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SHADOWED LIVES. 
 
SHADOWED 
 LIVES 
 
 BY 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'aldkksvue," "jakluwkik," "gates of KDEN, " BTC 
 
 ■: I 
 
 '■J 
 U 
 
 ** Into each life tome rain must fall.' 
 
 flew jeoitfoiu 
 
 i : 
 
 TORONTO, CANADA 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS 
 
 EDINliUKGH AND LONDON 
 OLIPHAMT, ANDERSON & FERRIER 
 
 1889 
 
 •a f,u 
 
 m 
 
 4i 
 

 > HS 
 
 2027 
 
 SuufiN , (^ . S 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 
 one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Brioos, 
 Book Steward of the Methodist Boole and Publishing Uouae, 
 Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture. 
 
 t i 
 
 I i 
 
^m^ 
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 
 
 ) ♦♦ < 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GOSSIP. 
 
 LITTLE village which looked a very haven 
 of peace and rest. A straggling street ol 
 picturesque irregularly built houses, with a 
 burn wimpling past the doors, on its way to 
 the glen beyond. Sheltering hills, heather clad and 
 crowned by sturdy firs on one side, and on the other 
 miles and miles of fertile plain smiling with many a 
 daisied meadow and yellow corn field. A place so 
 far removed from the busy world that one would think 
 its inhabitants secure from its care and strife. Not 
 so. There were care and worldly-mind edness in their 
 hearts, and an insatiable love of gossip. There was 
 no railway station in Strathlinn, but the market town 
 
 of D , eight miles distant, was accessible by coach 
 
 thrice a week. Wednesdays and Saturdays were days 
 of unusual stir in the sleepy little village. The coach 
 
 arrived from D at mid-day, and woe betide the 
 
 stranger whom business or pleasure constrained to 
 visit The Linn. No stone was left unturned to dis- 
 cover who he was and whence he came, and his 
 antecedents and projects were dissected with scientific 
 minuteness. The Linn Arms (high sounding title for 
 so tmy an hostelry) was the rendezvous for the gossips, 
 
GOSSIP. 
 
 for its buxom landlady had a weakness for tattling, 
 and her siilmg room was the most comfortable in the 
 village. She was a widow, with five rosy rollicking 
 children, and a heart big enou;;h for as many more. 
 A true friend in sickness and in health, in joy or in 
 sorrow, was Mrs. Scott. Trouble seemed to melt 
 away beneath the cheery smile on her kindly face. 
 There was a lack of good society about The Linn ; it 
 was not a place to which prosperous business men 
 would retire to pass the evening of their days, nor was 
 it sought after by maiden ladies of independent 
 means, though the exquisite beauty of the surrounding 
 scenery might have tempted many to make it their 
 residence, in spite of the drawbacks. 
 
 The minister and the doctor composed the aristoc- 
 racy, and the latter could scarcely be included, for he 
 dwelt fully two miles distant. He was a young man, 
 lately come to The Linn, and had purchased from the 
 Laird of Glentarne the small property of Clunj'. 
 Rumours were afloat that a fair young wife was in the 
 clever doctor's head when he made his purchase. It 
 rnay have been so. Hamilton of Glentarne was lord 
 of the manor. Far and near the smiling homesteads 
 owned h's sway. And the old home of the Hamiltons 
 was as fair an heritage as any man could desire. The 
 grey old castle, with its weather-beaten towers and 
 turrets stood upon a richly wooded slope overlooking 
 The Linn, and commanding a magnificent view of 
 the plain beyond. At the time of which I write the 
 Laird of Glentarne was still a minor, and the only 
 child of his widowed mother. They dwelt alone at 
 the old castle, and it was whispered that it was not 
 so happy a home for her since the old laird died, and 
 that her son inherited all the vices of his race without 
 the virtues. In time it may be ours to prove the 
 truth of these whisperings. A still sultry summer day. 
 
GOSSIP. 
 
 A cloudless sky above, and a brooding sunshine over 
 all. TIk" f.iiiit rustle of leaves in the suninier woods, 
 and the dreamy clur|)in.; of sleepy birds. No sound 
 stirring the quiet in the village street save the luiin of 
 the bees, and the occa-^ionul tlan^ of the hammer the 
 bla< k^milh wielded in ills miylity hand. In the wide 
 j)',)rch of the Linn Arms stood the buxom landlady, 
 gazing up the street, with one plump hand shading her 
 t\es fr(jm the sun. She wore a light calico dre^s, and 
 a lace cap adorned with hu^^e red roses. She had 
 discarded the badges of her widowhood shortly after 
 her bireavcment, a procceiling much commented on 
 by the neighbours, though not one of them venturel 
 to hint tlu'U she did not mourn her husband sincerely 
 in her heart. 
 
 The forge w:^s directly opposite the inn, and the 
 blacksmith's pretty cottage adjoined. It was there 
 Mrs. Scott's interest ceiiired. She was privately 
 wondering whether the smith's wife was too busy to 
 feel incHned for a frieiitlly chat. As if divining her 
 wish her neighbour at that moment threw open the 
 cottage door, and sauntered down to the garden gate. 
 She was an angular woman, and a bony, with an 
 eagle eye and a thin hard face. She wore a brown 
 wincey dress, and a blue neckerchief crossed upcn 
 her bosom. Her rough hair was brushed tightly back 
 from her brow, and fastened in a hard knot behind. 
 An unpleasant woman to look at at any time, and 
 especially unpleasant on a bright summer day, when 
 everything else was beaut ilul. 
 
 " Fine day, Nancy," sounded Mrs. Scott's cheery 
 voice through the stillness. *' Craps should ripen the 
 day." 
 
 " Maybe," retorted Mrs. Irvine, abruptly and 
 sna[>[)islily. '♦ It's a hantle warmer than need be, I'm 
 thinkin'." 
 
8 
 
 GOSSIP. 
 
 " Hoo's a* wi' ye the day,** inquired her neighbour, 
 rot noticing the cross-grained speech. ** Was that 
 Jock I saw come hame tiie day." 
 
 " Ay, 'twas Jock, ye may be sure ; bad ha'pennies 
 aye turn up," returned Nancy, opening the gate and 
 crossing the road. "Maister Bruce paid him aflf 
 yestreen for idleset, an' he just cam hame as cool as 
 ye Hke. He disna care a bawbee, he says ; he disna 
 want tae be a grocer." 
 
 " What does his faither say ? " enquired Mrs. Scott, 
 sympathetically. 
 
 ** His faither ! " echoes Nancy, scornfully. " Ye 
 ken brawly what Sandy Irvine is, Jean, a saft, daidlin' 
 crater, wi' no a thocht in his heid but eat, an' sleep, 
 an' smoke that confoondit pipe. If it wasna for me 
 haudin' at him there wadna be muckle wark dune 
 ower by. Men folk's naething but heart breaks." 
 
 Why Mrs. Irvine had ever entered the bands 
 matrimonial, or how Sandy had ever screwed up 
 courage to ask her, remain to this day inscrutable 
 mysteries. 
 
 " Jist some men,** corrected the widow, remember- 
 ing her own husband. " They're no a' bad." 
 
 Nancy Irvine shook her head. 
 
 "An* as for bairns," she said, grimly, "they're 
 beyond speakin' o'. I've jist ane, an' he's a hantle 
 mair bother than he*s worth. I dinna ken hoo ye 
 manage five.*' 
 
 "They're guid bairns,** said the widow, with 
 motherly pride. "Geordie's jist his faither ower 
 again." 
 
 At that moment a shadow fell across the sunlit 
 path, and a slight graceful girl passed them, with a 
 smile and a cordial good afternoon. Her face was 
 one of the sweetest eyes could rest on, not because of 
 its beauty, but because Heaven's own sunshine shone 
 
GOSSIP. 
 
 bour, 
 that 
 
 with 
 ower 
 
 upon it Even Nancy Irvine's grim mouth relaxed 
 with momentary softnesH, for the minister's only child 
 was dear to every one of his people. 
 
