephews, Janet"? It
is a veiy [)leasant thing to think of.'

There were tears in Miss Phemie's eyes, and a sweet, tender
!<iiiilc jilayed about her mouth.

■"li, she'll be sure to have a lot of boys and girls wlierever
she is, and I only hope she has money to spend on their meat
and clothes,' said Miss Janet regretfully. ' I can't fancy our
Annie worried and held '^own like the mothers of bi<r families

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in our rlistiict. She lik'^d dainty tilings: I hope he was ahle
to give lier thoni. It's like a dream looking back.'

' Ay, it is,' said Miss Phemie, and her sweet old face was
still iliislu'd, tl "nkiiig of that jiast romance which had cliai;L:c(l
all tht'ir lives. ' Janet, do you never think our mother was
very hard on them, and on Annie especially ? He was so
worthy to be loved, and nobody could help liking Annie. It
was the most natural thing in ihe world (hey should do it.'

']M:iybe; but mother was quite right to be augiy about tlu;
secret marriage. Hidden things are not often right,' said Miss
Janet severel", ' Not but what I think he was a well-like
young man. I have never seen a handsomer. They were a
bonnie pair. Eh, me! 1 v/onder where they are now?'

'The Lord knows. 1 don't suppose we shall ever see our
Annie this side the grave,' said INIiss Phemie softly. ' Lot us
go out of the sun again, Janet. It has come round to us. My
eyes are sore this morning.'

' I don't wonder at that,' said Miss Janet bluntly. ' But
it'll fa»le our gowns anyway.*

So they rose and moved farther into the shadow of the
trees. The gardens were full of nurs(muiids and childfcn, ami
of visitors to the city, enjoying its beauties to the full that
lovely morning.

Just as the ladies sat down in a shady nook, a young L'irl
came up to them, and with a certain shyness and sweetness of
manner held out the velvet reticule Miss Phemie had left on
tlie other seat.

'Please, you left your bag. May I give it you?' she said;
and both tlie sisters gave a great start, for the voice was so
familiar that it seemed to them like a voice from the gravo, (H
an echo from that far-off and ha[»py past, when they weiv
young and light of heart, and life, lull of boundless and beau-
tiful possibilities, was all before them.

'>m7*^Hy'^j^m/fii>C''^^*ri^y^:'nfK ii-NvM

)T-x r ^v ;'"M'>'Xi*<%>rxy' a

CHAPTER XVIIL

'> .

KIND HEARTS.

IIEY recovered themselves in a little, however,
^^ and looked with keen interest at tlio 3'oiiiiLj girl
who stood heforo them. She did not look more
than nineteen or twenty, and her face had all
the winsomeness of youth and girlish beauty.
Cut there was a sadness in her expression, a pathetic
curve about her sweet mouth, and a shadoAV under the
eyes, which touclicd the warm hearts of the little ladies at
once. They did not know (|uite what to make of her; she
was well and tastefully dreysed, her shoes were dainty and
neat, but Tier hands were bare, and neither white nor line.
Yet slic f-poke like a lady, and her manner had a quiet grace.

' Thank you, my dear,' said ^liss Phemie, with a little old-
fashioned curtsey. 'It was very stupid of me to leave my
bill,'. Lut my sister and I were talking, and I forgot.'

'It was no trouble to bring it,' said the young girl, with a
sli;-;ht .•^niile as she turned awav.

'It was very kind, my dear. Good morning. Isn't it a
fine morning?' said Miss Janet in her cheerful fashion. Then
the f^isters went back to their seat, and the young stranger
Walked away, slowly, and with a slightly listless step, as if
^lu' had no particular end in view\
' Tliat's a nice young person now, Phemie Seton,' said Miss

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1 63

ST, VEDA'S.

'ii 11.

Janet. 'Did you notice her manner^ How respectful, and
ytit how charming ! What would you think she is ? '

* I can't tell, Janet. She reminded me very much of — of
- somebody I have seen,' said Miss Phemie, with her eyes
lown, and beginning to trace a pattern on the gravel with her
I'Mjasol.

* Now, I just thought the same thing. I wish now I had
i4ved her name,' said Miss Janet musingly.

' Well, she is nut very far away. See, she has gone to sit
lown in the other walk,' said Miss Phemie eagerly. 'Look
it her sad expression, Janet. She looks as if she had a heart
.sorrow, and yet she is so young.'

'Fretting after a sweetheart, likely,' said Miss Janet
brusquely. ' Suppose you go up and ask her to sit by us a
little. If I go, I'll frighten her. You say my manner is not
kind.'

Miss Phemie rose at once, her face glowing with kindliness.
The look on the young stranger's face had won her heart.
She came up to her suddenly, for the girl seemed to be sitting
ill a deep reverie, and Miss Phemie detected a tear on the
rounded cheek.

' Excuse me, my dear, but my sister says, would you corae
and sit by us a little 1 ' she said in her eager way ; ' we are
having a little talk, and we think you look troubled. Come
away, my dear.'

The young girl rose at once, and a flush of gratitude over
spread her sweet face. The kindness simply oflered was
simply accepted, and in a few minutes there were three on tlie
shady seat ''notead of two ; and ilmy were talking with tlio
familiarity of old friends, at least the two little ladies talkcil
and the stranger listened, only answering when she was askcil
a direct question.

All the while Miss Janet watched her with her keen,
slirewd eye, and wondered about her, and what brought her
iliure alone.

KIND HEARTS.

163

'Do you live in Edinburgh, my dear?' she asked presently,
(l(!t(ninined to find out something about her if possible.

' No, but I expect to live in Edinburgh now,' she answered
(liiictly.

' With your father and mother?'

'Xo ; I have none.'

' Oil, my dear, that is sad. Have yon any aunts and uncles
ill town, then V

' No ; I have none.'

' That is very sad, my dear,' repeated Miss Phemie sympa-
thetically.

' As to that, Phemie Seton, I don't know,' said Miss Janet
hinis(iu(,'ly ; *it is far sadder, I think, to have aunts and uncles
hkc ours, wlio think thev have the right to meddle with
tlit'ir jtoor nieces without helping them. Our young friend is
perhaps far better otf without them.'

' Perhaps ; I didn't tliink of that,' assented Miss Phemie
meekly.

' Would you think it very curious of us, my dear, to
inquire, your name?' asked Miss Janet presently. 'It is
rather awkward to have to call you our young friend, isn't

itr

• My name, ma'am, is Annie Erskine,' said the young girl
withmit hesitation, though they saw her lip quiver,

' And you are an orphan?'

' Yes, ma'am.'

' Don't tliink us still more curious. We would like to

iMt'iieiKl you, my dear. AVe are orphans ourselves, and

i:'i'"i(]y ever thinks anything about us. We have a great

iiiiiiy relations, quite too many, still we l)efriend ourselves;

Hi (h» lell us if vou have any trouble, and what is {^rievint;

"U." >aiil Mi.^s Janet, with a quiet synijiathy which quite

imi;i/:m1 Miss Phemie, and made her look at her sister with

||">1 uiihounded admiration.

■ 1 was wondeiing. just when the lady come up to me,' said

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ST. VEDA'S,

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Annie Erskine in a low voic?, 'whether there could h« in
this big city any one to help nie.'

' Why, of coiirpe, there are hundrefls, thousands,' said Miss
Janet quietly. ' Bless me, my dear, every other person you
meet has a kind heart, in spite of the aunts and uncles. Most
people will do a kind action if they only knew how. 15ut,
my dear, tell us precisely what kind of help you need ; of
course,' she added, with an expressive glance at the youiij,'
girl's neat attire, 'you do not need either food or clothing.'

' No,' said Annie, with a slight sigh ; ' and I have a little
money. What I want is something to do.'

'A very good thing. "Satan finds," as Dr. Watts says,'
quoth Miss Janet, without giving herself time to give the
quotation in full. * It is a healthy sign when a young pcison
is really anxious to work. But what kind of work would
you doV

' If I only knew any one who would take me as a servant.
I can work with my hands, because I have been taught. I
am very strong and very willing. There is nothing I would
not do to repay any one who would give me a home in return.'

The two sisters looked at each other for a moment, but
neither spoke. Miss Phemie, who was not discreet nor far-
seeing, and who had instantly fallen in love with the romantic
young stranger, would have invited her to Northumberland
Street there and then ; but Miss Janet, behind Annie Erskine's
back, kept her in check by a warning forefinger. She was
not less interested in the girl, however, herself.

' Have you ever, my dear, been in service before ? '

' No, I have not.'

' Ah, then, you cannot be expected to know that there is a
certain form to be gone through. References as to — to—
suitability' (Miss Janet hesitated between the word she usco
and the word ' character,' that other bugbear between mistrrss
and maid) 'are usually asked.'

* So they told me.'

KIND HEARTS,

165

'Who?'

'At the register where I inquired yesterday,* said Annio
F,i>kino. ' Tliey tohl me it was useless to try to obtiiin a
>itiiali<tn of any kind without references from my past

cIDldnyiT.'

' That is so,' nothlcd Miss Janet. ' And, of course, as you
liiivf never been in service l)efore, vou had none to mve.
W Ii.ic .lid V'>u come from? Is th"re nohodv to sav a lieliiful

• t I J.

word for you V

' No,' said Annie quickly, and a look of indescribable pain,
which was not lost upon the little ladies, crossed her face.
I'liilh liad now become intensely interested.

' And where are you staying just now?'

'At Maitland's Hotel in Cockburn Street. But I shall
iitM'd to leave there, because it takes too much money to live
ill it.'

Miss Janet was(n;"tr 1a'..»'ii aback. She looked very keenly
ii,u;uiii into the girl's face, Ijut the large sweet eyes met hers
fearlessly, conscious of no wrong. No, if ever innocence and
iiuiitv of heart were reflected in a human countenance thev
were in Annie Erskine's, and in) 'Mediately Miss Janet was
wholly reassured. But it was stranger, passing strange, for
this girl, a mere child she seemed in the eyes of the older
woiiieii, to be living alone in a city hotel.

' My dear, I must be very plain with you, because I wisli
to he kind,' she said, and she laid her little hand with the
utmost gentleness Qii the girl's arm. ' There is a great deal
about you which is very i)uzzling. I fear very much that
iiiilos you can give a more satisfactory account of yourself,
you will find it impossible to get what you desire. Am I not
tight, Phemie Seton?'

'It is a very uncharitable world, sister,' answered Miss
riuiuic with a little sigh, for she felt her hope nipped in the
bu.l.

' Ay, it is. Can you not tell us a little more, my dear.

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about yourself, and where you came from, and wh}'- you arc
here? You look as if you had been well cared for, as if ynti
had had a happy home, and a good father and mothi-r.'

' So I had, so I had,' said the girl, with a half sob, and she
turned her sweet face away to hide her quivering lips. Miss
Janet gently patted the hand her own still touchcil, and
Miss Phemie silently wiped away her own syniiKithctii
tears.

' I cannot tell you very much, because I must be silent f^r
the sake of others,' said the young girl, regaining her coni-
posure i)resently. ' I had to leave home because by staying I
made others unhappy. It was no fault of my own. 1 wdull
have helped it if I could. I saw that it was better for nu td
leave, so I came away, and they must not know wheni. i!ut
if I cannot get anything to do, I must go back or send, becaiLso
I promised that I would never be in want.'

' Then they knew of your intention, and allowed you to go V
said Miss Janet breathlessly.

'No, they did not; but I could not leave, when they had
been so good, without leaving a message ; that was the
message I left to comfort those who loved me.'

' My dear, you talk beautifully. One can hardly believe it
is all real. You have made a sacrifice, then, for those you
lover

' Yes ; but I did not know till now v/hat a fearful tiling it
is to be cut off from all we love. If I had known, I think 1
should not have had strength to do it.'

' Phemie Seton,' said Miss Janet, in a strange quick way.
* we will walk a little away, and have a talk, and Annie will
watch our reticules till we come back. You will not go away,
my dear. Yes, it is about you we are going to speak.'

And the little ladies went off arm-in-arm to devise a plmi
whereby they could help and benefit this friendless but heroic
girl.

* Phemie Seton,' said Miss Janet, with more agitation

KIND HEARTS.

167

than she usually betrayed, * what can we do for that poor

child r

* Xothirig, sister, unless we take her home with us.'

' And that we can hardly do ; at least, what would the
world say % It would say we were a couple of silly old fools.
She may be an impostor, Phemie Seton, but she doesn't look
like it.'

' No ; and, Janet, has she not a look of our Annie about
her, and a ring in her voice like our Annie's % ' said Miss
Plieniie tremblingly. * Why should she remind us so of our
sister, if not to touch our hearts, and make us give her all the
help we can % '

' She is willing to work. I like the way she speaks,' said
Miss Janet, not appearing to notice the comparison her sister
had drawn, though it had struck her also. ' I don't think,
Phemie Seton, she would give the trouble Elizabeth Ann
Jackson gave, and we would never miss her bite.*

It was a cheerful assurance, though in truth 'ach bite in
the little household was of importance.

' It would be delightful, truly delightful, sister, uO have that
bright young creature in the house ; but what would Mrs.
Christopher and Aunt Mackintosh say?'

' Let Mrs. Christopher and Aunt Mackintosh go to Kamt-
chatka,' quoth Miss Janet irately, ' though they will say we
should be put in the asylum. Well, are we or are wo not to
take this child home with us, Phemie Seton? Mind you, I
believe the Lord has sent her directly to us, and that He
allowed you to be careless with your silver-clasped reticule on
puipose.'

' I believe it too, Janet ; and what a history is in the
child's face ! Miss Ferrier or Miss Austen could have made a
beautiful story out of it. Do you think she has made the
sacrifice for some suitor above her in station V

' Oh, very likely. There will be a man of some kind in
the matter. Well, Phemie Seton, we are agreed, are we ? 1

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ST. VEDA'S.

liope we may not rue our good nature. Well, well ; we can't
be left much |)oorer than we arc, and I don t think that sweet
child will rob us of our faith in our kind.'

M)h no ; and just think, Jatiet, of the perils we may savf!
her from,' said Miss Phcmie, and turned round to retiu'n to the
scat, almost as if she feared these perils would l)e before lier.

'Premie • eto i, she h like our Annie ! ' cried Miss Janet,
and \\v\ TMiiiy check })aled a little. 'Could it be? Oh, it
couM J x! ■ '. c I shall never rest until 1 find out all aixnit
her. Lci/ us g( d ask her if she will agree to our offer.'

There was a certain anxiety in the h)ok which Annie
Krskinci cast on the two little ladies as they returned to her
»id(\ For two days she had l)een wandering about the city,
s eking in such ways as she could thiidc of for som thiiitJ to
do. Of course, she had found it hard. There is not much
l»ity in a great city for the young and friendless, especially if
their pei be umiccompanied by any inlluential recomnn'mhi-
tion. It is an une(iual strife, in which the friendless fall.
Our Annie had tastc^l something of the d^ep bitterness of that
weary search for work. iShe found the world, of which she
had till now only heard and read, a poor place, after all, fur
such. as she.

But she was being watched and cared for. She was a child
of many prayers, and the heart of Adam Erskine the eliler
was constantly uplifted for his 'bairn.' It was put into the
lu^airts of these two kind women, whom the world despised, ta
become the friends in need to Annie Erskine.

' Well, my dear,' said IMiss Janet briskly, for she dearly
loved to lie a kind action ; ' we have had our little talk. We
are very sorry for you, and anxious to befriend you. We will
tell you all about ourselves. AVe are orphans, and we live
together, and though we have very little money, we are very
happy and comfortable together. We have been trying lately
to do without a little maid, but it is too much for us. Vou
see my sister, Miss Seton, is very accomplished, and sits at

i* '' is .1', I

KIND HEARTS.

169

her easel all day.' It would have been impossible to tell
wlictlicr Miss Janet was in earnest here or making fun of her
si>t('r, liut there was certainly a twinkle in her eye. ' We
art' ([uite willing, my dear, if y^u are, tliat you should come
hoiiic with us. You know how to work, and are very willing,
v n say, so we hope you will come. We cannot give you a
Liiciit (leal of mon.ey, but you will have a comfortable home;
ainl, tliough we are j)oor, we are ladies, my dear, and con-
nected with the best families in Edinburgh.'

Annie Erskine never spoke a word, but a sweet li:ht, like
till' (lawn on the summer sea, seemed to glor )n her face.

'Will you come then, my dear?' \m\-.^(\ Miss Janet,
nndtling reassuringly, when she saw the i,* 'I's Ijeautiful eyes
filling with large, slow tears.

' We wdl not ask any more quest'ons, continued Miss
Janet, 'though I think it righi to tell y . tiiat I d(m't believe
any other women in Edinburgh except Pheniie Scton arid I
M'ouKl do such a thing. Our nioces and nephews say we are
cracked, and perhaps we are a little odd ; but our hearts are all
liLiht, and, if you will trust us, you will not regret it.'

The tears had quite overflowed now, and were falling on
Annie's trembling hands. She was very silent always in
moments of deep feeling, and oh ! surely that was one.

At last she found her voice. ' If you will take me,' she
."aid, anil the tones of that voice once more struck strange
ilinnls of memory in the hearts of the little sisters. 'I will
pcrvi" you night and day. There is nothing I will not do to
show niy gratitude. I don't want money. I will serve you
as faithfully as I have been taught to serve, for love.'

Miss Phemie was sobbing now, quite audibly, and her tears
wi'i'c falling, to the serious detriment of her blue brocaile.

'That's right, that's right, my dear. Don't cry,' said Miss
'hnu't rather shrilly, for she felt rather shaky herself. ' And
I't'ihaps, after a while, when you know us better, you'll tell us
all about yourself and your past troubles.'

i^ '*

» »

170

ST. VEDAS,

.'I

* Yes,' said Annie. * T will tell you it all some day very
-non, because you have trusted me now. Every word 1 have
s;iid is truth.'

• Yes, yes, bless me. Do you think that, though we arc
odd, we have no discriminating powers? Well, I suppose if
you are coniing to be our little maid, the sooner you come tho
better. Sui)pose wo take a cab, Phemie Seton, and bring her
home at once.'

It was a curious agreement between mistress and maid;
a curious scene altogether to be enacted in Princes Street
Gardens. l>ut nobody had paid any attention to it. Annie
Erskine slept that night, though she did not know it, in the
room, ay, in the very bed, her mother had occupied in her
girlhood. With what deep gratitude she lay down in that
bed, I cannot tell you. God had given to her at last, a hoiiic.

And the little sisters % Tliey talked far into the night, and
when th(^y slojit at last their slumber was sound and sweet, as
il must be fur uli who have such hearts as theirs.

!^:!^ •^!^:s^.^y^:^^-^^

'-■A

CHAPTER XIX.

A NEW TROUBLE.

^iW^Vl" ^^'^ ^^^ until ho was seated in the train that
LIj( night that Arehi-j (Jrant he^jan to wondeiMvhat
could ho the nature of tho husincss which necessi-
tated his presence in London. The loii,L,'er ho
thought ah(Mit it the more puzzling it seemed,
but he was oblig(!d to dismiss the subject at last,
and try to j)ossess his soul in patience till the
morning. He slej)t part of the journey, and in his wakiug
nioniciits gave himself up to dreams of Annie, looking forward,
as is the, way of youth and hope, to a future which appean.-d
to him without a cloud. He know his father's ambition for
liiiii, and his own soul was not void of a desire to make life
i;ii(m1 and great, so far as opportunity presented itself in his
^vav. lie looked forward then, pictured a busy, useful life
•^iMiit iu his country's service. lie saw Annie at his side,
I'Vcd, admired, honoured wherever she went, lie had no
mi-giving concerning her fitness for any position; but then he
Mas very much in love.

Although he did not weary very much on tho journey, ho
^vas glad when he arrived in London. lie glanced hastily
along the platform, half expecting to sec his father waiting
f'trliini; then, signing to a porter, followed him to tho Great
Xurthern Hotel. He wondered a littlo at his father's choice of

171

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lilk:.r

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11 fi'^H<« '

1 i^^H#i

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i;l^Dl< P '■

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IMH 1

17a

57: VEDA'S.

r(!si(lonco. It was r('1<1<)Iii, iii(lt'(!(l, tluit Sir Arcliic slcjit \\\ ,1
hotel, as he liad lii.s own suiter of rooiiia at liis Cluh, wliciv Ih'
coiiM liavo coiiifort uiid quiet.

lie was shown up at once to tlie private sittin;^'-ro(»ui, win re
his fath(!r was finishing' l»reakfast.

'Archie, my hoy, I th()U;4lit I sliouM have heeii in tiiiir to
ni('(!t you,' cried Sir Archie, juiupin;^' up, and ^nipi»iii^ llif
yoiiiin "">" warmly hy the hand. ' lUit I passed a wivtrli.d
ni^'ht, and 1 suppo-c must have slept in the morning', as it \va.>
j'i^dit when I awoke. Kin.L; tlu; l)ell, and they'll brin^' some-
thing' up. It'll he in hy the time you luive washed.'

'Have you been ill, father T asked Archie in concern, for
Ins father's face was ha^'gard and worn, and it .seemed us if lii.s
hair had whitened since he left home.

'No, not ill, at least in body. I am horribly worried, my
boy. But there, I shall not say a single word until yon liavc
breakfasted. 1 feel better and strouger at sight of you,
Archie,' said the elder man, looking atl'ectionately at his
stalwart son.

Archie took up his portmanteau, and departed to a dressing--
room in a perplexed frame of mind. He could not understand
his father's changed aj)pearance and troubled looks. He kiu'w
of nothing to cause them, and yet he was not a man given to
imagining ills. There must be some real cause.

lie did not linger long over his toilet. In ten minutes lie
was back in the sitting-room, where he swallowed a hasty
breakfast, and then turned inquiringly to his father, who had
the Tunes before him, but had not raised his eye from the tup
id the column where he had first fixed it.

' Now, dad, for this momentous worry. Let's hear it, as
[ can't for the life of me give it any shape. Why, 1 thought
everything was going swimmingly of late — investments and
everything returuing a decent percentage ; so what can it be?'

Sir Archie smoothed out his paper on the table, and turned
his anxious eye full on his son's fine, open face.

A NEW TROUBLE.

»73

' It is .1 worse troulilc tlian an iiniirolltaltli' invostin«>nt, ni\
lii.y, and one wliic-li, 1 fear, will conijtlctcly niiii us. Can i
yiiii make a f^'Uos.s at it?'

'No, liow can IV (juotli the yoiinj.; man inipati- m \ .
'Dmrt keep nic in snspcnsc.'

'Well, Archie, 1 supiidsc 1 need not ask Vdii wlntli.i \mii
rcnii'iiilicr tlic story of your uncle, wlio married lnuli>|ily ai i|
Went abroad with his youn^,' wife?'

' 1 rt'iiiemher it perfectly.'

' Vou have heard mc; say tliat for years I felt that I Miiiy
held the )>lace in trust for him and his. It is only m|' Li,.
yrais 1 have felt at all s-jcure in my ])()sition. A yoniin umi:
has turiuul up, come home from India, clainiiiin' to Ik- lii-
sdii, and demanding his rights. Is not that IrouhK' eiioiiL:!).
Archie?*

Archie s])rang to his feet.

'()h, nons(,'nse ! Uncle Archie's son! If he; really existr,!,
why liave we never heard of him before? Is his mother uiih
him?'

'Yes, Imt I have not seen lier.'

' Have you seen him?'

'Yes, and I must say, Archie, that he has a look of \\\-<
fiithcr, provided your uncle was his father. The thing st-cincd
trivial enough until I Law him.'

'\Vhere is he?'

'Here, in London, just now; but he has been down in
l'"iwickshire, and went to Purves, at Aytcn. lie bad the
Wi, lie place explored before we knew of it. Purves only tohl
iiic after he had gone.'

'And what does Purves say?*

'He pretends to laugh at it, but I can see that it is w.nyinu
liiiii- He came up with me on Monday niglil, and we wc k-
l";-;'ihi'r at Buld's all yesterday.'

■And what does Bold say?'

'iJuld says it is a tissue of lies, the story tlie young

'^»

ill

\ ^'

1 1

i J

174

ST. VEDA'S,

man lias brought witli him, and pooh - poohs the wliole
ail'air.'

M am of Hold''; opinion, aTuI ho is one of tlie sli;u]ic.>t
Inuiistcrs in Loudon. What kind of proof has this fcllipw
brou,L;ht witli him ?'

'lie has some thin,i;s which undoiihtodly hclonged loyiur
uncle ; his watch, with chain and seals, marked with (lur
en st, and there are letters, too.'

MUit is there a ccrtiticate of his mother's marriage, and of
hishirthr

'No, these are wanting, though they say they can pincm..
coi)ies. It seems they have l)een lost through cartdcs^ncsy.

Archie Grant laughed. Somehow he did not feel iiiudi
inclined to take this matter at all seriously.

'Dear dad, don't bother your head. The thing's a Ixii^iis
story, and the claim will prove a bogus claim too, you will sic.
You'll be going to fight, I suppose, should it come to a liuiit,
though it s(Hmis too absurd.'

' l>old thinks tlie lad will be easily silenced ; but tlniv is
the haunting fear that, tin >gh we may manage to put him
down, by so doing we may be doing a great wrong. It wnuld
l)e a fearful thing, Archie, to keep St. Veda's from the ri-lilt'iil
heir.'

'/am its rightful heir after you, dad,' cried young Anliir
manfully, 'and / won't give uj) my rights easily, I prdiiii.-'
\ou. A\'here is the claimant to be seeni'

'I pi'omised to meet him at twelve o'clock to-day, and In -^
witli him to see his mother. I wanted you to accompany iiif.'

'All right,' said Archie, and then a siK-nce fell upon ihciii.
which soini'liow neither cared to break.

• Vou can't wonder, my boy, that this has annoyed me.' s.ijil
Sir Archie a( length. 'You know tlie state <>f my atl';iii-.
I am a poor man. Should this claim l)i' establisheil, lliciv i>
nothing but b(>ggary before me. I have no caUing to fall
l)ai'k upon; and I am too old to learn. There is a iVajful

A NEW TROUBLE,

»75

error in the npliringing of gentlomen's son«?, Aroliie. Al)sol-
utely no provision is made for the vici^situiles of lifo, ttkI yet
tliese meet us on every hand. I fear 1 have not done wisely
by yon, my boy.'

'Yes, you have; you've given me a sound constitution and
a good education. It's my own hhime if I don't make use of
these. Tm all right. It's mamma and Ethel that are bother-
ing you, I see. But dovHt give up hope. Bless me, you'll see
tluMo's nothing in it. Do you suppose Uncle Archie's widow
and child, if they had lived, would not have been hcaul of
lull,;' since ? It's too preposterous to think of it.*

It was impossible not to be imbued with something of the
young man's hopes and courage. The cloud lifted a little from
Sir Archie's brow ; the burden, shared with another, lost half
its heaviness; he even smiled, looking at his son's hand-
some, flushed face. Archie Grant was burning with indigna-
tion against the impostor, as he had at once designated him.
lie refused to entertain even for a moment the idea that there
might be a shadow of truth in the story. To him it was a
tissue of falsehoods, a thing to laugh at, or be indignant at
perhaps; but to entertain seriously for a moment, never.

Yet he could undert;tand how it weighed on his father's heart.
He thought of the frail women at St. Veda's, to whom luxury
and ease were almost as necessary as the breath of life, and
sympathized greatly with his father's harassing anxiety. Had
there been a possibility that any truth might be found in this
claim, it would have been a serious matter indeed for them all.

'It seems hard, if, after the best years of my life have l)e('n
given to St. Veda's, I should be cast adrift. The vears duiin<'
which I held trust were lost to me, for I could not carve my
own [)ath in life. There would be injustice, I think, in the
law wlii 'h woidd count all I have done as nothing, and turn
ine (iir without a penny in favour of this youth. Without a
[>enny it would be practically, Archie, for then; is no provision
made for younycr sons. The ^ w thousands my father left to

■ft*-

i ,

I I

. I

176

ST. VEDA'S.

I*.

me have been all spent on the place, and I could claim no
compensation. Tiie new Luird might, of course, give me of
his bounty if he so pleased, but he would not be legally
bound.'

' Oh, father, it makes me wild to hear you speak ! ' cried
young Archie hotly. 'Of his bounty, indeed! I think you
had better let me go alone to see this precious woukl-be
relative of ours, or I am convinced you'll hand over the whole
thing to him without let or hindrance.'

Sir Archie smiled at his son's impetuous speech.

* Xo, we'll go together, and we'll temper each other,' he
said quietly. * You l('ft your mother and Ethel well, I liopoV

* Oil yes, all right ; but I can't speak of anything but fliis
strange affair. What manners has this young fellow? Is he
aggressive and assertive, or is he rather apologetic?'

'A curious mixture of both, and he is very re«?peetful to
me. I lather think from what he says that it is at his
mother's instigation rather than his own that he has come
forward with his claim. And yet why not?' said Sir Archie
with a sigh. ' If she be really Archie's widow, it is not to be
expected that she should wish her boy not to claim his own.
But there are a good many tilings requiring to be cleared up.
It will take time and money, too. We have a lot of harass-
ing care before us, Archie.'

* I should just think it will require clearing up,' cried tho
young man again. * It is hardly likely we are going to walk
meekly out of the place before we prove whether the claimant
is an impo.'^tor or not. Well, are we going to keep our
appointment ? '

' Yes, we had better go round by the Temple, and you ran
hear what Bold has to say. j\Irs., or Lady Grant, as she cAU
herself, and her son, are staying at a private hotel in Arundel
Street, and it is there I must keep my appointment at noon.'

The father and son drove in a hansom to the Temple, hut
did not talk much on the way. Sir Archie was ju'e-ucciiiiifd.

A NEW TROUBLE.

177

as pcvlmps was natural, but it made his son indignantly sorry
to sec him so downcast.

It was not Sir Archie's nature to take a gloomy view of
iliiir^s, and yet, if this claim should be established, his outlook
for tliL' future was not j)articularly bright. lie was a man past
middle life, tlie best of his days were gone, and with theui the
■I sir" or ability to lay his hand to any new tiling. Secure in
liis ii lii'ritance, he had of late years spent more lavishly, and
had untiling to 'all back upon in the day of need. He had
iiidccil sp(!nt his all on St. Veda's. It had come to him
heavily burdened, and by self-denial nnd strict economy he
had |iaid off the burdens one by one. And were these self-
ihiiying years to have this ending, that he should be sent
adrift, with age stealing on him, with two helpless women
ili'|ieiiding on him, to face the cruel world, which has so very
liuh' encouragement or sympathy to give those who are down?

* I think there would be no ditliculty in getting a Govern-
iiieiit ajipointment for you, Archie,' he said, giving voice to
one ujtpermost thought. ' We have a good many friends in
the Government, and Lord ^Marchbanks would do his best for
\o\n' fatli(;i''s son, for the sake of school and college days.'

' We won't ask him,' said young Archie rather savagely.
'I iiitcml to stand for the Shire at the election; and as for
this abominable business, I tell you jilainly that, whatever
you do, /// fight the ground to the last inch, if the upstart
Iiasn't the common sense to retire before it conies to a real
waifare.'

' lUit, Archie, suppose he is your cousin ; think of the
injustice.'

' \V(dl, if he is my cousin, let him prove it to my satisfac-
ti'iii, and 1 11 ask his pardon, and retire with becoming grace,'
Slid An hie grimly. 'In tlie meantime, it is war to the knif(i
hetween tlie two Archies. I suppose he calls himself
Arehihald Grant r

'Of course. Well, here we are. It is possible Lold may

178

S2\ VEDA'S.

1 . I'3

i»ili!:'4

ll^l

>5<:!l|

not be up in town yet. He is a rich man, Archie, and can
a Hold to take Ids ease. He S(!l(loni conies up before noon.'

Ihit Mr. Bold was in liis private room, and uufeigncilly
lijlad to see his client. He had known Sir Archie at Ktun,
and though they had not had the same Ahna Mafir, tlie
s.'lio'illio-, fii(Midshij) had never been dimmed. Francis lloM
belonged to an old ^Shropshire familv, the r>r)lds of AVintlmri.c
Hall, and it was pure love of the law which had made liim
choose it as a profession. Such lacing the case, it was nattiial
tiiat he should be one of its most brilliant ornaments, lie
was a splendidly handsome man, tidl, well-built, aristocratic-
looking, with nothing to mark the lawyov. except ]»erliaps
the penetrating keenness of his flashing eyes. He was Sir
Archie's senior by two years, Imt looked iiinny _,ears younger.

'Good morning, Grant; and this is your s^i, eh? A tall
fellow, but not quite such a giant as. jr.ino. These youiic;
upstarts make us old fellows, don't they^ Sit down, sit
down. And what do you think, my lad, about this bogus
claim ? '

There was a twinkln in his eye which was immensely
reassuring to youn.f '. ; )iie. Perhaps he had been slightly
influenced by his faihers inclination to take the matter very
seriously.

' I'm glad to hear you call it a bogus claim, i\rr. T>oU.
Don't you think it foolish of my father to regard it serioii-ly
for a moment '^ '

' Yes ; but sometimes these things give more worry than
more formidable aflairs,' returned the lawyer. ' You have
not yet seen the person calling herself Lady Grant 1 '

' Xo ; we are on our way to keep an ap[)ointnient with her
this morning,' returned Jbir Archie. ' I am not very sure
about taking this young man, in case he should treat nur
relatives to some plain speaking. It is not easy to bridle the
young colts, Bold.'

' You are right, but I would give him a licence here were

A NEW TROUBLE.

179

I you/ laughed the lawyer. 'AVell, Mr. Archie, I have doiio
luv utmost to persuade your father that there is notliing to l)e
apprehended from these people. I have looked into the
tliiii:^ thoroughly, and I assure you both it couldn't stand.
Tlirre are too many missing links. If they pcjrsist in pushing
their claim, they'll dearly rue it.'

' It is possible, Mr. Bold, for prcyof to be lost through care-
lissness. If they can establish their idijutity, 1 should be
the last man to refuse them justice,' said Sir Archie iinxiously.

'My dear Sir Archie, if they succeed in establishing their
identity, the law will see that they have justice in spite of
ynii,' said the lawyer, laughing again. *I entreat you, don't
tioul>l(! vour head about it. "Will you look in after the
interview, and let me know what your opinion of the lady isl
1 liiipe to have the pleasure of seeing her myself soon. She
must be a clever advc^nturess.'

Don't bestow these epithets on her until it is provi'd that
sli(! U an adventuress, Bold,' said Sir Archie as tli».y rost! to

'Vour f.ather is ultra - sensitive, Mr. Archie,' said i?ie
lawyer as he shook hands with the young man. He wa'.ijlied
liiiH cross the Temple Court with a curious expression on -as
iiauilsome face.

' P<jor Grant ! ' he said to himself, 'thi.- as told upon him.
He is not the man he was; but the V)t>\, like all boys, has
ti;4lit in him, and will show it in good time. He will do
liattlo for himself and his father too.'

\:\

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here wore

.-d>j^i^ic^>^^^:^:.^r'y^^L^^ ^s-.^'^>-ie^>g?S^>A^J5^^ris^g>^A^

Mp^S^^^%d-^^^^..r€rM^-

Zg^g^s:^<aa^:A^^^^g^'a^!ia^<^

CHAPTER XX.

•i

MY LADY GRANT.

HE was a very haiukonie woman, and was aware
of the fact. Her liuely- moulded figure wa.s
admirably set off hy the perfect fit of her
sweeping hlack gown ; her soft hair, just sireakcd
with silvt", was smoothly braided under tlio
exquisitely becoming morsel of lace and tulle wliii h
could scarcely be called a cap. Yes, a handsome
woman, and a lady beyond a doubt was she who calletl herself
the widow of Sir Archibald Grant of St. Veda's and i\foaiit
Meldrum. Her face, perfect in feature though it was, had not
the winning expression and sweetness which would have niado
h^r irresistible. There was a restlessness in the eye, a firm,
even hard line about the mouth, which gave some index to
the r.ature Avithin. She was a woman who, all her life siiici'
her very childhood, liad been taught to make the best of li^r
opporn nities. She had very early learru'd the lesson of self-
ri_!ianca and prompt action, and with these two weapons,
coupled vith a woman's consummate tact and fascination, liud
I ado capital out of opportunities which in the hands of any
other woman would have been meagre indeed. She lut'l
dressed herself with more than usual care that morning, ami
the result was perfection.

A miniature brooch, s(!t in fine small diamonds, fastened the

MY LADY GRANT.

i8i

soft quilting at her stately throat. There was a touch o;t'
white at the wrists also, which only set off the exceedin/^
fairness of her beautiful hands. She wore no ornament on
tliom except her wedding ring. Her expression had been
long studied, and seemed natural — a skilful and touching
combination of sweet resignation and pen.^ive regret.

The ordinary observer could not have passed her by without
ii thrill of admiration and pity. She had exercised her taste
ill the arrangement of the small drawing-room at the hotel.
Witliout doing very much, she had added a few touches here
and there — these indescribable touches which only a wom..?.'s
hand can give, the careless draping of a curtain here and
there, a gleam of bright colour to relieve a acmbre corner, or
something set to tone down a more objectionable tint, and the
arranging of plants and flowers everywhere — all these had
made of the plain, unlovely room, a place something in keep-
ing with the graceful presence of the woman who had made it
her t(>niporary home. The blinds were down, and the curtains
swaying lazily to and fro in the gentle wind ; the room was
fresh and cool and sweet, when the two gentlemen were
usliered into it.

Lady Grant, as she wished to be called, rose to her feet at
the opening of the door, and stood ready to receive them,
her manner touched with unmistakable dignity and grace.
Ardiibald Grant the younger started as his eyes fell upon her,
and a chill seemed to cross his heart. The woman had the
look of a queen ; dignity, pride, breeding were in her very
attitude. Looking at her, he felt that it miyht be true, after
all.

' Good morning,' she said, with a slight smile and inclination
of the head.

Sir Archie gravely bowed, and looked towards his son.

'This is my son. He has just come up from Scotland. It
was necessary, of course, that he should be immediately
acquainted with your arrival in England.'

I I

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182

ST. VEDA'S,

* I am pleased to see him. I should have know.i him a
Grant anywliere. He is very like his cousin.'

She extended her hand with gracious frankness as slic
uttered these words.

' And you,' she said with emphasis, as she looked on tlio
face of the elder man, * are so like my dead husband, thai iiiv
heart nearly stood still when you came into the room. I
cannot expect that you can be glad to see me; but will ynu
be seated plea.se ? Archie will be in presently. I think you
are rather before your time.'

IMechanically they took the chairs to which she pointcil.
They were dumb in her presence. It was as if she had cast
over them some subtle spell. But the gloom perceptiMy
deepened on Sir Archie's face. If he had had a doubt in liis
mind regarding this woman's identity, it fled at sight of her.
She was no vulgar impostor, but a lady, beautiful, gracious in
manner and mien, fit enough mate for any Grant that ever
lived. He no longer wondered at that old infatuation M'liich
had made his hot-heuded brother throw prudence to the winds.
The beauty, rare still in its maturity, must in early youth
have been a thing to marvel at. She saw the impression she
had made, and her heart thrilled with triumph. She was
j)laying a desperate game. In her own heart she had had,
tul now, but a faint hope of success. But an unscrupulous,
amltitiuus woman will dare much even for one slender chance
of success. ' I can scarcely hope that you are glad to see nic,'
she rei)eated in her sweet, caressing voice. 'This interview
is as ])ainful for me as it is for you. You may believe that it
is only for my son's sake that I should ever have come bark
to Englanil. I could have struggled on in India alone, but I
had a sacred duty to fulfil towards him.'

' What we cannot understand, madam,' said Sir Archie, nud
his voice had a weary ring in it, ' is why you have allowed so
many y^ars to elapse between your husband's death and your
return If you are indeed the widow of my poor brother,

MY LADY GRANT,

183

wliy (lid you not acquaint us with the true circumstances of
his (Icatli as well as with the existence of your son 1 I under-
Fto(ul him to say to Mr. Bold that his father had heen dead
for more than twenty years.'

'Twenty-two years ])ast last August,' said tho widow, and
luT eyes liad a far-olF look in them, as if memory 1 (ridged
that wide space, and renewed the sting of that bitter sorrow.

* I am quite well aware that that will seem unaccountable
t(i most pe()i)le, to all who do not know mc,^ she said, with a
c.itch in her voice. 'But, sir, remeiyher the circumstances of
my marriage. ^ly own peo[)le turned against me com[»letely ;
my mother would not even bid me goixbbye. You will not
have forgotten, I sujipose, what treatment I received at the
hand of Sir Archibald Grant, my boy's grandfather. lie
looked at me that day in Edinburgh as if I were meaner than
the dust beneath his feet, though his firstborn son had thought
me worthy to be his wife. "When we set sail tlmt day from
Liver[)ool, we said,, in the bitterness of our hearts, that never
again should we set foot in England. \Ve made a vow that
we s! ould live and die in the land of our adoption, a vow
which was renewed on my husband's deathbed.'

' //t; had no ambition, then, for his son to claim his own?'
said Sir Archie, keeping his eye keenly fixed on the woman's
face.

* None. He never forgot or forgave his father's treatment
of me. For more than twenty years I have kept that vow,
hut I have broken it now for my son's sake.'

There was a silence then for a few minutes. Sir Archie kept
liis eyes fixed keenly on the face of the woman before him.
She might have quailed beneath that searching, mournful
gaze, but she was an actress of consummate skill. As he
looked, it was as if some sudden inspiration came to him.
Uis son saw his listlessness vanish ; saw him draw himself up
•ay if some new strength, a renewal of hope, had been infused
into his squL

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' Iliive you liad any conininnication with your own kiii^licd
since your return to P'nglatid?'

A sli|^'lit, very sli^lit colour rose in Lady Grant's fair clicok.
He had hiid his finger on a weak point; here she must Ije on
her guard.

' We liave made incjuiries, and I have learned that my
mother is dead. If my sisters arc still alive, we iiave Ikm-u
unable to trace them,' she answered quietly. ' It is my
intention to go to Edinburgh very soon to make full pers( mil
inquiries. I fear, howdver, that neither of my sisters lias
survived. As a family we were not robust.'

' Your maiden name was Seton, I understand.'

* Yes, Annie Forbes - Seton. We were of a good family,
brother, though your father held us in such scorn.'

Young Archie bit his lip. The word * brother ' could not
be expected to fall pleasantly on his ears.

' Pardon me if 1 seem inquisitive, madam,' said Sir Archie
gravely. * It is natural that I should be anxious to hear the
fullest particulars about my brother. Tell me what he did in
India. He took small means with him, and as we never aL;ain
heard of or from him, we could send him no help.'

' We did not need it, we were happier without it,' was
the proud reply. ' Although my husband was a Gr.int of
St. Veda's, he was not too proud to work with his hands
for his wife. On the voyage we became acquainted with
a gentleman who owned an extensive sugar jilantation
about two hundred miles from Madras. I suppose Archie
told him something of our circumstances, for he offered lum
a situation on the estate, and we travelled up willi him
directly on landing. We found there a happy home.'

' What kind of a situation ? '

Archie the younger could almost have smiled at the manner
of his father's questioning. It was grave, quiet, measured as
that of a judge.

* As a kind of manager over the coolies ; of course it was

MV L.iDV GRANT.

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mcniiil toil for ii (Iiaiit, 1»iit lu^ never r('<,M'('tt('(l it. Tin-
iiiitstiT iuitl iiis wife were niir kind, dcMiU'd IVicnds. Yes,
wi' Were very liiipiiy in niii' little Iimiuc.'

'hid you remain there till his death?'

'Yes, my Inishaiid eaii^dit ;i chill, and died uf a^nie after
four days' illness.'

'And did he not urffe you to return to yiair owm jieojih'?'

' No, he advised n)e to stay where 1 was. Th.isc who had
lii'fiiciided him wo\dd conLinuu to befriend m- and my child.
They did so. I (-ontinued an inii'ate of their home from my
liiishinil's death till seven months ago, when we h'ft for
Kn:dand.'

'It was certainly extraordinary kin<lness,' said 8ir Archie.
'Veil seem to have ample means,' he aildeil, glancin;^ ronnd
the mom. 'Have these good friends provided the means

1. 1:

That is my concern,' she replied, witli sliiking haughti

nes>

'I have snlfered your (luestioning bet'ause you are my
liu>hand's brother; but I must diicline to answer any more.'

'If my questioning seems severe, madam, it will prepaie
you for what is to come,' said Sir Archie ipiietly. '.Mine is
nelhiii<^ to the cross-examination to which vou will be sul>-
jectcil m a court of hiAv.'

'In a court of law 1 ^ly son and T hope that we will not
be C'liiipcdled to resort to severe measures. \Ve will l)e
m.nci'ous — we have no wish that vou shouhl .suHer tiirough us,
brother. I only wish a little for my son, and tlu; revenues of
St. Veda's and Mount Meldrum shoidd sullice for all. Ah !
lure comes Archie. Come, my boy; your uncle and cousin
have been here quite a long time,'

The two <'entlemen rose, and vouno: Archie, witli flusbinr-

fare and flashing eye, looked keenly at the young man who
liail entered the room.

'How do you do, cousin?' said the interloper, obeying
a glance from his mother's eye. 'Good morning, uncle;

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very glad to see you both.' He was a gentlemanly youth,
but had not his mother's distinguished bearing. Archie
give his head a little jerk intended for a bow.

* There's no use shaking hands as cousins till we're suro
about it,' he said bluntly, at which a silvery laugh fell fium
the widow's lips.

* That is Scotch caution indeed ! ' she said carelessly, hut
there was a certain uneasiness underlying her li^ditiicss of
manner. ' Well, my son, we have had quite a long talk. It
is as we feared, and as we could not but expect. We are
received with doubt and suspicion. There is a possibility
even that we may be obliged to resort to the law.'

A peculiar smile dawned on the lips of Sir Archie.

* What would you think of us, madam, were we to quit our
home and give up our rights without question or dcubtl
Men do not, as a rule, give up so lightly what they hold so
dear.'

* Ah, no ! ' said the widow with a sympathetic sigh. ' I
understand and deeply sympathize with your feelings. / bear
the Grants no ill-will, and my husband never spoke of you
but with warm afiection. The thought of what our appear-
ance migl:t cost you has given me many a sting. But I look
at my boy, brother. I have a mother's heart and a mother's
pride. Our life in India was at best but a struggle. It was
but natural that, knowing what rights he had here, I should
be persuaded to seek to establish them. I was torn between
two conflicting ideas of duty.'

* You need not have been, madam,' returned Sir Archie
curtly and coldly. ' Your duty to your son should have been
paramount. If he be indeed the son of my brother, his phice
as master of St. Veda's cannot long be kept from him. You
shall have justice from me and mine, madam, at any cost.''

She looked narrowly at Sir Archie from under her half-vcileil
eyes. She did not quite understand him. She had heard of
him from her sou as a soft, kind, pliable man, with whom

MY LADY GRANT.

187

ihore would be little ililliculty. But in her first interview
with him she had not found him so. She saw perfectly widl
tluit he neither trusted her nor gave the slightest credence to
her story. The struggle was to be harder than she had
cxjH'cted.

' It will be extremely })ainful for me and for my son if w(»
liiive to take action ; will it not, Archie ? ' she saitl, turning to
till' young man who stood by the table twirling his moustache.

' Vcs, it will be horrid. It would be so much nicer to
vttlc it amicably,' he said rather hesitatingly. ' I don't
\\;iiit everything, but it is hanl on a lellow to have nothing
\\ lull lie should have a title and estate by rights. Is it not
iii'W, cousin ?'

Viiung Archie's lip curled, and he turned on his heel. The
-]!«11 which the beautiful woman had cast over him was
broktn, and once more the aggressive spirit was roused in
liiiit.

'If you can satisfy the law, madam, the law will satisfy
ynii,' said Sir xVrchie, as he took U[) his hat and gloves.

"Tlien there, is to be war, l)rother ? You intend to hold by
what you have enjoyed illegally so longV said Lady Grant
Miiickly. ' You will compel us to make the law our judge?'

' Ves, madam. I am not satisiied. I leave the matter
■ iiWirly in my solicitor's hands. Come, Archie,' he said, and
with a distant and haughty inclination of the heail he passed

'Hit.

■ i'.y Jove, father, you gave it her hot,' said young Archie
'II the stairs. ' I don't know what to think, but evidently
ynii'ic not satisfied.'

' That is not the woman your uncle married, my boy,'
Slid the baronet quietly. ' 1 shall fi<^ht the case out to the
end.'

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CHAPTER XXL

ANOTHER BLOW.

HEY drove straight back to Mr. BolJ's ofBce, from
which they hud not been absent more thai- a
couple of liours. Sir Archie entered the lawyer's
presence with a briskness of step and ercctncss
of bearing which were not lost on that gentleman.
"Well 1 ' he asked cheerily, as he turned round in
'^ his chair. 'Unless I am mistaken, Sir Archie, this
interview has brought you over to my way of thinking, eh?

*I am certainly convinced in my own mind, as seriously
convinced as I ever was in my life, that the lady we saw
to-day is not my brother's widow.'

* Ah ! You told me, I think, that you did not sec your
brother's wife before they left England.' said the lawyer
thoughtfully.

* No, but she was very minutely described to mc, and, as
far as my memoiy serves me, the description represented a
very dilTerent type of woman from the one we saw to-day.'

♦Indeed!'

' Yes, my brother described Miss Seton to me as a slight,
f;iir-haired, timid little woman; just the very antipodes of the
lady we saw to-day.'

'Lady Grant did not favourably impress you, then?' said
the lawyer, with a slight smile.

181

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ANOTHER BLOW,

189

' She is very handsome ; one of the most beautiful women
I li;ive ever seen.*

' Adventuresses usually possess personal charms heyoml the
coinnion run,' said the lawyer. * Is she a lady ?'

* Yes, that is the astonishing thing. There is nothing
vul;,Mr about either.*

'The son is certaiidy a well-bred and inoffensive youth. It
is as I suspected ; he is in his mother's leading strings, if she
is his mother. The relationshi[)s between those who exist
hy their wits sometimes present a curious problem,' said the
lawyer, carefully sharpening the point of his pencil. 'And
what do you think, Mr. Archie, of this thrilling romance 1'

'When I first saw the lady I confess I was taken aback, and
began to fear that there might be truth in her story. IJut that
fooling soon gave place to a curious distrust and suspicion.'

The lawyer nodded.

'Just so. Then do you think they'll show fight?'

' Undoubtedly ; they seemed amazed when my father said
the law would decide between us.'

* A charming state of innocence they must be in,' said Mr.
D(i](l, with an amused smile. 'Did they think that any man
in his senses, or out of them either for that matter, would
walk out of a place like St. Veda's to let anybody take
possession? We'll give them a fright soon. Are you going
to remain in town, Sir Archie 1'

'There is no need, I think. We can come up if there is
any necessity. I leave the thing entirely with you.'

'Very well. I shall do myself the honour of waiting on
Lady Grant to-day or to-mowow, then I'll have an interview
with Pengarth. A decent fellow, Pengarth. I cannot fathom
the stupidity which has allowed him to give these people his
countenance.'

' We must make inquiries about the Setons. It is a well-
known Edinburgh name,* said Sir Archibald. *I fear the
play we saw to-day is not aware how difficult it will be to

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establish her claim as a niemhor of that widespread faniilv.
If the sisters are still alive, I should think a siii^^^le meeting'
between them and her would settle the whole business. You
can't deceive your own kindred.'

* It has been done. I have known some extraordinary
cases, Sir Archie. There is nothing' inip(jssible, and twenty-
three years is a long time. But there need be no liniry.
AVe'U go to work cautiously, or rather just wait and watch
the UK.y'es of the enemy. There is plenty of time to prepare
for the Grant Succession Case before the sittin|;<s of tin; next
Court of Session in Edinbur^di,' said the lawyer Jokini,'ly.
He changed the subject at once, however, for he saw a slight
flush rise to Sir Archie's brow.

To fight for his rights, to have the name of Grant bandied
from mouth to mouth, and old stories raked up for coninicnt
in the public i)ress ; these things would be unbearable to him.
He was a man who would almost rather retire (juietly ami
suffer in secret. He hoped and prayed the thing would never
come b(;fore a court of law.

' Good-bye then, if you are going back to Scotlan<l to-niglit,'
said the lawyer heartily. ' I'll keep you ac(|uaint('d with
matters here, and let you know the result of my iritervicw
with your august relative. Good-bye, Mr. Archie ; don't lot
your father brood over this affair. It is not worth his whilr.'
It was easy to give these assurances ; not so easy to renu»vc
all anxiety from Sir Archie's mind. Although he was al)so-
lutely convinced in his mind that the woman who callcil
herself Lady Grant had no claim whatever to the title, it was
a ditticult task to set aside the annoyance which the wlu'lo
matter caused and might yet cause to him and his. He was a
man of peace, and besides his pride rebelled at the thought of
his position being assailed.

' The Grant Succession Case.' These words rang their
changes in his ears, each time with a more disagreeable and
discordant sound,

ANOTHER BLOW,

191

Young Archie sympathized with his fatlior's fooliiii^'s, but
with the customary buoyancy of youth h*.* hail disniis^-'d llw
tinuhlc from liis mind. In Ins (.nini<iii i\v\ wliulc matter was
srltliil. Tbo pcM^)!^ were impostors, and would speedily be
proved so. There was no use in givin-; the thing any further
thought. So he gave hiuiself up again to sweet dreams of the
dear girl he had left behind, and grew impatient fur the hours
tn jiass till he should see her again.

They travell(;d to Scotland by the night mail, and though
neither slept, they did not talk much until they came near the
IVtnler. Then Archie determined to hr.»ach the subject of
Annie Krskine to his father. There did not exixt a more
ii|ifn-hearted young fellow than this; he would keep no
secrets ; every action of his life was a page which all who
ran might read. But, remond)ering how his mother had
received his confidence, he had not (piite the same encourage-
mont to open his heart to his father. Yet, being convinced
that it was his duty, he wouhl perform that duty at any cost.
Ihul Sir Archie been less absorbed by his own thoughts, he
might have observed the curious restlessness which seemed to
possess his son.

' Can't you sit still, boy ? ' he asked at length, as Archie, in
his peregrinations through the car, stumbled over his out-
stretched feet.

*Xo, Ican't. I'm jolly glad we're getting near home. You
telegraphed to Phillips, didn't you V

'Uf course, he'll be there right enough. Are we near
Berwick r

' Must be, for it's nearly four o'clock. Are you not inclined
to sleep, dad \ '

* No, Fm too worried to sleep, but I wonder you have not
heen oblivious of everything long ago.'

' 1 have a lot to think of too,' said Archie, a tjifle shame-
facedly.

'You haven't many cares yet, my boy,' said Sir Archie

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193

5r. VEDA'S,

ufTictinnntply, *It is when one has wife and children de-
pondont on ono that canvs begin to press home. I sujijxim-
the best joys of hfe mmt in their very nature be shadowed l)y
care.'

' I hope I'll have these same cares soon,' said Archie, with
a li<,dit laugh. * I don't think they would weigh very licavilv
on me.'

'Don't be in a hurry, Archie. T liope you'll got a gond
wife some day ; and other things being equal, I hoj)e slic 11
bring you a p(ntion too. There is no doubt that money, an 1
tli(^ light use of it, sweetens life.'

' Whatever she may bring, she won't have a money portion,'
said young Archie. ' I did not expect you^ dad, to be an
adv(M .it(! for a mercenary marriage.'

* I am not. There is no man who would more heartily
jondemn marrying merely for money. It is a fearful mistake,
and can result only in misery. I said, other things \m\v^
equal. Your mother and I are not without our hoj)es and
ambitions for you, my boy. It is natural that we should bo
keeping our eyes open for your settlement in life. Du ynii
know whom it would give us the greatest happiness to see the
future mistress of St. Veda's T

' No,' said Archie, and his countenance fell. * Who is itl'
'Alice Dalrymple ; a good girl, and beautiful as she is
good. As an only child she will have an immense fortune,
and that would be invaluable to you in your public life. I
know my old friend the Colonel would be very favouralily
disposed to the alliance.'

There was a cert:un anxiety in Sir Archie's tone and
manner as he uttered these words. He had an inward cnn-
sciousness that they were hardly judicious, and that love
atlairs, as a rule, were best left to manage themselves ; hut
his mind was harassed about the future, and he could not
withhold from his son the nature of his hopes. The dawn
was now breaking, and in the grey light struggling through

ANOTHER BLOW.

193

tlif cnrriMLjc winduwa lie sjiw a look of 1 lank distnay <»n the
1,1 Is face, which suHKii-'ntiy iiiditaUMl that ho did not sliar*^
thi-r hopes.

' Well, my hoy, you nood iKtt look so aghast,' he said, with
;i <li_Iit siiiilc. *Thcri' arc do/nis who would l»c thankful for
vMui ciiancc. I)i» yoii not admire Alice I >aliym|tle '{ '

'Adiiiiie her! Oh yes; at hast, she is just like other
wniii' a. I lu'ver \hink ahout them. 'J here is oidy one
\vu nan in the W(»rld who has the least intcrcjjt fjr mi'^ and
tilt i> ihe woman I am "oin*/ to marry.'

•\Vh(. is sheT

Sir Andiic start>)il up, and leaned ftjiward with intense;
iiiixji'ty.

' Annie Krskine.'

Voini" Arehie uttered the name holdly, and vet with a
liii.ucr'nt; t(!iiderness of tone which t<ild how dear it was. Xo
iiiiui could accuse liini of lack of coura;^e to avow hit; luve.
The lad was true t(j the licarL'a core.

' Annie Krskine ! '

Sir Archie repeated tlie words slowly, and then fell ])ack
in his sent, and wrappeil his rui:,' al)(tut his limhs as if the
cnld (lawn chilled him. His hopes wen; chilled, that was all,
but to him tliat day it seemed a great deal.

' Vou can't deny that she is worth l(»ving, father,' said the

y()iiii;4 i'"i" <i'*^*^'^'y» ^'^^ ^^^ ''*'^^^' ^'^^ shadow on his fati er's
face, and f(dt his disajiproval in his heart. ' I have lovetl her,
I tliink, all my life, and when I came home this summer I
knew what kind of love it was, and that 1 could never marry
inv 111 her. My mother knows of this.'

' Your mother knows % ' said Sir Archie inquiringly.

' Yes ; I told her on Tuesday night after I had hcen with
Annie.'

'Then 3^ou have passed your word to the girl?'

' I have asked her to be my wife, and she has promised,
tlion-h conditionally.'

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' Tlicn Uhtc* is TKt iiioH! to !)(' s;ai<l. No (Iiaiit <'vrr lucaks
Iris word,' siii<l Sir Arcliit', iiiid ('l(tsiii<; liis eyes, kept lii>
linnd over tlicni, and remained silent. His tone \v;is n.it
reproacliful, Imt it was hdpeltss. It sent a keen pan;.,' tn tlic
hoy's lieart, for tlie loV(! lietween tlieni had never till iiM\v
heen marred m- shadowed hy the slightest dillerenc*'.

' Father, let me speak t(» you ahout it. I never imajim 1 if
would he a ;;rief to you,' he cried inipul>ively. ' I have (I'trn
lieard y(»u say lliat a ;.,fon(l wnman, iKtwever poor, was WdUli
her weight in ;;old, and I thou.yht you were fond of Annie"

' 1 have nothin,Lj a;;ainst the ,L,drl. She is good and lii\,iMc
enou,i^'h, hut not for //"",' said Sir Archie a trifle coldly. ' It
is a pity there has heen su(;h intimacy, hut I took no tlinii-li(.
I hav(! Ix'cn under the impressidu all alon^' that she \v;i> tn
marry the skipper's son, and J am sure your motlier thniiJit
so too.'

Archie was silent. AVliat could lie say in rei)ly?

'"What did your mother say?'

' She wa.s astonished at first, of course, and a little dis-
mayed, hut I soon won her over to my side. She promised to
go down to the Haven for Annie next ihiy. Mrs. Frskiiic lias
not heen kind to her since she refused to marry Adam, i
myself lieard her say there was no widcome in the house tor
her.'

'Dear me, I thought tlu^ skipi>er's cottage was a jxrfcrt
dove's nest,' .said Sir Andiie Avearilv. 'lliijh ind low must
Itear trouhle alike. And your mother pronnsed to Iniiij
Annie up to the Castle, knowing she was your prom is d
wifer

' Yes, she did.'

' AV(! shall i)rohal)ly find her there then.'

* I expect and hope so.'

* Then if your mother has given her sanction and crnnJ* i:
ance to your betrothed M'ife, 1 cannot wilhhoh^ mine : Imf I
will not attempt to hide my disai»pointment,' saitl Sir Ai' !ii''

AN07HER BLOm

'95

fjnvoly. * It is only in story Looks one finds stony In Mr UmI
jKinuts who hroak the heiirts of tlicir cliiMren,' lio iuMod,
wiili a slij;lit sad smile. ' Yet no ; I liml forgotten your uncle
Anliie. 1 need not have forgotten iJmt, but / shall not a(M
a similar record to the annals of our house.*

Yitting Archie still felt most keenly the disapproval so
|il;iiiily expressed hy his father. In tin; hot-lieadcMlness of
ymilli he had imagined that the current of his wooing must
How smoothly ; but the reality was very dill'erent. His
father's sad, (piiet, hopeless manner went to his heart, and
niiidi' Ilim more wretched than a storm of angry words couhl
have (lone. , ,

' 1 must be plain with you, my son,' said Sir Archie pre-
sently, looking with grave, aflectionat-; eyes into the boy's
handsome, downcast face. * Have you seriously weighed this
st'p? You must be aware that if you marry Annie Erskine,
she will not be a help but a hindrance to your future. She
knows nothing, and a sweet face and a winsome way will not
make the world forget or forgive any breach of its decorum.'

* That is how my mother spoke, but Annie can learn. My
niotlicr and Ethel will teach her. She has had no oppor-
tunity, yet there is nothing common or vulgar about her.'

' No, but she is not of us,' said the baronet. ' You arc
• (uito sure that you care enough for her to chamjnon her
thi(»ngli whatever may betide ? You will have to bear cold-
n<'ss and neglect for her sake.'

' I will die for her,' said young Archie, with all a lover's
fcrvdiii'.

'You must live for her first, and sometimes that is a greater
trial (if love than death,' said the father soberly. 'Well, my
lal, I ft.'cl as if circumstances were making an old, worn-out
'II 111 (if me. This has not been a very pleasant trip for me.'

Archie's heart went out to his father, and he longed to be
ahlc to remove all care from his shoulders. "Well ho might;
lit-' lunl been the best of fathers to him. Sir Archie saw the

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ST. VEDA'S.

moistonin':; of bi'q pon's hrii^lit eye, ami Ti!i<l<'r<!ton(l the onvliMn
wliicli j>r(>m|it»'<l it. Tlit-so two luiild lu-vi-r bo Xuw^ or
Bcrioiisly at Viiriance.

' AVcll, luT.} wo nro,' he snid cheerily. • Tt will he i.leii-nM
to "et home, whatever hetines. Doii'l take wiiat I've saitl tn.,
seriously to h<!art, lad. 1 am disapiMtinted, hut I'm not ;,'uii!u'
to show it. (hid hles.s you and your wife. Whoev.r Aw
may ho, Archio, sho will ho «lear to your father for \..i:r

sake'

*God hless ynn^ sir,* said youn^' Arehie, with visihle eme-
tion. As he ^rii>|)ed his fulhora hand ho thuu^iit no bhatiic
to raise it to his lips.

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CIIAPTKn XXIL

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198

ST. VEDA'S.

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to bed early. !Miss Etliel was out all day yesterday, at the
Haven mostly ; but it was a fine day, and, as she was lioiuc
before sundown, I think she got uo harm. Some mure cuU'.e,
Master Archie?'

' No, thank you.*

Arcliie longed to ask whether Annie was in the Castlo, hut
thought it better not. Mrs. Hewitt would have liked to tell tlio
news, but thought it better to let them have a rest first. She
had a shrewd guess that the disappearance of Annie Erskine
from Orr's Haven would have a curious effect on the y^nuvi,
Laird. Mrs. Hewitt was a woman Avho spoke little, hut saw
much, and thought a great deal. She was a model servant,
shrewd, cautious, reserved, and yet not without powers of
observation. She was not only a valued servant, but an
honoured friend of the family, for whom she would have laid
down her own life.

Tired out with the journey and the excitement of the
hurried visit to London, young Archie fell asleep the nioiin'iit
his head touched the pillow; but his father tossed uneasily on
his restless couch. His mind was full of forebodings, and, in
spite of his cheerful unselfishness, the announcement of his
son's betrothal to Annie Erskine had been a sore blow to iiini.
He had hoped to see the fair daughter of The Holme as Ins
son's wife. !Not only was the maiden winsome in herself, but
her fortune would have been the making of St. Veda's and its
heir. Sir Archie had been hampered and held down all his
days through lack of r )ld. No man valued money less for its
own sake, but he knew it to be the golden key to all doors, and
he had hoped that his son would never be harassed by sordid
care ; and now, at the very outset of hi.^ bright career, he lia 1
pledged himself to a poor fisher-girl, who herd nothing but a
rare dowe: of beauty. It was intensely disappointing, and a
grief of no ordinary kind for Sir Archibald Grant. He slept
very little, and rose before the usual rising time. Throwing
on a dressing-gown, he went into his wife's room. TeiidtT,

WORRIED.

199

oon=!iMerfito, thonnhtful in ov(!ry i»iirticular for those he lov('(l,
lie liii'l feared to dist'.ub liis uift-'s sleej) in the early moriiint;,
ami even now he was in ikj haste to see her. Perhaps he ft'lt
tliiit they had no very })leasaiit matters to discuss.

Lady Grant was ii}) also, sitting- by lier drrssiiig-room tire,
with a ciij) of tea on tlie l)asket-tal)le at her side.

' Dearest,' she said, outstretching both her hands, *• I am
so f,dad to see you back,'

'And [ to come, my darling,' said Sir Archie fondly, as lie
stooped to kiss the fair eluudv (^f the wife he still loved with
all the teixh'rness of youth. They were- very ha[>py thesi;
two; not the shadow of a cloud had t'ver come bet\\'een them.

jive you some, tea.

J)(^ sit down, Archi(

an(

1 let

Lisctte has just brought it uj). Isn't the fire cosy?' she asked
brightly. 'There is never a morning at St. Veda's not chilly
enough for a fire here. I .suppose tin; north exjiosure makes
it cul(b I heard you come, but 1 fell asleep very soon. Mrs.
Ho\''itt told me she was to be up.'

'She was, faithful soul. We had a cold drive, I can tell
you, Lilian.'

' Arc'I'^e has gone to bed, I sui)pose.'

' Ye.s, an 1 will be sound asleep,' said his father, with a
smile. 'The boy has no care yet, though 1 fear he is making-
it for himself, lie has di.s;ipi)oint>;d u.s, Lily.'

' Yes,' said Lady (Irant briefly, and [tut her hand up to her
eves, for her colour rose a little. She was .sensitive, and she
fell lit;r.self not with<mt blame where Annie was concerned.
'He has told you, tlienr

'Yes, this morning, before we crossed the Border. It is a
fearful disappointment for me, wife; I could not hide it. Wi;

lave been very indiscreet al

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tliou'^lit that it vras impo.-sible for our hotdieaded boy to be so
much with a winsome girl like Annie, and not fall in love
with her ; but the difference in their station might have been
a tiafe,:!uard.'

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200

^7: VEDA'S.

"■ I have often had misgivings, Archie; but I trusted Annie.
She is not a common gii'l.'

* No, certainly not. Is she here, Lily?'

' Here? No,' said Lady Lilian with an effort.

* I thought Arcliie said so. He expects her to he hore. Did
you not promise to bring her up? The boy seems to huvc got
it iuto his head that she is not well treateil in the HavcMi.'

' That is all nonsense, as I told him. I did send for lur,
but, Archihald, she has gone away from Orr's Haveu.'

* done away ! Where 1 '

*No one knows. It will be a relief to tell you, donro<\ l>v
I have been very wretched,' cried Lidy Grant tn^nililiiigly.
' Like you, I was te'ribly disappointed when Archie told nic,
and I let him see it. i loM him it was madness, that he was
Inking a step he wouhl live to regret. But I [)roniis('(l to
bring Annie up when he asked me. I will tell ytni wliy,
Archihah'. It was that I might talk to her. I luijied .^lie
would be more amenable to reason. There is none in him.'

' No, he is in love,' said Sir Archie briefly.

'She came up,' continued Lady Grant, 'ye.'^tonhiy morniji^.
ami we had a long talk. I laid the matter very plainly hrf'Uv
her. I showed her that it would not be a wise mania .e lui
either of them, and left her to choose.'

* And d'd you say she hid gone away from the TTavcn ?'
*Yes. It seems she went olf by the South train yeyteriiay

afterno(.n, while her mother was at Eseniouth. It is amst
exiraordinary. I have blamed myself, Archibald, a good (i:'al,
and yet I am sure I was quite kind Kobody cctuld have
bi ei' kinder. You believe, deor, th'it I would not willingly
hurt anybody's feelings. I tliought it my duty to tell )ier iny
opinion of tne marriage. It is not always wise to let young
people do just as they please.'

* My darlijig, do I not know you are all that is good and
kind?' said Sir Arcliie quickly. 'liuw did Aiiiiie seem to
receive it ? "

r.wm

>\y

WORRIED.

201

*Slie was very calm and quiet; one m'^lit nlniost have
(honglit her quite unconcorneil. I told her what we wished
and ho[)cd for our son, and pointed out that a good mairiai^c
was very essential to the success of his career. I was not
liarsli, Archibald. I am very sorry for Annie Kiskiue, and I
love her too. She is a sweet girl.'

'And she has gone away \ Mrs. Hewitt told mo Kthel had
hocr. down at the Haven most of yusteiday. The ski[)per's
folk will be in a terrible way.'

' lie is, and Adam. Janet is very hard and cold about it.
I ratiier think she has been harsh with Aunie of lat(^, too.
How selfish we are, Archibald ! iS]u' is disappointed in her
holies for her son too, and has visited it on poor Annie.'

'They do not thiuK any harm has befallen her?'

*0h no. She h'ft a 1; tti-r for the skijjper, which gave him
some comfort. He was here last night; but 1, of course,
could not give him much comfort.*

'I am very sorry about this,' said Sir Archie, with a sigh.
'What does the skippiT intend doing?'