 " It's gaun tae be sune, I hear," whispered Mrs. 
 Scott eagerly. " Doctor Forbes is geitin* a heap o' 
 braw furniter hame tae Cluny, an' my guid-brither's 
 gotten an order for some o' Miss Haldane's things. 
 It'll be a sair day for the minister when she gets 
 mairret, though she's no gaun faur awa." 
 
 " Nae doot," admitted Mrs. Irvine. " Deed, if she 
 only kent it, she's better the noo than ever she'll be. 
 Lassies are no wise mairryin' an' fleein' intae a peck o* 
 troubles." 
 
 " I'm thinkin' the wundll no get leave tae blaw on 
 the Doctor's wife," said Mrs. Scott. " An' they'll be 
 a braw couple, a perfect sicht for sair een." 
 
 " She'll be gaun up tae the schule tae tea wi* Miss 
 Kenyon the noo," said Nancy Irvine. " The twa's 
 never pairtet I dinna like that Miss Kenyon, she's 
 ower quiet an* sleekit." 
 
 " Nancy 1 " exclaimed Mrs. Scott, indignantly, 
 ** ye're the first that ever said an ill word aboot her. 
 My certy, if some folk heard ye ye wadna be richt. 
 There's no her better in a* The Linn, nor oot o'd 
 aither." 
 
 " Humph," said Mrs. Irvine, ** Vm no sayin' 
 
 Od there's that Jock awa intae the smiddy tae pit his 
 faither aff his wark," and Nancy started off like an 
 arrow. Mrs. Scott watched the lank awkward looking 
 lad slouching into the forge, and when the next 
 moment she saw his mother administer a smart slap 
 on the side of his cheek, and heard her shrill tongue 
 calling him for iaziiiess, she retired into the house, 
 her sides shaking with silent laughter. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 FORESHADOWINGS. 
 
 'HE School Stood at the further end of the village. 
 \\\ A long low white-washed building (it was before 
 *15^ the advent of the School Board), its wide door- 
 %^ way sheltered by two giant elms, towering above 
 the low wall of the school-house garden. That wall 
 could not have been intended for a barricade again;;t 
 intruders, for the school children scaled it unmolested, 
 and made satisfactory acquaintance with the master's 
 fruit trees under his very eyes. It is recorded that he 
 has been known to shake the trees himself and help 
 them to fill pockets and aprons. Surely that is a 
 pleasant record, and one which some of us would do 
 well to imitate. 
 
 On that July afternoon the door and windows of the 
 school house were flung wide open, and though the 
 hum of voices sonnded pleasantly enough outside., 
 when combined with the close hot air within, it became 
 infinitely trying. The master was giving them the 
 Bible lesson which invariably closed the labours of the 
 day, and once or twice his hand stole wearily across 
 his brow as he gently tried to gain silence and an 
 attentive hearing. He was not a young man, neither 
 could he be called old, though his thin hair was 
 plentifully streaked with grey. His forehead was 
 high and broad, and deep thoughtful eyes looked out 
 from beneath strongly marked brows. The mouth 
 was as tender and mobile as a woman's. It was a tine 
 
FORESHADOWINGS. 
 
 II 
 
 village. 
 
 ; before 
 
 e door- 
 
 ; above 
 
 lat wall 
 
 againijt 
 
 olested, 
 
 naster's 
 
 that he 
 
 id help 
 
 lat is a 
 
 ould do 
 
 's of the 
 Ligh the 
 outside, 
 became 
 em the 
 s of the 
 f across 
 and a.i 
 neither 
 air was 
 ad was 
 ked out 
 mouth 
 s a hue 
 
 face, one which men and women instinctively tnisted, 
 and on which Httle children loved to look. Chrisiophi-r 
 Kenyon was a man of much learning, of simple yet 
 refined tastes, of childlike faith in the God above him, 
 and a heart full of love and kindness to every living 
 creature — ore of these rare unselfish natures, which 
 we may encounter once in a life time, not oftener. 
 He was the idol of his scholars, though with the 
 thoughtlessness of youth tliey did not scruple sorely 
 to try his patience. Punctually at four (the school 
 master was methodical in his habits), he gave the signal 
 to disperse. In a moment the orderly room was a 
 scene of wild coiifusion. Overturning desks and forms, 
 knocking down books and slates without pausing to 
 pick them up again, the children rushed pell meli 
 into the still sunshine. 
 
 In two m'Viutes the master was alone, and he stood 
 in one of the windows watching with a dreamy smile, 
 the light-hearted band trooping out of the playground. 
 One figure lingered in the doorway, evidently longing, 
 yet fearing to go back and talk to the master. It 
 was a girl's figure clad in a loose pinafore and a 
 short dress, beneath which peeped cut a bare foot 
 whose perfect symmetry a queen might have envied. 
 She could not be more than fourteen, but already face 
 and figure gave promise of a beauty which in woman- 
 hood would be marvellous. The features were delicately 
 cut, the eyes were violet and shaded by exquisite lashes; 
 while the small shapely head wore a crown of golden 
 hair, loosely co.ifined in a blue ribbon. When the 
 master at length came to the door, she looked at him 
 shyly as if her courage failed her. 
 
 " Well, Lizzie," he said, bending his deep kindly eyes 
 upon her face, *' Is there anything I can do for you ?" 
 
 She raised her eyes to the grave thoughtful face, and 
 said in a voice, which the broad guttural Scotch could 
 
 (I 
 
 11 
 
12 
 
 FORESHADOW INGS. 
 
 id 
 
 )! 
 
 I 
 I |i II 
 
 llili 
 
 i! 
 
 ;i 
 
 not make unmusical, "Please sir, I'm vext I didna 
 dae what ye telt me the day. I'll hae my lessons perfect 
 the morn," and before he could answer, she sped from 
 him with step as light and fle>..'t as a gazelle's. He 
 remembered then that she had disobeyed him early in 
 the day, and well pleased with the oddly expressed 
 repentance, he locked the door, and went home to 
 relate the little episode to his sister. Outside the 
 playground, a tall handsome lad patiently awaited the 
 penitent's coming; and he turned to meet her with a 
 question on his lips, " I'm gaun doon the glen tae fish. 
 Lizzie, are ye comin'?" The girl shook her head. " Ye 
 needna waited for me, Jamie Duncan,'* she said 
 pettishly, *• I'm gaun straicht hame." A slight shade 
 of disappointment crossed the lad's fine open face. 
 " Come on, Liz," he said coaxingly. " Uncle Peter 
 cam frae Embro' last nicht and brocht me a bonnie 
 new rod, It'll catch a big troot every time ye drap 
 in the line." 
 
 Lizzie looked incredulous. 
 
 "Whauris't?" 
 
 " I left it i' the hoose till I saw whether ye wad 
 come or no. We'll gang up past Lea Rig and get it." 
 
 ** Weel, if ye'U carry my bag and let me fish maist 
 o* the time," she stipulated, " I'll gang for a wee while." 
 
 ** Come on then," said Jami readily, never pausing 
 to consider the extreme selfishness of her arrangements, 
 and the two strolled leisurely down the village, and into 
 the uy-path leading to the glen. 
 
 " Walk slow, Liz, and I'll gang up tae tlie hoose for 
 the rod and mak' up on ye ''.fore ye get tae the brig." 
 
 Lizzie nodded, and swingi:\g her hat ovei' her arm, 
 went on. When he joined iier again she found her 
 tongue in admiration of the rod, and soon the two 
 stood together upon the old bridge, Lizzie receiving 
 her first lesson in the art of angling. It was a pretty 
 
 I 
 
 on I 
 
 th( 
 
 pel 
 art 
 
PORESHADOWINGS. 
 
 «3 
 
 didna 
 
 erfect 
 
 , from 
 
 He 
 
 arly in 
 
 tressed 
 
 >me to 
 
 e ihe 
 
 ed the 
 
 with a 
 
 ae fish. 
 
 "Ye 
 
 e said 
 
 ; shade 
 
 n face. 
 