'Nothing in the meantime. He has an absolute faith in
the child, and she has askeil him not to seek after her.*

'And will he really not take any steps to discover Annie*?'

* Not just .low.'

' And what will the boy say, Lil}' ? Th;it will not satisfy him.'

'Our boy? No,' said Lady Grant^wilh a sigh. 'I have
boon dreading his coming hom<^ He is just a lircbrand. He
will seek her to the ends of the earth, if need be. Archibald,
chiMien are only a care when they grow up and begin to
shape a course for themselves.'

' Ours have not given us much anxiety, Lily. The boy is a
good boy. He has behaved honourably to Annie Erskine, for
which I am deeply thankful.'

'And I also. We are not grateful, I fear, and our pride
Sivf's us a deal of trouble. Ho you know, I feel sure that if
Ainiie would only come back, I would take her to my heart.'

( (

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202

ST. VEDA'S.

'■'4 '''

'•;'i;';H Jf^-'

Sir Archie was silent a moment, hesitatinc? whether to
aciiuaiiit liis wife with the nature of the business which liad
called him to Loudon. The excitement about Annie li;hl
driven that out of his mind for the moment.

'Archibald, liavc you never wondered about Annie"? She
is not a common girl. Perhaps if her parentage were tractMl,
she might be found not unworthy to marry a Grant. 1 do
think the Erskines were to be blamed for not making any
incpiiry at the time.'

' I?erhaps. Anyhow, it is too late now. There cannot
exist any one deeply interested in her, or all these years wouM
not have been allowed to elapse without the slightest iuipiiry
being made. How long is it^ Over twenty years, isn't it?'

' It will be twenty-one in Xovember, on the nineteenth. \)u
you remember tliat storm, Archie? Ethel was only a few-
weeks old, and I was not strong, and very timid about you
going down to the rescue work.'

' Ay, I remember it well. There has not been a wilder
night at St. Veda's since I tame to it. Lilian, has it ever
occurred to you what would become of us if any heir of my
brother's should turn up to claim the place? I have utvir
spoken of it to you, though it has oftcm been in my mind.'

'No, I have never thouglit about it,' said Lady (J rant,
without a ruffle on her fair, calm face.

' Lily, that is what took me to London. A person calling'
herself the widow of my bnjther has come home from Inlia
with her son. They intend to lay claim to the estates.'

' Archibald ! '

' It is true ; but I do not think there is any chance of tluii-
success, nor do I believe for a moment that they have any
claim. 1 have seen them both, and have consulted Frami-
I]old. You remember him at our marrian-e, dear? He lauulis
at the whole thing ; but I believe they intend to take it to
court.'

'Archibald!'

WORRIED.

203

T)I<ti'ose!, terror, hcwilili'rnu'iit sat on Laily Lilinti's faco.

' If wo aro turiuMl out of St. Viula's, where can we g(j? AVe
are poimili^ss. Oh, it would be cruel ! '

' Iliish, my (larliiifj; do not distress yourself. There is no
fear. The main proofs are wanting; and 1 am pcifcctly
convinced in my own mind that the woman I saw ycstcrtl-iy
is not my brother's widow. Still the thought that one's right
to a place is challenged, is not pleasant.'

'Archibald, everything seems to be going wrong. I have
folt for weeks as if some fearful trouble was hanging over our
heads,' said Lady Grant hel[)lessly. She could not nerve
herself to meet any trial. She was indeed a creature made
for the sunshine of prosperity. Sir Archie doul)ted for a
moment his wisilom in telling her; and yet, perhaps, it could
not have been kept hidden.

*l)o not give way, Lily. I assure you there is no fear. It
is only the publicity of a law case which is troubling me now.
It is very uni)leasant to have one's family history m.ide a
l»ul>lic talk. "We can talk this all over again, denr. There is
the bell, and Archie will be down clamouring for his break-
fast.'

As he spoke the e was an impatient tap at the dressing-
roMin door.

' ]\ray I come in, motliorV said Archie's voice. Father and
ninther looked at each other, then Sir Archie opened the door.

'Come in, we were just talking of you. You are earlier
astir than I expedited after your restlessness in the train.'

' llow can a fellow slee[) in that glorious sunshiric? How
are you, mamma?' he asked gaily, as he stooped to kiss his
nil it her. *Is Annie here?'

He asked the question (piite unconcernedly, as if there
c >uld be no doubt of the answer. His mother had given him
lur promise, and, of course, he expected its fullilment.

' Xo, my boy, Annie is not here. Your father will tell you
what has hapi)ened,' she saitl, as if weary of the subject.

' \

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204

ST. VEDA'S.

\ V

*;■

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* Happpnod ! "What can have happonod?' aslcrd j\r(;hie
quickly, as he turned to his father. ' Wliat have you to tell
me?'

'Your mother has just been telling me, my hoy — hut y< u
must not make a noise about it — Annie has left Orr's llavoii.'

* Left Oir's Haven I What for 1 '

* Ah ! we cannot tell that. Your mother sent for lior
yesterday, as you desired, and they had a long talk. She
went away from her home, it seems, in the afternoon.'

MVhat did you say to her'? "Were you not kind?* qnotli
Archie, almost fiercely, as he turned towards his mother again,

* Yes, I was kind. I told her what I told you, Archibald,
that I did not thiidc the marriage wouM turn out happily. I
told her what we had hopcil and expected for you, and what
would be looked for in your wife. I said to her that what-
ever she should decide, I should be pleased. She has cho.-«en,
and I am quite blameless.'

Archie Grant did not speak for a moment. He remenibcved
the cold haughty tones of his mother's voice that night when
he had acipiainted her with his wooing. If she had shown
that side of her nature to Annie, he" did not wonder at the
result. He knew Annie so well —her proud, shrinking, sensitive
soul could not bear the shadow of reproach ! Oh ! he had been
a fool to leave her to his mother's tender mercies.

' Left the Haven ! In heaven's name, where has she gone?'

Sir Archie laid his hand kindly but firmly on his son's
shoulder.

' I thiidc you had better come downstairs with me. This
excitement is hurtful for your mother, and I see you are ready
to blame her, though sli3 has been so kind. Come down-
stairs.'

' Not till I know more,* said Archie, shaking off his fatlier's
hand. ' When did she leave the Haven T he added, turning
to his mother. 'Was she hero yesterday morniny? What
tlid you say to her ? *

WORRIED.

205

Lady Grant's pride robclled, 'I will not be questioned so
lU'lely, Ardiie. I liave donti too much already for youi- sik-,"
>lic said coldly. ' How can / tell why or wlierc! she ha> u nn- !

/ aai not Ai

mie

I'jsl

vine's keeper

Vou promised to*l)e kintl to her while I was awav

• •n U

I'lic lad in a L^reut hurst of passion. ' Uh, I know Ikiw ii u i-
Vmi wroui^ht ui)on l.er sensibilities by telling' her it wmill li
s.'ltish for her to be my wife. You talked to iier till Av t'-l

ii'\ f

it would be a crime to marry me. Left the Haven ? 1 l)i'l
slic has not <^one far away. She will be found lyiii- mm ili,

sands some morning, an

d her death will lie at our ^V^<~^\\ < Mi

my Annie, my poor, lost darling!

He turned upon his heel, and ran out of tlu; room. A 1

iiiutes later he was making his way with long swi 1141:1-
.strides down the low road to the llavea, to seek there auiut.'
solutiou of the mystery.

xa% AVhat

. I

•• i-

CHAPTER XXIIL

TALKING IT OVER.

>^'

DEEP, dark .shadow had fallen on Adam Errldno's
household. Not only tlio shadow caused ly the
absence of Annie, who, in his eyes, avus its
LriL,'htest ornament; but a cloud had arisen, f^r
the first time in all their married life, hclwccii
the husband and wife. Adam Erskinc was diMip-
pointed in his wife. IIo was an indulgent iimi
tender Inisband : there were, in these respects indeed, few like
him; but he was a just man, and in judging between his wife
and his adopted child, he blamed Janet wholly. AVhen lie
returned from the Castle that night, he 'uttered no wmd,
good or bad, to her, nor did he ac(piaint her with any of llic
items he had learned. As was to bo expected, she felt it
keenly, but was too proud to ask a single question. Perluijis
she was afraid, too; she had never seen her husband so roused.
.Vs for Adam the younger, he did not sleep in the house that
night, but paced tho narrow deck of the Jaiid Rac till
morning. Very dark, very bitter, very revengeful were his
thoughts. Next day was a curious day, one of the most
unhappy the little liousehold had ever exi^erienced. The men
folk busied themselves out of doors, about the harbour and tho
boat, and only came in at meal times. Even ihcn not a W( nl
was s^joken, except what was a1)solutely necessary. The name

S06

TAT KING IT OVER,

207

of i\inn>, tlinn^li \ipiifniiost in each niiiul, diil not pass tlieir
lip«. As was to Ijfi expected, tlie dis.jpjx'araiu'o of Aiiiiio
Kiskiiio from On's Haven made a great talk in the place.
TIio skipper seemed unconscious of it, hut Adam overheard u
tislierman speak sliglitinj^ly of Annie as lie pa^^scd a group at
tlio pier-head, and with one stroke of iiis great arm ho hiid
him on the ground.

'Tliat'll teach you, Pato Pourie, to keep yer h-ein' tongue
in yer mouth,' lie said, in a voice c'' thunder, as he passed on.

Altigether it was a weary, weary day that in the skipi)er's
house, and the heart of Janet Erskine was like lead in her
hroast. The estrangement from her hushand and son was
liitter as gall to her; but she only hlnnied Annie more and
more, and took no blame to herself. She grudgi'd the loving
iiicniory the girl had left behind in their hearts. She told
herself bitterly that, though death should cut her olf, she
would not be so bitterly mourned. She marvelled much that
noither the skipper nor Adam hiid gone oil' in search of Annie;
they seemed to have no such intention, but made their pre-
parations for another voyage in the Jwnat Rae as if nothing
lia<l liappened. They intended to sail with the afternoon tide
on !lie third day after Annie had disappeared.

Jani^t Erskine was getting the breidvfast ready on Friday
nioinipg when Archie Grant's shadow darkened the window,
and presently he strode into the house. She never looked at
him, hut continued setting the table precisely as if ho were
not there.

'What have you done with Annie, ^frs. Erskine?' he asked
in that hot way of his; but she gave him no answer, good or
had. Her face was perfectly inscrutable, but her mouth
-'^t'cniod long and thin and determined-looking, as if it would
keep its own counsel.

'Can't you answer me, woman*?' he asked angrily, forget-
tin.Li; his usual courtesy. •

' Ves, I'll answer you,' she said sourly. 'You can ask them

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208

ST. VEDA'S.

fill.

tliat drove lior awiiy. You hixijIimI lior nmonj> yon nt llic
Castlo. If you can! iiiiytliiii;^' iihoiit her, and uro vexed .iliMit
licr riiiiiiiii^ away, you can tliank yourselves. I have nolliini;
to say to you, sir. I did my duty by tlu; <,'irl, and slic lia,«(
brou.uht dis^^race on an lioiufst household. I never wish t .
hear atiythiiiLC al)ont her a^'ain.'

' J)is^frae(! ! What disj^qace *? How daro you speak ahmit
her before me in that wwyl SIk; was a thousand times t-m
good for you. You felt her superiority, and were jeidous df
her. I'll never forgive you, ffanet Krskine, for ihe v/ay Vdii
treated her. AVo are all to blame. I don't deny it — my
mother among the rest. lUit Annie never was anything hut a
(bitiful daughter to you, and you ought to have made iicr
hap]ty. She could not help not earing for your son.'

'I'm in my own house, sir, and I need not listen to you
unless I please. I have no more to say about her. 8h(f lias
cb(jsen to turn her back on us. Let her go, say I. I have
only one hope, that she may learn in the hard world to l>e
grateful for the blessings she had here.'

Archibald Grant was silent, but he bit his lips to keep hack
words which he felt ought not to be uttered to any uoniiui.
But she tried him sorely. She was so righteous in her own
estimation, so hard on Annie, it was more than he could hear.

' If you've any more to say, you can seek the men folk.
They're down at the boat,' she said, with a grim smile.
'They'll go in with you. They think it all my blame, ami
you can enjoy yourselves calling me names if you like. It
won't do nut any harm.'

At any other time Archie would have laughed at tliat
speech, but he heard it in grim silence, and strode out of the
house.

He stood a moment in the doorway looking about tln'
familiar hamlet, seemingly oblivious of the looks being cast at
him by the fisher folks. They Avere all on the qui vice aluait
the Erskincs, and the sight of the young Laird at the skii>in'i's

TALKING IT OVER,

209

nnm smile.

ildur si'cincd aiKitlwr link in tlin cliiiiii. Some of tlicm, of
(iiiiisc, l)('li(;vi'il, iiinl liinl imlceil siiid, tli it only tho youii;,'
Liiiid ciinltl tell where Annie was; uiid yet, if tliat was tli(
ca-c, why should he come so Ix-ldly to the skiji|K i'.> IkiUsc'J
Till' thinjf seemed to ^q-nw nmre niy>teri(>ns antl complicated
pv. ly day. After sfandin|j; for a moment at the door, Archie
■<M(|ilcidy eau;^ht sight of the two Adams on hoard the .lan>t
Ii(('\ and immediately turned his stejjs down the pier. Hi;
walked with liis head down, and tlid not pay any heed to the
1,'ii't tings the nuMi gave him as he passeil. His mind was
entirely lilled with one ahsorhing thcught. i

Tin- Jaii't Rw was aneh(>red close to the ])ier-head, from
which a -ingle pi iidv stretched to the deck. The young Laird
(insscd it, and the moment Adam the y<»unger saw him he
s!( |i|M'd from his own hoat on hoard the; 6'/////////, and from
tlii'iicc on to the pier, and turned his steps to the village.
Tiic lolks, watchful of every trilling incident, saw his action,
and slinok their heails. They even whispered to each other
tliat a ilarker calamity than was dreamed of might arise out of
Annie Mrskine's disappearance. It would not he the first time
two men had (piarrellcd over one woman. Of course the very
diipii'ijit of such a thin;; was a delicious tit-hit of excitcMuent
fnr the Haven folks, to whom g(jssip was as the very wine of
life.

Archi(! did not notice Adam's action. It was the skipper
111' more particularly wished to see.

The skipper lifted his head from the ropes with whicli he
was l)usy, and gravely inclined his head. It seemed to Arciue
(Ira lit that this had turned Adam Erskine into an old, care-
worn man.

' You know what I've come for, skipper. I want Annie.
^lic is as dear to me as she is to you. Have you no clue ? '
he said earnestly.

The skipper shook his head, and turned his eyes seawards a
iiiunicnt, Archie Grant saw the muscles of his mouth contract,

1 6

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210

ST. VEDA'S,

, P

I ■

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Mm\.

Mild know how dcop was llic sorrow in tlic (»M man's licMit.
lie sat down Ix-sidi' liiiii nii tin- ropes, and for a iiioiin'iit iIk iv
was iiotliin;^' said. Tlicrc was a silent synipatliy Itelwd-n
tlieiii, liowevi-r, nf which eacli was jteeuliarly conscious.

' Will yon ii(»t speak to me, skipper? It was for my wih' I
wanted Annie. Tiiere was no otiier tliou^jht in my lit;i(|/
said tlie younj.,' Laird with an earnest humility wln'rh was
iiidcscrihahly touching'.

' 1 ken ; tlie Lord hless ye, lad,' said the skipper, wiih
'.leaving- lii'(-ast, and he stretdieil out his arm. Tlien the iwm
men clasjx'd hands; for the time the dilierence in rank was
merited in tin; Itond of a common sorrow.

After a little; tlie skipper lie^'an to speak, keejiin;^' Ids cyis
down hent on Ihe knots of the torn net with wlo'ch his liii_;(i>
played.

' This is an ill day for im; and mine, Maister Airdiie, It
seems there hae heeii ()n;^;iuns in the house I keiit naefliiiiL;
ahoot. It seems that my Janet,' here tin.' skii)))er hesit.iled a
monient, for it was no ordinary trial for him to hlame his wit'i'.
' It seems that for a time hack she hasna l)een actin' a iiiitle is
pairt to the hairn. Its an ill tliiiii;', my lad, when a man has
to judj^e atweeii wife and wean, daiuit for<4(tt that only tin-
Almichty has the plannin' o' folk's lives. She maun lain
that the Almichty an' her are twa diflerent folk, an' I see it>
an ill lesson for her to learn; hut aihlins it may dae liic
doman gnid.'

Archie (Jrant couM scarcely repress a smile at the (juaintin'ss
of the ski})per's expression.

'I lunx heard nothing ahout it yet, skipper. I came lemi*^'
fully expecting to find Annie at St. Veda's. Tell me all ynii
know.'

'That M'as a mistak', ]\Iaist'jr Archie, a fell mistak",' sai'l
Ailam Erskine slowly. ' What for could ye no' leave tin'
hairn alane? Ye kent that she couhhia hut diaw till ye ii^ )''
s<)cht her,' he added, loctkiii*,' almost mournfully at tin- luii'il-

TALKING IT OVER,

311

n's ln'Mit.

icut tlhiv
• l)clNVtfl>
'US.

my wit'r I
uiy luii'l,'
vlii'.'li was

|ili('i', witli
•n tln' tw 1
1 IMllk \v,is

liis tinsel.-

Viivhic. ll
lit iiat-'liiiiu'
lic>it;it<«l ;i
lie his witV.
i' a iiiilli' i'^
I a mail li;i^
lat (luly till'
maun I'^nn
i\n' I st'c il'>
lay (lif tl"'

(• (luaiiilufss

cami' li'iiiH'
1 im- all yu

nistak'," ^''i'^
lo" k'avi' tli»'

till yt' '^' y

it the i!-'-''-

soil) I • faro (>

.f tl

10 vouii;/ man.

Vr ii.aiin liiU' kcut, tod. (Iiat it

1 '

cniilil he iiactliiiii,' but ii j^ricf to yiT tnlk. it was a wuniirr to
iiM' that Lady (Iraiit wasmi waur tliaii Aw was. Slic wasiia ill
tn tlic l)aim ; slic only tcit her wliat was true, an' what I wad
h ic tcit ht r myscl' liad \ kcnt in time There's na«' mystery
III the tiling' to me ava. Annie had a hit line ]»rood sjieerit,
iiii", hesiih's, she helieved slie was (hiejn' rielit I eaiina hlame
lui, I dinna hlamo her. I lo'e her a tlioosan' times mair nor
1 ilid, an' mavhe I mach' an iihd o' her. danet ave said that
niivwav. I)oul»th'ss I need tins hit whummle o' vexin' too.'

* You don't scum ^Tcatly concerned ahout liei, skijiper,' said
Airliie, almost W'onderin;;'ly. 'Do you know that she is safe
that your mind is so easy

' I ken nae mair than ye'll ken wlien I let ye see her letter,
all' that's no' muekle,' said the skijtjter, and laittin;^' his hand
into the inside poeket <»f his Jersey, he handed out the piecioiis
letter to the Laird. It was u proof of his faith in and
syiiiitathy for the y<»un^f man that ho allowed him to rea«l
tliMse words, which were now en;,'raven on his own heart.
With what ea^'erness, painful eaj.j(!rness indeed, did Archie's
I yes scan these trembling' lines which Annie's own hands had

lieliued !

' V(ai're rij,dit, it isn't much,' he said (juickly, for his heart
was wuug by the pathos of the letter. * Well, what are you
iiig to do? We may as well know what wo each intend, as

Lfii

MO h

lave ine same end m view

' I'm no' gauu to dae naething exee})t wait,' said tin; skii)per
'[iiietly. ' Ye see what she says. She [iromises to send woi'd
it" site needs onything, an' that nae news 'ill be guid news.
In the meantime I'll dae naething.'

' l>ut, skipper, she knows nothing about the world. Slie
\\i"l(' that out of sheer ignorance. Poor darling, slie did not
l<iin\v to what hardships she might be going. Waiting will
'i"t satisfy ;//e, I tell you.'

'•>>', but I can wait brawly, an' lippen to the Lord. He'll

■. •

I '

1*1 1 ■

''AH

■1

■'

212

^■7: VEDA'S.

tak' care o' the bairn. "Wliat arc ye feared fur? 81ie lias the
}j;raee o' God in lier lieart, air she's no' ane to stick. Slii> ll
get on, never fear. I'm no' for lier back to the Ilavcii till
there's a young leddy at the Castle.'

'There will never be anybody there in that capacity cncc],!
Annie hoself,' was the pronij:)t reply. 'Would you not L:i\c
her to me, skipper? I thought I was aye a favouiilc df
yours.'

'So ye are, lad, so ye are; an' I'll tell ye this niucklc t',ir
yer comfort. There's no' ane livin', no' excejiting my :iiii
Adam, that I wad (piieker gie tlie bairn till. iJut Immmum'
ye're the young Laird, an' she's but Annie Krskine, it'll mt" lie
wi' my coontenance, onless, onless ' —

* Unless you are obliged to give it, which will be the ci-c
very shortly,' interrui)t('d Archie almost gaily, for tlic I'M
man's calm, a.-surcd tone hivl greatly raised his spirits. * 1
promise you that Annie will be at the Castle witliiii a wick,
and that the Ijells will be rinuinii' for us before the corn's all
in between this and IJerwick.'

The skipper shook his head. ' AW'el, weel, we'll s(>e. Ye
arc a fell deterniined set, you Crants, but ye'U maybe tiiiij viii
as determined,' he said shrewdly. ' If Annie has made \\y \v\
mirid that she'll no' hae ye, she'll no'. Ye'U lind tliat, my

man.

I a

'Would you wager on it, ski})per?' asked the Laird, witl
light laugh, as he s[)rang u[).

' I dinna wager, my rr.an ; an', besides, weemen folk, a^^ a
rule, are no' to be coonted on. There's nae law to giiidi' tliiin.
They're like the wind, tliat blaws whaur it listeth. Hut I
believe I niicht be certain aboot Annie."

'I don't, but we'll see. And is that all you know? ll;i\'
you never heard anything about her movements?'

•] ken a wee thing mair nor what's wrote, but I'm no' gum
to tell ye, lad,' answered the skipjx'r quietly. 'If ye aiv a<
anxious as ye look, ye'U no' be lang o' tindin' oot a' 1 ken in

h>*».

TALKING IT OVER.

213

tho same way. r>nt it's true tlmt T (liiiiia kon wlianr sho is,
ail' I (loot it'll l)e a goy while or ye ken citlu'i'.'

' We'll see,' said Art'hi(! signiticantly. He drew himself up
as he spoke, as if he could do or dare anything for Annie, To
ymilh and love all things seemed ]»ossil)le. Hope had already
taken the edge off the bitter blow Archie Grant had received,
lint he was yet to taste the dee[t and peculiar bitterness of
liftpe deferred.

' Well, skipper, I begin my search to-day. Yon won't wish
111c success then % '

The ski])per looked up at the bright, manly face, and a
iiidisture dimmed his eves. It was impossible //o/ to wish
liiiu tiod-speed. That look told Archie that in his heart of
hearts tlie skipper })raye(l for his success.

So with another handshake they jtarted ; and as Adam
Kiskine watched the fine figure stride manfully along the pier,
he whispered to himself, ' God bless him an' Annie ! If it be
till' Lord's will that they shall be man an' wife, I canna keep
it hack. He's as wortliy o' her as she is o' him. God bless
tlu'in baith ! '

Then he fell to dreaming of the future, and watched the
.-nftly Howing tide, quite forgetful of the s})read table and the
injiuvd wife at home. Perhaps, after all, Janet Krskine was
/('// getting justice in these dark days from her husband and
snii. Kvery thing was forgotten, nothing was of any conse-
■ini'iice. for the sake of Annie. Full of new energy and li(»[)e,
Aivliie Grant strode away round the shore to the stair in the
ilitl'. He had learned all he wished to know, and now must
take prompt action. Perhaps it was the soothing murmur
"f the incoming tide, and tie influence of his surrounding;,
wluch were fraught with memories of Annie, but he felt his
pace slackening and a dreaminess of mood steal over him in
the deep solitudc of the place. Memories of the jiast throngid
'ipnii him; all of Annie, who had lived in such constant com-
munion with the sea. How she had loved it since her very

214

ST. VEDA'S,

[ f ■

! t

babyliood ! He could recall bygone days, when as children
they had played on the shore, and how fearless she had Ixtn
of the waves even in their wildest mood. If she had sou^lit
a home in the city, how would she live, he wondered, pent hy
stone and lime, with nothint,' to hear and see but the noise
and strife of the streets'? Her heart would break, he knew,
for all she had so loved.

These thoughts were lying upon his heart like a ilecp llnml
as he turned suddenly round the jagged edge of the clill', ami
saw Adam Erskine the younger standing at the steps, with
his arms folded over his broad breast, and his dark Ijrows
'>ent on the ground. Beyond a doubt he was waiting for him,
but not the slightest misgiving touched the heart of Archii
Grant.

' Halloa, Adam ! ' he said in the old familiar fashion ; * are
you waiting for me 1 '

'Ay, I'm waitin'; I'm for a word wi' ye,' replied Adam,
almost sullenly, and he stood up. Looking at him straight
with keen, observant eye, Archie Grant saw a gicjt, gnut
change on the face of his old friend.

' Well, what is ii- ? '

'I want to know what ye hae dune wi' oor Annie T asked
Adam then, and his voice shook with the intensity of tlic
passion j)ent in his breast.

The significance of the question was not to be mistaken.
The hot blood of the Grants swept redly to the cheek of the
young Laird. His lip curled, and without deigning a icplv,
he j)asscd by the hsherman's son with a haughty contempt, as
it" his (questioning were beneath his notice. Then Adam
l.i'skine's brow grew dark as night. He clenched his list, iiinl
as he looked after the graceful, retreating figure, an oath, lie.'
first he had ever uttered in his life, passed his lips.

jWWiK .<\>'Sijw..:^.>^-Ni^is';w^Ni*tTNii)mj«^v«a

CnAPTEE XXIV.

]\eV nskctl

HOPE DEFERRED.

^IIE (Lij's -went l)y. Tlio Janrt ]7ae made her short

voyancs uctwcoii Orr's iravcii and the fi.sliing

gruiuids ; danct Erskine kept tlic house as usual,

and if slic Adt the stranL,'o sohtude in ■which she

"vvas so much left, she made no si-ii. There M'as

Clfr^ apparently no dilFerenco in the life of the Erskines ;

*^ outside folk niiide a general marvel that there was

so Ji'/t'e diirerenee. ]5ut outsiders do not, as a rule, know all.

They can only judge from what is to he seen, and are not

aware of the strength of the under-currents. There was a great

diii' rence in the Erskine househuld — the dilference between

ni-lit and day. Strange as it may seem, for three weeks the

name of Annie, which had once been like the sweet lilting

of the lark to the ears of these three, was never mentioned.

Eifi- went on; the daily, hourly routine knew no change, but

the shadow remained. Sitting in the lengthening evenings

by the fireside, the skipper's brow would grow dark and his

eyes dim. Sometimes even his lips would quiver, and Janet,

vitcliuig from under her bent brows, would feel her heart

bi at with a hungry, passionate pain, for she knew he was

tl'iid^ing of the lost bairn with a love such as he had never

l^ivi'U to her, the wife of his bosom. She was wrong there.

AUum Eiskiue loved his wife with that deep, true, if

• ' I

JTP

2l6

ST. VEDA'S.

f •'■■%i->

un<lonionstrative affection which has soniothinp; solonm in ii,
hut he folt estran,L!:t'(l from her so long as slic still clu'rishcd lur
rosontment aj^^ainst Annie. He was waitini,' for a touili n'
jienitencc or regret to unlock the Hoodgates of his own smii.
As for Adam the younger, he was a grief to his parents, lie
was so sadly changed. ]\[oody, irritahle, ill naturetl, indeed,
had he heconie ; so great was the hurden weighing on liis
spirit that he had ahsented himself for three su('eessiv(!
Sahhatlis from the kirk ordinances, and, instead, roamed tlie
hraes or went off in a little hoat round the shores, as was tlie
niannci of the cartdess and ungodly in the place. .So the
sorrow which had fallen on the house wrought in its own
fiishion in each sej)arate souL

During these three weeks Archie Grant had heen a great
deal away from home. The skipper knew that he was making-
every incpiiry for Annie ; but he did not know that evei v
means had been emi)loyed without success. She had Iteen
traced to Berwick, but whether she went north or S(tutli after
that, nc man knew. Simple though she was, she had manage*!
her escape very well.

The skipper was sitting on the bench at the door one
evening in the gloaming, smoking his pii)c, when liie youtiLT
Laird came striding down the School Brae. The old man
looked at him with keen interest, but saw from his face tliat
he had no good r.jws to tell. He felt grieved for l.im, he sa.v
that it was a matter on which the lad's heart was set.

'Good evening, skijiijcr,' said Arcdiie, ;ind his voice seemed
to have lost its cheerful ring. ' All well V
' Fii""ly. Hoo's yersel', sir? Sit doon.'
Archie nodded and took the other end of the bench. The
door was wide open and the kitchen door ajar. Janet, sitting
knitting by the lire, < »uld hear every word.

' Well, skipi>er, 1 can't do any more. Annie's lost, ap-
parently. I telitive she never left the Haven alive,' he l>egaii
gloomily.

HOPE DEFERRED.

21 7

' WluM'slit. ];i(l ; iliats stiill'Mir iidiiscnsc. Tin' Imini wii-^iui
SIC hir 1 tt to licisd",' saiil the nM mail rrpniN iiiL;l_v, as In-
kiidckcl the a.'^lics fiMiii liis pipe.

' W'rll, wliat am I to think ? I have 1( ft no stoni' uii-
tuiJH'il, I liavc Irid tin- l.cst iidvicr, the cIi'Nt'ii'st skill, ami
ii lias a\'ai]('(l iiotliim;' She nas only liccn tracctl t(»
r.ci wick, and tlicri' is a wide world licyoiid that.'

' Ay, is tlici'c. Vf had nac answer, then, to ony o' ycr
adxcitccsincnts? '

• No, hut she nii,uht not see tlicni. AVhat ilo you think of it
iniw, sjdppci- '\ ■

'A wuiincrfii' jx'iici' has settled doon on my mind,' said the
nld man in his (piiet way. ' I hae n>'\('i' ficttit muckle after
licr ; for, some way, I hae hdt my jtrayers for the hairu
;iii>wcrt, thou;4h I hae nae si^n. Maister Archie, prayer is
truly the anchor o' the soul.'

*1 wish it was ///// anchor, then.' siid the youn,Lf man
iiii]H tuou-ly ; 'for 1 am in torment ni_;ht and day ahout her.
1 picture all sorts of awful thinus. 1 am amazed, astounded
at you, Cajitain Krskine.'

The old man smiled, iuid })oint(Ml with his forofin,ifor straight
niit to sea. It was hciiviiiL!," tumultuonsly in the risinj,* n:,L;ht-
wiiid, and the wave-; da>hiii,L!; aL;ainst the cliU's made ti holl(»w
rnarin.g sui^L^estive of sti'enL;tli and passion held in curh,

' He hands the sea in the hollow o' His hand, my man. an'
\cl no' a sparrow ciin fa" to the L;rund without His keiinin',' he
sa'd simply. 'Can He no look aflt-r yin hit hairn for you
iiii" me ? '

It was a heautifiil lesson in simple faith ; a r(d)uke, indeed,
tn iht hot, restle-s, yoiiii;.^ heart hy the ("Id mans side. If he
uli:i lii\-ed Annie w ith a father's love could .-o leave her in a
lii^iier hand, surely she mu>t he safe.

' \ or, are a good mm, captain; _\ ou have taught me many
a ics-iiii,' he said impulsively. ' Ihit I don't know what to
til' ahout this. 1 feel as if 1 had no interest in life.'

2l8

ST. VEDA'S.

y va

m ■

. I '

tW'

li;:-?

[!f./t, :it;

' You intuinna fool liki; tliat, my man. Annie's only ac
lliin,L(, though I grant yo .'••he's worth the missin'. IJut ye
maun tliink on a' yor ithor nioroies. Life's a' afore ye,
]\Iaistor Airchie. Supposin' ye should never see her again,
ye maun keep yer coorse straioht ahoid. We're expo'tin'
great things frae the Laird's son.'

'Everything seems to be going wrong,' said the young nini
gloomily. ' Lthol has been very ill to-day and yesterday, mid
Dr. ^laurice is looking very grave, I can see. Then there is
the new trouble which is harassing my father very badly.
Don't you notice him looking worried?'

' I said to Janet yesterday, efter we cam' oot o' the kirk,
that Sir Airohio was gottin' to look awfu' auld like. Syni; wc
coontod up an' fand he wasna that auld. But wliatten new
li'ouble is't ? We've never heard a cheep about it.'

' Xo, 1 daresay not. But everybody '11 know soon enough.
A claimant has turned up for St. Veda's, skipper.'

'A claimant ! What kind o' a claimant?'

*A ladv and her son have come home from India clniiii-
ing to be the w^idow and son of my father's brother who
wont to Lidia so many years ago. You'll remember the
story.'

' Kemembor it ! Did I no' mind yer uncle hissel', my man?
A daft laddie, just siccan ye used to be yersel', but a kinder
or truer heart never drew the breath o' life. We thocht tliu
auld Laird, ower hard on the laddie for stannin' by the lassie
he lo'ed.'

* Ay, well, his widow and son have turned up to claim their
own.'

* He's deid, then ? '

' Yes, three and-twenty years ago.'

' Three -and-twenty years ago ! An' whaur hae they boon a
this time ] '

'That's it. ^\y father is convinced that they are impostors.'
' Kh, mercy me, d'ye say sue ] That the deil should pit ^ie

HOPE DEFERRED,

2I(

;oon enou|^li.

wickodnosR into onvlnMly's lici'l as to gar them seek what's no'
tlicir iiin. V(! liac seen them, then?'

' Yes, that was the busim'ss wliicli took us to Lonchm.'

'And Mhat (rye tliiiik yci'ser, Maister Airclii(.' ? Is there'
(HIV look o' tlie (Irauts aljoot the \\\^\V

' None that I can see, and my father says tliat the lady
Ixiiis no rcsenihlanee to the des(;rii»tion my uncle gave him of
Miss Si'ton. Of course lie ncxcr saw her.'

'Then what are ye ,L,'aun to dae?'

The skiiipcr was intensely interested. For the time heiiiL,',
lii> own trnuhle was swallowed up in cdiicern for tlie Castle
t'dlk. danet, too, in the kitchen was listenin;^' hjeathlessly to
i\iiy wnrd. Jlad Archie known of her presence, he would
li;i\(' l(A\eied Ills Voice, oi' withheld his coutidcnce from the
-ki|iier till a more convenient seasctn. It was not to be
lend at, perhaps, that he slionld regard Janet Eriskine

WiilK

\\ II II (

lislike ami aversion.

We ar<' waiting to see what they are going to do. But
iroliahility is that there will be a case before the Court of

lie ji

Session.

sec ^'t

Kh, man, that's a Jieety, a great peety. I wadna like to
V name into every common mouth. It'll no' be pleasant

t'nr (iiiy o' ye, ]\Iaister Airchie.'

'That is what my father feels, but what can we do ? If
tiny think their (daim can stand the test of investigation, we
i.ieil not grudge them the chance. It is the raking u[) of tin;

-toiies my father does not like. ( )ne's family histoiy

iiiMile public enough by local go>si[» without having it printed
ill ihe news[)ajiers.'

' Weel, I'm fill vexeil to hear a' that, my lad; l)ut ye
iMidiia fear, for justice will be dune ; an' if they be yer uncle's
t'lk ,uuid an" M'eel, naebddv's ^aniina ^ludge them their ain,

liii' them that lo'e sa

(! We(

1 them that's i' the Castle the

II' e.' s;ii(l the skipper with emiiii(

^Ve dure nut think about it. It will kill my father to

220

ST. VEDA'S.

' iMi'

,1: ;r

m f

W\'

i:v

'iff

j,nve up St. Veda's now,' said Archic! quickly. ' Jnst tliink nf
it. llu is a very poor iimn ; lio has absojutoly notliing- to t'iill
liack upon, and tlicn there i.s my niotlitjr and Kthel.'

'Dinna speak o't. It'll no' hear speakin' o',' answered ilu'
skipper. ' J>ut if the warst should eonie, you'll pit ytr
.shouther to th(; wheel, Maister Airehie, an' show the '^v'n
that's in yo. They'll never want as lang as they hae you an
your strong' airuis to fa' ])ack on.'

'That's true; l)ut all the same I nu^an to fij.,dit f'<r inv
rij^dits. I ciin't believe that we have no rij^dit to tlie plaic."
eried Archie, as he spranj^ to his feet. 'Well, skipper, I
must away home. This is all in contidence, mind. Not
another soul knows outside our own family.'

' j\or winna frae me, ]Mr. Airehie ; diinia be feared. I'll
no' even let on to the wife. Na, na ; if it's to gang to law,
M'e'll be sick o' the thing afore its settlet, an' there'll \>v
plenty said ahoot it, maybe ower muckle. I'll dauner aliui^'
the road a bit wi' ye ; are ye gaun by the shore ] '

'The tide will be up, I doubt, and I see Adam at the other
side of the harb(jur. Adam and I are not pulling in the same
boat just now, skipper.'

' I see that, sir. Adam's lyin' heavy on my heart, llf
hasna taen this trouble like a man,' said the skipper in a
melancholy voice. ' I've never said a word \et, but I ni giun
to open oot on him some day sune. He's ower like his
milher i' the temper, I doubt. Hielant anger like lliclant
peats burns unco lang. Ye hav'na haen ony words, I houp f

'No. He said something to me one morning I didn't likf,
but I gave him no answer, good or bad. I don't -want to sec
him. yiy temper's none of the best ; and when two tins
meet, you know ' —

'Ay, there'll be a lowe,' said the skipper, with a fain't siuil .
' I'm gled ye hae the sense to keep awa' frae him i' the ii"".
The deil's gotten in grips wi' him I see, an' it's ^aun In he
a geyan sair battle. But, as I said, 111 no' let him alaiu'

HOPE DEFERRED.

321

I at tho othfi-
' in the siime

im i' tlu' iiiH>.

et him aUme

iiiufklo Innt^or. Eh, man, the aiiM days whon ye wore a"
weans thej^ither, were better nor tlicy. This love's an uncr
Imsiness. It Jtlays niiscliiof anion^' fricn's. liut we're no"
uaun to let oor spcerits doon a' thegillier. We'll i,nt llie knots
lint o' the threids yet. Just bide or I beht my pipe, will ye?
I necdna bid ye come in.'

Janet slipiied into the room before her husband entered the
kitchen ; but when he left the house v'^hc came back to the
kitchen window, and watched them out of sight.

As she stood there in the semi-darkness, her face sharply
outlined against the fading light from the west which fell
across the little window, she looked like an old, old woman.
Her face was all lines and seams, brought there by the ])itter-
iiess of her heart. It must not be thought she had not
sullered since Annie went away. She was a woman of strong
feelings, and was sensitive even to slight vexations. A
lingering love for Annie was in her heart. There were times,
indeed, when in the deep and unbroken solitude of the house,
her longing for her became a passion hardly to 1)e borne ; then
there were grief, anxiety, harassing thought about her son,
wlutm this trouble had so sadly changed, as well as sorrow for
tiie continued estrangement of her husband. He was not less
kind, less considerate, less mindful, but there wrw a dilFerence;
an undefinable barrier, only perceptible to the keen vision of
Inve, had arisen between them. I believe that in the past
month Janet Erskine had really suffered a punishment
adetpiate to her sin. For her treatment of Annie had been a
sin ; for is not selfishness in it. worst form a sin which creates
half the unhap])iness in the world % But as yet suil'ering had
only hardened her. She was still righteous in her own eyes,
and smarting under a sense of injustice and wrong. Perhaps
nothing short of a great sorrow would break down that strung
^\ull of piide and self-righteousness and hardness of heart.

She had been amazed at the story she had h^ard the young
baird tell the skipper at the door. She remembered the elder

III *

ffp"""pv

222

ST. VEDA'S.

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snii of tlio oM Liiinl, tlion^li ^^Ih' liad only soon liini once.
This ronmnco (»f liis niMrriiinc liiid li iitjtcncd very sliditly after
she liinl coinc a l)ii(l(' to (Mi's lluvcii. I.odkiii^^ l)acl< nn
those old tiiiios, slu! bcifaii to think over hci- own nicniorjis ;
tluMii^hts canio to hci' (»f little Klsic, of whom she hail iiiinlc
an idol, and whose loss had so nearly oost her her rea^dn ;
slie reealleil the dreary, awful winter which had intervened
hetwoon little Klsie's death and the nii;ht ^■l the wreck, wliidi
had ^iven her a child to lill her loved one's j)lace It liad
seenie(l to her then as if the little waif had been ^iveii in
response to hei' desjiairinj^' prayers. ITow she had loveil thi-
child — nay, "Worship] ted was a titter word! And now, where
was that old love, wiiere the child who had tilled the huiinrv
Void in her heart? Her bosom heaved, her proud wide moiitli
([uiverod, as these memories shook her.

'Annie, my bairn!' she whispered, in an intense, aj^itateil
voice. For the moment her i)ride was broken, nothing' but
tenderne^'s and longing filled her heai't. I>ut she grew caliuer
again thiidcing of Liter years, and becanu' jealous, even in
tiuMight, over the idea that tlu; (;hild she had taken to her
motherly breast on that awful night had supplanted iier in
the atlections of her own husband and son. It was i'er
Annie's sakt; the skii>[)er had changed towards her, it was i'nr
Annie's sake that Adam's life had become a burden to him,
and that he went about a listless, morbid, melaiicholv man. Se
lier anger began to bum again against po(jr Annie. She was t^
l)e i)itie<l torn as she was by so many contlicting emotion>.
It grow ijuite dark in the kitchen. 8he drew down the bliml,
lit the lamp, and then, mindful of her duty, she took a candle
to go u[) to tlu! garret for some of the fishing gear wlueli
W(»uld be wanted for the morrow.

A curious thought came to her as she ascended the tia]'-
stair. One-aud-twenty years ago she had laid in safe hidini,'
tin- box: which had come ashore with Annie and her motliei.
l)ui'ng that long period of years she had been visited ue'io

i Bl

HOPE DEFERRED.

223

ous, even in
taken to Iht
aiitctl hci' in
It was fur
ler, it was i'nr
iidcii to liini,
liolv num. So
SIk' was to
in''" i'niotioii>.
\vn till! blintl,
took a (jauillc
<' <!L'ar wluili

(led till! lia]'-
in safe hidini,'
d her niotlicr.
I visited ninii.'

than onoo by a •sli'^'lit curiosity to know tlio rontcnt.- of that
liox. r»ut she had never tonclicil it, her eyi's lunl never even
jduked upon it sinee tiie day she had laid it in its lli(linl,^
l'( rlia|)s it was not unnatural that she had even ennic t<i regard
il with a sjiecies of superstition. She shut the j^fanct dodr,
•ct an old jtlank aj^'ainst the little storm window, and then
iiliproached the far corner where the ho\ with its secret lay
hid. She was a curious mixture of weakni'ss and stren^dh,
this woman ; her limhs actually tremhletl as she ]tcei'ed with
til" candle into the recess. During' tlu; lon^r yi-ars the spiders
had been busy, and had mad(! a network so close an<l thick
iivcr the box that for a moment she ima,L,Mned it was ^'one.

She saw the outline of the casket, however, auil

sweeping

iiside the cobwebs took it her hand. Then she set down tin;
lainlle on an old trunk, seated heis(df beside it, and wiping'
the box with the corner of her ajnon opened the lid. A faint,
sweet, old })erfume greeted her, as her fingers toucheil the
liapers on the top. The contents wen^ all intact; the sandal-

\V<iii(

1 box had done its duty and kej»t its secret wcdl, SI

liid the pajiers (jn her lap first, and took up the locket and
cliaiu which her own hands had removed that winter nioriiiu''
fnuii the dead gild's neck. She opened the sj)iing, and looked
with keen interest at the face photogra[)hed within. It
sr( iiied strangidy familiar; where bail she seen that bright yet
ciiiiiest fact! before % She closed it ([ui(d<ly, for the sunny
t'Vts seemed to d Jiroach her, and then she toidc up the little
triid<ets lying below. They btdoiiged by right to Annie; she
knew sh(! had no business with them, and yet she had never
i"Vcted them for herself. She wanted to look into the
I'^ipeis, but a curious feeling, wbicli was almost dread, with-

IICllI

her for a si)ace. But at length with a bold (.'H'ort si

unfdltU'd one which lay at the toj), ami by the tli(dvering light
"f the candle beifan to read. And she sat there holding it
hi'f.ire her, as if turned to .stone, until the candle flickered in
Its Micket and wtjid out, h a\ing her in total darkness.

p*'' "

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CHAPTER XXV.

THE SECRET IN THE GARRET.

first paper wliicli Janet Ersklne's eyes fell
j^.O^ upon that night was the certificate of niarriiiLje
Jj\ between Archibald Orr CJrant and Annio Forlu'S

Si'ton, which took phiec in Edinburgh in the
winttir of 184G. In a moment of time the whdle

matter was made absohitely chnir to her, and involun-
tarily a deep groan escaped her set lips. It hail givi u
her an awful shock. Sho recovered herself after a little, iiiid
leaving the box on the trunk top, grojjed her way downstairs
for another candle. AVhilo in the kite, ■ sho took the pro-
caution to turn the key in the outer door. She did not wish
to 1)0 surprised at her occupation in the garret, and cduKl
easily explain the locked door by saying she was busy up-
: tairs, and wished to guard against any one coming in. Sho
set the new candle down, and took the box M'ith its contents
once more in her lap. As she expectdl, the next docuninit
v,;is the ceitilicate of the birth of the child, Annie Forbes (Jir-
( liiut, at Tanjoi'c, in the presidency of ^Madras.

Having read that, Janet Erskine laid it aside, and deliln'-
r.itcly untied the blue ribbon which bound the few letters
log! t her. Xo love letters had passed between Archil mM
(liMut and his -wife before marriage, and those which -Iniu't
Jvi'skine's fingcirs now held with no very reverent touch had

S24

THE SECRET IN THE GARRET.

825

boon written in India, wlien he had had occasion to leave her
fur a time on business.

Hut thon^'h written from liusband to wife, they were
love letters in the truest sense of the word, for they
breathed a deep and abiding tenderness, wliich showed that
Anliibald Grant had never repented of his choice. Janet
Kr-kiiie read every one througli, notwitlistandinj,' tlic fact
tiiiit they contained no information, nor possessed interest for
anybody but the j)erson to whom they had been adilressed.
They contained only a brief account of his journeying and
success in business, and always ending' with the most atfVc-
tioiiate inquiri(!S for her health and well-being. Uninteresting,
foolish, perhaps, in their very lovingness, they might seenj to
any alien eye, — they had been more precious tlian words could
tell to the heart of Archibald Chant's vouuLr wife.

Having read them through, Janet Krskine re-tied them, and
laid them aside ; then she observed a tiny paelcet wrapped in
tissue paper lying beneath the trinkets. When she opened
it out it was oidy a htck of bright brown hair, the curl Annie
Grant had cut from her bn.'-.band's temple that morning before
they buried him on the banks of that Indian river where they
1»(1 had their home. Hastily Janet Erskine wrapped it in
il« covering, and laid it in the box. She felt as if it burned
her fingers ; it had a mute reproach for her. She felt as if
the dead were watching her, and asking her what she had
(lone with their child. With careful, methodical hand she
r(|ilaced the articles one by one in the box, locked it, and
with her right hand lying above it on her knee, and the left
supporting her cheek, she began to think the whole matter
out. A strange complication had arisen. She had heard not
an hour ago that a claimant to the Grant estates had just
returned from India, and here on her lap lay the simple ex-
planation of the whole matter. Annie was the heiress of St.
Vela's. She had only to speak, to walk up to the Castle
\\'ith this box in her hand, and the shadow of care which was

m '

f ■!

226

ST. VEDA'S,

! !V."

I H

>- (?

haunting their hearts, and making Sir Archie old hefore his
time, would be lifted at once and for ever. She looked ahoad
and foresaw the end of the whole story. Annie would be found ;
she would marry her cousin ; and so there would still be an
Archibald Grant in St. Veda's. It was a fine romantic story
— just such as might be read in any foolish novel ; her lips
curled as she thought it out. I cannot think but that the
devil presented himself at Janet Erskine's elbow that niglit.
He had not been very fur away from her of late, seeing she had
given lodgment to jealousy and hatred, which are two of his
darling sins. She was a good woman in the main, but seemed
to have lost her balance for a time. At least she did not
struggle igainst the temptation which assailed her. She fore-
saw that if she delivered up the box she would be severely
censured for secreting it so long; the story would make a
great talk, her name would be in everybody's mouth. They
would call her mean, jealous, perhaps even dishonest. Tlien
how completely she would be humiliated in the eyes of Annie
herself, the child she had alternately whipped and coaxed and
scolded and petted all her days. Annie, who had been her
young servant — to become a great lady, the lady of St. Veda's,
to whom she would require to be respectful and deferential !
The thought was intolerable. She pictured in fancy tlie airs
the girl would give herscdf, and her pride rcboHed. What
good would it do, she asked herself, to give up the bdx, and
make a great noise about so little'? If Annie could not lie
found, the discovery of her identity would only make niattiMS
more vexatious, and cause more com[)lications to arise. Far
better to let well alone. And as for the Grants and thi'ir
lawsuit, let them fight it out. So the tempter whisjtcrcd in
the ear of Janet Evskine, and as she listened to theso wlisjur-
ings, honour and truth and unflinching principle bowed ilicir
heads meekly and retired. Sho rose, took down the boaid tV'nn
the storm-window, anil looked out. It was pitrh dark, Imt >\\y'
co'fldsee the white edue of the waves on the shore. She tstund

; :!■•

THE SECRET IN THE GARRET

227

a moment irresolute. There was not a sound to be heard, nor
any sign of the return of the skipper or Adam. A sudden
impulse possessed her. She ran down-stairs, and, throwing a
shawl about her head and shoulders, went out of the house,
leaving the door on the latch.

Slie had the box with her under her arm. Though it had
kept its secret so long and so w^U, the garret was no longer
the place for it. It would have been a skeleton in the cup-
board to Janet Erskine. She did not hesitate at the door,
though she might have done so. Duty said go east, some-
thing else said go west, and west she went, guided by the
flashing light on the headland of St. Abb's. She was not
afraid of meeting any one. The night was fearfully dark,
and a chill seemed to be in the air, presaging an autumn
storm. It was the end of September now, and the late gales
were looked for. October was often a wild month on the
stormy eastern coast.

She was very sure of the upland path, or she might have
lost her footing ; a shower had made the sand slippery, and
there were many ruts and rough places on the path. But she
lield on her way without stumbling, and reached the top of
the beach in an incredibly short space of time. Slie stood
there by the very boulder where Annie had watched the sun-
rise one memorable morning while battling with her heart's
hitterness. A reflection from the lighthouse revealed the
solitary figure, which had something weird in its appearance.
'She was like some night-wanderer, who felt a kinship in the
'liiik, forbidding, mysterious influences of the h'^ur. The sea,
ii vast expanse of inky blackness, heaved tumultuously ; but it
\^ is with a strange, silent heaving, which could only be seen
and nut heard. Its depths were troubled. The waves fret-
liiiLj the cliffs filled the night with their customary hollow
inaring; drops of spray fell even on Janet Erskine where she
stiixl. She paid no heed; the sea, in all its moods, was so
familiar that it gave her no concern. She took out the box,

la*

niHii8i<i

; ill I

228

57: VEDA'S.

\ t If iJ-KuT,

lifted a pici'e of tlie rock which had crii7ii1)l('il from the
cliff, and w-lh a string bound wood and stone firmly
together. The sea was about to reciM've another secret, to
have something very precious added to its treasure store; hut
it gave no promise tliat its secret would be kept. Slie watchcil
it go down swiftly like an arrow through the shining water,
swiftly and silently as if ashamed of its downward course.
'That's done,' slic said then, and with white face and gleam
ing eyes turned aliout and went away home. None liad
observed her action, she knew, but forgot that wliat is un.srcn
by human eye is known of God.

She had not been long absent from the house, and foiuid
that neitlier tlie skipper nor her son had returned. She
breathed more freely to find that her absence would not he
noticed, and giving the fire a stir, she took out her knitting.
Janet Eiskine was always knitting. There was a monotony
in the routine of her life which used to fret Annie sometimes
when she would be lonnjing for a change. The trunk in the
garret, indeed, was filled with stockings and socks and gar-
ments for underwear, which would never be worn out by tlie
two for whom they were made. All that Janet Ei'skine did
was for herself or those of her own household. Iler charities
were bounded by the four walls of her own home. She never
gave away to the impiovident or the needy, but no man know
the extent of the skipper's generous giving. A tenth to the
Lord was his standard, and many a year he went beyond it.
On that point he would brook no questioning nor advising.
Janet had i)roved that, and all she could do to balance the
thing, M'as to hold in her own hand. It was little wonder she
was not Ixdiived in the place: beggars and selling folks knew
to avoiil the cottage, and none of the Haven bairns had evei
eaten a 'jelly |)iece' spread by Janet Erskine.

She WHS outwardly perfectly calm as she sat there at her
work, Imt tiirre was a curious tumult raging within. X"
sooner was the deed done than she wished it recalled. None

THE SECRET IN THE GARRET.

229

could dr;iw a finer distinction between riglit and wrong than
Janet Krskino. Tlie ten coniniandnieuts had been finnly
lixt'd in her mind when a cliild at home under the stern
-iijirrvision of an austere but God-fearing father. Tlie eiglith
was u[)i)t'rmost in her mind that night. She even made her
li[)s V('i(;elessly vsluipe the words — 'Thou shalt not steal.'
What had she st<ih'n'? IShe had stolen from Annie lier heri-
tiige and name, her right to a place of honour in the world,
and siirely for such a sin she would not be held guiltless.

Tiiese thoughts cduld not make the solitude of her lonely
fireside pleasant for her; but she sat on knitting, knitting,
knitting, without a sign of mental disturbance visible in her
outwartl dcauieanour. She had a grand command over her-
self. Meanwhile the skipper and Adam were not very far
away. They had met on the School iJrae, as the skijiper was
returning from giving the young Laird a convoy to the Castle
gates.

'Hulloa, Adam, my man!' cried the skipper cheerily.
'Stravaigin' as usual Can ye no' bide by the fireside, lad?
I'm sure '^ ^ get [tlenty o' the open air.'

'There's no' muckle pleasure i' the hoosc noo,' retorted
Adam a trifle sullenly, and would have passed on, but hit;
lather took him by the arm.

' Na, na, lad ; I'm for a word wi' ye,' said the skipper.
'I've been gaunna speak this while. We'll just staj) on to
the gairden gate. 2soo^ 1 want to ken what ails ye. Div ye
no' think I miss Annie as muckle as you do? an' ye dinna see
me gaun on like a fule. '

Adam never spoke.

'No' only like a fule, but in a sinfu' way. Adam, hae ye
iiae ither mercies to mind on, lad? Ye'U maybe tempt
I'lovidence till He gie's ye something waur to greet ahoot.'

Adam pulled himself free of his father's touch with an im-
[uticnt gesture, but he spoke never a word till they reached
the garden gate. They passed through it, the skipper shut it,

ill):

I . J

? ill

IS IJ.l ^

;:i

■54!

iii

^*li^

830

ST. VEDA'S.

and then tlicy stood a moment in silence. The air was very
still about them in tho dark, starless night, and it was laden
with the faint, sweet perfume of the white rose leaves wliich
the first of the autumn winds had swept in a shower to the
ground. There was not a single bloom left on the branch
overhanging the gate. The skipper's hand touched tliat
branch with a tender finger. It was the tree Annie had
loved.

* Hae ye naething to say, Adam ? ' he asked quietly.

* That was the young Laird docn the nicht again. "Wliat
did he want 1 He has wrocht eneuch mischief in the Haven
already. Let him bide awa' afore I lay my hand on him,'
said Adam, with a subdued passion which amazed his fatlier.

* Adam, be cautious what ye say to tak* awa* a fellow-cratur's
character,' ho said sternly. ' What hae you against the young
Laird? Naething, except that he won the love ye coveted.
Eh, my man, strive against yer evil passions, or they'll get the
upper haund. I tbocht ye wad hae haen mair grace than that.'

'Do you really believe that he kens as little aboot Annie
as he pretends?' asked Adam, with incredulous scorn.

* I ken brawly when a man tells me the truth an' when a
lee. Had Annie been here, she wad hae been the Laird's wife
or this time. I say to him I dinna want him to find her oot,
but were I honest wi' mysel' I wad say different. He's a
true, honest, manly chap, the young Laird, and I'm prood that
he should think sae muckle 0' my bairn.*

Adam gave an impatient exclamation, and brought his hand
down with force on the post of the gate.

' He's blinded you, I see ; but he shall answer to me about
Annie yet, or my name's no* Adam Erskine.'

* Adam ! ' The skipper's voice trembled with its very solem-
nity. * I doot, my lad, that there's something in your heart
no' faur short o' murder. Gang doon on your knees the nicht
afore ye sleep, an* pray for strength to staund against tempta-
tion, or I doot ye'U fa'. Eh, my son, this is waur, far waur,

THE SECRET IN THE GARRET.

a3>

for me to thole than Annie gaun awa', and what that was is
kriit only to my Maker.'

Tlie old man's composure failed him. He leaned his arms
on the little gate where Annie liad lingered to say her ImpI
I'aiGwell to her hotne, and bent his grey head very low. The
lijis oi Adam Erskine the younger twitched in the darkness;
lie was nearly conquered. The melancholy, moody, vengeful
man, whose presence had seemed to cast a dark shadow
wiierever it fell, was not *he real man; and the old, loving,
mie, unst'lfish heart would yet assert itself above the poisonous
passions which had for a time made it their abode.

' D'ye really believe, faither, that he disna ken whaur
Annie isl' he asked; and, though nothing could be gathered
from his tone, the very repetition of the question showed that
he was wavering.

'Adam, as I stand here, I believe that Archibald Grant
kens nae mair aboot Annie than we ken, and, mair, that he
wad gi'e his richt haund, ay, an' a' he possesses, to ken whaur
she is. He has spent himsel' for three weeks seeking her, an'
my lieart's wae for him. He has plenty to bear, lad, withoot
y.Air ill-will. If ye are the man I tak' ye for, ye'll tell him,
the first time ye see him, that ye wranged him. He tell't me
ye werena sailin' in the same boat — they were his very vvcius.
Y'i'll ken best what's been atween ye.'

' There's been naething atween us ava. I asked him what
ho had done wi' Annie, an' he passed me by as I'd been dirt.'

' I dinna wunner at it. His pride wad flee up. It was a
wunner he keepit his haund afT you, lad,' said the skipper
rftornly. *Eh, Adam, ye were like brithers ance. Ye ken
brawly Annie's no' for you. Can ye no' act a man's pairt, an'
offer a britherly haund to them that's won her? It wad mak'
a man o' ye, lad, the man I wad like to see my son.'

Adam was conquered now.

' I hae been wrang, an' I will tell him, faither. God forgie
me ; ay, there has been murder in my heart.'

232

ST. VEDA'S.

He shufldcred as ho spoke, for the scales had fallen from
liis eyes, and he saw himself as he was, filled with hatred
against a fellow-creature who had never harmed him.

The old man rose up, and his face grew glad in the dark-
ness. They gripped hands by the garden gate. The skipper
said, 'God bless ye, my son,' and then they went quietly into
the house.

Theie was a note of gladness in the skipper's voice that
night at worship when he read the thanksgiving psalm ; and
in his prayer he returned thanks for mercy vouchsafed. He
was still troubled about Janet, his wife, but his faith was very
great. He believed the stony heart would yet be broken, —
he could wait and pray.

She seemed to be troubled in mind beyond her wont, for
there was a red spot burning on cither cheek, and her move-
ments were even mere nervous than usual. At the supper-
tahle she broke a tuml)ler and a plate, a thing which had
never happened before within the skipper's knowleilge. Her
restlessness seemed to follow her in her sleep. He was
awakened in the night with her tossing and ninttenng; uiid
oucti htt made out the wuidti, * Tliuu sihuil iiut 6itiuL'

g<^S?:^€/li:^>^^.^^^G;<g:<^^^

CIIAPTEK XXVI.

TREASURE TROVE.

^^ TIIEL was again convalosccnt, and al)lo to "be up
M^P" tUir'ng tlio groator part of llio day. 8ho was
Vi^'^"^ silting at lier window one grey October aftor-

^^^^(^ noon Idokitig out at the sea, wliich tossed groy
anl troiiLlous under the lowering sky. It had
been a dull October, vexed by many g'des ; the leaves
were all strij>ped from the trees, and lay sodilen by
heavy rains on the roads.

Etliel Grant had not spent an October at 8t. Veda's for
many years. She had been wont to take flight with the
swallows; but th(.ngh the winds were biting and chill, and
the moriung frosts nij^ping and crncl, there had never been a
word said about seeking a warmer clime. Although it had
never been put in words, each knew the truth, that their
hearts clung with a yearning love to St. Veda's, because their
life in :t as a home might soon have an end.

It had been a sad autumn for castle as well as for cottage,
a t!mo of anxiety and depression whiih it was imjiossible
to shake off. Archie was still searching by fits and starts for
his lost love; but she had disappeared as completely and
securely out of his ken, as if, like Kilnieny, she had been
Bpii'ited away to some unseen land.

Ethel's hands were folded on her lap above a volume of

833

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''F?"^'^

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'1 4 '

t -*'1.

234

ST. VEDA'S.

poetry which she had been reading. She was thinking of
Annie, and her eyes were full of tears. In spite of the din'ti
ence in their station, they had loved each other well. Slu
looked frail, but the pinched, drawn look had once niuiv
disiipi)oari'tl from the face which so many held dear; her ey(.'>
were bright and clear. There were in her whole appeaniiici'
signs of returning health. The attack had bo^n sharj,,
brought on by a chill caught standing in an open doorway,
but slie had had sufficient strength to conquer it, and was
daily gaining ground. Presently a smile banished her tears
as she saw lier father coming up the avenue. He caught sight
of her, took off his hat, and waved his hand in greeting.
Before long she heard his step on the staii, and he came
straight to her room.

' I thought you would have been asleep, pussy, as mamma
doubtless is long since,' he said as he laid his hand on Ler
shoulder.

* I do not feel tired. I am very much stronger to-day, papa.*

* You are sure it is real strength, Ethel 1 '

* Oh yes. I have felt it gaining on me. Shall I tell
you Avhat I think, papa, that it has not always been good
for me to rush away to grandmamma with the first breath
of cold wind. I believe I should have been hardier at
home.'

* This winter will test it then, dearest. Your mother and
I were talking over it last night. We cannot make up our
minds to leave St. Veda's just now.*

* No ; I know.'

Ethel's hand closed over her fathers with a soft, sympa-
thetic touch.

* I believe I shah grow quite strong and well now, papa.
You cannot believe how hopeful I feel.'

*My darling, I am thankful there is one hopeful heart
among us. We have been a sorry household of late.'

* Yes ; but there will be brighter days, papa. I am sure of

ili

TREASURE TROVE,

235

it. I do not think we shall e^^cr have to leave St. Veda's.
One seems to know these tiling's by intuition.*

* IJut the Grant Succession Case will soon be pubiio property,
Kthcl,' said Sir Archie a trille gloomily.

' Never mind ; right will win the day, and I don't believe
even yet that there ever icill be a case. See if I am not right,'
said Ethel gaily. It was almost as if the spirit of prophecy
liail touched her, as she spoke with such confidence.

' Well, these troubles have made a man of Archie, Ethel.
It is an unspeakable satisfaction to me to see him applying
himself to preparation for his Parliamentary life. The
election will probably take place in April. He talks of
making his Hr.st apjtcarance before a Berwickshire audience
next month.'

' He has not forgotten Annie, papa.'

' No, and will not, I can see. Hor disappearance is a
stnmge mystery, Ethel. I sometimes fear that she cannot be
alive.'

' Oh, papa, I am sure she is not only alive, but that we shall
see her soon,' said Ethel. ' You cannot imagine what
jiroljlcms I work out during my solitary hours. I know that
all this trouble will turn out a blessing to us yet.'

* But for your bright, brave spirit, my Ethel, we should all
liave succumbed during the past dreary months,' said Sir
Archie fondly. * Strange that we should look to you, poor
fragile blossom, for comfort and strength.'

' One of the weak things of the world, papa,' said Etlud,
with a tremulous smile. * I am thankful I am not quite
useless.'

She had indeed, even in her frail weakness, been a pillar of
strength to them all. To her Archie had been able to pour
oul his heart witliout restraint, and had been cheered and
comforted by her sympathy. She loved Annie too, and never
itiKsunderstood anything ho might say. But for the blessing
of such a sympathizer he could not so well have borne the

!ii»

. \

23^

Sr. VEDA'S.

troii])lc whifh had (Irirlxonod his life on its very tliro.^hnM.
Tie was trying to hear it manfully, an«l to do liis duty as it
was revealuil to him. He know the desire of his fatlni's
heart for him, and strove to fui.il that desire. He did not
give himself up to selfish brooding over his sorrow, and in
the very striving found comfort and even peace. Hut, ns
Ktlii'l said, he had not and never would forget Annie Krskiiio.
The Grants were not fickle. It was Move once, love for aye'
with them; they were true to the heart's core in the 'ullicu
and aifairs of love.'

'Adam Erskine is downstairs, Sir Archie, wishing to speak
to you,' said a servant's voice at the door.

* (.)ld Adam or young Adam?' asked Sir Archie laughingly,
as he turned from the window.

* Young Adam, Sir Archie,'' was the answer.

* All right. Ill be down presently. Where did you say
he was?'

' In the gunroom, Sir Archie,' said the servant, as she with-
drew.

' It is not often the Erskines come up. None of thoni
have been here, I thinks since Annie went away.'

' No,' said Ethel with a sigh. 'I have been terribly dis-
iippointed in Janet, papa. I used to admire her, but r.ow I
think her rather terrible. I would be afraid to live with her.'

' Ay, I fancy the two Adams have a curious time of it with
her,' laugh(>d Sir Archie. ' Well, I'll go down and see what
this important business can be. I'll look up again — if you
are not asleep.'

' I shall not be ; do come, dear papa.' said Ethel, as her eyes
followed him affectionately to the door.

Sir Archie ran downstairs, lightly humming a tune to
himself. He always felt cheered and brightened by a few
words with Ethel. She had grown more precious, if that
were possible, in this time of triah

' Wt;ll, Adam, good-day to you. I was just saying to my

TREASURE TROVE.

237

daiii^'litcr you were great strangers to St. Veda's now,' lie siiiil
cheerily, as he nodded to the Kkipjier's son. 'Can I do aiiv
tiling for youl*

' No, Sir Archie ; it's something which maybe I can da,- I'l 1
you,' Haid Adam slowly.

'Ay, that's very gnod. How's your father and nintlin?'

* llaitli weel. I hae hrocht something for }ou t<» liM.k ;it,
Sir Archie ; something which I fand no' an hour sync nn \\w
sands at the Kelpie's Cove.'

'Ay, what's that? treasure trove, eh?' said the T.aird with
a laugh, as he watched i\.lani unfold sonuithin^; fidui his
liaudkorchief.

'I hae heard some talk, Sir Archie, ahoot an heir tuniiii'
up for St. Veda's,' said Adam slowly, and keeping liis L;iv;it
hand spread over what seemed to the L;iird to be a lit lie li ix.
'The sea had the secret like many anither. I lookit iiili- tin'
box sittin' on the rocks, as was natural ; but when I saw w li it
it was, I shut it up an' came straicht wi' it to you.'

As he spoke he held out the little sandal- wood case to ilic
Laird with a smile on his face. Adam Erskhie knew dnly
half the secret the sea had refused to keep.

Sir Archie, wonderingly, and not without a strange appre-
hension, took the box, and setting it on the table ojicmMl the
lid. It was full of papers, discoloured with the salt water,
and requiring very careful handling. Ko opened out the one
which lay on the top, and read there some words which
brought a mist before his eyes. It was the certilicate of his
brother's marriage with Annie Forbes Seton.

' Adam ! Adam Erskine ! ' he cried hoarsely ; ' this is indeed
a find ! Did you read this? Do you know what it is?'

'Ay, Sir Archie, that was the yin I looked at. Hut gang
farther doon, there's maybe mair nor ye think.'

Sir Archie became fearfully excited. His hands shook as
he lifted out the papers one by one. They still lay in the
order in which Janet Erskine had placed them — the certilicate

III

, •«

1 1,1

imm

' , 1'

( '-i

:ir «»

III

238

^7: VEDAS.

of the child's birth helow tlio irirriage linos, and the lettors
at the bottom, above tiie trinkets antl tlie lock of hair.

' Tlie child was a j,ni'l. TAe// are impostors then!' cried
Sir Archie. 'But where, in the name of wonder, Aditm
Krskine, has this thing come fronil It looks as if it had
hoen dropped down from heaven.*

* ^[aybe it has,' replied Adam, with his slow smile. ' It's 0'
some use to ye, then, Sir Archied

' Use ! why, my man, it is ; will save me all. It will prove
tliat these people who are laying a claim to St. Veda's are
impostors,' cried Sir Archie. * liiit where can it have coim,'
from? At the Kelpie's C(jve, did you say you found it?'

' Ay, Sir Archie, lyin' high an* dry amang the drip an' tlie
seaweed. It*s been in the water a whilie.*

Sir Archie was silent — because fingers and eyes were busy
with the contents of the box. He laid the letters aside, and
opened out the little packet containing the biiglit, brown hair
which had been wont to curl about his brother's brow. Then
he lifted the locket and chain, opened it, and saw the face
revealed within. Adam Erskine saw his emotion, and with
his fine delicacy felt that he ought not to be a witness to that
meeting between the living and these strange )uementoes of
the dead.

' I'll gang awa' doon, Sir Archie, then,' he said, taking up
his cap ; ' an' I'm fell gled an* prood that I hae been even 0'
sma' service to ye.'

' Small service, my man ! You don't know what that is.
Don't go. But perhaps it may be as well. I shall see you
later in the day. Good-day, and thank you, Adam, with all
my heart.'