 ; Peter 
 
 bonnie 
 
 e drap 
 
 ye wad 
 1 get it." 
 )h maist 
 i while." 
 pausing 
 [ements, 
 and into 
 
 cose for 
 e brig." 
 ler arm, 
 und her 
 the two 
 eceiving 
 a pretty 
 
 picture. The girl in her picturesque dress, her face 
 flushed with momentary excitement, and her eyes 
 dancing with pleasure, anxiously watching the line 
 dipping into the sparkling water, and the boy leaning 
 against the moss grown-parapet, delighted with his 
 companion's manifest enjoyment of his favourite 
 amusement In Jamie Duncan's nature also, there 
 was something of the unselfishness which characterized 
 the schoolmaster. In after years he had sore need of it 
 all. The pair did not dream of curious eyes watching 
 them scarcely a hundred yards away. Under a great 
 beech tree almost hidden by its spreading boughs, two 
 gentlemen were lounging, and for a time conversation 
 had been at a discount. The younger of the two was 
 only a youth, small of stature, and slightly built, and 
 his sallow face was stamped with the weak indecision 
 which had been the curse of the Hamiltons from the 
 beginning. His eyes were languidly closed, and even 
 in its repose, the face was not pleasant to look upon. 
 The features were passable, but the expression was 
 absolutely repellent Cold, sctering and selfish were 
 the long thin lips, and they were a true index of the 
 heart within. His companion looked at least ten 
 years his senior, and in personal appearance at least 
 was infinitely his superior. His figure was tall and 
 well proportioned, and the face undeniably handsome, 
 yet in it also there was a subtle something, which 
 repelled a close observer. 
 
 In Ralph Mortimer's face there was no trace of 
 weak indecision, for there was none in the soul within. 
 
 " I say, Jasper," he said, after watching the picture 
 on the bridge for a minute or two in silence. " Look 
 there I a regular landscape. Who is the girl ? A 
 perfect beauty, by Jove I " 
 
 Jasper Hamilton indolently raised himself on one 
 arm, and glanced in the direction indicated. 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
u 
 
 rORESIIADOWINOS. 
 
 " Ob, that's Falroner's girl, the tenant of the Home 
 Fftrm. You know liim." 
 
 " Yes, 1 believe I've seen the fellow," returned 
 Ralph. "And who is her cavalier. Quite interesting 
 they look, 'pon honour." 
 
 "Duncan is iiis name," returned Jasper Hamilton, 
 res.uming his old position ; '* farmer's son up at 
 Lea Rig." " 1 think 1 hear Maud's rapture if she 
 could see that. She would think her a regular 
 shepherdess. By Jove, what a face ! and the figure will 
 be as perfect in a year or two." 
 
 " Jf you like, since you speak of your sister, Ralph," 
 said his companion, " I'll get my mother to ask her 
 down while you are here." 
 
 Ralph Mortimer listened with a sneer on his lips. 
 
 " Ask Maud here," he repeated, " your lady mother 
 would not do that even for you, my dear fellow, she 
 only tolerates me because I'm your shadow whom you 
 can't get rid of, but Maud ." 
 
 " I can ask who I will to Glentarne," interrupted 
 Sir Jasper haughtily. "My mother would be courteous 
 to any of my guests." *' Yes, Lady Hamilton never 
 jails in courtesy," admitted Mortimer, the scorn 
 deepening in his face, " but she can and does make 
 your guests deuced uncomfortable sometimes when 
 they don't happen to please her fastidious taste. You 
 are not altogether your own master, Jasper, as long as 
 the old lady is to the fore." 
 
 The covert sneer brought the hot blood to Jasper's 
 sallow cheek, but he did not resent the disrespectful 
 allusion to his mother. 
 
 ♦' The old lady knows whether or not I am my own 
 master, I fancy," returned he with a half laugh. " She 
 has discovered that I decline to remain tied to the 
 maternal apron string, much as she would like it." 
 
 Ah well, indeed, that the all-patient, loving mother 
 
 I i 
 
rORESHADOWINGS. 
 
 «S 
 
 Home 
 
 eturned 
 cresting 
 
 amilton, 
 up at 
 if she 
 
 regular 
 gure will 
 
 Ralph," 
 abk her 
 
 is lips, 
 y mother 
 How, she 
 hom you 
 
 terrupted 
 courteous 
 :on never 
 he scorn 
 oes make 
 nes when 
 ste. You 
 IS long as 
 
 Jasper's 
 respectful 
 
 1 my own 
 h. "She 
 ed to the 
 ke it." 
 
 g mother 
 
 did not hear the cruel words, she had borne much 
 already. 
 
 " i>et us disturb the embryo lovers," suirgested 
 Mortimer, chaii^ini^ the ihcine. " I want to hear the 
 houn speak as well as get a beUer look at her. 
 Come on." 
 
 " No need to get up," returned the other lazily, 
 *' I'll bring her. lazzie," he .shouted, ** come here. 
 1 want you." 
 
 The girl started at the unexpected summons, and 
 turned her surprised eyes to the spot where they lay; 
 while the indignant blood surged to Jamie Duncan's 
 face at the imperious voice. 
 
 " Dinna look round, Lizzie," he whispered. " It's 
 the laird and his friend ; but even the laird has nae 
 business tae speak tae you like that. Dinna gang." 
 
 Lizzie hesitated between awe of the laird and her 
 reluctance to leave her companion. 
 
 " Dinna gang, Lizzie," repeated he earnestly. " If 
 t>iey want ye, let them rise." 
 
 She turned her head and dropped the line into the 
 water again, trembling at her own temerity in daring 
 to disobey a personage so important as Sir Jasper. 
 
 " You don't seem to have much influence there," 
 laughed Mortimer, enjoying his friend's defeat, and 
 noting the angry light flashing in his eyes. " Since 
 the mountain wont come to Mahomet, he must go to 
 the mountain I suppose. Come on." 
 
 They botli rose, and leisurely crossed the velvety 
 turf to the water's edge. 
 
 Mortimer went close to Lizzie, and bending his 
 bold eyes upon her fair downcast face, uttered a few 
 words of praise, plain enough even to her unaccus- 
 tomed ears. She was woman enough already to feel 
 pleased by the notice of such a great gentleman as 
 the laird's friend. But Jamie Duncan's soul chafed 
 
 .ij 
 
Id 
 
 PORFSHADOWINGS. 
 
 alike at the words and the manner in which they were 
 spoken. 
 
 " Come awa hame, Lizzie," he said, touching his 
 cap to Sir Jasper. "We've bidden ower lang aheady." 
 
 He took the dripping rod from Lizzie's hand, and 
 waited for her to accompany him. 
 
 " You can go, Duncan," said the laird imperiously ; 
 " Lizzie's way is ours. We can see her safely home." 
 
 He did not dare to disobey ; yet he lingered a 
 moment hoping the girl would prefer to go with him. 
 
 But she turned away with the gentlemen without so 
 much as answering his parting greeting. Hurt and 
 angry he shouldered his rod and set off home, little 
 dreaming that the first act of the tragedy of Lizzie 
 Falconer's life and his had been played that summer 
 aitemooD. 
 
they were 
 
 ching his 
 
 aheady." 
 
 land, and 
 
 periously ; 
 y home." 
 ingered a 
 i^ith him. 
 ivithout so 
 Hurt and 
 ome, little 
 of Lizzie 
 it summer 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE KENVONS. 
 
 'T was five years since Christopher Kenyon and his 
 sister came to The Linn. Beyond the fact that 
 they were orphans and of English birth, the 
 gossips knew nothing of their antecedents. The 
 application for the vacant mastership had been sent in 
 the usual form, accompanied by exceptionally high tes- 
 timonials. It bore the London post mark, and in due 
 time the master arrived, bringing with him the grave, 
 quiet, sad-eyed girl whom he introduced as his sister 
 Sara. 
 