* I dinna need thanks ; I only brocht ye yer ain, as ony
ither honest chield wad dae,' said Adam, his face glowiii'^
with satisfaction. * I'm prood, as I said, to hae dune even
sic a sma' thing to serve the Castle.'

So saying, he went his way. Sir Archie, closing the door

TREASURE TROVE.

«39

een even o

find sli'ppirig in the l)olt, ^at down to make a full examination
of the treasure trove which had come to him so stran;^'o!y, and
which wa8 of such moment to him. Ho examineil the locket
carcfidly, holding it with tenvler, reverent hand. No douht
it had heen a i)l('dgo of love given hy his hrother to the
young wife, for whose sake he gave uj) so much. It was not
an expensive thing, tiiougli of good quality and workmanship,
A little coronet of rubies shone in the front, while on the
plain surface at the back were engraved the combined initials
of the husband and wife, and underneath the motto of the
Grants.

The other trinkets were of small interest or value — little
things which the young husband had bought on diU'crcnt
occasions for his wife when aw:iy to the towns on business. At
tlie very bottom of the box, under a piece of chamois leather,
vvliich Janet Erskine had not iliought to remove, th(!re lay yet
another folded paper, which was of great moment. It was a
letter written by the hiind of Archibald Grant's wife, and
which explained away some dilTiculties, and made every link
in the chain complete.

' On board the Corndian^
*In the Noith Sea, Odoher 1846.

'I write this in case anything should happen to our vessel,
f(»r we are in the midst of a great storm, and I can see that
the captain is looking very grave. After I have written this
letter, I will place it in the little santlal-wood box which
contains all I prize in the world, the proof of my own and
my chihrs identity. I am Annie Orr- Grant, the wife of
Archilnild Orr -Grant of St. Veda's, Berwickshire, Scotland,
wlio left England three years ago for India, taking me with
liiiu. I need not give the particulars of our marriage, because
if Uiis ever fulls into the hands of my own or my husband's
I)oi>[)le, they will understand. It is impossible that we can
l)e forgotten so soon. We sailed to India, and on the voyage
Ijecanie acquainted with a gentleman who owns large plantations

240

ST. VEDA'S.

up the country. Tie became very friendly with my husband,
and give him tlie offer of a situation on his estates. We were
glad to accept it, as we had no means and no prospects. So
we travelled home with him, and were received by his wife
with a kindness which I cannot write about. God will bless
and reward Robert and Ellen Matlicrs for their goodness tn
us. Six months after our settlement at Tanjore my (lau:j;lit('i
was born, and within a fortnight after, my husband died of
fever after three days' illness. On his deathbed he besouglil
me to go home to Sc(>tland, and see that our chikl got licr
rights. I write brioll)' of that fearful time, because if I allnw
my mind to dwell on it, I should be totally overcome. Our
friends did everything for me. I shall never forget their
goodness to me. They put me on board a sailing vessel, the
captain of wliich was a friend of their own, and who proniisod
to take care of me and my child. He has done so. I have
everywhere met with nothing but kindness since I left my
native land. I have a presentiment that I shall never see it
again, anil I write this for my child's sake ; and I pray Cod
to have her in His keeping, and bring her safely to those who
will care for ])er for her father's sake if not for mine.

* My child's name Is Annie. My husband would have lior
called by no other name. He loved it, he said, better tiian any
name on earth. I have only memory uO live on now, but I
would not give my memories for any other woman's living
ha})i)iness. My husband give up everything for me, and it is
my most precious comfort to remember that lie said, wIumi
dying, that he woidd do it again for my sake. If this slionM
ever fall ir.to strange hands, let it be sent to Sir ArchihaM
Grant, St. Veda's, Orr's Haven; or to Mrs. Seton, 42 North
umbcrland Street, Edinburgh. If my child should ever niK li
St. Veda's without me, and should not be made welconu' li\
her grandfather, let her i)e S(Mit to my mother at the last
address. I give these diicM-tions bocause I feel that death is
not very far olf froin nu-, and 1 also feed that my child will

TREASURE TROVE.

241

bfi saved. I lay her and all my cares upon the mercy of

Gud.

* Annie Orr Grant.'
'Orfoher 17, 1^19.'

TlnMc were tciirs in Sir Arolp'o's eyes as lie rend these line's,
wliich in niimy places were nearly illeyihle. He gathered up
ilic 1m IX ami its contents, and went up with hurried steps to
his wife's room.

' Look at these, TJlinn, and tell me if you do not see God's
liiiinl in this. 1 have never known anything mure wonderful
in fact or fiction.'

Lady Grant looked round in amnzement, but obeying her
liushand's excited recpiest, she looked at the pupers one hy one
as he unloliled them to her. Sho never spoke a word, nor
iitLered an exclamation even. Surprise kept her spellbound.

' Wondeiful, is it not, Lily? Look at this locket; it has
poor Archie's photograph in it, and see the Grant motto on
the hick.'

Lady Grant took the trinlcet in her hand, and began to
treiable so violently that she had to lean against her husband's
arm for support.

' Archibald, I have seen this before. I remember the sparkle
of these rubies quite well. I though it a curicms design.*

'Impossible, Lily! You may have seen one bearing a
resend)lance to it. This may have been lying at the bottom
of the sea for years.'

' It may. But I know now where I saw it, Archibald. It
was on the neck of Annie Erskinc's dead mother that
morning after the wreck. Oh, Archibald, do you not see it?
It is all as j)lain as day.'

Liidy Grant, overcome by the emotion and excitement of
thu moment, buiftt into tears.

Ill

'i»-. ■ I

CHAPTER XXVIL

ST. veda's heir.

'NXIE ERSKINE'S mother?'

The words fell from Sir Archie's lips almcist
mechanically.

' You are sure of this, Lily 1 '
* Perfectly sure.'
* Then where has this box been for twenty-one
years ? '
Lady Lilian shook her head.

* Perhai)S Janet Erskine will be able to tell you. All 1
know is that I saw that locket on the dead woman's neck.
One does not forget such things, Archibald. Evi-ry particular
of that morning in the skipjx'r's cottage is as fresh in my
memory as if it had been only yesterday. To thinlc that
Annie, who has been so badly used among us, should be ►St.
Veda's heiress ! '

* "Wo cannot be sure of this, Lilian. It is only a guess.
There will have to be the strictest investigation made.'

'Of course, but 1 know it to be true,' said Lady (Iraut,
with decision. ' I understand now the strange yearning I li;iJ
over the girl. She was one of us; the tie of kinship spdkc,
tlK)Ugh we did not hear it. Oh, Archibald, dearest, where can
she be 1 '

Sir Archie shook his head. The thing was bewildering;

84S

ST. VEDA'S HEIR.

243

incredible ; hut in his heart of hearts he knew his wife was
spciikinj,' the a-iith.

' Wliat will the children say 1 Archie will be nearly wild.
Slic must be f(nuid, and Archie and she will marry, and so it
will all have a beautiful end,' said Lady Clrant, with a tender
smile. She was pleased to think that her intuition had not
liccn at fault. She had always said Annie was of "^^cntle birth,
and she had not been ima^fining a ])retty romance. The
icality was ten times more romantic tlian any novel she had
r\('r read.

' The conviction is growing in my mind, Lily. When I
iliiiik of Annie now, I remember a curious familiarity of look
and manner which used to puzzle me. Poor Archie's child !
Vs'liat a life she has had ! and where can she be now?'

Ah, where, indeed ! Who would solve that mystery, or
restore the lost to those who w(?re seeking her ?

' There is a mystery about the box ; but that, too, is
solvable. After Annie went away, knowing who she was,
.laiict Erskinc was afraid to keep the proofs of her identity in
llic house, and so threw the box into the sea. She shall be
|iunished for her sin,' said Sir Archie sternly.

' If she has known all these years who was the child she
had in her home, she is indeed a wicked woman," said Lady
(irant solemnly. 'She has wronged not only the living but
the dead. If she read that letter, and could withstand its
ailios, .she has not a woman's heart, Archibald. Uh, how
strangely we seem to have been mixed up witli tliese l>skines
ill onr lives ! It was a mistake to allow them as children to
'"• so much torrether. It is nearlv inii)ossil)le to sever these
iii!v chords. Poor, poor Annie; heir to so sweet a heritage,
iii'l yet comjielled to enter it only on suderance as one far
liciieath it. It will take a lift>tinic to atone for the injuf.tiee
'I'liie to her.'

' It was an unconscious wrong, Lily. Heaven knows that I
Would have given an account of my stewardship years ago,

■'■fn~^

244

57! VEDA'S,

\ "m'^

gliidly, and more easily than now. St. Veda's has never heon
ours, dear; we have enjoyed th(! possession of another, and
eaten the bread whieh belong'^l hy rights to Arcliie's child.
It is not a pleasant thought. I sui)pose the woman 8innc(l
through ignorance of the wrong she was doing not only Annie,
but us; at least it is charitable to think so.'

'Janet Erskine is not an ignorant woman, Archibald, but
she is very selfish. I do not know how she could go abdut
iuv twt-nly years with su(di a secret lotdccd m her breast. I dn
not wonder that she, had a morose, miserable look; and tn
tbink that she would have crowned the wrong by marrying
Annie to her own son. Her ambition was very great ! '

So injustice was done; to Janet Krskine; she was blamed fur
a sin she had not committed. They believed she had known
for twenty years the secret which had only come into her
possession, to make her the most wretched of women, three
weeks before.

'I wonder,' said Sir Archie thoughtfully, 'whether the
skipper has known anything of this % Did I tell you youn-
Adam brought this, that In; found it at the K(d[)ie's Cove {
He at least has no hand in it, and I cannot believe that the
skii)[)er is less innocent.'

' Oh no. He is a good man, old Adam Erskine — one of the
best 1 ha', e ever known. This will be a fearful grief to him.
T could almost spare his wife for his sake, and yet she must
be told that we know what she bar, done. Iler sin must he
{minted out to her. Do you not think so, Archibahl?'

' ^[ost assuredly. I shall go down, ])erha})S, this very night.
"We had Ixjtter telegraph to Archie to come home to-nighl
from I'Minburgh. I wonder why the lad so persistently haunts
Edinburgh ! He seems to think he will lind Annie tlieiv.
Ethel will !)(' amazed to hear this strange story.'

' She will be didis-htcd. She has ahvavs loved Annie with
a sister's love. Oh, if the child could only be restored to us !
^ly heart yearns over her, dearest,'

ST. VEDA'S HEIR.

245

* I pray she may be restored, that in the enjoyment of St.
Veda's she may forj^'et how cruel fortune has been to her,'
said Sir Archie sadly. 'And yet it was only of late her life
was not happy ; since there was a talk of niiUTying her to
Adam.'

' I don't know. She M'as left a [^rent deal alone with Janet
Krskine. Life with such a woman, who could do suc-h a
wrong, could never be hiijtpy. You will need to communicate
all this to Mr. ]5old, and to your E(liid)urgli lawyers.'

' Ay, it will be a fine tit-bit for Dold, a feather in his cap.
He had the most supreme contempt for the pair who did us
the honour to claim kinship with us. I shall be very curious
to learn their little history, and how they come to have so
intimate a knowledge of my brother's life in India. The story
the self-styled Lady Grant told me, coincided in every
particular with what we have read in this letter.'

' They may have lived at or near the same place, and so
liave heard poor Archie's story,' said Lady Grant, ' Well,
shall we go and tell Ethel all this wonderful news?'

Meanwhile Adam Erskine, pondering over his curious find,
was slowly walking Ijack to Orr's Haven. The shadow had
lifted from off the man since his talk with his father, and he
was again Adam, the honest and kindly and true, although
tliere was a kind of subdued c^uiet in his demeanour which
betokened that his sorrow remained with him. He was,
indeed, profoundly anxious about Annie. He did not share
liis father's hopeful certainty concerning her safety and well-
1 icing ; his dreams were haunted by visions of Annie wandering
alune and in sore straits in the cold and cruel town. He had
only a vague idea of the perils which might surround a young
,^ii'l there, but they were real enough to occasion him the
deepest concern. A plan was maturing in his mind. The
hi'rring season was over, and work slack ; he would take a
week's noliday, he told himself, and devote it to searching for
Anuie. it did uot occur to him to connect the finding of tho

I'.i'

; '!■«

246

ST. VEDA'S.

box witli her ; the full disclosure concerning her parentage
was to come upon him soon with a strange shock.

lie heard the clatter of teacups as he neared the open door,
and was astonished that even their early tea hour was at hand.
It was Friday afternoon, and the skipper was deep in tlic
pages of his weekly paper, which he shared with two others in
the place. Janet was preparing the tea, and she looked round,
though without a smile, when her son entered. She had agcil
very mucli of late, he thought at that moment, and her face
wore a harassed, careworn look, which indicated a mind ill at
ease. Peihaps s-he too was fretting after Annie, though litT
pride would not let her admit it.

' "NVhaur hae ye been, lad % ' said the skipper, looking u}).

' At the Castle. What think ye I fand the day on the sands
at the Kelpie's Cove T

' We're no' guessers, Adam; tell't oot,' said the skipper, rather
absently, returning to his perusal of his newspaper.

' Soni(;thing that gar'd the Laird nearly jump ooten his
skin,' said Adam, with (piiet enjoyment.

Janet hail hev back to her son, and the knife to cut a slice
ofr the loaf was in her hand. She held it on the crust, and
seemed to be waiting for the rest. There was a curious grry
pallor on her face.

' Ay lad, what Mas that \ ' asked the skipper, with some
interest, and he held down the paper and looked inquiringly
at his son.

' It was a box, an' there was that in't the Laird wad raither
see than the finest diamonds,' said Adam. ' It's cam' frae
India a' the road maybe, an' it contains his brither's marriage-
lines, and their bairn's birth-lines, besides twa- three mair
things that belanged to Mr. Archie that was. Queer, i.<u"l,
that it should come ashore here ? I'm bound to say I dinna
ken wliaur or hoc it can iiae come. It's aboot the queerest
thing I've ever known. It's just as the Laird says, it looks
us if it had drappit doon frae heaven.'

I|VV ■. ,:.

ST. VEVA'S HEIR,

247

' Ay, man ! ' The skipper's voice was intense in its excited
surprise as he listened to Adam's strange story. Janet never
spoke ; she stood quite still in the same position, with the
hlade of the knife resting on tiie crust of the loaf. They were
so accustomed to her silence that they paid no attention to it.

* Ay, man!' repeated the skipper, in perfect Wdnderment.
' Div ye hear that, Janet 1 Wasn't that a queer find 1 '

* You were in a great hurry, running with it to the Laird,'
she said, with dir/iculty, for every word was forced from her.
She had received an awful shock, but her hand did not
tremble as she cut up the bread. Perliaps she was getting
inured to such shocks, and her nerves were gaining strength.
Bui- ihe dared not turn her face to them for a moment. She
had felt it blanch herself, and knew it must look like the face
of the dead.

' Hurry ! I should think so. I had nae business wi't. It
was his, an' fell gled was I to pit it in his hands. Eh, here's
the Laird hissel'.'

Janet Erskine gave a violent start. Had her sin then found
her out 1 In any case she had a strange ordeal to face.

The Laird nodded to the skipper, who rose from his chair
to receive him. His face was very white and set ; all saw at
once that there was something serious amiss.

* Adam,' said Sir Archie briefly, ' will you leave the house
for a little? I have something to say privately to your father
and mother.'

In sore amazement Adam obeyed. The skipper looked
perplexed. Sir Archie's tones were not reassuring. As for
Janet, she turned her face to Sir Archie, and, folding her
arms, stood in silence. She was not a coward ; she was ready
to face the consequences of what she had done. As she
expected, Sir Archie produced the box.

' Your son found this on the sands to-day, !Mrs. Erskine,'
he said, addressing his remarks directly to her.

' Ay, he was but telling us o't when ye cam' in, Sir Airchie,'

•iv

i i

iiti

I j

%i'

f ■!

*^klll;|.

248

ST. VEDA'S.

said the skipper, who could not understand the stern gravity
on the Laird's face.

* Yes.' Sir Archie opened the lid, and laid the things out
one by one on the table. ' I su[)pose I need not say thoso
things are all familiar to you?' he added, again luDkiiig
straight at Janet Erskine's iron face. *! presume you recog-
nise them \ You have seen and handled each one before.'

A look of terror supplanted the surprise on the skippur's
face. His wife never spoke.

'You have tampered with these things, which ought to
have been delivered up years ago,' said Sir Archie sternly.
' Be good enough to tell me how long it is since you gave to
the sea the secret it has rightly refused to keep.'

Janet Erskine stood silent, immovable, just as if she hud
not heard a word uttered.

' It was this which betrayed you,' said Sir Archie, hanging
the necklet and locket on his forefinger. * Lady Giant
recognised it. If you cast your memory back, you may recall
the morning of the wreck which cast up the child you took to
yourself. Do you remember taking Lady Grant into the
room, and showing her the locket on the dead woman's neck 1
That woman,* said Sir Archie, turning to the skii)pcr, who
was as still as death, * was my brother's widow. Lady Grant of
St. Veda's, and the child you have reared as your own is the
heir to the heritage I have so long wrongfully enjoyed.'

The skipper groaned, and covered his face with his hands.
Sir Archie's wrath rose at the serene composure exhibited by
Janet Erskine, and he turned his flashing eyes on her face.

' Woman, will you not speak ? What tempted you to keep
such a secret? What were you to gain by it? You have
done a fearful wrong to the living and the dead. What was
your motive? Was it simply to gratify a selfish desire that
you kept to yourself all knowledge of the child's identity?
You have not only wronged her— almost irre[)arably, I fear,
poor lost child 1 — but you have made me unconsciously a

ST. VEDA'S HEIR.

249

usnrpor ami a roliLor. The very Im-iul I and niinn liavo eatcii
for twi'iity yt'iirs lu-loii^'cd !»;' ri;,'I;t to llii' ;;irl you biou^'Iii
up as your own. You knew it, iuid y«'t you timed to be sileiit
WoiMiin, what have you to say for yourself T

She was at bay now, but slio did not h)S(' her self-control.

* You cannot make mc; sj)eak,' she said slowly, as she turneii
away. ' It is only Annie who has the ri^dit t(» (piestion iim'.
I will not answer until she is here to bid me spuak. I am ;■
woman of my wuid.'

IJ1

CHAPTER XXVIIL

AT BAY.

flS

■:^j W.^W^IIAT could they make of her?

W.-

Nothing. Adam Erskino turned away to tlio

'/^-S v.'indow, and hiying liis liands on the Ijroad le(l;,'o,

^Cx~^^/j^"iTX? whii.'li in Annie's time had ever been gny ^vith

^' blooming flowers, looked across the turbulent
kOJA^p sea. It was not more troubled than his own broitst.
*^^ That was a moment of supreme bitterness for him.
Janet, the wife of his heart, whom ho had loved and trusted
beyond all women, the mother of his son, to be so utterly uii-
wortliy. Sir Archie understood hi" feelings and sympathized
with him, but his anger burned sore against Janet Erskiiie.
lie had not a quick temper, but when he was roused, 8ir
Archie spared none. Like all long-sulFering natures, lie
became rtdentless when the limit was reached. lie looked
straight once more at Janet Erskine, and though his voice was
not loud, it had a hard, (h.'termined ring in it.

'Do you know that you are liable to severe punishment I'V
law for this 1 Perhaps in the solitude of Greenlaw jail you
will lind your tongue.'

Her lip curled. She Avas a strange woman this, and
possessed not only an indomitable will but an indouiitalile
courage. There was little womanliness about her. tSir
Archie's threat affected her not at alL

SAO

AT BAY.

a5i

'Put mo in tlio jail if yon liko,* she said, with a (luii't
insdlciu'c iiulcsciihalily ^aliiiiL,' to Sir Archie's proud iiatuiv.

I have told vou wlio will make

luo speii!:.

Ask Adam

Kiskinc there if I ever '^o hy my wonl.'

She passed l»y the L drd, and went alon^' the narrow passa«4e
to the l)aek door. She was mistress of tlu; licdd, and Sir
Ari'hie turne(l rather hcdplessly to the skipper.

' Well, Adam, theie is nothing' t(» l)e j^'ot out of your wife, I
see,' he, said rather sharply. 'Have you no inlluence with
\irvi It will he to her advantaj^e to tell all she knows ahoiit
tliis matter. It is not one of small importance, I assure you,
;i> she may yet lind to her c(»st.'

' Me hae iidluence with her, Sir Archie'?' said the skipper
ill a low voice. * She's a woman wha'll dae her ain way or
iiaiie, I tell ye, an' I hae lived wi' her live-an'-twenty years.
W'eie I n(t' a man o' j»e,iee, we could uover hae hidden
ilieuitlier as lani^.'

' i could imi^iiie that.' said Sir Archie f,'rinily. ' Ihit 1

mistake. A woman like her needs

.IK

,111 y you have made a

'ic hit put in her mouth liefoi'e the race hegins.'
' Hut. Sir Archie, that's no" Janet liersel' that spoke the day,'
1 the skipper, loyal to his wife too, even in the midst of
liis sine pain. 'The deils gotten fairly intil her, an' she's
Irtieii slip the grace o' (Joil. 1 kenna what to mak' o' her. Sir
Aidiie. There hasua heeii peace; in oor hoose for a twal-
ui'iith past, what for I dinna ken. Mayhe it's a discijjline.
We forget, ye ken, when we're aye sailin' on suiniy seas. Ihit,
Sii Archie, yi-'U never pit my JatU't, the laddie's niither, in
llic jail. 1 coulduii stand that.'

o, no

1 was only trying to make her speak,' said th

l.aird hastily. 'Well, 1 have c(»nie on a fool's errand; I had
!'i It r ''•() awav l)ack and set to lindiicj- Annie. W/icfH can she

A<!amr

That's kent only to the Lord,' said the skipjifi-; 'hut 1

^urc she's weel eneuch, for she promised to let me ken if

if'

•^1

<»: I

:|tll

252

ST. VEDA'S.

there was onytliing wraiig, un' she iu'Vit gangs ])y Inr
word.'

Sir Ardii'; shctok his head. He did not l)y nny means sh;iiv
ihc lio|M' still iield hy the skipjier. To him Annie's disaiqn' n.
iince had assumed 11 very sevious aspect.

' Well, rjl go. Will you try and reason with your ohstiiiatc
wife, Adam? Take my advice and cateli her up linn and t';iM.

It's never t(J0 lute to mend; and it'll do her good, ii 1

aflernoon.'

So saying, Sir Archie, dissatisfied and irritated, went his way.

Janet Krskine, leaning up against tlie post of the luick-ddur,
heard him go, and came hack to the kitchen.

• danet, my 'ooman, 1 want to ken the meanin' o' a' this,'
.s\id her Imshand sternly. 'This is a honnie story 1 liar
heard the day. Had ye ever that hex in yer possession V

'Yes, I had it; it's lain in the garret for oneand-twintv
years,' returned Janet quietly, as she ja'oceeded with Kur
hread-cutting, j)reeisely as if nothing had )iai)pened.

* ^le cy, woman, was ye no' feared a judgment wad fa' 011
ye? The thing wasna yours. "What richt had ye to kccii
onytliing belangin' ither folkl Oh, Janet, had ye Imt licfii
honest, as ye should hac been, twenty years ago, what a
trouble wad hae been saved us a' ! '

' I wish I had died at onyrate before I took her inl(» the
house,' she said sullenly — 'a phigue and a curse she has birii
to us all the time.'

' Hand yer tongue. Tak' back time leein' words, Jatu't :
an' syne baud yer tongue, if ye like, for ever,' said the skiiipti,
his wrath leaping up in a sudden blaze. 'I canna thnlc w,
woman ; ye're no' the Janet I married, but some ill limiiKi' lliat
nae man's tit tae pit up M'i'. Ye'll hae to mend yer maiiin(i>
my 'ooman, or I'll maybe gar ye. Ye hae jist haen the 1114"!'
hand ower lang.'

Janet's colour rose. They were not pleasant words fui a
wife to hear, in spite of their truth.

AT BAY.

253

im-'s l)v licr

.nt words foi a

'An' if ye arona j^aunna dao wliat's richt noo, Janot, \()u
iiii' mo cannii Iddc tli('<,'itlior oiiy langcr,' he continiicd, nii»rt'
([uctly, but willi (Ifcisidii. 'I'll bide \vi' nae wuimiiiii liiil
uilfully i^an^s a;^'iiiiist tJK! Comiiiandiiicnts. Will yii (ir will
ye no' j^aii},' uj) to the Castle the nicht, an', after apolo^^'isjn^- to
Sir Anihic, lay bare a' ye kcii about the boxl'

'I won't,' she said. 'T won't Iminble niysrlf to one of
tlieiu exce[)t Annie. If I have sinned aj^ainst any, it is
a;^':n'nst her. When she come-' bai-k, I'll tell her so, as I huvt!
Siiid.'

* An* if she never conies backr

'Then I'll hold my ton^aie. It won't matter then, for they
call live at the Castle as tliey have ever done.'

'Did you throw that box in the sea, Janet?'

'Yes, I did; but I'll tell ye no more, Adam Erskine, for
you wouldn't believe what 1 said. I've made up my mind
wli it V\\\ to do, and I won't go by it.'

'Then I doot, my wunnnin, that there's an end to a' peace,
an' comfort atween you an' me. A wumniin that keeps sic a
secret frae me I canna treat as a wife. Ye liaena dune fair by
nic, Janet, an' I hae ever been the best o' men to ye, my oidy
fiuit bein' that ye hae aye gotten ower muckle o' yer ain way.'

Janet Krskine winced, and her mouth trembled. There
was not a more wr<;tched woman on the face of the earth than
she ; but the false, foolish pride and hardness of heart that was
in her would not let her speak. If she had followed the
inqiulse which was s*-"ong upon her at that moment, she would
liave knelt at her husband's feet and asked his forgiveness.
The ski})per's eye was tilled with a melancholy and wistful
laiiiestness as it dwelt on his wife's averted face. His heart
yearned over her uns])eakably ; she was his wife, still dear to
him in spite of her erring. His soul also was deeply concerned
for her. His faith was simple ; his belief in retribution for sin
citiinnitted, firm and sure. He feared the wrath of God for
Juuct, His heart yearned over ht more and more. Adam

254

ST. VEDA'S.

'^i.

I '

i;^'

.iiri

\i^y

came in then ; the suhject was not mcntionerl, and he was too
dutiful a son to ask wliat was voluntarily kept fiom liini.
They took tea togetlier, an<l even talked a little on common-
place subjects. Any chance incomer could have detectnl
nothing wrong. Are we all hypocrites, or is it a noble self-
respect and self-control which prompts us to hide such thiiij,'s
from our neighbours^ In spite of all our care, our skeletons
will be laid bare, and, if we liave none, our kind neighbours
will sj)eedily manufacture one for us, more hideous than any
of our own creating. Oh. the world is cruel, it spares none,
nothing is sacred; it will tamper with our most precious joys
and sorrows, and discuss our inner sanctuary with its lying
li})s, until life seems to lose its sweetness for us. It was
already known in the Haven that there was a great deal amiss
in the Erskine household, and yet did there live three more
discreet people than its inmates?

Sir Aichie received by the evening post that day lo^jal
notice of the claim which had been presented by Mrs. iVnnie
Orr-Grant to the estates of Orr's Haven and Blount Meldrum.
It was, in pt)int of fact, a notice for him to quit. He smiled
as he read it, and, going up to the drawing-room, he read it
aloud to his wife and daughter. Ethel was in a state of
tremendous excitement over the whole alFair, and, as was to be
expected, the part concerning Annie was of the most intense
interest to her. She could, indeed, talk of nothing elsf\ It
was wonderful to see her uns(dfishness. It did not seem to
cost her a thought that the proof of Annie's identity was also
proof that they had no right nor claim upon St. Veda's as a
home. Perhaps she had confidence in Annie, and believed
that none of them would fare badly at her gentle hands.

'What do you intend, to do about this, then, Archibald?'
asked Lady Grant, not without anxiety, for she had still a
strange dread of the pair who had come wrongfully seeking to
wrest their rights from them.

'Do, my darling] Nothing. It would be a huge joke to

AT BAY.

255

let them carry the thing on. The Court h(>gins its sittings
tliis month; but it would be 11 jnty to let tlie thing get into
the newsoapers,' said Sir Archie lightly.

'Ob, papa, you needn't inind for that; the ne\v>papi v's liavv
Ih'cu before us,' .^aid Kthel. ' Did I iioL t'-U you that Alice
Dahymple mentioned in her letter that there was a paragraph
iiliout us in laxt week's Woilil V

'Indeed, I supjHjse it would be too much ti) expect such a
tiling to pass unreported,' said Sir Archie, his bi'ow cliuiding
^ligliilv. 'I am very sorry, for it ex[)oses one ti) a great deal
(if (piestioning which one would rather avoid. Well, 1 >u|))ntse
the best plan now will be to accpiaint our august iciauves in
Lniidon with the existence of the box and its contents. It
will be a nice, pleasant pill for them to swallow.'

'And what if they insist on carrying forward the [)roceed-
iiigs they have instituted?' asked Lady (Irant.

'Oh, they can't. No man in his right mind woidd act fen-
tluin. ]hit we must find Annie, as well as communicate with
her relatives in Edinburgh. There nnist be some mend ors ')i
the Seton family left alive, surely.'

1, papa, it is

dreadful to think of Annie. Wliere ci

she be 1 If she onl}' knew, how she would hasten to us ! ' ciied
Ktlicl, with tears in her eyes. 'Oh, surely our love and long-
ing will dr.iw her to us. I have often wondered that she
rniild stay away so long from the Haven ; she loved it so.'

Did no feeling of nearness to an unseen [tresence visit Kthel
<oaut as she uttered these words] It was very dark outside,
llmuuh the sky was soft and clear, and studded l>y many stars.
I p the long avenue, keeping close by the dark shadows of the
overspreading trees, a slight figure stole, with its head d(jwn-
hciit a littk'., up, up, guided by the twinkling Castle lights,
until it came very near. Then it stood still nn the soft turf,
wiii'ie the yellow leaves lay scattered broadcast, anil raising its
hiMil looked towards the long windows of the drawing-room.
Two lumds were tightly clasped ; the breatli came (|uick and

i i&ii/

256

ST. VEDA'S.

fast from hctwppn troiiiMing Hjis ; the larj^p, sweet eyes, fixod
on these windows, were filled with passionate pain. So Annie
Erskine looked once more on the house which sheltered l!ic
two she loved next best on earth to old Adam Erskine. Hi
had still the first place in her heart. She stood very still
until a shadow she recognised fell across the blind. Eiliel's
shadow, and her tears fell. She dared not stay, lest any
shouM come upon her; and, besides, the rumble of aiiproacli-
ing wheels warned her, and turning about, she sped across the
lawn to the little path leading to the staircase in the rock.
She paused there, and watching the twinkling lights of the
api)roaching vehicle, waited to see what it v/as, and who it
contained. ]>efore it came in sight, the tones of a voice fell
upon her ears, borne to her on the still night air, the tones of
a voice which was the sweetest music she had ever heard. It
was Archie Grant returning from Edinburgh in obedience to
the summons he had received, and he was only uttering a
common-place remark to the groom who was driving him
home. Oh, if he had but known how many steps would have
been required to take him across the lawn to where his darling
stood ! Poor Annie, consumed by an uncontrollable desire to
look once more on these familiar scenes, and all unconscious
of the momentous issues depending on her re appearence,
turned away and ran down the wave-worn steps, murmuring,
' God bless him !' througli her tears. She had had more than
she expected or hoped for ; she had seen and heard him speak ;
but, poor dear heart, it had not given the comfort she hud
looked for.

The tide was flowing when she reached the shore. Slie
would need to be very fleet of foot to reach the Haven side
before the narrow strip of sand was covered. But she knew
every step ; the treach.erous sea could not deceive her, who
hail studied its every capricious mood since her babvhood. So
she reached the broader beach at the east side of the harbour
in safety. There were a few lights twinkling here and there

AT BAY,

^57

al)ont tliG hamlet, and a hroad, steaily radiance streamed from
tlie kitchen window of tlie skipper's cotta^^e. Glad of the
darkness whi-jh had fallen early, she stole np tlie shiiifrly slope
with a fearfully beating heart. A low, green l)aliiig, over
which clambered honeysuckle and wild rose and coJund)ine,
separated the little strip of garden from the road. The gate
v.'as shut. Annie stretched out her hand, and broke a branch
oil' the honeysuckle, on which a few late blooms still lingered,
filling the soft night air with their {)erfume, when the door
suddenly opened, and old Adam Krskine, j»ipe in moutli,
ap[)ear(!d on the threshold. The light streamed broadly out
from the open door, and revealed the figure standing by the
gate.

Adam Erskine saw the face of Annie as plaiidy as he had
ever seen it in his life. He uttered a strange cry and sprang
forward, but she ti'rned and fled, and in a moment was lost to
sight in the darkness as if slu; had never been there.

Adam Erskine stood shaking at the garden gate. He was
not void of that strange belief in the suix'rnatural which is
peculiar to those who live so much upon the sea. He had not
a doubt that he had seen a vision, and that it had been sent
to ac(juaint him with Annie's fate. No thought of following
her ever entered his head. And yet it was the real Annie
iifter all, wdio had stolen an hour or two to revisit the scenes
which were so dear to memory and heart, li he liad only
lingered ani^ther moment he would have heard the sound of
the trap which had brought her from Grant's House Station,
and was waiting to take her back. He tottered into the
house, and sank into a chair. When nis trembling lips could
frame an answer to their questioning, he said solemnly, —

' 1 hae seen Annie's wraith the niclit. The Lord hath taen
her to Himsel'. His will be dune.'

t (

' 1. ill

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE WHEEL OP FORTUXE.

■Aj,^S *'

ELL, Phcmie Seton, I wish wc }iad some more
to give the child. One pouiul scn-oiitiicii iiiid
sixpence, after uU she has done ! It's shameful.
I can't bear to offer it to her.'

pxp ^-^'^ "-^ jNIiss Janet was very much put out. It was
K.,>*^ term time, tlic tax-cidlectors Ija-^ all left tludr compli-
^^ ments, and the little sisters had just finished their
calculation of their means and expenditure for the past half-
year. After everything was paid there was left exiietly
thirty-seven and sixi)encc to pay their little nuiid and kee^)
themselves in pocket money till next (Quarter-day. It was the
morning of one of the very dreariest of 2s\)veml>er days. A
thick fug hung over beautiful Edinhurgli, and, though it was
nearly nine o'clock, the candles were still burning in the
dining-room where the sisters usually breakfasted. Thrre
were gas brackets in the room, but the little ladies could n l
afford gas; besides, they considered that the two tall silvir
candlesticks gave a handsome look to their m(>agre talile. A
very, very tiny lire burned in the gi'ate, and the litth; sisteis
were crouching over it, and hiding their thin, pale hands up
the sleeves of the knitted spencers they wore in winter aliMVC
their u'owns. There ivas some hing indeseribablv i)athelif in
these two sitting so closely together in the feehle grey dawn,

THE WHEEL OE EORTUNE.

^•59

tlioir sweet old faces wearing sucii an earnest, troubletl.
anxious loi)k. It was a matter of grave imjmrtanee they liad
to discuss. They f(.'lt that tliey were not doing, and could
not do, their duty by the young creature to whom in the dear
kindness of their hearts they had given a home, and yet the
idea of jjarting with her was one which neither had dared
mention to the other. And yet it was quite uppermost in
lioth their minds.