 At first they were looked upon with suspicious 
 eyes as unknown intruders, who must be tried before 
 being received into full intercourse with the dwellers 
 in The Linn. Th 3y lived in strict seclusion, seeking 
 kindness or favour from none ; until their unobtrusive 
 gentleness and kindness of heart won them the few 
 friends they cared to possess. To them it was evident 
 that the past had some terrible sorrow which still 
 shadowed their lives. Though Sara Kenyon was in- 
 variably serene and cheerful, she seldom laughed, and 
 there was a tinge of sadness in her rare smile, which 
 made it infinitely sobering. The strong, tender, per- 
 fect love between the brother and sister was something 
 wonderful ; hers was the stronger nature, and the 
 schoolmaster was nothing without her. 
 
 On the evening of the fishing expedition they were 
 together in the sitting-room. He was busy with the 
 registers, but he paused every few minutes to listen 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 THE KENYUNS. 
 
 and respond to the cheerful voire which was the 
 dearest on earth to him. No, I am wrong ; there was 
 unotlier, but of her he dared not dream. 
 
 The window was oj)cn, and the evening breeze 
 swayed the wliite curtams to and fro and played with 
 a stray ringlet on Sara Kcnyon's brow, as she sat 
 within their shade sewing busily. I do not know that 
 many people would have called Sara Kenyon beauti- 
 ful, for her face lacked colouring and regularity of 
 feature. Soft brown hair, whuh no brush would 
 induce to lie smooth above the low while brow, sweet 
 hazel eyes, fringed by long l.ishes, a straight nose, and 
 a grave womanly mouth, with lips slighdy drooping 
 were her only beauties ; but it was a face which once 
 seen would linger in the mind like a i)leasant memory. 
 She looked five or six-and-twenty, perhaps more. It 
 was dilhcult to define her age, for her figure was 
 wonderfully girlish in its outline. Her dress was 
 almost severe in its simplicity, and she wore no orna- 
 ment but a small gold brooch, with a flashing stone in 
 its centre. It was a diamond of rare purity and lustre. 
 
 "Kit," she said presently, peeping round the curtain, 
 " when you are done we might go to the manse for 
 a little while. Mary has not been here this week." 
 
 " Yes, Sara." 
 
 The schoolmaster was a man of few words, but the 
 look whicli acconi))anied his answer told how gladly 
 he would go anywhere with her. Miss Kenyon folded 
 up her work, and laid it in the basket by her side, 
 and, leaning her arm on the window sill, looked out 
 into the flower-laden gat<len. 
 
 "Kit, in the autumn I mean to uproot all these use- 
 less stocks, and plant a bed of roses under the window. 
 iJon't you think it would be an improvement." 
 
 '* Just as you like, dear," replied the grave, gentle 
 voice. " What you do is always right." 
 
 Ker 
 shoi 
 the 
 sch( 
 
 Tl 
 and I 
 turnl 
 grej 
 
THK KENYONS. 
 
 19 
 
 was the 
 
 icrc was 
 
 breeze 
 ycd wilh 
 
 she sat 
 now til at 
 n bcauti- 
 jlarity of 
 h would 
 i\v, sweet 
 lose, and 
 drooping 
 lich once 
 
 memory, 
 ^lore. It 
 ;ure was 
 Iress was 
 I no orna- 
 jj stone ill 
 md lustre, 
 le curtain, 
 manse for 
 week." 
 
 Is, but the 
 low gladly 
 yon folded 
 y her side, 
 ooked out 
 
 these use- 
 he window, 
 nt." 
 ave, gentle 
 
 4 
 
 "Or you think so, Kit," she said with a slight 
 snile. "1 see Mr. Haldane and M.iry, and I know 
 llK-y are coming here. Let me put away those things. 
 The table is littered with them. You can finish these 
 books to-morrow, can't you, dear ? " 
 
 " They are done now," returned the schoolmaster, 
 helping in his slow awkward way to clear the con- 
 fusion. " How quickly and yet how well you can 
 do everything, Sara. It is a marvel to see you." 
 
 Before she could reply their visitors came. VVith 
 the freeilom born of close intimacy Mary Haldane 
 entered without knocking, and peeped round the 
 sitting room door. 
 
 '•May 1 come in, Miss Kenyon? Papa is here 
 also. Are you busy?" 
 
 Miss Kenyon opened the door wide, and held out 
 both her hands. 
 
 " Come in, child. I thought I had lost you," she 
 Slid. " Mr. Haldane, what has kept Mary from us 
 for a week ? " 
 
 The minister laughed. 
 
 "Ask her. I don't know," he replied, taking a 
 seat at the open window. " Mr. Kenyon, is not 
 teaching absolute toil in weather like this?" 
 
 " 1 have never thought about it in that light, sir," 
 returned the schoolmaster. " It is always a pleasure 
 to me." 
 
 " I peei)ed in at you the other afternoon, Mr. 
 Kenyon," said Mary, leaning her hand on his 
 shoulder, " and when I saw your face I wished I was 
 the child beside you. Won't you take me for a 
 scholar ? " 
 
 The schoolmaster looked up into the sweet face, 
 and some of its sunshine stole to his own. Yet he 
 turned from her very gently, lest she should see his 
 great love shining in his eyes. For it was her he 
 
THE KENYONS. 
 
 loved with all the strength of his intense nature, 
 fnitlffiilly, teiulcrly, but as we know hopelessly. S/ie 
 did nut know, or slie could not have treated him with 
 such playful attcction. Miss Kenyon did not know, 
 or she would not have spoken so often to her brother 
 about Miss Haldane's approaching marriage. 
 
 *' 1 have brought a book 1 thought you would like 
 to see, Mr. Kenyon," said the minister, turning lo 
 Christopher. " it bears upon the theory you and I 
 discussed the other evening." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Haldane." 
 
 Mary touched Miss Kenyon's arm. " Come out- 
 side, Sara. I know papa wants to talk to M^ 
 Kenyon, and we will be in the way.** 
 
 •' 1 am going to show Mary the improvements I am 
 planning in the garden, Mr. Haldane,*' said Sanu 
 •* You won't mind our leaving you for a little." 
 
 " You know, I fancy, how well your brother and I 
 can entertain each other," returned the minister, with 
 a smile. " Stay as long as you please, and give my 
 little girl some good advice. I think she wants it." 
 
 Miss Kenyon nodded, and throwing a shawl about 
 her shoulders, followed Mary to the garden. 
 
 " Sara," said the girl, drawing her arm within her 
 own, while the light voice took a deeper tone, *' I am 
 going to be married in the beginning of September." 
 
 "So soon, my dear?** asked Miss Kenyon, in 
 surprise. " Why, that is six weeks hence." 
 
 " Yes," retullied Mary, " I did not think it would 
 be till Christmas, but John has a friend who offers to 
 take his patients for a fortnight, and, besides, I don't 
 want to leave papa in winter. He wearies so much 
 in the long evenings." 
 
 " But you will be away from him in winter, at any 
 rate," said Miss Kenyon. 
 
 " He has promised to come and stay with us till we 
 
 lon^ 
 
 the 
 
 the 
 
 u 
 
 Ker 
 *(| 
 
 leai 
 Mai 
 
 \l 
 in 
 
TIIR RF.NVUNS. 
 
 tl 
 
 ? nature, 
 sly. She 
 him Willi 
 ot know, 
 :r brother 
 
 ould like 
 urning lo 
 rou and I 
 
 I 
 
 :ome out- 
 c to M*-. 
 
 lents I am 
 said Sanu 
 le." 
 
 her and I 
 lister, with 
 d give my 
 rants it." 
 lawl about 
 
 within her 
 >ne, *' I am 
 ptember." 
 Cenyon, in 
 
 ik it would 
 »o offers to 
 les, I don't 
 es so much 
 
 nter, at any 
 
 th us till we 
 
 are tired of him," she said, " and you can imnKJnc 
 when that will be. John persuaded him. O barOf 
 you don't know how good he is." 
 
 *' How old arc you, Mary?" 
 
 The abrupt question surprised her listener. 
 
 "Twenty-one next month." 
 