'Pheniie Seton,' said Miss Janet at length, in a vsolemn,
weary voice, ' we'll have to let her go.'

^Liss Phemie gave a gulp and a ! .sty glance round the
room, which had never been so kept since the days when their
energetic motlicr had ruled the house.

* I know what you are thinking, Phemie, but we can't do
wrong,' said Miss Janet rather shakily. 'Shall we have
Annie in, and talk it over with her T

' I think, sister, you had better do it yourself,' said Phemie
nervously. ' I — Pm afraid I couldn't stnnd it.'

MJh, you must, Phemie vSeton. Do you think it is a
ph'asant thing for me to do % You are a great baby.'

Miss Janet jumped up as she spoke, and, opening the
diiiiiig-room door, called Annie by name. It was a curious
tiling that they never rang for her, as they would have done
for any ordinary servant. She was more like a child of the
imusc, though she never forgot her })lace, or presumed in the
very slight(ist degree on the simplediearted goodness of the
la li'NS.

SJo. dug, iSIiss Janet,' the sweet, clear young voice answered
liack, and presently Annie appeared to see what they wished.
It was not the Annie Erskine of old, though her face was
-ucct as it had ever been ; the rounded beauty was gone from
the clicek, 'he eye had lost its lustre, and the free young
-''•ji its bh.\ jiKV. Wiiat Iiatl wrought the change 1 AVas it
i!." (■!,;;■ ; I. : „ ; ■ ,i t uio-phere of the city, or was it the
-';-. li :i , .. .1 -lu- lovcil ? She was not unhappy, in

26o

ST. VEDAS,

spite of her changed looks ; she had found a haven of (juict
rest with these two women, whose hearts a queen might have
envied.

Miss Janet was suddenly struck by the change in the -iil
as she stodd in the doorway, and her resolve gained in
strength. They must do their duty by her at whatever c(i>t
to themselves.

'Come in, Annie, my dear — right in, and shut the door,'
she said kindly. ' Sit down ; my sister and I wish to have a
little talk with you.'

' Yes, Miss Janet,' said Annie, and sat down, feeling rather
surprised.

' In the first place, my dear, I am sure you believe tliat we
are very fond of you, and that we have never been so hiij)jiy
in our lives, at least for many years, as we have been since
you came to stay with us.'

* It is very kind to say so,' Annie said, in a low voice, but
her eyes filled.

* But though we are very fond of you, and have the desire ^
in our hearts to be selfish about it,' continuevl ^liss Janet,
nodding her head, ' we are determined to do our duty, and we
think it our duty, Annie Erskine, to send you away from us.'

* Oh, wiiy '{ ' These words fell falteringly from the girl's
lips, and lier eyes met Miss Janet's with a startled look in
their depths. ' Have I ' —

' No, no, Annie Erskine, my girl, everything you have ever
done in this house has been proper and good, and you liave
been a ]ierfcct godsend to us,' said Miss Janet ; then, after a
moment's lies-itation, for, of course, it was a highly inipniinr
thing to do before a little servant maid, she opifued lie
shabby old calf-skin purse which lay beside her plate, anl
from it counted out thirty-seven shillings.

' Do you see that money, Annie Erskine, seven-and-tliir!y
shillings? that's every half-penny we have in this woi'ld till
the next (|u;.iter-day, she said, and a little bit of bright eulnur

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

261

ti in the ;^iii
3 <4aiiic«l in
hatevci tii>t

ecliii'-' rathrr

li(\<,'an to burn in her faded clicok. ' AVe told you we were
very [xxa', and as av(! have so litth", so very littk', to i^'ive you,
my dear ^iil, my sister and 1 have made up our minds that
yi'U must h;ave us.'

Wliile ]\Iiss Janet was utterinpf these words, the colour
111 ,i;an to rise too in Annie Erskine's cheek.

' We are very much ashamed, not Ix'cause we arc poor,
liecause that is not our fault,' continued Miss Janet, nodding
licr head again ; ' hut ])ecause we cannot give you anything
in return for what you have done for us. We' —

' AVhat have I done in com})arison with what you have
(lone for me?' cried Annie, in a gn^at hurst of sorrow. 'You
took me in, you gave me a home when I had none, you
trusted me when no other would. Dcm't send me away ! I
won't go. I'll rise early in the mornings and do all the work,
and go out and earn something for you through the day, if
you will let me, only don't send me away.'

' Phemie Soton, do you hear that?' asked Miss Janet, and
there was a distinct note of triumi)h in her shrill, sweet voice.
' I would die to serve you, you have ])een so good to me,
and I love you so,' cried Annie, her sweet face all aglow with
lii'r earnestness. ' I will work day and night, more than ever
1 have done, just to show you how I love you.'

' You are a good child, Annie Erskine, and you shall not
he, our servant any more, though indeed Phemie and I have
never regarded you as that,' said ]Miss Janet. ' You shall be
nur young sister; you bear the nanui of our own young sister,
whose sad, beautiful story we will tell you some day ; and
we'll lay our heads together, and jilan and plan till we find a
mad out of this dillieulty, as we have always done.'

Miss Janet approached the young girl, laid her two hands
on lier shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. Then Miss
I'hiunie, whose foolish, romantic, old heart was moved by this
Hlllu scene, rose too, and kissed her, and so the new compact
was sealed.

; rm

262

ST. VESA'S.

\ ?! 11

i'kiiJ'

3:f

* I li.ave nearly four pounds left, ^liss Janet,* said Annir
dieerfully, when they had all recovered their composure, 'i.ct
nie l)ring it to you. It i.s my vi*ry own. Tliose who lovcd
me f,'ave it to me ; they would be glad, oh, so glad to kiidw
how it has been si)ent.'

' Annie, my child.' Miss Janet's affectionate eyes turned
with deep gravit^ on t)^ girl's face. 'If you ar(! to be (nir
young sister, we • "v; .^ v'ou shouhl tcdl us a little about thr-c
dear peojJe you b v '.f;. AVe have often talked about it,
not out of any idle curiosity , ' ut only out of our growing love
for you. We cannot understand how one so young and sweet
as you should have had such a strange experience. We
kiu)w it is a sad subject foi you, and we will not hurry ynii.
Perhaps some day soon, when we are having our little chat,
you will tell us something.'

' I will tell you all now, if you will let me. I have often
wished to do so. I have had one secret from you only since
I came — done one thing of which you did not know,' said
Annie. ' Do you remember that day, it was the 27tli ui
October, when you went out to the country to dine and sleep!'

'Perfectly,' said ]\Iiss Janet; 'at our cousins at Gillars
Manse, IMiemie Seton, where we met Sir Malcolm Mont-
gomery and his sweet lady. Well, Annie?'

' I went away by train that afternoon back to my old home
to see it,' said Annie brokenly. ' I had no intention wlien
you left in the morning. It grew upon me during the day as
I thought about them all. I was home again before nine
o'clock. Will you forgive mo for not telling you abi^it it
before*?'

' Surely ; but, Annie, if you had but asked any day we
would cheerfully have let you away. You have so well
earned your little holiday. Is the place very far away .-
Where is it ?'

Just at that moment, and before Annie could rei)ly, the
postman gave the bell his customary tremendous peal. The

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

263

5ai(l Annie
\\\\(\ 'l.it

wlio loVi'il

(1 to know

'yes turncil
.! to 111' mil'
about tlu-i'
d a1)<»ul it,
"owinii" love
[^ and swiM't
icnce. We
i llUlTV ynii.
r little dial,

[ have oft en
u only sini.T
know,' said
he 27th of
and sk'cpr
s at Gi liars
colni Mitut-

ny old hnnit'

'ntion \vli('ii

I the day as

before nine

^'ou about il

any day wi>
ave so well
far away \

d reply, the
s peal. T\\^

little ladies instantly flew into a flutter of excitement : they
received so few letters, that the arrival of one would not be
for^'otten for days.

It was certaiidy a formidabledooking packet whicli Annie?
brought in on the quaint silver salver, and handed to Miss
Janet. Though the younger. Miss Janet was the mistress in
all things,

* Bless me, Phemie Seton, what can this be % ' she exclaimed,
receiving the packet rather hesitatingly into her hands.

'It can't be a tax-pajier. I'm positive they're all paid —
water-rate, poor-rate, police-rate, inhabited house ' —

'Besides, the man calls with these, Janet ; they do nou co^ 'i
l)y post,' interrupted ^fiss Phemie.

Annie slipped away out of the room, and Miss Jiinc*^ care-
fully cutting open the end of the blue envelo})e with her ivory
paper-knife, |)ulled out the documents within 1.1 .*. very
gingerly manner.

' Look at the post-marks, sister,' suggested Miss S(!ton, as
her sister put on her spectacles, with fingers trembling with
excitement.

'London !' exclaimed Miss Janet. ' What can it mean?'

She unfolded a white paper lirst, which proved to be a
lawyer's letter.

' I'll read it out, Phemie Seton, if I'm able. Bless me !
what can any lawyer have to write to us about % It is
extraordinary and rather alarming. We don't owe anybody
anything, do we % '

' You know best,' said Miss Phemie quickly, for her
curiosity was very great.

* Well, well, here it is, —

*" 42 Red Lion Street,
'"LoxDOX, NoVf'uihcr 14, 18 — .

* " Dear Mesdames, — We have the honour to inform you
that through the death of our esteemed client, Mr. Andrew

264

ST. VEDA'S.

^raitlantl, of 21 Abingdon Road, Kensington, lately of
lIcrMcc, lUitisli (liiiana, you have become joint legatees of his
entire estate, whicli includes the house and entire furnisliings
and jilenishings at 21 Abingdon Jioad. We cannot as yet
name tin; exact amount of money left, as it is not realized, l)ut
should say it must amount to between five and six thousmd
pounds. We may add tliat it was only n-ithin a few days of
his death tliat our cliiuit learned of the existence of two
daughters of his only sister, and that he was making {)rej)ara-
tions f. ir paying a visit to Scothuid when his fatal illness
seize(l him. He died from the effects of an apo[)lectic fit.

* " We tldidc '♦^i would bo advisable for you, if at all
possible, to come up to London. If not, a representative of
onv firm will be glad to wait ui)on you at your convenience.
I'hc hnuse is in possession of two servants, whom Mr. ^lait-
laud had only engaged by the month. Their time expires in
chree or four days, and it might be well if you could come uj)
md see how matters stand.

' " Mr. ^laitland is to be buried to-morrow. He has no
friends in London, having only returned from I>erbice a few
months auo, and having since been busy winding up his
afi'airs. We are aware that Mr. Maitlaiul looked forward to
^pending a period of well-earned leisure in his old age, and
was cheered very r(!cently by the hope that you would share
it with him. Awaiiing your instructions, we are, yours
faithfu'ly, G a ATI! AM & Sykes.

' " The .Alisses Seton." '

A de id silence followed the reading of this letter.

' Do you think, Pliemie Seton,' asked Miss Janet in a
wld-per, 'that anybody would dare to play a trick on us?
Do yoii tliink there could bo a particle of truth in this?'

* It's all true,' said Miss Piiemie. ' Andrew ]Maitland, our
mother's own brother. Don't you remendjer the story, Janet,
how he ran away from Gillars Manse and went to sea when

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

265

lifi was fonrtoon, and nobody ever 1. ;ird of liim MLjain '/ Oli,
wliat «i 8tran.i,'c world it is?' and Miss IMicniii' lu'-an to wccji,
ovcrconiG l»y excitcMncnt and llic rccalliiij;' of tlic lar-'^dMc past.

' What arc vou crying for, IMicmio Scton? I cai.'t v\\ over
Andrew Maitiand, for I never saw liini, and I'm not sure if I
ever licard of liini,' said Miss Jnnot Ijlnntly. ' Motlicr's own
brother eonie back an old man ! Ay, ay, it's very strange.'

Miss Janet took np the letter again, and icad it slowly
throngh to herself from beginning to end. Then she noliced
anotlier paper in the blue envelope, which, wiien nnfold* d,
l)roved to be a copy of Andrew Maitland's will. Its formal
legal phrasing and reiterated statements were not so easily
understood as the lawyer's concise e[)istle, but all at oikm; the
full truth dawned on Miss Janet's mind She laid down the
papers, took oil' her spectacles, and looked very solemnly at her
sister.

' Phemie Seton, do you know what has happened to us?'
she said, with a thrill in her old voice. ' We're rich women,
we've come into a fortune ; six thousand jiounds, and a
furnished house in the west end of London. I doubt it'll be
tilt! death of us ; we're poor silly old tools. What'll we do
with so much money?'

' Spend it,' quoth Miss Phemie, jumi)ing up. ' Ihiy elotlios
and bonnets and new gloves and jewellery. AVe'll live like
other rich women, and we'll dress Annie Erskine as she
should be dressed, and she'll turn a score of heads.'

Miss Janet lauglied such a laugh as had not been heard in
that old house for tive-and-twenty years.

'Annie ! Annie Erskine ! come here,' she cried, through the
half open door. * Come here, and liear what has happened
to us.'

Annie came running into the room, with her glass cloth
over her arms.

'We've come into a fortune, Annie — six thousand pounds
and a house!' cried Miss Janet. 'This is a law ver's letter.

>66

ST. VEDA'S,

■ici', and a copy of our uncle Aiulrew Maitlnnd'a M'ill ; ami we
uiivtjr knew wo had an uncle ! Oil, I wonder if he kn(!W how
very biidly olf we are, and what a boon this money would he
to us all ! '

*0h, is it true, Miss Janet ?' asked Annie breathlessly,
but growing radiant with delight.

* True as gospel/ said Miss Janet solemnly. ' Pray for us,
child, that we may have grace to stund prosperity, and tlmt
our old heads may not be turned, God has always been far
better to us than we deserved.*

■'III

UAJ.f.iM£K.iv::-rsnr.!f. i^-^j^t!m:- -

C TT A P T K R XXX.

orn mm relations !

'•v'J^1^'%]\T.UTj liii'l iiovcr Immmi sncli tromondons excite-

/^'/"V'-fl 'V\^ iiiciit ill the lidino of the little sisters, since tliat

far < ill" time wiieii the love aHair of two young
j)e()iil(> liad made for them tho bej^'inning of
sorvows. ]>ut this was a i)leasant excitement, a
(jf^ del'ghti'ul e.xcitenicnt, whicli raised even tlio drooping
'^ si)irits (jf Annie luskine, and lifted her out of herself.
IVi.it stolen ^■isit to ( )ii's Haven had not done her good; nay,
it hail f >stri'('d in her a spirit of discontent and almost in-
i .l;'ialilt' Iniiijng. She had found everything there apparently
l!i(' same; it seemed to In.'r tliat they had not missed or
niMurnrd her at all, and the thought Avas fraught witli a deep
and jxeuliar hilterness. This great event, then, lifted her
eiiiircly out of hi-rself and her own trials. It was impossible
no: to rcjoiie in tho hajtpiness of these two dear women, who
wcr.' like ehilt.jvn over the enjoyment of a new toy. The
news I ad rendered them totally helpless. They could do
nothing but sit and plan and jdan ami spend their money in
imagination — a })k'asurc vvdiich allorded them no little satisfac-
tion. All women like to sj)end money, and these two had
never known the luxury of })ossessing a spare penny. So we
need not grudge them their keen anticipation of the delights
ill store. It was decided at length that they should lock

867

268

ST. VEDA'S,

up the hou5;o in Xoithumborland Stroct, and travel by tlio
nij^lit mail to London. Annie, of course, must accompany

lliem.

' lUit how are wo to go, sister'? ' asked 'Miss Plii'iuic,
pointing dolefully to the old calfskin purse with its meagre
ccntents. 'We have not the wherewithal even to pay our
tickets.'

'Oh, I'll see about that, Phemie Seton,' said ]\riss Janet,
with ail air of great consequence most delightful to behold.
' I'll go round to Christ(»pher Seton's olHce in Casth^ Street,
and ask the loan of len j)ounds. I suppose he will not refuse
it to people who have come into a fortuiu'.'

'Itwoulil be better that thev should not know anything'
about it, sister, I think,' said Miss Phemie. rather doubtfully.
' I believe they will begin to make a fuss with us directly. 1
am afraid our relatives are not quite disinterested.'

' r^et them try it, just let them try it,' said Miss Janet, with
a toss of her lieail. ' I shall let Christopher Seton understand
that the loan is purely a business transaction. lie shall not
have a lingt'r in our pie, and we'll keep that bird of }»aradise,
'i s wife, at arm's length now. It'll be our turn.'

Within an houi' Miss flanet, dicssed in her bes^t, proceedc'il
iniiiid to her relative's oilice in Castle Street. The clerks in
the outer ofliee tittered at the sight of the (piaint, old-fashioned
little woman; but she only eyed them with much severity
and a mild expression of compassion most beautiful to behold,
and re([uested, in a very dignified manner, to be shown into
Mr. Seton's private room. Mr. Seton, a sleek, balddieaded,
pompous looking old gentleman, received his relative with an
expression of considerable surprise. He thought he surmised
her business, and was not very alFable to her. Although his
poor relations had never once asked pecuniary or any other
kind of aid from him, he innned lately decided that she had
eonu! to do so now. And under his bland, imperturbable
smile, he hid a determinatiim which no entreaties would melt.

269

OUR RICH RELATIONS!

Mr. Clinst.)|.]H.r 8(>toii iK-licvcd in setting his foot .h,\vi, ,,11
iMMir ivIaliMus; why tlicy (-xistcl at all was a i.rohlrni he (■cuM
not solve.

iss -laiiet .lid not give him time to si)eai<. Sli

r wa- A

-hicwd little woinai

111 some I'esperts, and she divincil

in a

iiionicnt her relative's nn.-;i»oken thought, and smilcl

to her.-elf.

I ( U i (' i , \

Will you l(„,k at thesis documents ("1

iri.-toplirf Si

ImM

siic sai

vou II 1(

111. in.

d, handing him the hhu; enveL-pe ; 'and thm Idl nc it
lid me ten pounds for two days on the slivn-lli i,t

Mr. Christoi.lier Setoii took the blue eiivel
iiid sn.M'dily mastered its contents.

pc Willi alarril \-

All

o\v me to congratulate you ami your sistei'. daiict ' h

sai.l, l.iaming all over. 'Six thousand jiounds and a I
worth, perhaps, other three! 1 know Ahin-.j-ai \\

loli

lad Well

It IS a
Women.
• We

very good neighbourhood. Why, you

are grateful for the mercy of (lod t

arc (piitc ihli

diss daiK't (piietly. 'You see it i
:o up to I.ondon at once. AVe 1

o us, cousin, >\\\s\
s necessarv that wc should

lave no m(»ncv. Will \

i\'e inc

that ten pounds just now, Christophri' / I

am .vuic

iMi-cw Maitland\s lawyer will give us a cIkmiuc to refund

al. once

I am .Lilad yon hav

e come to nie. Of couisc you wi.di 1

lie

to act for you tlnMugh this business'?
'Act for us! How?'

' As your solicitor oi' man of business, as we put it here.'
'<lli no, thank you. Those -entlem-n who have written

so kindly to us. and who had Aialrew Mail 1 md's conlidei,..

will .!o very well for us,' said .Miss Janet briskly, ' Will y(

excuse me hurrying vou. cousin, but we hav a gicat deal t.

lio to-day.'

' And are you going to Lomlon tonigiit V
*Yes.'

1
III

j I

If I!

270 ST. VEDA'S.

'Can I do nothing for yon, then'? I will willingly acrnin-
[tany you if you like, Janet,' said the lawyer hlandly. ' V(mi
and your sister have very li'lh; e\j)eri( nee of travelling ov n.'"

husnicss.

Ife;

ir you may he taken ad\antag(> of.

' .May1)e, niayhe. We must just make up our minds hir
that ; though, for that matter, Phemie and T have never fuuinl
outside folk so hardly disposed to ns as our own kin,' siiid
Miss Janet, with a deligiitful eandour wliieli caused Mi'.
Christopher to redden slightly. ' Can you conveniently leiiil
me that money then, cousin ; or shall I seek it from some one
else '{ '

Mr. Christopher Seton unlocked his safe. lie hoped even
yet to get his linger in this })ie, and must deal di})loniatical!y
with the poor relatives who had become rich relatives in sudi
a curi(jus way. So ^liss Janet mandied triumphantly out of
the office with the ten pounds in her ]»ocket, and ^1''.
Christopher Seton Avalked away round half an hour hcfoic
lunch time to Iferiot liow to inform his wife of the windfull
which had come to the little sisters in Xorthuml»rrlaiiil
Street.

That night the shutters were shut, the doors locked in the
old Inmse, and the three, as hapi)y as children out for a
holiday, drove away in a cab to the stati;)n to catch tlie
London train. lUit for Annie Krskine these two ladies wouM
have bi'en in a sorry [ilight. Slu; packed all the luggage, and
even saw that a telegram was despatched to the lawyer to
meet them at the station in the morning; for she jiietuivd to
herself the helplessness of the sisters arriving in a great eiiy,
and not knowing where to turn. And tiiey thanked ami
Messed her by turns and together, and they were all very
nuicii excited, but very, very happy indeed.

In the course of the next forenoon an early c;dler knocked
at the docu" of the house in Northumberland Street. It \va^
Sir Archibald (irant, and he had in his pocket-hook a letter
which woidd have caused the little sisters a ureat deal niun-

OUR RICH RELATIONS!

271

i\y accorn-

ly. ' Villi
■lliii'j' or I if

niiiids fur

I'Vcr fuuinl

kin.' said

auscd Mr.

ioiltlv l<ild
\\ SOlllC dlU'

:i(ip('d ('Veil

luinatically

vi'S ill such

ntly (Hit (if

and M".

(tur bcfdif

le wiiidf;ill

uiiilifrlaiid

.;k('d in the
out for a
catcli till'
lies would

i;4;n'a,L;'(', and
lawyer to

jiictui'i'd to
ij-rcat ciiv,
liked and

re all very

er knocked

et. It was

Ilk a letter

deal inon-

excitement tlian that whicdi had come from tli'j solicitor.'^ in
Ked I.icn Street. It was a me.s.s;ai;e from the (k-ad, the letter
jn'iineel at sea liy their own dear lost .'^ister when that fatal
voyage was nearing its close. Sir Archie received no answer
to his repeated .summons at the door, then he ran,^- the Ixdl
of the next house on the hinding. An elderly, plea.>;ant-faced
woman answered the ring.

' I am sorry to trouble you, madam,' he said, with that fine
courtesy which he showed to both high and low. ' 1 can gain
no admittance to tliis house. Is it still the residence of a lady
of the name of Seton % '

' Yes, sir, two hidics. The ^liss Setons, chlerly maiden
ladies,' responded the woman, with a slight smile.

'The mother, the widow, is dead then 1 ' said Sir Archie
interrogatively.

' y)\\ yes. The two poor ladies have been orphans L>ng
enough, sir.'

'Ah, are they from home, do yon know?'

'They were at home yest(!rday, but my maid told me sIk;
saw them get into a cab late last night with the persim who
lives Avith them, and a givat iiuantity of luiigage. AVe couldn't
think enough of it, sir, for we have li\'ed beside theni for
sixteen years, and to my certain kncjwlcdge their house; has
never been shut bef(n'e.'

Sir Archie looked greatly per[)lexed. Ihit he had learned
so much. The sisters of his brother's poor young wii'e were,
still alive.

' If you wish to know any more about them, sii',' said the
WDiiian kindly, 'if you go to Mr. (fhristojiher Setmi, the W..S.
in (Jastlc Street, he will be able to tell you. lie is a con-
nection of theirs.'

'Ah, thank you; I shall ju:?t do iliat. Ynu have been \-eiy
kind,' said Sir Archie, gravely lifting his hat. MIimkI morning,
madam,' and straight to Casth' Street Sir Archie went, and
M lit in his card to Mr. Christopher Seton. ^ieedlcss to s ly

I •*

272

ST. VEDAS.

that ti;oiitloniii)i M'a>< all bows and smiles for his nohle visiter.
Tk^ was cdiisuiiicd with curiosity as to his errand, the naiin'
being perfectly familiar to liim. ^Vhen it suited him, Mr.
Christ()i)lier could speak of my poor dear cousin, the late Lady
Grant of St. Veda's. But he did not find Sir Archie at all
communicative.

'Good morning,' he said gravely. *I have called to see if
you know the address of the Misses Seton of Northumberlatid
Street. 1 havi; \^w\\ to their house and found it shut.'

' Yes, Sir Archibald. i\Iy kinswomen have had an extra-
ordinary stroke of g Hid fortune. They have come into a ni"
little sum of money through the death of a brother of tlieir
mother's whom nobody knew anything about. They k.,\\\\
heard of it yesterday. He died in London, and they had to
go up immediately. They went by the mail last niglit. 1
saw them oif.'

' Indeed, that is unfortunate,' said Sir Archie, with rather a
perplexed look on his face.

' ]]ut 1 can give you the address of their lawyer, who '.'Otild
tell you at once where they are to be found/ said Mr. Setun
eagerly.

' Thanks, if you will be so good.'

' Might I impure, as a iriend ol \h^. lamily, Sir Archibald,'
said Mr. Seton in his wily fashion, as he wrt)te the address,
'whether your in(juiry for thou has any relation to certain
events which occurred many years ago, and in which bulli
your own and <jur lamily were concerned?'

* It is connected with that,' Sir Archie acceded ratliei'
stillly, for he resented the quesiioning to which he M'as being
subjected. The lawyer saw it, and changed the subject.

' <J in it be [)ossible that a rumour I hea'd no later than tlii>
nK^;niiig, that you a. ', shortly to be involved in a lawsuit lias
u.'sy liuth in it, Sir Ar'nibahn'

'A ';r-'suit was im}ten(Ung in connection with the ajipear-
oi;ce .)t a claimant to St. Veda's and Mount Meldrum, but it

OUR RICH RELATIONS!

iol)le visitor.
d, the iiaiiit'
'd liiii], Mr.
he late Lady
Archie at all

led to see if
thuiuhei'laiul
diut.'

I ad an extra-

e into a iii' <

;lu'r of their

The}* o!)ly

thev had to

273

will not now nr,) on,' said Sir Archie enigmatically, as he took
th<' card from the lawyer's hands. ' A thousand thanks for
your couitesy, ;Mr. Seton. Good mornin^'.'

' Good morning, 8ir Archihald,' said the lawyer, as he howcd
his visitor out. He liad a very hard nut to crack over \\\9
desk that Nuvcmber moniing.

I:" '

with rather a

T. who could
d i\Ir. Seton

'■ ,1 1:

^ fi

s %

^ -^*>

,>-^.

^t^- i^i^ i^ ^

CHAPTER XXXI.

ANOTHER SHOCK.

'ITO Tvonld have known the Httlo sisters? Tli(\v
/ m^'^«lf/^ luokud like dillercnt Lcings as they sat l»y
I^ImI'^It^ tilt! liroside in the substantial and comforttilih'
^^^^h-^Jhi dining-ionm of the lioiise in Abingdon Koad.
i40^ '"^ ''" For the first time for a score of years tln'V

liX^V '^'' '^rc gowns of new material -ind mo(h_'rn niukc ; ami
'^^ they became them well. Pkin, simple gowns of gnml
black material, not at all trimmed with crape, for the little
ladies were delicately conscientious, and they would not ni;ik(>.
a great show of mourning for the man they had never srcii,
but whose genemus kindness had wrought such a change in
their lives. It \,as a curious thing, and one which .showed of
what material the little sisters were constituted, th:it tin'
cramped ano narrow way of existence in which they had been
so long conjpel!"d !o walk had left very little impress on tlu'ir
'•hara(:t('rs. none .".t all upon their hearts. Time WduM l^'
ilenied me to tell yo't of the many benevolent schemes whirli
were dihcuss'd l)et.\voon them. Their money was to be spent
not on lhemsL"v,'s alone, but for the good of every nec(ly .iinl
oi»pr('S.t'd crca' >;re of whose want Ihey knew. The l\vi>
sei'V.-'nis Avho li.td been engaged by Andrew ]\raitlaiid wciv
still in the lumse. J.s f' r Annie Erskine, her lines had ii'^v
fallen in pleasant places indeed. She was no longer a servant,

£74

ANOTHER SHOCK.

275

t
\

tors ? Tlioy
,li('y pat liy
conifortalili'
don Ivuad.
: years tln-v

make ; ainl
I WHS of _L!,oii(l
or the liulo
1(1 not make,

never stM'ii,
a chaiigo in
h sli(»\vi'il (if
(1, tli-.it tlir
cy had lu'cii
rc'ss on their
0, "would h.'
leuies "whiili

s to 1)<^' SlK'llI
y nee(ly ami
The two
litlaiid Aveiv
nes had ii'iw
er a servant,

hnt a yonnj:,' and loved sister, on whom tlr^ little ladi(>s
(h'h',u:hted to lavish their kindness. Could it he that that
stiaii^c mysterious tie of kinship, which time and eireniii-
staiiee is |»()werless to dissolve, spokt? in thc'ir hearts, though
they did not know it? In all the hurry and excitement this
ciian^ci had hroUL;ht, the secret of their youn.n" charge .> h-i'nuir
hfe had never heen communicated to the sistei's, hut they were
talking of it that afternoon as they sat together hy their cosy
liearth.

'We must get Annie to toll us of it this very nitjht, sister,'
said Miss Pliemie, as she leaned back in her chair, with her
>lim white hands crossed in her lap, and her dainty little feet
on the velvet st(j(jl before the comfortable blaze. How these
two enjoyed the luxury of a real tire blazing and crackling up
the chimney ! The days had so long be(;n, dear hearts, when
they had to weigh each piece of coal before it was put in tin;
grate. They had known poverty in its grimmest mood ; surely
it was meet that they should enjoy some ease and comfort
now.

' She is a sweet child, Phemie, but there is something about
her strangely puzzling to me. She has undoubtedly been led
to us, and why should we have boon moved to treat her diller-
ently from any other young girl, if not to pi'ej)are us for
something we are to hoar? I should not be astonished to
learn that she belongs to one of our best families,'

' l)ut, sister, she has boon taugh.t to work. Did you ever
>ee one of her years wdio could set a room to rights or cook a
dinner like her*?' asked ^fiss Phemie. 'The daughters of our
liest families cannot do these things.'

' You are quite right. There is a mystery about her,' said
Miss Janet musingly, and for a time both were silent. It
was a curious thing how, in this unaceustome(l ease and per-
fect freedom from care and harassing idanm'ng to make ends
meet, Janet Seton's thoughts and heart should be nnich with
the j)ast. It was as if she had l)ecome the dreamer now, and

l:i

fl'

9 ^ r "

276

ST. VEDA'S.

|3 J

'.>■ 'if '

rat

was f^lad to leave the present to those who were intorosted in
it. Oh, it was so sweet for hur just to rest, her mind liud
been so Idul; on the raek.

Seeing tluit her sister had faHen into one of the dreamy niddils
which had visited her of late, Miss Phemie took up a pajnp
which lay on the little table at her side and began to read it,
and just then the comely and well-trained housemaid came in
*o set tlie table for their early tea.

'Will Miss Annie be in to tea, i)lease V she asked, but Miss
Phemie gave her no answer. The maid, waiting courteously
for her answer, saw the little lady trembling violently, evi
dently agitated by something she was reading.

'Just leave the room a moment, jNIargaret,' she said at lengtli.
Manet, Janet Seton, listen to this,' and in a voice shakiii:^^
with excitemcmt Miss Phemie read the following i)aragrai)h : —

' Romance of a Scotch Succession Case. — Some time iwo we
informed our readers on good authority that a claimant, wlio
seemed to be possessed of authentic proof, had appeared and
laitl claim to the extensive estates of St. Veda's and Mitunt Mel-
drum i;i Berwickshire, the family seats of the Orr-Grants. At
that time we gave some particulars regarding the romantic
marriage of the elder brother, whose widow had returiietl fidin
India. Since then the story has received a further and extra-
ordinary devolopment, which surpasses in interest the i)lot ef
many a novel. It seems that the sea has given up one of it>
secrets, and that Sir Archibald Grant has received into his
hands as treasure trove, a box containing the certificate of his
brotlier's marriage, and of the birth of the child, a girl, the
heiress, oi course, to the estates ! Twenty-two years ago a
sailing vessel was wrecked near St. Abb's, and a lady and
child were washed ashore. The lady died, the child wns
brought up in a lisherman's cottage, and in the meantime, ^vl'
su[tpose, the sea xept the box with the secret. This child
proves to be the ■ eal heiress to the estates.

• We await v ith keen interest the further development of

ANOTHER SHOCK.

277

itoTr^stod ill
r luiiiil liiul

eamy nnxnls
L up a I'lii'tr
n to read it,
lakl cunit' in

:c(l, but Miss

r eouvti'ously
'ioleutly, I'vi

;ai(l at Icu.ulli.

^oico sluikiii;j;

paragraph :—

e time ago ^ve
laimaut, ^vhn
ppeared au«l

id Mount Mi'l-
Grants. Ai
tlie romantic
eturned fmia
ler and cxtva-
est the plot "f
11 up one of it^
■ ived into his
rtiticate of liis
ikl, a gild, thi'
o years ago ;i
nd a hidy an>l
the chihl \va>
3 meantiuH', \vr
,t. This chiU

development uf

this strange but true tale, whicli adds another to the many
romances whicli are the heritage of our older families. Need-
less to say, the other chiimant, ■with her son, has found it
convenient to disappear, probably to re-enter the obscurity
from whence they sprung.*

* ^lercy mc, Phemie Seton ! ' cried ^Miss Janet, as palo as
death.

The two sisters looked at each other in dumb surprise for ti
moment, then ^liss Janet grasjjed the i)appr, and slowly read
every word aloud once more. Tlioy had no preparation for
tliis shock of surprise, and were nearly overcome by it. Poor
Uttle ladies, if Time in his fliglit had long forgotten to mark
his footprints by any event in their quiet lives, he had sud-
denly taken tliought for them, and seemed as if seeking to
atone for past heedlessness by heaping upon them the choicest
hits from his store. Here was news of their sister at last, the
news they had long prayed, but ceased to hope, for. Little
wonder they had :not a word to say.

AVhile they were sitting, not uttering one word, there came
ii tremendous peal at the bell.

' That'll be Annie, sister. I am glad she has come in. I
was growing anxious about her. "We have grown very fond of
that child, Janet.*

In a few moments Margaret appeared at the dining-room
door looking pale and scared.

' Oh, Miss Seton,' she said hurriedly, * that is a message
trom one of the hospitals for you to come.*

'What for r

Iloth the sisters sprang to their feet apprehending evil.

' Something has happened to Miss Annie,' said the woman
hesitatingly, 'and they have taken her to the hospital, and
Milt for you. They have a cab at the door. Could I help
,V(Hi to get ready ? *

'Oh, Janet Seton, there are too many things happening to
us. We shall not bo able to stand them, and keep our sound

378

ST. VEDA'S.

I- 1

; f

li'j

#«

jiulgment,' said Miss Phcmie, in a kind of wail, ns sho tottorod
upstairs.