 " You are very young, child,** she said gravely, and 
 suddenly drawing her into the arbour they were 
 passing, she placed both her hands on the girl's 
 shoulders, and looked into her fare, a stran^'e i)athos 
 in her own. "My darling, I hope G'"-' will be good 
 to you in your married life, and that your husband's 
 love may never fail you. Though I shall never be 
 blest as you are, my prayers for your happiness are 
 none the less sincere." 
 
 " Sara ! " 
 
 She would have uttered the questions oti her lips, 
 imt something in that patient, sorrowful face, kept them 
 back, but her eyes filled with sudden tears. 
 
 Miss Kenyon stooped and kissed her, the only time 
 she had ever done it, and said in her quiet cheerful 
 voice, 
 
 " Come, dear, we must go in or I am afraid Mr. 
 Haldane will be out to look for us," so they went back 
 to the house. Before many minutes had gone another 
 visitor came to the school-house. Returning from a 
 long ride, Dr. Forbes caught sight of a sweet face at 
 the window, and springing from his horse he lied it to 
 the gate, and came up the garden path. 
 
 "Won't you come in. Doctor Forbes," said Miss 
 Kenyon, but the young man shook his head. 
 
 " Not to-night, thank you. Miss Kenyon." he said, 
 leaning against the side of the window, " Where has 
 Mary gone. 
 
 M iss Kenyon laughed. " Not very far. Do come 
 in and look for her." It was easy to see that the 
 
ftt 
 
 THE KFNVONS. 
 
 Il'lll 
 
 ' ilii II 
 
 young doctor was a welcome visitor in the school- 
 master's house. He was one of the friends Christopher 
 Kenyon and his sister had made in The Linn. 
 
 " Where have you been, John," asked the minister. 
 Vulcan looks as if he had ridden a good many miles 
 to-day." 
 
 "Thirty or thereabouts I believe," returned he, 
 with a glance at the noble animal at the gate. •' I 
 was at D — — in the afternoon, and had to return by 
 Glentarne ; Lady Hamilton is not well." 
 
 Mary peeped round the curtain, and met a tender 
 glance from her lover's grey eyes. 
 
 "I saw Lady Hamilton out driving yesterday, John," 
 she said, **and 1 thought she looked remarkably well." 
 
 " She will never be well till her mind is at ease," 
 returned the Doctor gravely, " Jasper Hamilton is at 
 the bottom of his mother's illness." 
 
 " Is his visitor gone," inquired the minister, " he is 
 no favourite with Lady Hamilton.'* 
 
 " How could he be ? Little as I have seen of Mr. 
 Ralph Mortimer, I have formed my own opinion of 
 him. He will be the ruin of that weak lad unless he 
 breaks off his friendship with him." 
 
 What was it that brought the grey pallor to Sara 
 Kenyon's face, and almost forced a cry from her lips. 
 She moved away from the window, before they had 
 time to note the change in her face, and sat down in 
 the shadow, pressing her hand to her heart as if to still 
 its throbbing pain. She dared not meet her brother s 
 eyes, but in his face also there was an undefinable 
 change. 
 
 " Lady Hamilton tells me Mr. Mortimer is to leave 
 Glentarne to-morrow," continued the Doctor, not 
 knowing how Sara Kenyon's ears were strained to 
 hear his words. " She did not say much, but it was 
 easy to see the relief she felt." 
 
 su 
 d( 
 
 I i 
 
THE KKNYONS. 
 
 •s 
 
 school* 
 isiopher 
 
 minister, 
 ny miles 
 
 rned he, 
 He. ♦' I 
 return by 
 
 a tender 
 
 ly, John," 
 bly well." 
 at ease," 
 ilton is at 
 
 :r, " he is 
 
 en of Mr. 
 )pinion of 
 unless he 
 
 or to Sara 
 her lips, 
 they had 
 It down in 
 IS if to still 
 r brother s 
 ndefinable 
 
 is to leave 
 
 >octor, not 
 
 strained to 
 
 but it was 
 
 I 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 "Poor I.ndy Hamiiion!" breathed Mary, in tones of 
 infiniti' piiy. 
 
 •* Viil«:an is growitv^' inij)aticnt, so I must go," sai<l 
 the (iDCior nOer a momeui's pause. ** Miss Kenyon, 
 come and see iiow I have troddeu down your flowers." 
 
 Miss Kenyoii came to the window and looked out 
 mech.mically. 
 
 " 1 here is no harm done," she said, and thout;h the 
 others noted nothing i)eculiar in her voice, to lierself 
 it sounded low and strange and far otf " I was tellinj^ 
 Christo|)her 1 mean to plant some roses there in the 
 autunm." 
 
 •* I'll send An<lcrson down with some slips from 
 Cluny then," returned the doctor, "as payment lor 
 damage done to-night. Good night, Miss Kenyoi*. 
 Good night, Mr. Kenyon." 
 
 " Mary, we may as well go too," said the minister 
 rising. "Get on your hat, the evening is coming on." 
 
 Mary obeyed him, wondering a little at the silence 
 which seemed to have fallen on the brother and sister. 
 ^ " Come back soon, Mary," Miss Kenyon whispered 
 as she bade her good-bye, and she stood a moment 
 on the door steps and watched the trio out of sight. 
 Then she shut the door and went back to her brother. 
 The shadows were gathering in the room, and falling 
 gendy on the schoolmaster as he sat with his head 
 buried in his hand. Miss Kenyon closed the window, 
 then went to his side, leaning her hands upon his 
 shoulder. He looked up and took them both within 
 his own, bending his eyes upon the pale still face. 
 
 " Even here, Sara," he said in a low voice, " we are 
 haunted with the past ; as if its memory were not 
 sufficient for us to bear. My sister, what is to be 
 done." 
 
 " Nothing, Kit ; why should we do anything? You 
 hear that he leaves Glen tame to-morrow. It is not 
 
 I 
 
 -1 
 
24 
 
 THE KENYONS. 
 
 Ill ir 
 
 likely that he will ever know that we are here, and 
 even if he did, do you think he would seek us? J ihink 
 not." 
 
 The master sighed, sorely troubled in spirit. 
 
 "He may come back, Sara." 
 
 " Yes," returned the brave cheerful voice. " But he 
 may go as he has gone this time without even knowing 
 of our presence here. We will trust in God, my 
 brother ; He has never failed us yet." 
 
 Christopher Kenyon looked again into the steadfast 
 face, shining with the light of a faith the angels might 
 have envied. And there was unutterable love in his 
 own. 
 
 *• Sara, God has been good to us. We have each 
 other left." 
 
 She looked beyond him, through the window, at the 
 clear evening sky, where the summer stars were peep- 
 ing out one by one, and the moon rising above the 
 mists. She had freed her hands, and they were folded 
 i^n his shoulder. Once or twice he felt them tremble. 
 
 " Christopher," she said in a low voice, " let us 
 be thankful for the quiet refuge we have had here, and 
 lor the dear friends who have just left us. Remem- 
 Dering the past, dear, my heart is full of love and 
 gratitude to God. O Kit ! never let us forget His 
 goodness to us," She passed one arm round his neck, 
 and left a quiet kiss upon his brow. 
 
 " I think I shall go to bed," she said. " I feel tired 
 and a little upset. Don't sit up late. Kit, or your head 
 will suffer to morrow." 
 
 Then she crept away to her own room and knelt 
 down at the little window looking out upon the hills. 
 Her hands were folded on the sill, and her head bowed 
 low upon them. Once or twice a sob broke from the 
 patient lips, but her eyes were dry. And it was mid- 
 night before she went to bed. 
 
 ft 
 
 
re, and 
 ] ihink 
 
 ' But he 
 :nowing 
 rod, my 
 
 ;teadfast 
 Is mij^ht 
 ve in his 
 
 ive 
 
 each 
 
 w, at the 
 
 ^re peep- 
 bove the 
 ire foUied 
 
 tremble. 
 