Janet Seton spoke never a word. In an emergency sucli as
this, slie was a woman who couUl act witli jji-csenco of mind
and common-sense. ]Jut the sliock was not less terrihl'.^ f<»r
her. Perhaps of tlie two, lier love for Annie was the greater.
There was sometliing in tlie sweet, modest, helpful, willing
girl which had completely won her heart. Within the hour
the two slender little figures in black were standing in tlie
ante room at one of the great hospitals, awaiting perniissioii
to see their child. That waiting was torture to them h(jlli,
and seemed intolerably long. At length, however, a nurse
in a trailing blue gown and spotless cap and apron came to
tliem. Her face was pleasant and her manner sympathetic,
though her words were few and brief.

'You are the friends of the young girl from AT)ingd(tn
Road who has been taken into the accident wardT she
asked.

* Yes. Whot has happened to her, madam ? Be pleased
to tell us, quickly, for it is agony we bear in this sus[)en.se.'

* Yes, I know. Sit down, please. You will not be allowed
up just yet ; the doctors are busy.'

* She is not dead, then ? ' said Miss Janet, with a gasp of
relief.

* Oh no ! She may not even be very seriously injured,
though she was brought to us unconscious,' said the nurse
cheerfully. 'She was run over in the street by a gentleman's
drag. You will be pleased to learn that it was to save a
little ragged child she risked her life.*

* Our dear Annie, our brave lassie ! ' cried the little sisters in
a breath, with tears in their eyes.

' She has not been able to speak of course ; fortunately she
had an address in her pocket, or you might have had to endure
worse suspense than those few minutes have involved,' said
the uurse^ with a slight smile.

ANOTHER SHOCK,

279

Je sisters in

'Tliank you for tliat, I'lu'iiiic! Sotoii,' saiil ^fiss Jaiii't
ipu'ckly. 'The. address was my si:ster's tliou^lit. Shu woidd
iril let our dear ^'irl ^o out witliout it. You scu \vu are siin|ihj
I'i Ik, unaccustonu'il to T.ondou ways.

'It was a very good tlniui^lit,' said tlio nurse witli quiet
approval.

' Slic will 1)0 alilo to go homo with us to-night 1' said jNIiss
l'hemi(! anxiously; hut tho nurso shook her head.

*It is very unlikely. T shall go up now, and see if tluiy
iiavc learmid the cxlciit of the injuries. If you will wait a
little you may sec her; at any rate you will learn exactly
what state she is in,' said the nurse kindly as she with-
drew.

She was not very long absent, and returned with rather a
grave expression on her face.

'There arc no bones broken, tho surgeon thinks,' she said at
once. ' Ihit there has been a fearful shock to tho system. She
has not quite recovered consciousness. I think it needless for
you to wait, for I am afraid you will not be allowed to see her
to-night.'

The little sisters looked helplessly at each other, and implor-
ingly at the nurse.

* And must we go away, and leave her here all night ? '

' She may have to remain some days, or even weeks,*
returned the nurse. * But she will have tho best skill and
attention, and you can rest assured that tho very moment the
surgeons consider it safe she shall be sent home. We can
only afford to keep serious cases in the beds, we have so many
applications.'

Miss Janet winced. In spite of the kind manner of the
nurse, it seemed a terrible thing to leave their little maid alone
among strangers in that great place, surrounded on every hand
by suffering and pain.

* Is she among a great many ? ' she asked.

* No, she is in one of the small wards. Perhaps one of you

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

1^128 |2.5

|50 ^^" M^H

■^ Uii |2.2
1^

1.8

IIJ5 III 1.4

9.i

Photographic

Sdences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

'v-

'£

;]

> I

280

ST. VEDAS,

niijj^lit come up with me and have a peep at her, to f^ntisfy
yourselves about her identity,' suggested tlie nurse, a proposal
at which the little sisters reatlily caught. Miss Janet signifie(l
her readiness to accompany the nurse at once, and siie was led
through the long, wide corridors, upstairs, and across another
great hall, and at last foun<l herself in the little scpiare ward
where there were four patients. With wonderfully steady
step Miss Janet went forward to the bed where the surgeons
stood. And it was Annie, sure enough, her sweet face lying
deathly white on the pillow, though there were no traces of
sull'ering upon it.

Just as Miss Janet approached there was a faint stirring of
the long lashes on the cheek, and a })erceptible trembling of
the lips, which gave signs of returning co'isciousness ; and
presently, perhaps the look of love and pain on Miss Janet's
kind face helped to awaken her, she opened her eyes and
looked round a little wonderinglv.

'Where am W She stietched out her right hand, which
had a great bruise upon it, to ^fiss Janet, recogni-iiig one
familiar face. * Oh yes, 1 remember; the little boy and the
horse's feet; was he killed V

' No ; saved : thanks to you, my dear,' said the elder sur-
geon, smiling down into her face.

' His mother will be glad. I am not at home, Miss Janet ?
AVhat place is this ? '

' It is the hospital, my precious child, but they will let you
home soon, and we will nurse you well again,' cried Miss
Janet, doing her best to speak calndy, but breaking down in
the attempt. Annie opened her eyes wider and looked
straight at the surgeon's grave face.

'Am I very sore hurt ?' she asked. ' Shall I die V

' Die ! oh, nonsense. "We don't let many die here,' said tlie
surgeon quickly. ' You are to shut your eyes and let your
poor, little, shaken nerves get a rest. Do you feel badly
hurtr

ANOTHER SHOCK.

281

'My back hurts, and my head swims. "\A licrc is !Mi.ss
Seton, ^liss Janet ?'

* Downstairs, dying to sec you, Annie, but they won't let
her.'

' Time enough to-morrow, time enough to-morrow,' growled
the surgeon. ' Yoa are greatly privileged, madam,' he added
to Miss Janet. ' Don't let us regret that privilege hy staying
too long.'

It was terrible for ^liss Janet to go, but she saw that it was
imperative. She bent over the bed and kissed the girl's pale
brow. Annie tried to place her bruised right arm round the
neck of her kind friend, but the pain kept her back.

' Thank you, thank you, come again to-morrow, stoop low,'
she whispered. ' Write to father to-night. I promised if
anything was wrong to send for him. Captain Erskine, Orr's
Haven, Ayton.'

Miss Janet nodded, another surprise for her in that familiar
address. But she dfired not say a word. With haste, which
was really kindness to the injured girl, the nurse hunied the
warm-hearted woman out of the ward.

Miss Janet never uttered a single word during the drive
back to Abingdon Road. She sat bolt upright on the seat,
looking straight before her, as if her entire interest were
centred in the shabby blue cloth and the worn buttons which
adorned the front of the cab. If she heard sundry remarks
made by her sister she heeded them not at all ^liss Janet
was in truth trying to solve a problem, to make fact out of a
long chain of probabilities, and gradually the light, strong,
clear, and unmistakable, began to dawn upon her.

The greatest surprise of all had been in reserve, but they
were coming very near it now.

' A gentleman called while you were out, ma'am,' said
Margaret, after makiiig anxious inquiry as to the result of
their visit to the hospital. * lie seemed very much disap-
l^ointed at not seeing you, and is to call again this evening.'

11:

282

ST. VEDA'S.

* Yes. Who was it, ^Margaret 1 ' !Miss Janet asked with
hut a hinguid iutorcst. Margaret handed the card from the
palver on tlio li;ill tahlo, and Miss Jauet, standing directly
under the gas lamp, read the nauie, —

• Sir Archibald Grant.*

CIIAPTKK XXXTI.

THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

/v"y|p^,TTE:\rTK SKToX,' smM ^Fiss Janet, in a hnrrlnl.

LJy^ excited w,iy, 'Jet us ;^-et <>(? (Uir bonnets as i'., i
9{- '''-d. iis \ve eau. I'licre is a incat deal to talk almi;'.
'^'^^Jc^ If we sit np till morning I doubt we'll never km!.'.
{^jP- nj) this ravel.'

'"vV 'Tea is rendv, Miss Seton ; shall I take it in:

asked the niaitl.

M )h yes, M;irL,'aict, tako it in. It will do me good. .\
LTivat many extraordinary things are ha[)penirg to us, my gii!.
and wo would ni'ed sometliing to keep us calm,' said ^lis-
-ianet, as she ran nimbly ujistairs.

lint though the talde was temptingly spread, and the silver
urn hissing on the tray, when the little sisters came down in
tlie dining-room, iMiss Janet did not take her accustomed jtlace.
but stood on the hearthrug with her hands folded behind li'-r
back.

* riiemie Seton,' she said giindy, 'you have read the name
on that card at least a dozen times. Does nothing strd<<'
you •? '

' I don't know what to think,' answered Miss Fhcmie rather
helplessly. 'Sir Archiliald Grant; of course that can't be our
brother-in-law, for this paper says he is dead.'

'Xo; it is the younger brother. So nothing strikes you,

284

ST. VEDA'S.

I i ?; !■

li!'

n\i^ !

i h .

I'lioiuio Scton, say in connection with our poor, dear rrjil
wltoin we liiiV(f just left?'

^^iss IMiciiiic opened lier eyes very wide. Slic was n.)t
slii'cv \ nor clever, like her sister. Sl.'e hud, indeed, been
(|iiite bewildered l»y the somewhat conijdieated story she had
read in Trutli.

' Voii know 1 liave never guessed anything. Tell me what
11(111 think, Janet,' she said meekly.

'That Annie Krskine is Annie (Jrant, PhemieSeton; our
own sister's cliild, whom the Lord in His mercy sent to us in
our own and her need,' said Miss Janet, with heaving bosom.
'Sir Arcliibidd is seeking her; has learned she is with us.
Th(! only thing I do not understand is, why she should ever
have left home. Oh, Phemie Seton, our dear Annie's bairn !
To think siie should have served us like a common waitin*'
woman when she was our own kith and kin.'

Here Miss Janet broke down, and began to cry quietly to
herself. And what could Miss Phemie do but join her, and
so for a time there was nothing said.

'To think,' continu(Ml Miss Janet, more calmly, 'that the
heiress of St. Veda's should have served us, should even — oh,
Phemie Seton, the shame of it ! — have washed down that
e.immon f-tair in Northumberland Street, and cleaned the
door bell in the mornings. Did you ever know of such a
thingr

' I never did, but we couldn't help it, sister,' said ^liss
Phemie faintlv. 'Besides, if slie had not been doin*' that fen*
us, who knows where she might have been. It was a good
turn we did her, and we couldn't help not knowing who she

Avas,

* Xo, I daresay you are right, Phemie Seton,' said Miss
Janet, with a sigh. 'My heart is very heavy about the
bairn. It is a question even if she ever comes into her
inheritance. Oh, wliij u'onUl she wander about these streets,
and insist on pulling ragged boys out from horses' feet?

THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

285

dear girl

was not
c'cul, l)('«'n
\f s1h3 had

mc what

etnn ; cur
it to us in
ng bosom.
is with us.
houM (^vcr
ie's bairn !
on waiting

quietly to
in hor, and

'that the

even — oli,

ilown that

leaned tlie

of such a

saiti ^liss
ng that fen*
was a goixl
12 who she

said Miss

about the

s into her

lese streets,

lorses' feet 1

But it was like her, Phemie Seton. The bairn W(»uld travel
fifty miles, or want a meal — ay, or risk her life — tn d<» anybudy
a good turn. But what a story to give her unele. Sir Ardii
bald (Irant, wlien he comes to us to-night! 1 could fain not
see him, Phemie.'

' lUit, Janet, if the iidieritance is Annie's he will need to
leave it — a great trial for the man and his family, if he has
one.'

' Xo doubt, bnt if he l)e like his brotlier, our sister Annie's
husband, he will do right at any cost. It is a good race,
I'hemie Seton ; we proved that five-and-tweiity years ago,'
said Miss Janet, with jiride. 'Well, we may as well have
our teas, I'hemie, and try and keep our minds composed.
There's One who is able to take the knots out of the webs
human hands ravel so fearfully, and we'll just leave it with
Him. We can't say, any way, that He has not hitherto led
us and ours.'

They had not quite finished tea, when the door-bell rang,
and Miss Janet hurriedly rose.

'He had better just come in here. We need not make
a stranger of him, and that drawing-room would chill the
marrow in one's bones,' she said, and opening the do(jr, she
stepped out into the hall. Her heart was in the riglit i)lace,
and, in spite of her odd ways, she very seldom acted but with
tact and delicacy.

'Sir Archibald Grant,' she said tremblingly, 'you are
welcome for your brother's sake and for old times' sake. Your
name was once familiar enough in the ears of myself and
Phemie Seton.'

Sir Archibald, touched with the pathetic warmth of his
greeting, took both the pale little hands in his manly grasj),
but did not for a moment speak. A true heart all over the
world will recognise its fellow. Janet Seton's eyes filled once
more as they scanned his handsome face, and saw nobility,
not of birth alone, but of soul, stamped on every feature. It

il.

'■:■ t

I i|

286

ST. VEDA'S,

vas ns if tlio ycnr.s lia'l inllcil l>acl<, ainl slic saw hor yniin"
sister ^'< iiij^ foitli i»niii(liy l)y tlic side of licr Ijiiilcgrooiu ; tlii>
Sir Ardiilialil was so like llu' oM.

* I liavc made 110 mistake then ' he said, as lie shook liaiid?

ith Miss IMieinie in th«.' rooi

You ai'c iiidee(l tlie sisteiv

of luy l)i'othei''s j)oor young wife, who received such scant
justice from us.'

'Annie 8eton was our sister, and tliougli it was a great
marria'n; for her, we thouLrlit her worthy of it to the full,' said

ISS

Janet

proudly

Oh, Sir Arcdiihald,' she adde(l more

hurriedly, '■what is all this we have been reading to-day? We
did not know the young creature we have had with us since
last summer was our own niee(>, and St. Veda's heiress. And
to think th;!t she was here in all. her beautiful health and
fairness this morning, and tliat now' —

' Miss Janet, what do you mean'?' cried Sir ArchiCj leaping
to his feet in the intensity of his surprise.

'You have come to seek your niece and ours, have you
not?' aske(l Miss Janet, arr'^sted by his unbounded bewilder-

ent. 'The dear la

ssie Mdio has been with us so Ioiilc as
Annie Krskine, and wlumi we only learned to-day from a chance
reading of tlu^ ])ai)ers is our own niece.'

'Annie Krskine! lias she been with you all this time?
Is it [)os-!ible ?'

'It is true. Did you not know?'

'Know! ^ly dear ladies, this is more than I hoped for.
])(> you know, my son Andiie, who loves her as his own soul,
has been seeking her without interruption these five months
backr

Miss Phemie's eyes shone with the most intense interest.

'There was a love affair then i ' she said eagerly.

'Yes; my son learncul to love her as Annie Erskine, and
would have married her as such, bless him ! had she not, out
iif a mistaken unsellishness, for which we were to blame, left
him and us. To think that she should liave been led to her

THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

287

niotlicr's kindred ! It surpasses cdNiiindH'usion. How did it
come (ilMHitl She did nut know you, diil sliol*

' No,' said Miss Janet. *It came almut very simply, like
all the Lord's wonderful dealings with the children of men.
My sister and I were havin;^ dur walk in Princes Street
CJardens one morning, and IMiemie, aye dreaming and thought-
less, left her silver-clasped reticule on the seat. Annie hrought
it to her, and we entered uj)on a little talk, and we were sorry
for the bairn, though there was that about her which puzzled
us, ami in the end. Sir Archibald, we took her liome with us,
and she has been with us, serving for love only, fur we were
very j)oor, until now.'

'And where is she now?'

'That's it; that's the very worst of all, Sir ArdiibaM. She
went away out after our earlv dinner to-dav, for a bit walk to
herself, while Phemie Seton and I would have our naj), and
the next we heard was a cab sent from the hospital fur us,
and we have just come back.'

'And what has that to do with Annie 1'

'Too much. She ran in before a gentleman's coach and
four to save a ragged boy from being hurt or killed, and, of
course, she was knocked down herself.*

'And not — net killed?' asked Sir Archie, with blanching
lil)s.

' No, but hurt very seriously, I could not but think Mhen
1 saw her lying so white and still ; though the docturs say there
a'e no bones broken.'

' Could 1 see her if I were to go?'

' No, they j»ut me out. They are very uncoromonious even
\\\\\\ gentlewomen in these strange places. I wish we had our
lear bairn at home; not but what I thiidv she will be well
•ared for, for the place is clean, and the docturs no doubt
1. ilful men, and that nurse was a well-spoken woman, but the
'lairn's heart will be hungry for love.'

' There has been enough lavished on her,' said Sir Archie

I ,

288

ST. VEDA'S,

«,'riiv('ly. 'Tliore is an old man, her father, at Orr's TTaven,
bending towards tlic grave for want of her, and our young
one's not much better. As for my womenfolk. Miss Seton,
they talk of nothing else. There will- be a gay Christmas
this year at St. Veda's. Annie will have us all to spend it
with her, 1 am sure.'

The ladies looked at Sir Archie a little wonderingly. How
kindly and beautifully lie spoke of Annie, and of the surrender
of what must be very dear to him !

lUit, after all, they were not very greatly surprised. How
coultl they ex})eet otherwise from one who bore the name of
Archibald Grant?

Tliey sat talk' ,' until it was late, and parted at length lik(!
old, old friends, to meet again in the morning and go together
to the hospital to see the maiden whose fortunes were of
such deep interest to them all.

* But, do you not think. Sir Archibald,' said Miss Janet
thoughtfully, when she went with him to the door, ' do you
not think it might be better to have the bairn safely with us
here before she should have this great surprise come upon herl
In her weak state it could not be good for her, I'm thinking.
Phemie and I will go by our two selves to-morrow morning
early, and I'll ask that grave-faced doctor about it.'

' I believe you are right, ^liss Seton,' assented Sir Archie.
'I have some business to attend to in the morning connected
witli tiiese impostors. I'll come here in the afternoon, and
hear the result of your visit to the hospital.'

' Very well,' said Miss Janet. ' But, Sir Archibald, forgive
the curiosity of women folk, but what like folk are these
you speak of, and how did they get to know anything at all
about your brother and our poor sister?'

'They lived near the sugar plantation at Madras, where my
brother was employed. Their real name is Briscoe. She is
the widow of some individual who held a small Government
])ost. My friend Bold of the Temple has ferre ;ed out every

7JE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

item of information al)out tlicm. It sliowod a pjroat deal of
pluck in tlicin to atlvunco a claim to thu estates on tliu sk'iuUr
proof they possessed.'

'I should call it by another nnme tlum phu'k,' (pioth Miss
Janet grindy. 'And what'll be done to them, think you?'

*0h, nothing. Had the case gone to Court, they would
probably liave been indicted for perjury. Even had our
niece's identity not been proved, they had no case, and it
wouM have gone hard with them. As it is, I fancy they will
fin«l it to their advantage to get quietly out of the way as
quickly as possible.'

'Dear me, .and is iltat all the law can do to folk who have
caused other pe(tj)le so much annoyance and expense 1* said
Miss Janet, with a shruu of her shoulders. 'I don't think
much of it. \Vell, gdod ni^ht. Sir Archibald. It has done
our hearts good to see and s[)eak with you about these oM
memories. And when, think you, shall we see your son,
whose heart is set on our Annie?'

'Before forty-eight hours are passed, T should say,' said Sir
Archie, with a smile, 'lie is in the middle of election meet-
ings yonder, and will be speaking this very night in the school-
room at Ayton, but that won't keep him from coming up wlicii
he gets my letter to-morrow.*

* Ay, ay,' said Miss Janet, and a tender little smile softened
her face. * If only all will go as we hope and wish, Sir
Archibald, we shall all be happy.'

' We shall see. We can leave the ordering of these things
in a higher hand,' said Sir Archie, with his pleasant smile, as
he shook hands and went his way.

Before noon next day an ambulance waggon stopped at the
door of the house in Abingdon Road, and Annie, who had
stepped across its threshold in the vigour and buoyancy of
youth twenty -four hours before, was carried in and upstairs to
the spacious best bedroom, which Margaret, out of love for the
sweet young girl whom it had been a pleasure to serve, had

\\. ii

.; ! r

290

^7: VEDA'S.

' i

t; 1 .«

'1'-

set all in roiulinofls, \\\i\\ a blazing fire, and every comfort
tliouglitfuinoss could suggest.

' Thank you, Margaret. You are a good, thouglitful woman,'
Miss Janet found time to wliisper. * I need not ask if llic
bed is thoroughly aired, because I can trust you.*

The surgeons had not found any specific injury in their
patient, and had readily enough grant(Ml permission for her to
be taken home. To the little sisters it seemed a fearful
thing to see the young, active girl reduced to such helph'ssness
that she could not set her foot to the ground, but they were
reassured by the surgecm saying that that weakness, the result
of the shock and the bruises, would wear off after a few days'
rest. Annie was very (juiet, very sober, very grateful for the
least attention, and though she did not say much, her eyes
were eltxjuent. The little sisters could not leave the room for
a moment, in spite of the injunction they had received to keej)
her quiet. They felt as if their own sister had Ijcen restored
to them, and Annie, not knowing the secret which oppressed
them, only wondered that they should lavish upon lier such
kindness and love.

' Phemio Seton,' said !Miss Janet once, when she beckoned
her sister out of the room, 'st>mebody must tell her. 1 can't,
I'm in such a flutter. Will you ? '

' Oh, sister, I can't, at least I should only make a fool of
myself, and excite her,' said Miss Phemie, trembling at the
very thought.

'Then I'll tell you what'll be best,' said ISIiss Janet. 'I'll
go in and tell her Sir Archie is coming to-day to see her. He
has a beautiful, kind, soothing way with him, Phemie, and
he'll tell her.'

So saying, ^liss Janet marched once more into the room.

* Is that you. Miss Janet ? ' asked Annie, in her low, sweet
voice.

' Yes, my lamb, I'm here.'

' My lamb,' repeated Annie, and a faint sweet smile came

THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

291

comfort

, woman,'
isk if the

in their
for licr to

a fi'iirful
•IplcssnosH
they were
Uie result
L few ihiys'
ul for the
1, her eyes
le room for
;ed to keep
;en restored
I o[)presscd
»n her such

(tn licr lipK. 'That's what fatlier used to call nie. l)id you
scud word to hiui to coiiu'. ?'

*I di<hi't, my dearie, hut somehody else «lid — a (h'ar, kiul
fricud we all love, and who is cdniin^' very soon to see you
Vou will he pleased, will you not, dear Anni«', to see so old a
friend as Sir Areliie (Irant 1 Don't flush up so, durliii'^'. You
lielmj,' to us, hut he has oiir eoulidenee, and h»' has the ri;^'ht
to see you, to take you in his arms, if he likes. Why, thert*
is his f(X»t on the stair.'

There was a low knock at the door, and ^liss Janet trein-
hliii^'ly hade hiiu come in.

M)li, Annie, Annie, what a dance you have led us!' said
Sir Archie, shaking' his liuj^er and trying to speak lightly
liecause his heart was full. And to Annie's lunvildermcut, f<tr
she could not understand it at all, he hent ovi^r her and kisscti
her as if she had been a daughter of his own.

10 beckoned
[jr. 1 can't.

je a fool of
,ling at the

Janet. 'I'H
ce her. He
Phemie, ami

the room.
er low, sweet

t smile came

f:''

CHAPTER XXXIII.

GOOD NEW3.

HE old skipper, they were saying in the Haven,
had greatly failed of late. Janet Erskine heard
two neiglibour women remark it to each other one
winter morning, and the words sent a cliill to her
heart. She went out to the open door, and looked
down the pier after him, and was painfully struck
by his bent shoulders and slouching ff^-'hlcness of gait.
Why, it seemed but yesterday that she had watched him with
all the pride of her heart, lier tall, manly husband, who always
seemed to stand distinguished '^ven among the race of sturdy
fishers as the sturdiest and most stalwart of all. He was like
a tree bending before the wind, and she knew that the sorrow
in his heart was the cause of this change. lie had never heh'.
up his head since the day — now live months gone — Annie left
Orr's IIa\ >n. Since that night when he fancied he saw her
* wraith ' at the garden gate, he had never once mentioned her
name. Janet his wife knew that he had buried it in his heart ;
that he believed Annie to bo deael. Janet Erskine was to be
]iiti''d. Her loneliness was terrible. There was an outer sem-
^ l.!!i((», of peace between her and her husband. But she knew
t'..;.t. Ill' liad weiglied her in the balance and found her wanting;
I ;.t > lii' f.sllcn from her former high place in his esteem. Slu'
I . .. ;.:i,;uiiied that Jiis love had turned to dislike: but tluL

293

GOOD NEWS.

293

was not the case. lie was still awaiting her repentance, and
wrestling with the Lord in prayer for her soul. In his long,
silent, brooding hours he fancied that his days were numbered,
that soon he would be called to take his last voyage ; he
prayed to live to see Janet a changed woman. That was all
he wished; for Adam was doing his duty by God and his
fc'liowmen, and seemed to have got over his sore trouble
about Annie. The skipper's sorrow about his wife was like
hers, awful in its solitariness, because he could not share it
with another. Neither would desecrate their inner sanctuary
by laying its secret bare to any alien eye. They thought too
sacredly of the tie between husband and wife. Both believed
that none but God should lift that veil.

There were tears in Janet Kr.<ikine's eyes as, after seeing her
husband disappear down the cabin of the boat, she turned
about and wont into the house. The kettle was singing on the
hob, and the teapot warming on the side of the grate. They
had not had their breakfast yet. There was no hurry oi' these
dark winter mornings, when there was so little doing out of
doors. Janet infused the tea, set on the water ^or the eggs,
and then sat down on her low chair and folded her hands.
Of late she had taker to sitting thus idly, brooding and
dreaujing ; indeed, all the way of life in the cottage seemed to
have undergone a change. She was still sitting with her eyes
fixed on the fire whv.n her husband's shadow darkencid the
doorway ; then she sprang up, and turned to him with visible
anxiety on her face.

'Adam Erskine, my man, are ye quite welH' she asked
kindly.

* Oil, ay, well encuch, Janet. Is the breakfast ready?'

' Yes, it's ready, but ye're no' ready for it, I know,' she said.
* I'm growing anxious about ye, Adam.'

* Ye needna fash. I've nae complaint,' answered Adam
quietly. 'Whaur's the lad?'

* In the yard. I'll bid him come,' said Janet ; but as she

\i':\

;f:!1.

Ill

\'J

36 • * f

294

ST. VEDA'S.

passed by her husband's chair, slie lingered by it, and hor eyes
dwelt upon his rugged face. Oh, it was cliangeil ; there were
empty hollows where formerly it had been round and ruddy,
and his eyes seemed far sunken in his head.

'What are ye glowerin' at, my wummin'?' he asked, not
unkindly.

' At you. You're no' well, Adam, my man. You'll k't me
send for the doctor the day.'

'A doctor '11 dae me nae guid, Janet, It's no' bodily ail tliiit
I hae, at least that I'm aware o'. If only I kenn'd whaur an'
hoo the bairn de'ed. Oil, wife, this has been an unco triid to
my weak faith ! It's like to get the better o' me a'thegithcr.'

Janet Erskine shook from head to foot. She sti'iiped back,
shut to the kitchen door, and knelt on one knee bv tlic
skipper's ch.;ii'.

'Adam, my man, I'm a miserable woman too, and mine is
harder, because I've sin to weigh me down as well. Jf'il/ ymi
forgive me what I did to Annie T

VDinna trust to me, my wummin. I'm no' the Judge o'
the earth,' said the skipper, but his eye dwelt with a peculiar
kindlines.s on hi;;! wife's bowed head. ' Lh, Janet, if ye had
but lip})ened a wee mair to the Lord, a' this heartbrenk micht
hae been sav, d you an' me.'

Janet was wee}!i:ig now ; her frame was shaken with her
strong sobbing. The floodgates of her pent-up soul were
opened at last. The .sight moved the skipper. He put his
arms round her as he had been wont to do in the old time,
and soothed her as he might have done a child ; but his own
eyes were not dry.

' I have been a wicked, hard-hearted woman, but not so l»ad,
not quite so bad as you thongiit. I did not know what was
in the box until quite lately — the night the young Laird told
you about the folk seeking the estate. Do you believe me,
Adam ? '

'Ay, but it was a fell mistak' ye made aboot the box frao

>\^

GOOD NEWS.

29s

the box frao

tliG beginnin', my wiimmin. Ye inirht luie kont imc'hing Ijut
ill could come o't. lliiUlen things are the deil's, -luuet, an'
should be carefully haundlet.'

' Oil, I know it all too well, Adam Erskine. -, The torments
I have endured dwelling by myself in this (luict house have
been something like what we are told of in i.'. IJible. I think
folks get a part of their punishment here.'

' Nae doot, nae doot. Weel, we'll let byganes be byganes,
my wummin, an' try an' live the last half o' the pilgrimage
better nor the lirst. An' if it be but short, sae mucklc tiie
better. It's no' the warld we thocht it when we were young.'

These words struck Janet most [)ainfully. Wliy, not six
months ago, the skipper was as full of fun and nonsense as a
laddie, and had rejoiced like a young thing in the sunshine
and all that was bright and gay. Oh, with what sharji,
unavailing regret did she view her own actions now ! Oh, t<j
recall that past six months, to undo the mischief which had
been wrought in them ! Ah, Janet, too late, too late is thy
remorse !

'Adam,' she said, witl. a gentleness v^^onderful to see, 'I
feel somehow as if we would see Annie again some day, and
Adam doesn't think either that she is dead. I heard Mr.
Archie and him talking of her the other night at this garden
gate, and that was what he said,'

' Weel, weel, maybe. It's the way 0' youth to be hopefu",
Janet, an' I wadna be takin' that sma' bit o' comfort frae the
lads. I'm thankfu' to see them forgethert again. Thon was
an ill time wi' oor Adam, wife. I was fell anxious aljoot him,'
said the skij^per, as he rose to his feet. ' Kh me ! thens's the
young Laird fleein' like a daft crater uj) frae the shore. Fegs
he's no' very like a Member o' Parliament. "'.Vhat can he be
after noo, I wonder ? '

' He's coming here,' said Janet, and set the door open. Just
then Adam sauntered round from the yard, and the yor'ig men
met at the front door step.

i|.

-I ii

296

ST. VEDA'S.

:Ji

j.'i 1

' IIiillo, Atlam ! your father in. eliT cried young Archie;
aniV hciug much excited, brushed past Adam and burst into
the kitchen.

' News, news, skipper ! Annie's qll right. They've found
lier ; and she's been as jolly as possible all the time,' he cried,
waving his cap in the air. 'And you and me are to come
uj) to London to-day. So you'll need to get into your best,
skipper, and be ready to drive with me to Berwick at half-
past ten.'

'Annie safe !'

The skipper heard no more. He said these words over and
over a,.iain to himself, while the tears rolled down his rugged
checks like rain.

'Ay, safe enough. Sit down skip|)er, and you, Adam, and
111 read my father's letter. He had only time to send a few
lines to me befoic the mail last night, and tells me to come
down at once with it to you. Li4en, —

* " U.S. Club, Pall ISIall,

* ''Decern her 2, 18—.

' " My dear Boy, — T have found Annie. I purposely write
that first, knowing it will be all the news you care for ; and,
yet. the details may not be uninteresting. As you know, I
ciimo up here to have an interview with the Misses Seton, the
sisters of j)oor Archie's wife. I found them at Kensington —
tine old ladies, thorough gentlewomen, and with hearts of gold.
Annie has been with them since last August ; led to them
when she went to Edinburgh, I cannot doubt, through the
providence and mercy of God. They took her as a servant,
but I can ?ee liave never treated her as such, though neither
the} nor she had the remotest idea of the relationship between
them. They have just come into a fortune, and times were
changing for the little household which had known deep
poverty. There is one drawback, a shadow in this happy
reunion, /.nnie has met with an accident in attempting to

GOOD NEWS.

297

rescue a street arab from a drag near Hyde Park. She looks
pale and ill, but the surgeons say there is no serious injury.
Jjut she will not be able to come down for a week or two. I
saw her last night, and tohl her her own history. Slie was
quite overcome, but very humble and gentle, and unassuming.
The difficulty I now foresee will be to get her to tako lur
rightful place. I suppose I need not bid you come. I cx] (■( t
you up to-morrow night. Your name, however, has not In cu
mentioned between Annie and me. But I see her heart is
hungering to see the old skipper. Bring him up without fail.
Stay behind yourself rather than leave hira. Yoar time
will come. Bold saw the quondam Lady Grant last niglit.
Her real name is Briscoe. She is the widow of a Govern-
ment petty official in India, .and lived near your poor uncle's
temporary home. She received the few mementoes of him
which she had in her possession from Mrs. Mathers, to whom
Annie's mother gave them as a parting token of regard and
gratitude. Mrs. Mathers is now dead. She has delivered up
these trinkets to Bold, who has put a wholesome fear ujjon
her. Mother and son left London, I am told, to-day. I must
close. Only three minutes till the bag loaves. Love to mamma
and ^' uheL Wire when to expect you. Don't forget the skipper,
to Vv'hom you must read this. — Your affectionate father,

* " Archibald Guant."

.; u

'VW JV( J

1.;*

* Now, isn't that a wonderful story?' cried Archie, in
gleeful triunjph ; but nobody had a word to say. The skipj^er,
sitting on the broad window-ledge beside Annie's withered
house plants, had his eyes turned out to sea. But there was
a wonderful glory on his fine face, which revcaknl the un-
speakable content in his heart. He was blessing the Lord in
that deep silence for His goodness to the children of men, and
asking forgiveness for the meagreness of his faith.

'And Annie has been with her own aunts all this time/
said Juuet Erskine slowly; ' it is wonderful, most wonderful 1 *

■ '\

VS'

298

ST, VEDA\S.

!',■ !

■;.,i

»i ' 't

'■«!:;!!'

|; '3 ■'■

'Yos, it is/ said Archie, and looked even at her with a
kindly eye. Ah, joy can heal many a bitter sting.

'Janet, my ■\vuniinin, get out my Sawbath claes,' said the
skipper blitliely. 'ILilf-past ten, did you say, Laird? an'
when wuli we get to Lunnon 1 *

'About seven at night, skipper,' answered Archie gaily.
' Well, I'll go. Bo at the lodge gates at five-and-twenty
minutes past ten, will you ] '

*Ay will I,' answered the skipper, and his eyes shone.
Janet looked at him, and her heart throbbed. Even yet,
though her heart was softened, she grudged Annie that deep,
yearning, unaltered love.

It was a curious thing how. in the midst of their joy they
paid so little heed to the fact that Annie was lying weak and
ill. She was found — she was safe and alive — that seemed
sufficient at the time.

The skipper had not much to say after the Laird left;
indeed, that breakfast was a very silent meal.

"When it was over, Janet went into the room and laid out
her husband's best attire, the fine blue cloth suit he wore on
Sundays, a spotless linen shirt, and the blue silk handkerchief
with the white border, on v/hich Annie's loving hands had
sewed his name. Her heart was sore as she laid out the
things one by one. She was left out in the cold. There was
not even a message for her, though her heart too was hunger-
ing for Annie. If she had dared, she would have asked to
share this sudden journey ; but she felt that she had not
deserved to be remembered. If Annie thought of her at all,
it could only be with aversion and resentment. She mis-
judged the child again as she had so often done. In Annie's
sweet, wholesome nature, there was no room for sucli dark
thoughts. When she reviewed her past life at the cottage,
she always blamed herself most, and reproached herself with
her own undutiful conduct.

The skipper, even in the bustle of his preparations, noticed

GOOD NEWS.

299

his wife's (lowno.ist, wistful look, and understood hor f(Mdiii;,'s.
As for Adam, lu; was otf to the boat. Poor lad, ii(Mlia|is
his case was the hardest. lie had not for^dtten Annie, and
nobody had a word for him. lUit he could b(\ir his pain
manfully ; he would not let it cloud the hapi)incss of others.

' Wccl, lass, an' what am I to say to Annie, frac ye?' asked
the sl'ii)per cheerily, as he stood ready to go.

'Tell her, tell her' — 15ut -Janet's voice faltered. 'Tell
her when she couies down to St. Veda's, I will come to see her,
an' that we'll redd it up between us. Tell her, if ye like,
that I've never known a moment's j)eace or an hour's sound
slee}) since slu; went away, and that I'll never forgive myself.'

'That's my true wife, my Janet,' said the skii)per, and he
kissed her for tlie first time for years. They were not a
demonstrative pair; but there is a love which stands the test
of time with(»ut the outward synd)ols.

Janet iiad a good cry by herself when her husband left ; but
her heart was lighter ^Ikui it liad been for many months.
Wiien she began to move about the house again she caught
siglit of Adam standing against the mast of the Jami Ww in
a listless attitude, with his arms folded across his breast. Her
motherly heart tilled for him ; the lad had had his own battle
to light, and hew nobly and yet how silently he bore his
cross ! 80 Janet learned a lesson that grey morning from her
own son.

Xevor had journey seemed so intolerably long as did that run
to London that day to the two impatient travellers. But at
length it came to an end, and a hansom soon took them
through the busy thoroughfares to x\.l)ingdon Road. The
skipper had never been in London, but it might as well have
been the wilds of Siberia for all the interest it had for him.
In the meantime it was oidy the place which held Annie; that
was his only thought. They were expected at Abingdon Koad.
]\liss Phemie came fluttering into the hall to meet them, and
instantly, as was her romantic, old way, fell in love with them

ih \

: I .1 ■

.■ill

■y

»! n

3^0

ST. VEDA'S.

hoth. There was something in the old fisherman's rugged,
weather-beaten face, a glance in his honest eye, and a nohle
manliness in his whole bearing, which proclaiiiuid him one of
Nature's gentlemen. He was not embarrassed, as a meam-r
nature might have been, by his surroundings ; he carried
himself with a simple dignity, alTecting nothing, pretending
nothing, and so, while making others happy, he mms himself
perfectly at ease. A temi)ting 'high tea' was spread for the
travellers in the dining-room, but they did scanty justice to it.
Ijufore they were quite done, however, Miss Janet came down
from the uj)per room to welcome the travellers from Scotland.
'Annie has been asleep, but she awoke up when you came
in. I thought she should have jumped out of bed when she
heard your voice. Captain Erskine,' she said, laying her sweet
white hand on the skijjper's broad shoulder. Her heart
wiirmed to him, he was so honest and true.

* Will you come up now?'

* If ye please, m'am,' said the skipper, rising from his chair.
' No, no, my lad ; it's not your turn yet,' she said, with a

gentle laugh, and shaking her forefinger at young Archie, who
was on his feet in a moment. * The bairn has never once
asked for you, but this dear man's name is never off her lips.'

Archie laughed a little ruefully and sat down again,
oblivious of the look of deep sympathy Miss Pheniie cast
upon him.

So Miss Janet and the skipper went away upstairs, and
those listening heard the opening and shutting of the door ;
and presently she came down again with a very solemn, beau-
tiful look on her face.

' Did you go in, sister 1 ' asked Miss Phemie nervously.

* No, Phemie Seton,' answered Miss Janet, in a soft, tremu-
lous voice \ * with such joy no stranger may intermeddle.'

(

miim^£SLL-j

CnAPTT-R XXXIV.

hemie cast

gets on as si iwly
tlie ]);;st wcc!;,
V Cliii.'LiiMs wi;

THE SWEET WATERS.

^M^ DOUBT, ^liss Soton, if Annie gc
%¥i iKv'fl J^s she lias been doin;:' durinLi:
fsivJiHf there is little chance of that joll^
'V^'^s^^^ have been j)romising ourselves at St. A'eda's.'
^)M It was Sir Archie "who spoke, and hi.s f.:' •

^^ was gravely troul)l('d. !Miss Janet slart(!(l to l::; I 1 .•
own thoughts expressed in words. She did im; I..i>.u'
till that moment how real was her anxiety about the b;i:ii.

' Sir Archie, what are we to do with the bairn? Slui h:!.s
no strength,' she said almost piteously.

Sir Archie took two turns across the dining-rooia ll^or
before he answered.

* Tell mo what you think, Miss Setoni You are her u;:r ?',
you know, and should have a better idea than I. Doc.; s'.ie
complain of any special pain 1 '

There was a sobbing breath in Miss Janet's kind vnice
when she spoke.

'Yesterday, Sir Archie, I persuaded her to get up ami \vy
to walk (icross the floor, leaning on my arm. SIk; ctiuMii'i t! >
it, Sir Archie, and I fear, I fear there is sonictiiin;^' we ilnw't
understand. It's her back. She has a constant wcarim ■.-.-> in
it, and die seems perfectly contented to lie still.'

' It is that which has alarmed me, Miss Janet. The child

301

302

ST. VEDA'S.

li :m t

I < \

who uspfl to !io with us at On's TTiivcn was so difTorfnt. Slio
was as restless and full of life as the winds and the scii
she loved so well. 1 can see, thon^jh he is savin-j nothing;,
that Atlani Erskine is f,'i'o\vin|4 anxious too.'

' Then we must have some of the great doctors to see her at
once,' sai<l Miss Janet.

'This very day. It is a dear, precious life which none
of us can spare,' said Sir Archie with emotion. 'I lioi)e, I
liope for all our sakes, that our fears are ^^'oundless,'

'There is a want of interest in the afl'airs of life about luu-
T don't like. Have you noticed, Sir Archie, how (piiet she is
wh(nu'ver her inheritance is spoken of ? She will only sniilc
a hit tjuiet smile and say nothing. It is not natural in a
youn.!,' girl.'

* No, it is unnatural. I have noticed it, and it has deepened
my anxiety. It is something more than her natural fine
feeling, though it is very rare in its delicacy. It looks to
me as if she thought she should never live to inherit her
own. She has never hinted at such a thing to you, has
shor

' Not in words,' ^liss Janet answered, as she wiped her
eyes. 'But I'll not deny that I have felt sometimes exactly
as if that were in her thoughts. Oh, surely, brother, God
has not taken the knots out of our ravelled thread just to tie
another we cannot understand. It seems to me that it would
only be just and right that Annie should have some of the
brightness in life that young creatures love. Although I am
not for the marrying of cousins, I wish — I wish I could live
to see your fine son and our bairn man and wife.'

The little sisters claimed Annie entirely, and called her
' their bairn ' in the very face of Sir Archie, and even of the
skipper himself. As for Annie, she would lie listening to
their bantering talk with a smile for all, and love for all in
her heart. But when she was alone with the skipper she
■would nestle her soft cheek on his toil-worn palm, and whisper

lici '. .'

THE SWEET WATERS,

303

to him tlmt shn loved him Itost. AVhiit that whispered
a!^suriii»c(; was to oKl Achim Krskine I cannot try to tell you.
Ili.s very heart clave to the bairn with tliM strength of a
niiglity love.

' Well, I think, Miss Janet, T shall sec one of the leading
surgeons to-day,' said Sir Arcliie. ' If there is not much
wrong, we might take her down to St. Veda's soon. Any
way, it will set our minds at rest.'

* Very well,' said Miss Janet, hut there was a curious
feeling of apprehension in her heart. ' it will he hetter to
know, for isn't it time you and young Archie and tlie skipper
were hack to your respective duties 1' she added, with a slight
smile.

* The lad won't go till Annie goes,* answered Sir Archie,
smiling a little too. * He has not been here to-day 1 '

* Not yet'

* Is the skipper with Annie ?'

* No ; he went out to meet Archie, you know, to go down
to Gravesend. They will be up presently.'

' Ah, then, I'll go round to Carlton House Terrace, and see
if Jenner is to be had. You had better tell Annie we are
having some one else to see her.'

' It will not put her about ; the bairn has a wonderful
placid temperament for one so young.' Miss Janet did not
know, dear heart, of the fierce battling which had won for
Annie that quiet peace.

What the bairn had suffered in mind and heart of late
would never be known to any of those who loved her. Her
intense, passionate, sensitive nature had had its own full share
of i)ain. Perhaps the long struggle had worn her out, and she
craved only for rest.

When Sir Archie left the house, ^liss Janet went away up
with slow and reluctant step to the sick-room. A weight was
on her kind heart ; she feared the sight of Annie's sweet face
woulil break her down. She heard her laugh as she came

304

ST. VEDA'S,

\ ;

«'l''^

near tho door. T^fiss Plicmie was sitting l)y the sofa nmusiTig
her with licr quaint talk.

* You two sot'm very gay,' said Miss Janet briskly, as she
bustlt'd into the room. * I'm giiid to hear you laughing, my
dear. That was your Unelo Archie asking for you.'

* And has ho gone away without coming up to see me,
Aunt Janet?'

* He is coming back again, my dearie. How are yon feeling
this afternoon V

* Quito well.'

* liut lazy, eh 1 Not thinking of getting up to-day, I
suppose.'

' No, Aunt Janet, please ; if you will let me, I would rather
lie still.'

* Well, well, lie still, then, you idle bairn,* said Aunt Janet.
* r>ut if you are not going to make an attempt to got up, when
are we to get you down to yciir Castle by tho sea?'

Annie's cjlour rose, and she shook her head.

* Oh, there is time enough. I have lived long enough
witliout tho Castle by the sea. Aunt Janet, and I am very
hai)py here with you all. I shall see the rest by and by.'

' Ay, but you are keeping three men folk from their work,
lassie,* said Miss Janet with a laugli. ' You bit white-faced
thing, that you should keep us all running about you. Uncle
Archie is away on no less errand than to get a grand doctor
with a title to como and order you to got up. He may be
here very soon.'

' Very well, auntie,' said Annie placidly. * Now, Aunt
Phemie, tell the rest of the story about old Colonel Cawdor
and his cats.'

' Phemie Seton, are you filling the bairn's head with that
fearsome, silly story V said Miss Janet. 'Ye are just a pair :
maybe ye'll live to make young folk laugh at ye yet, Annie,
my lamb ; and the man's head was turned with tho sorrows of
his youth. Here's somebody that'll put an end to Colonel

THE SWEET WATERS,

305

Cawdor, or I'm mistaken. Yes, my man, you can come
in.'

It was sweet to see the bright red fliisliinj; Annie's pnle
cheek as she turnetl lier head to greet her cousin. As for
Ardiio, his glance of iittor adoration sent another cold chill to
Janet Seton's heart. Oh, it is not wise to make itlols of
human beings ; we hold life and love by such a fearfully
slender thread. The little sisters slipped away out of the
room by and by, for they said that the young man wished a
few words with his cousin. lie had not been very well used
by them, perhaps; his private words with Annie had been
conspicuously few, and certainly no word of love had over
passed between them yet.

' How are you, Annie \ — why do you keep on lying there?'
he askt'd, the moment the door was shut on them.

' Ik'causo I can't walk,' she answered ; ' and it is very nice
to be lazy and lie still.'

• lUit why can't you walk?' he asked, with all the old
boyish impetuosity. 'I can't understand it.'

' Neither can I. I suppose I got a good many hard bruises.
I sliall be bettor by and by ! *

• And all for a little beggar whose parents would likely have
been bettor pleased to see the last of him. Annie, you had
no right to be so reckless with your precious life. Don't
you see how important you are in the eyes of a lot of
people ? '

An exquisite smile made a halo on the girl's sweet face.
Her need of love was veiy great— <Aa^ chalice could never be
too full.

• It is — it is splendid to feel oneself dear to others,' she
said, with a long-drawn breatL * 1 never knew what it was
to lice before.'

• And yet / loved you in the old days, Annie,' said the
young mun rei)roachfully.

• Yes, I know,' she answered simply, and her eyes met his

51 ,i

,1 '<]

306

ST. VEDAS.

with a look of porfoct trust. But somehow it was not exactly
the look lie craved for.

'Annie, is this i{<>ing to part us, I wonder*?' he cried
qiiictkly. * Of course, I know, there is a great difference
between us now, greater than tliere was before, because the
woild has no rnercy on the man who may owe anything to his
wife. It brands him without remorse as a coward and a self-
seeker. I have seen many brave spirits crushed under it,
until oven love could scarcelv stand the wei'dit on it. Annie,
I don't giudge you your inhm'itance, I am glad to go forth
nameless and penniless for 3'our sake; but when I havb made
my name and my fortune, you will let me lay them at your
feetr

* Hush ! hush ! ' His hot, impassioned words pained her.
The tears started in her eyes. Slie put her hand under her
pillows and brought out a litlle packet tied with a ribbon.

' 1 had a letter from Ethel to-day, and I have written to
her,' she said in a voice which trembled a little. Then she
took fiom the ribbon a little roll of ])aper.

' I have kept that. It was my comfort when I had nothing
else,' she whispered, and laid it in his hand. He opened it
out, and when he saw his own face drawn, as he remembered,
by his sister's skilful hand, his own tears started. He was not
ashamed of them — they were no dishonour to his manhood.

•Then you are my darling?* he said, and put one strong
arm round her drooping shoulders, and bent his handsome
head close down to hers.

' You will remember I said I never would forget that you
had loved me,' she said after a time. * Did you thiidc /
should recognise any difference % It is a greater honour now
than it was then.'

' Then it is we two against the world,* said Archie. *They
will say we have made this marriage among us t(j keep our-
selves right. There is no mercy in people's hearts, Annie ;
they will not give credit for any good motive.'

THE SWEET WATERS.

307

ixactly

) cried
fevence
ise tlie
[T to 111"*
i a self-
uler it,
Annie,
TO forth
vt made
L at your

ned lier.
uder her
ibon.

written to
Ehen she

nothing
pencd it
embered,

|e was not

idiood.

Ine strong
liandsome

that you

think /

Inour now

* They

keep our-

is, Annie ;

((

' T.et them talk,' said Aimie quietly. * When they are
rediliii.L;' us iip," as Auntie Janet says, they are leaving
soniclxjdy else in peace, and perhaps they will be sorry some
day for saying what is neither kind nor true.'

So they talked — Archie full of hope and glowing vis'ons of
the bright future ; Annie very quiet, but perfectly happy and
at rest. If she did not join much in his planning, he did not
notice it until after, when memory was all he had to comfort
him.

It was very noticeable to them all that Annie would not
talk about the strange chain of circumstances which had made
her the heiress to a great estate. She n^ver of her own will
alluded to St. Veda's, or to her relationship with the Grants.
She changed Sir Archie into Uncle Archie at his request, but
the name did not often pass her lips. It was not, dear heart,
that she loved them less, but she feared to remind them of all
they had lost through her. In her long hours of silence she
never ceased to wonder that they should be so good, and
should love her with such an unselfish love. The sweeter
revelations of life were opening up before her ; and, oh, there
are many precious things left to us ! Human nature, thank
God, is not an ignoble, despicable thing, as some would have
us believe. The image of the Creator has not been stamped
in vain on the creature. Sometimes the human gives forth a
faint shadowing of the Divine.

Before the short day had waned, Sir Archie returned to
Abingdon Road with the great man whose verdict was of such
priceless value. He had a grave, sympathetic, beautiful face,
looking as if he felt the magnitude of his responsibility and
the precious nature of his privileges. Ho was not only a
healer of the body, but a healer of the mind ; what tortures
!)f anxiety and fear he had been able in his day to remove
from the heaits of his fellow-creatures !

lie was very kind, very gentle with his young patient, and
was won by her sweetness of look and demeanour. When his

308

ST. VEDA'S.

exaniiiintion was made, lie wont down to fie dining-room,
where Sir Arcliie was waiting.

'You wish my plain o})iiii<jii, I suppose, Sir Archibald'?'

Sir Archie nodded.

* Then I am gravely concerned. I fear there is serious
internal injury.'

Sir Archie started. Although anxious, he had not expected
any such contirmatinn of his fears.

' I am afraid for th(^ spine, Init she is young and has a good
constitution. You will need to guard her very canri'ully.'

'There is no immediate danger?'

' I do not apprehend it. Ihit I should like to see her again
in a few weeks' time. Is she to remain in London 1 '

'We were anxious to remove her to St. Veda's. If— if —
she should not recover, it may be well she should be in her
own home.'

* Very well, take her down. No, the journey will not hnrt
her. If necessary I can easily go that length to see h(;r. She
is a sweet girl, apart from her romantic history. I am deei)ly
interested in her. 1 see, my friend, you are feeling it a
good deal. But I have not sai*! absolutely that there is no
hope.'

Sir Archie felt he could not face the others just then. He
put on his hat and accompanied the surgeon to his carriage,
and then walked on down the road. i\ lean while the skijiper
liad sought his way to Annie's room. lie found her (piiet,
composed, cheerful, not in tlie least troubled or anxious about
the Airgeon's visit.

No smile was ever sweeter than that Mdiich greeted the old
mail as he came softly across the floor, and sat down by the
couch.

'Where have you been to-day, father?'

' At Gravesend, my laminie, seein' the ships ; but I tliocht
aboot little else but you,' he answcrcV as he folded her hand
in bis,

THE SWEET WATERS. 309

'An' what did the great doctor say till ye ? When ur(> ye
to rise an' rin aboot as ye used to do ?'

'He didn't say, father; he ^vas very kind and very good.
Oh, how sweet it is to live where all is love!' she said^ and
there was a little silenee. Annie tnrned her head away Ihen
and looked through the long window to where the December
sun was sinkmg redly to his rest. A wonderful light streamed
out of the radiant west, and lay in a soft gbnv on the oi,rs
sweet, PUIH3 face. The skipper saw her li^.s move, and^f.dt
that she had forgotten him for a moment. Then his hea.l
fell on his breast, and a great trembling shook him. Annie
turned swiftly, and crept closer into his arms, until her white
cheek lay against his broad breast. Not a word was s,)oken
but each un.lerstood the other. Adam Erskine had not heard
the surgeon's verdict, but his hope was quenched, and from
that hour he gave his darling up.

^^^g^y^i^^'^^^'gs^T g^sy

CHAPTER XXXy.

:1I
'!• ill

It'^

•:'r'J

SETTING HER HOUSE IN ORDER.

PRIXG had come, though late, bright with the
promise of the year. During the early months
■wild eastern gales swept the coast, nipping with
their icy breath the young green shoots, and
withering the early blossoms almost ere thoy saw
the light. But ere March closed a genial wind rose
out of the west ; the dull grey sky became dappled
with tender clouds, and the spring sun awoke all the earth to
life and love. Birds and bees, and human creatures who loved
the light, rejoiced in a new lease of life, nil save one.

The green young shoots of the ivy creeping about the wide,
low windows of a large and pleasant room in the wesLern wing
of St Veda's looked in upon a very pale, worn young face,
which, however, wore ever an expression of sweet content.

She was oftenest by the window, where she could see not
only the tossing, far-spreading sea, v/ith the low coast-line and
the further chain of hills, but also the little hamlet nestling
under the shadow of the Castle rock, where the fisher lolk
lived their quiet lives, unheeding of the great world beyond
them. ITer own Castle ! her own folk ! Alas ! the young
mistress of St. Veda's had only come home to her own to
die. She had never thought otherwise since that bleak
December da/ iu London when the truth had been revealed^

110

SETTING IIKR IJOiSE IN ORDER.

3i»

iritli the
months
ing with
ots, and
Lhoy saw
rind rose
dappled
earth to
ho loved

he wide,
ern whig
ing face,
tent,
see not
line and
nestling
sher lolk
1 beyond
young
own to
lat bleak
i'eveal(id|

le
r

as in a flasli of liglit, to herself and the skipper. Tlnv Imd
never si)oken of it again, and the many who loved her .-i>(.K.'
and acted as if slie were but temporarily laid asitlo, Init 1
qnestion if any of them were deceived. For the days hail
glided imperceptibly away, and, instead of any ineu'aso of
strength, there was v growing weakness — a greater desire t.» l^c
quiet and still — a gradual weaning, as it were, of even Lh()U-,liL
from the things of time. I do not say that this process was
devoid of its pain and heaviness for the young creature callei]
to bear this peculiar cross. She was very young ; life was all
before her, and surely no life had ever had a fairer promise ;
and yet strength came with renunciation, victory after silent
strugules which were known only to herself and God.

AVith the advent of the glorious sjjring the longing to b a^i
of yore, a partaker in all its glad promise, sometimes fretted
her quiet heart ; but that passed also, and she rejoiced in what
could be seen from the sunny window, and counted the many
mercies which surrounded her. I would tell you if I could
of the sweet influence which went forth from that sick-room,
and wrought silent and beautiful changes even in what had
ever been a united and happy household. The little sisters
had shut up both their houses, and were at St. Veda's also.
There never was any talk of tlieir leaving ; they were
waiting, though it was never said, for whatever issue was to
ensue.

The skipper spent a great part of his time — every leisure
moment, indeed — with his bairn. But in the spring she
missed him much, for the busy season began, and the fleet
was always out. It was one of her chief interests to watch
the outgoing and the incoming of the boats, and to have Iut
white flag of peace ready at the window to welcome the Janet
Ro.e back to port. Adam Erskine the younger came some-
times, but not often, to the Castle to see Annie. lie was not
able to bear it ; it was better for him to stay away. As foi
Janet, ehe was a changed woman. She would have gone

57: VEDA'S,

St)

down on her knees to save Annie ; her utter nnd ah<»ohite
devotion, coming from such as she, liad a very touching
element in it. There had been one scene between them, just
after Annie's return to the Castle, which I dare not attempt
to describe. There was no one present, and no oi e ever knew
wliat passed, but Janet Erskine came out of tliat room a
better and a more God-fearing woman. She had been given
a hard lesson, but Annie's sweet faith had helped her through.
It was a fearful punishment for the woman to see Annie lying
helpless there, and to feel that the thing lay at her door. It
was her doing entirely, she tokl herself ; but for her, Annie
would never have been away from the Haven.

Janet Erskine would carry that burden with her to the
grave, but I believe the very magnitude and bitterness of her
sorrow was good for her. Some of us need to be trained in
a very hard school. Annie was lying on her sofa one sunny
afternoon, while Ethel read aloud to her from a book of
poetry. Aunt Janet was sewing in the little corner window,
but not listening ; she was thinking of something else.

'Are you tired, Annie T asked Ethel, flinging down the
book presently, and sitting down on the edge of the couch. It
was sometimes a terrible effort for Ethel to keep her composure
when she looked on Annie's face. Perhaps Ethel, most of all,
could sympathize with the weakness and weariness of her
days. They were very dear to each other ; the old-time love
had received a closer, dearer renewal by the tie of kinship.
They were cousins, not in name only, but in heart.

*No, dear, I am not tired, only thinking. Do you thinl.
Uncle Archie is inl "Would you go and see, Ethel, please 1'

'Yes, he is in, I know. He was in the library when I
went for this book. Shall I tell him to come up now T

' If you please.'

' I am going to speak on business matters to Uncle Archie,
Aunt Janet,' said Annie, with a gleam of her old-time smile.
* Very dry matters, indeed.*

SETTING HER HOUSE IN ORDER. 313

hfsolnte
uchiiig
m, just
Lttonipt
r knew
room a
1 fjiven

ie lying
3or. It
', Annie

• to the
s of her
lined in
le sunny
book of
window,

•

own the
)uch. It
miposure
ist of all,
of her
ime love
kinship.

|ou thinl
leaser
when I
V

e Archie,
lie smile.

* An 1 ynu want mr? nut nf Mu< ri\i(l. bairn, eh?' said Miss
Jant't ((Mnii-aily, as slie ^atlicicd up her seam.

' Well, autitic, if you don't mind. 1 think I could spo!\k
helter to him if we were quite hy ours(dves,' s;iid Annie
gently. *I have hecn thiid<in^' a great (h'al ahout a lot of
th n;js to-day, anil I want them all put right.'

Miss Janet turned her face away, and her kind mouth
'^'livered.

'Just go into tlu'- dr.iwiiig-room. Tea will he up, I am
<Mre, and you know how Aunt Phomie longs fur it. Aunt
Lily will he down ; I heard her f(jot a little ago.'

' Ye hove a fell job with your aunties, my lamh,' said Miss
Janet, trying to make her joke, and glad at that moment of
Sir Archie's entrance, so that she might escape.

' Well, Annie, iiere I am,' said Sir Archie, in his cheery
fashion. 'At your command, my lady, like the rest of this
olicdient h(»usehold.'

' Well, you will all wait on nm,' sne said, with a little
laugh. * Well, Uncle Archie, if I had only my feet for five
minutes some day, what a dance I should lead yov ''

' Quite likely,' said Sir Archie. ' We would be glad of the
dance, my chikl, if we could but see you on your feet again.
Are these glorious days not going to tempt you, I wonder?*

'They do tempt me, but I just lie still and watch the sun
on the waves, and think of the days when the Sjnlfire used to
sail into all the sunny corners. Father was saying she had
broken up at the Kel[»ie's Cove. Isn't it a pity?'

' On, the thing was done years ago ! It's a wonder she
hadn't the drowning of some of you,' said Sir Archie. ' Can't
I bring yuu a cup of tea? 1 heard the clatter as I passed by
the drawing-room door.'

* Not yet. Will you sit down, Uncle Archie, and let me
sjieak to you?' she said quite gravely. 'About some very
Muportant business.'

' Weil, little woman, what is it ? '

V. ■"-}

i? .;]':

■

i. ':

>J. 'i

314

ST. VEDA'S.

;!•

* It is about — about St. VeJa's,' she said, with flusliinfr face.
' I don't liko to speak about it r.s mine. I have done n(jthin<,'
to deserve it. It is yours now, Uncle Archie, but — but there
are some tilings I want to know about.'

* Well, my darling, what are they V

* Afti.'r I am gone, Uncle Archie, the estates will be yours,
will they not % '

Sir Archie bowed his head ; he could not trust himself to
speak.

' And after you are done with them, they will be Archie's,
won't theyV

* Yes, my child.'

* And the other place, Uncle Archie. Is it entailed? — does
it puss like the otluir from father to son ? '

' It has done hitherto ; but it is independent of St. Veda's,
and could be disposed of as the possessor wills. It was only
bought in my grandfather's lifetime.'

' And could I give it to any one I like. Uncle Archie It
Don't look so grieved. If I know these things it will make
my mind easier.'

' Mount Meldrum is yours, Annie ; you can do what you
like with it.'

' Then what must I do to — to make my will ? ' she asked
with a smile, as she laid her pale hand in her uncle's.

* Annie, what does all this mean ? ' he cried huskily. * Are
you feeling worse, my child ? '

' Xo, no ; only. Uncle Archie, I think it is time we knew I
shall never be better. I — I shall not be very long among you,
uncle, and there are some things I should like done, so that I
can be ready.' ,

Sir Archie turned his head away and groaned aloud. It is
no exaggeration to say he would willingly have changed places
with her. Death seems so cruel to the young. We forget
that he is only the harbinger of life.

* Hush, Uncle Archie. Don't grieve so ; it is all right,' she

SETTING IlER HOUSE IN ORDER. 31 ^

said bravely. ' Much better tban if I wcro to lie here fo^*
years. Tltat would bo terrible. Come, tell me how I must
make my will.'

' You must see Purves.'

*0h yes; I never thought of that. Could I see him to-
night T

* You could, of course ; but, my darling, why this haste 1
There is no need.'

' It will i)leas3 me. If it is not too much trouble, uncle, let
Mr. Purves come to-night.'

* Very well ; he shall be sent for,' said Sir Archie, and
there was a little silence.

'Are you not going to ask what I am to do with Blount
Meldrum, Uncle Archie?' she said at length, almost play-
fully.

* I can think of nothing, Annie, but of you,' he said quickly.
' It is for Ethel I want Mount Meldrum, uncle. She is not

strong, and it will always be her home. You will allow me to
do tliis!, will you r

' I cannot hinder you if I would, my darling ; but you are
too generous to mc and mine.'

' Am I V Her lips trembled as she spoke, and she laid her
cheek tlown on his hand, and again there was a little silence.

* We will do that to-night then, uncle, and Ethel need never
know,' said Annie presently. ' I had a letter this morning
from Areliie, uncle. Parliament rises on Friday, he says, and
he will be here on Saturday.'

* Yes ; I know.'

Sir Archie's words were few, and somewhat abrupt, but his
heart was wrung Avith pain.

' It is a beautiful letter. How nobly he is working ! I am
proud of my cousin, and he will be Sir Archie some day.
Won't that be far better, uncle, than having a woman in St.
Veda's r

' No, uo 1 ' Sir Archie shook his head.

3i6

ST. VEDA'S,

r:!':

' It ifl a hoautifiil letter ; but it has mnfle my heart ache.
TJncle Arcliic, may I talk to you just aa 1 do to father? Ho
toifl write as if 1 were getting well. He says to-day he i.s
working for the fame and future he promised me, ami that
thoy do not seem so very far away. I have written to him
today, and told him that he must not work less nobly because
I shall never share what he may win.'

' My poor boy I '

* r)Ut, Uncle Archie, it is better — far better. He will not
forget me ; but some day he will bring a dear wife here, and
they will remember their poor cousin, and talk of her with
kindly regret. It is better that we should be only cousins. I
have told him so, but he will not listen.'

' The lad loves you. He will never seek another, I believe,'
said Sir Archie quickly.

A beautiful smile hovered about Annie's sweet mouth.
Perhaps the assurance was very precious, for her heart had
long been given, with all its weight of womanly love, into her
cousin's keeping, and could never be recalled.

* Is there anything else, Annie? Are you going to leave
anything to your aunts, or to tliose in the Haven?'

* Nothing, nothing to any of these. Uncle Archie, but such
little things of mine as they may wif'i to keep, and my love.
Oh, I can leave that to them all, and they know it.'

'Nothing to the skipper, Annie?'
Annie shook her head.

* What could repay him ? "VVe have talked about it some-
times, and I know his heart. But, yes, there is ore other
thing — a new lifeboat for the people in the Haven. It is to
be my last gift to them. Father and I have talked of that,
and it is to be called the Annie ErsJdne.'

Sir Archie stooped down and kissed his niece on the lips,
and walked away out of the room. As he shut the door, a
sob broke from his lips, and Annie heard it, and knew some-
thing of what was passing in his heart.

SETTING HER HOUSE IN ORDER, 317

She was not long left alone ; in a moment Aunt Janet wa3
in witli licr cup of tea, and sat on her couch while slie drank
it, looking at her niece witli mournful, affectionate eyes.

'You look very well [jU-ased like, Annie,' she said jokingly.
* Have Uncle Archie and you had a by-ordinary nice crack V

' r»y-ordinary,' laughed Annie. * Uh, that tea is nice ! Will
you look out, auntie, and see whether the boats are coming
back. I hope the Janet liae comes in before I sleep.'

' There is no sign of her yet, though I see some far-away
things sailing on the sea,' said Miss Janet. 'Are you weary-
ing already to see father, bairn 1 '

Nobody resented or grudged the ])rivileges the old man had,
nor thought it strange that the young mistress of St. Veda's
should call the old skipper by such a dear name. No change
of fortune could ev(>r make any change between these two.

The messenger sent to Ayton brought ]\Ir. Purves back with
him in the trap, and before dinner that evening, Annie had
made her will. She was not in the least excited or trouljled
about it ; indeed, her placid demer lour amazed them all.
Even the stern man of business was deei)ly moved.

She signed her name Annie Orr-Grant at the foot of the
document, her own signature, for the first and last time.

After the lawyer was gone, she asked that her couch might
be drawn nearer the window, so that she could watch the
boats coming in. They came sailing along in the red-gold
path made by the sunset, a goodly fleet, with the Jwid line
at their head ; and when Annie saw father's boat at the
harbour mouth, and his flag waving in response to hern,
she smiled, and lay back upon her pillow. She was tired,
she said, and would go to sleep. After tea that night, as
usual, the skipper, dressed in his best, came up to the Castle.
He was so constant and welcome a visitor, that he came and
went as he pleased. Sir Archie saw him connng up the
avenue, and went to meet him at the door.

* Come in here, skipper, and I'll go up and see whether

3t8

57: VEDA'S.

n i

rIio is awake. She fell aslciep content after seeing you in
port.'

Sir Arcliie wont up and looked in. Aunt Janet was sitting
l)y the window in the fading ligiit, waiting for tlie sleeper to
stir. Slie heckonod liini in, and they slipped over to the sofa,
glad to think that she was enjoying such sountl, refresliing
sluniher. There was a sweet smile on her lips, and an
e.xpn^ssion of perfect peace on every feature.

Having set her eartldy house in order, she had entered ujmn
the heavenly inheritance which the world can neither give nor
take away.

• • • • • •

These things happened many years ago, hut they are not
for-'otien in Orr's Haven, nor will the sweet voung ''irl, who
spent her childhood and girlhooil among the tisher folk, and
who lived so short a time to enjoy her inheritance, ever bo
forgotten so long as that good boat, the Annie Enkine^
continues year after year to perform her noble work. There
are no Erskines now in Orr's Haven, the skipper and his wife
sleep in the auld kirkyard, not very far from the sjiot where
lies the young lady of St. Veda's. On one of the lightships
in dangerous waters off the 'roacherous Lincolnshire coast,
Adam Krskine, the last of his race, lives his solitary life alone
with the sea, knowing or caring little for aught except his
work. He has neither grown moody nor morose, but his
likeness to his father increases day by day, b(!cause nuiuiory
and hope dwell within him, anil he knows he will see all
those he loves some day.

There is a Sir Archie still in St. Veda's, a solitary man
also, without wife or child. Old Sir Archie was right ; the
lad sought no second love, and there is, for the first time in
the annals of his race, a bachelor laird of St. Veda's. Neither
is he a miserable nor a useless man. He has remembered the
message his first and only love left for him, written by her
own hand the day she died.

r give nor

SETTING HFR HOUSE IN ORDER.

319

IVonle speak of him as a wisi«, .',,(„! unri-'lit

man ; one to

Ix' trustr.l al.solutcly, and as a friend, true as stcol. M
I'lcss liiiii ; all who know him lovcf him ; lu' is laird

:in

iind fiiciid in

ono, to his p.M.plc. Ktlu'l has 1'

unscll

(•r,

oiind a haiMi

ionic

uid h.r chiMivn arc growing up alumt her, a l.ii-d
tiiccd hand, who make the sunshine cf h.-r own au.l "h

it-

ixsuniing ;lic airs

hushand's life. There is a tall la.I, already . ^

of iiiinihnod, wjio will one diy be * Sir Archie' x^^\\..
"f Orr's Haven. J le is a great favourite with his unci
has not the first place in his heart. The second child, a -rav
sweet, womanly young girl, with thought hevoiid 1
his l»cst Ifcloved. II(

jM'OpI

hut

licr v^Mi's. \i

see

inn sometinics lav his hand on 1

r name is Annie, and when the child

ren

int.) her face with a full and

iway, saying among themselves that he is thinkin.r nf th.. d

ler sunny curls, and look
earnest eye, they turn softlv

love who was tal

car

within sight of the sounding sea.

en away from him so soon, and who si

.ec]

THE END.