 "let us 
 
 here, and 
 
 Remem- 
 love and 
 orget His 
 
 his neck, 
 
 feel tired 
 ^our head 
 
 and knelt 
 . the hills. 
 :ad bowed 
 e from the 
 t was mid- 
 
 'A 
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 CHHX March afternoon. 
 
 ^])ring was tardy in itr coming, for tboiigh 
 the month was nearing to its close there was 
 scarcely a Nud on hedge or tree. The country- 
 side about The Linn was woefully dreary, and up at 
 Glentarne the nigged old castle stood out among 
 the gaunt beech trees, bare and desolate against the 
 sullen sky. Yet within there were warmth and 
 comfort. 
 
 In the drawing-room a log fire burned cheerily on 
 the wide hearth. Its ruddy glow lay warm and bright 
 upon the polished floor, and lit up the quaint fantastic 
 figures on the antique cabinet in the opposite corner. 
 The windows were small, and the heavy damasiv 
 curtains almost excluded the light of day. In summer 
 the drawing-room at Glentarne was unspeakably 
 dreary. 
 
 In a low chair drawn close to the hearth a lady sat^ 
 with a white shawl thrown over her silk dress and her 
 thin white hands folded listlessly on her lap. They 
 were very white, and the blue veins were painfully 
 visible. She was no longer young, but the patient 
 suffering face still bore traces of the beauty which had 
 won William Hamilton's heart. Her soft hair, thoughf 
 thickly streaked with grey, was still abundant and 
 luxuriant, but it was confined under a close widow's 
 cap. She wai.< not the only occupant of the rouiiu 
 
('>'^ 
 
 1 1 
 
 
 :llil 
 
 
 j;,.;'I:;. 
 
 26 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 Within the curtains at the western window a gentleman 
 stood idly drumming his fingers on the pane. Four 
 years had not made Jasper Hamilton's slight figure 
 more manly looking, but it had deepened the all- 
 absorbing selfishness in his efferninare face. 
 
 Once or twice the lady glanced round, but no word 
 escaped her lips. 
 
 " What a wretched dull hole this is," muttered Sir 
 Jasper, turning from the window and flinging himsflf 
 into a chair. " It's enough to put a fellow into the 
 blues." 
 
 His mother's sensitive ear shrunk from the coarse 
 words. 
 
 " Your father spent all his life here, Jasper," she 
 said gently. " He did not think it dull." 
 
 "My father was a — that is everybody isn't bom with 
 such a contented mind. I've been thinking seriously 
 of putting up Glentarne to the hammer. It's too out- 
 landish for me." 
 
 " There have been Hamiltons of Glentarne since it 
 was built," returned Lady Hamilton, a slight flush 
 rising to her pale cheek. " Have you no respect for 
 the old name and race." 
 
 " None. It's a beggarly inheritance," returned the 
 young man, rising and pacing moodily up and down 
 the floor. " If I had the cash the place would bring, 
 the old name and race could go to the dogs." 
 
 ** And spend the money at foreign gaming tables, 
 Jasper," said his mother sadly. " Oh, my boy ! that 
 was a bitter lesson Ralph Mortimer taught you. It is 
 ruining you." 
 
 The hopeful scion of the grand old race did not 
 answer. He was evidently revoivmg something in his 
 mind. 
 
 •' Talking of the old name, mother," he said 
 suddenly. " Unless I marry it must die out." 
 
 -aim 
 
 it 
 
 \m 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 27 
 
 gentleman 
 ne. Four 
 ght figure 
 1 the all- 
 It no word 
 
 Jttered Sir 
 ng himsflf 
 ¥ into the 
 
 the coarse 
 
 sper," she. 
 
 : bom with 
 5 seriously 
 ;*s too out- 
 
 ne since it 
 light flush 
 respect for 
 
 :uined the 
 
 and down 
 
 uld bring, 
 »» 
 
 ng tables, 
 boy! that 
 ou. It is 
 
 e did not 
 ting in his 
 
 he said 
 
 ■i 
 
 " Why should you not marry some day ? " said his 
 mother listlessly. '* Time enough yet." 
 
 '• I'm four-and-twenty now, so if I mean to bring a 
 wife to Glentarne the sooner the belter; don't yuu 
 think so?" 
 
 " If you choose wisely, yes," returned Lady Hamilton, 
 in the same hsiless tone ; but the next words roused 
 her. 
 
 " Mother, I have chosen ; wisely too, I think, and 
 I hope to brmg my wife home belore the year is 
 out." 
 
 ii-he sat up suddenly, and looked at him with a very 
 searching look. 
 
 " You have kept it very close from me, your mother, 
 Jasper," she said slowly. "Who is your promised 
 wife?" 
 
 Under that steady gaze his eyes fell, and he moved 
 uneasily from its range. 
 
 '' 1 don't expect you to be pleased with her; you 
 never are with my friends," he saiil rudely. " The 
 future Lady Hamilton is Ralph Mortimer's sister 
 Maud." 
 
 " O Jasper." 
 
 That was all, but the poor lady fell back in her chair, 
 and something like a wail escaped her lips. In her 
 heart of hearts there had been a lingering hope that 
 when Jasper married it would be a good woman, who 
 would use her influence to turn him from his evil ways, 
 and she had dreamed of better days in store for 
 (Jlentarne. The hope was gone, and despair had 
 filled its place. 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 Then Jasper Hamilton came to the fire, and stood 
 looking into his mother's face, no shadow of softening 
 in his own. 
 
 *' You have never seen her, mother," he said coldly, 
 
 ^1 
 
!i| 
 
 28 
 
 MOTHER AND SOW. 
 
 " It might be as well to reserve your opinion till 
 then." 
 
 "My opinion," repeated Lady Hamilton; "I 
 passed none." 
 
 " You looked a great deal," he said. " Why should 
 you object to Maud Mortimer being my wife." 
 
 " She is no tit mate for a son of our house, un- 
 worthy though he be," returned she. " Although I do 
 not know her, I speak from rcHable knowledge of her." 
 
 "It will be as well to cwme to an understanding," 
 he said then. •* Of course, when my wife comes to 
 (ilontarne, she will be absolute mistress from the 
 beginning, and I hope you will welcome her here and 
 try to make her happy." 
 
 The bowed figure rose suddenly and stood before 
 him, and he almost quailed beneath the look of out- 
 raged dignity in the pale worn face. 
 
 *• I am your mother, and have done much for you, 
 but this I will not do," she said haughtily. " That 
 day Maud Mortimer enters this house, I leave it for 
 ever. Till now, the women of your house have been 
 of gontle birth and t- blemished famej yours will be 
 the first mesalliance in the record of the tamily. Had 
 Maud Mortimer been a peasant girl, lowly of heart 
 and pure of life, I would have done what you ask, not 
 only willingly but gladly ; but 1 have nothing but 
 scorn for the woman, the mention of whose name was 
 the signal for a sneering jest from »he frecjuenters of 
 the gaming tables at Homburg." 
 
 Jasper Hamilton's sillow face grew almost livid in 
 its i)assion. He bit his thin lips till they bled, but he 
 could not deny the truth of his mother's words. She 
 went to him then, aU the old gentleness in her face, 
 and laid her thin hand upon his arm. 
 
 " Jasper, is it too late ?" she asked in low winning 
 tones. " Can't you free yourself from these hateful 
 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 «9 
 
 )pinion till 
 
 lilton; "I 
 
 Vhy should 
 fe." 
 
 house, un- 
 hough I do 
 Ige of her." 
 irstanding," 
 e comes to 
 J from the 
 er here and 
 
 :ood before 
 ook of out- 
 
 ich for you, 
 ly. " That 
 eave it for 
 have been 
 )urs will be 
 mily. Had 
 ^ly of heart 
 rou ask, not 
 lothing but 
 ; name was 
 quenters of 
 
 lost livid in 
 ^led, but he 
 vords. She 
 in her face, 
 
 people, and begin life anew away from their influence. 
 Ralph Mortimer has done much harm already. He 
 has shown yo\i how to waste the revenues of (ilen- 
 tarne, and I tremble to think what will be the conse- 
 quence of bringing his sister here. With that hold 
 upon you he can do more than he has done yet, and 
 I fear the end will be ruin for the house of Hamilton." 
 
 " My wedding day is fixed for the fifteenth of July," 
 he said, moving from her, and shaking off her pleading 
 hand. '* You talk a lot of nonsense, mother. Ralph 
 Mortimer is as good a fellow as I have met anywhere. 
 If you really mean that the same roof cannot shelter 
 you and Maud, you have ample time to make your 
 own arrangements." 
 
 He turned upon his heel, and quitted the room. 
 
 Like one turned tO stone his mother stood where 
 he had left her. Then she dropped upon the hearth, 
 and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out 
 some horrid vision. A long low moan escaped her 
 parched lips. 
 
 ** Woe, woe, woe. Utter ruin is at hand for the 
 house of Hamilton V 
 
 ow wmning 
 lese hateful 
 
 M 
 
w 
 
 SB 
 
 m 
 
 CHAP r K R V. 
 
 SAUCY lU'AlITY. 
 
 inner anrupiiy, "jjiies a tlouce 
 young woman, Miss Kcnyon." 
 
 The fanner ot Cllenlarnc Mains was standing in the 
 window ot the kitchen, with his pipe in his mouth and 
 his hands in his pockets. lie liad just come in from 
 tMe hay field, ami evidently somelhmg o( importaricc 
 nas occui)ying his thougiit. 
 
 Far beyond the grey towers of ( ilentarne the western 
 sky was radiant with the setting sun, and a warm golden 
 glow lay upon the still farmyanl, and crept into every 
 corner of the large old-fashioned kitchen. At the fire- 
 place, where, though it was midsuuuner, a fire burned 
 cheerily, the farmer's wife sat in an arm chair with a 
 stocking in her hand. A pleasant motherly woman 
 was Mrs. Falconer, still youthful-looking, although she 
 was in her tifty-sixth year. 
 
 "Jamie Duncan cam tae me in the hayfield the 
 nicht, Peggie, an' socht oor Lizzie." 
 
 A pleased smile stole to the mother's lips. 
 
 "Ay! I was thinkin' he wadna be lang. What did 
 ye say ?" 
 
 *' Say, wife," echoed John Falconer, wheeling round 
 
 !i;' 
 

 SAUCY HKAUTY. 
 
 5« 
 
 ?o,c:s. John ; 
 n tac scimI 
 J v^^ an' a 
 .1 hoo kind 
 
 's a tlouce 
 
 (ling in the 
 mouth and 
 inc in from 
 importaiice 
 
 the western 
 arm golden 
 t into every 
 At the lire- 
 fire burned 
 JKiir with a 
 erly woman 
 Ithough she 
 
 layfield the 
 
 )S. 
 
 , What did 
 jeling round 
 
 and taking his pipe from his mouth; "I said he rnirht 
 tak' her, and my blessin' wi' her. I kent that yr wad 
 say the same thing. I'm mair satisfied than I can tell. 
 It's time the l)airn had something lac settle her. She 's 
 abonnie lass, Peggie ; but liiere's mair nonsense in lier 
 heid than I hke tae sae." 
 
 " lias he said onything tae Lizzie yet," in([uired the 
 mother gravely. 
 
 '♦ I'se warrant he spcired at her afore me ; but here 
 she is. I maun hae her askit." 
 
 Through the open door c.imc the sound of a sweet 
 voice singing a snatch of song, and in a moment more 
 Lizzie Falconer came in, all unconscjrnis of the subject 
 her father and mother hid been discussing. 
 
 The father's eyes followed her with a new interest as 
 siie set down the basket and began to count the eggs. 
 
 IJonnie ! The bairn was as lovely as a pott's dream. 
 F,al|)h Mortimer had spoken truly. In womanhood, 
 Lizzie Falconer's face and figure were simply perfect. 
 
 " Lizzie, my lass," said the farmer, slyly, ** I've fund 
 not what mak's Jamie l)uncan sae fond o'comin'ower 
 here tae crack aboot the craps." 
 
 *'Ay, faither." 
 
 The words fell carelessly from the pretty lips, t a 
 slight blush rose to the fair cheek. 
 
 " It '11 be a fine doon-siliin for you U[) at Lea Rig, 
 Lizzie," continued he, in a grave tone, "an' as guid a 
 man as ever trod the earth." 
 
 The dainty head turned suddenly, and the blue eyes 
 filled with surprise. 
 
 *'A doun-sittin' for me at Lea Rig, faither! Ye 
 speak gey sure. What's putten that inlae your heid ?'* 
 
 •'Jamie Duncan cam tae me the nicht, Lizzie," 
 said the farmer, laying his broad, brown liand on his 
 daughter's slender shoulder, " and a.sk'd if 1 wad gie 
 him my lassie for his wife." 
 
fe 
 
 h .;;! 
 
 II!::!;! 
 
 illli! 
 
 3* 
 
 SAUCY BEAUTY. 
 
 She slipped from her father's detaining hand, and 
 turned again to her work without speaking. 
 
 " Has Jamie said onything tae you yet, Lizzie?" 
 
 " I dinna want to be marri.: yet, faith er," returned 
 the girl, evasively. *' Jamie Duncan micht hae let me 
 alane. D'ye want tae get rid o' me ?" 
 
 "Ye ken brawiy, bairn," said the farmer, gravely, 
 " that ye're the very licht o* my e'en ; an' it's because 
 I lo'e ye sae weel that I want tae see ye wi' a guid 
 man o' yer ain afore my wark's dune. An' baiih yer 
 mither an* me are weel pleased wi' Jamie Duncan. 
 Ye may think yersel' weel aff, Lizzie. There's mony 
 a lass about The Linn wad gladly stand in yer shoon." 
 
 "Mither, hoo mony eggs wuU 1 pit up for Miss 
 Kenyon?" 
 
 A slight shade of displeasure crossed John Falconer's 
 face at the wilful ignoring of his speech. 
 
 " Listen, Lizzie," he said again, laying his hand upon 
 the girl's shoulder. "I doot ye've been playin' wi' 
 Jamie Duncan this while; but, mind ye, though he 
 lo'es ye, he's as prood as a prince. Dinna gang ower 
 far, or ye'll rue't. He's no a man tae dangle for ever 
 at a lassie's tail.** 
 
 ** If Jamie Duncan disna like tae wait my time, he 
 can gang aboot his business," said the young beamy, 
 saucily, as she tied her hat over her golde*i hair, and 
 swung her basket over her arm. "There's mair chiijjs 
 than him wad be gled enough to wait on me, I'm 
 thinkin'. Mither, I'll no bide late." 
 
 And before her father could reply to her daring 
 speech, she was half across the farmyard, and the echo 
 of her careless song was borne back to them on the 
 soft evening breeze. 
 
 " I'm no weel pleased the nicht, Peggie," said the 
 farmer. "I doot we'll hae some trouble wi' Lizzie 
 afore she's settled." 
 
 ut 
 
 »a# 
 
SAUCY BEAUTY. 
 
 33 
 
 land, and 
 
 izzie ?•' 
 " returned 
 lae let me 
 
 r, gravely, 
 ;'s because 
 wi' a guid 
 ' baith yer 
 e Duncan, 
 sre's mony 
 ^er shoon." 
 p for Miss 
 
 Falconer's 
 
 hand upon 
 playin' wi' 
 though he 
 gang ower 
 gle for ever 
 
 ny time, he 
 
 jng beauty, 
 
 1 hair, ami 
 
 mair cliiips 
 
 on me, I'm 
 
 her daring 
 nd the echo 
 hem on the 
 
 le," said the 
 e wi' Lizzie 
 
 "Nonsense, John," replied the mother, with gay 
 pood humour. " She's only a bairn yet ; sense'll come 
 by-an'-bye. What dis men folk ken aboot lassies* 
 ways? She's jist as fond o* the lad as she can be, 
 but a wee saucy yet ; sheMl come roond by-an'-bye." 
 
 " Weel, I hope sae," said the farmer. " 1*11 hae tae 
 gang up tae tlie field again, tho'. 1 doot it's gaun tae 
 be wund ; an' we'll hae the last o' the hay in the 
 nicht. It's been a graund harvest, thank the Lord." 
 
 " I'll send 'jp a bite an' sup tae the men in a while, 
 John," cried bis wife after him, as he left the house. 
 *' Aboot nine, maybe." 
 
 In the meantime Lizzie Falconer was making her 
 way slowly, by a round-about road tiirough the fields, 
 to the village. When she come to tlie stile which 
 separated her from the road, she saw a tall figure in 
 the distance, which one glance told her was Jamie 
 Duncan. Flscape was impossible, so, preferring to 
 wait for him rather than to meet him on the road, 
 she set down her basket, and leaning against the stile, 
 played idly with her hat strings. He quickened his 
 pace, and in a few minutes was at her side. 
 
 " Faither's awa' back tae the fields again," she said, 
 with a shy drooping of her eyelids, " I thocht I micht 
 as weel wait an' tell ye." 
 
 " Ye ken brawly it was you I wanted tae see, 
 Lizzie." "Ye've been oot every nicht I've been at 
 the Mains, for a week back. What does it mean? 
 Are ye no gled tae see me ? " 
 
 " Maybe," was the reply, and Lizzie kept her eyes 
 upon her hat, as if her life depended on it. 
 
 " Has yer faither no said onything tae ye aboot 
 me, Lizzie," was the next question, and to that also she 
 answered, coolly — 
 
 " Maybe." 
 
 " Lizzie," said the young man, very seriously, " ye've 
 
 
 .jp' 
 
Ill 
 
 :U 
 
 34 
 
 SAUCV HKAUTY. 
 
 tried me. s.iir this while hark, an' if it had been ony 
 l)()(ly l)iit ycrscT I \v;uhia h.u- |)iiiU'n up wi't a in'-cmt. 
 ]>ut I'm m'ltii)' tired o' yniir (i)(|iictiin'. 1 maun hae 
 ay or no the niclit. 1 hac tell yc, twenty limes ower, 
 hoo 1 lo'e ye, an' prayed ye lac be my wife. Is it tae 
 be ay or no?" 
 
 She raised her head, with the mischievous smile 
 vshich had turned lialf the iieads in ihe cijuntry biile, 
 and said coolly— 
 
 "I'm no in a serious mood the nicht, Jamie; I'll 
 tell ye some other lime." 
 
 lie cauL;ht one ot her hands in his own, and looked 
 into her face with impassioned eat;erness. 
 
 "Lizzie, dinna torment me like this. Ye dinna ken 
 hoo muckle yer answer means tae me. God forgi'e 
 me, I believe I wor'^hip the very ground ye walk on." 
 
 It was impossible to listen to tiie earnest voice 
 without being moved ; for one moment a softened, 
 almost tender lii;ht filled the saucy eyes, but it passed 
 almost as quickly as it came. 
 
 " Jamie Duncan, I'm daft stan'in' here at this time 
 o* nicht, an' me has tae gang lae the schule an' back 
 afore darkenin'. Guid nicht. I'll list«;n tae ye some 
 ither time," she said, carelessly, and with one dart 
 from her mischievous eyes, and a parting smile on her 
 sweet lips, she caught up her basket, and hurried 
 down the road. 
 
 With his whole heart in his eyes, the young man 
 watched the dainty figure out of sight. As he turned 
 to leave the stile a close carriage came swiftly along 
 from the direction of Glentarne. He paused a moment, 
 and as it swept rapidly past caught a glimpse of its 
 solitary occupant. It was Lady Hamilton on her way 
 
 to the railway station at D . To-morrow was Sir 
 
 Jasper's wedding day, and she had bidden farewell to 
 Glentarne. The bitterness of death was in her soul. 
 
lecn ony 
 
 iKiun h.ie 
 
 lies ower. 
 
 Is ii tae 
 
 )\is smile 
 lUry sule, 
 
 amie ; I'll 
 
 nd looked 
 
 (Unna ken 
 iod forgi'e 
 
 walk on." 
 nest voice 
 
 softened, 
 It it passed 
 
 It this time 
 Ic an' back 
 Lie ye some 
 1 one dart 
 mile on her 
 tnd hurried 
 
 young man 
 lS he turned 
 iwiftly along 
 d a moment, 
 impse of its 
 I on her way 
 rrow was Sir 
 n farewell to 
 in her soul. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 GAIN", on a fair summer afternoon the landlady 
 of the Linn Arm-> an<l the bl.icksmith's wife 
 were enjoynig a gossip at the door of the inn. 
 There vvas excitement in 'I'he Linn, whatever 
 was its cause, for there were grouj)s of two and tliree at 
 every door, and a perfect hum of voices filled the (luiet 
 air. So much absorbed was Nancy Irvine that the 
 sight of her husband leaning idly against one side of 
 the smithy door, and her good-for-nothing son perched 
 on the garden fence with his hands in his pockets, 
 failed to rouse her righteous ire. Failing in all else, 
 red-headed Jock had been set to work in earnest at 
 his father's trade, and the ungainly lad had grown into 
 a rough, uncouth looking young man, who^e extreme 
 laziness, combined with his imperturbable good temper 
 and unutterable stupidity, were daily thorns in his 
 mother's side. It was impossible to rouse Jock, even 
 with the fiercest onslaughts from her tongue. She 
 might as well have preached to a stone wall. 
 
 "They should na be lang noo, Nancy," said Mrs. 
 Scott, shading her eyes and glancing down the road. 
 
 " Its near live, and the train's due at D afore four. 
 
 The carriage gaed by aboot three, wi' the twa greys 
 in it." 
 
 " Ay," said Nancy. " An* there was just ane tae 
 drive her leddyship awa on Thursday uichu Puir 
 cratur', days is sair changed for her." 
 
 That reflection appeared to afford the blacksmith's 
 
 i I 
 
 ! 
 
 11 
 
s« 
 
 III »»\\p AN»« \un». 
 
 111 t lu 111 u iih 1 1 .<l MM ( 1 « \n U> \ mmhi 1 1\ In. 
 
 " \\ 1 . I il u- 1 nunti ihi- tin Sn \\ illt nn l>»i»( lii let 
 huni' \'»M\,iil h,»r iboi lit \\\f Inli o' I In- I itm )>. t-'l 
 ool <h«' io.h! !,w' lut »'t Ou n>, jin' tli» \ lot^V tlu- hoi .. •< 
 \>o\ n\u\ jMiM ilif I .»nii<M np iii- flu* Inn I^Ol>^♦» I'm 
 OnnK^n' tl>i It s no <»,\(' nun Kli in* »I:U' :>« tins liilih '•« 
 h;init' I onnn" WInMshi.l Inn (hnniiMnm'" 
 
 (\\\\\ rt rlon«< o\ «hi"»l in tin* ili-^Lint »• i'.;m •• n:nnn)|i nl 
 thf .i|>|>r:n,in» «» o( ri i-.un.im*. Il «l»o\i' np inpnllv. 
 nnM tbongh U \\\\\ n<M «;l:it Urn m>«'»il wlun ^>;^';^in^ 
 tlii>>ni:h 1 he Inin. i\ \\'c\Av » hcrt w:i<» iitim-d whiih ^Mr 
 |,1^|VM «h«l niM »l< \}m ii> noHr»' Uy i^i** •<'<l»\ ^vjili :i 
 fhiihl nnl on hrt pvi>\n< l(p«5, «<:it ln«» t)r«lv u»ilil»<| 
 >v»U\ \hi^ ni\snr';«? o1 *il»'ni ntv Ihi' r.uMj onlt'nK. »* 
 oulv r.xnj'hi :\ ^Innpso ol n «l;nk li.nnlmMnr i:\n\ wiih 
 (l;i'ih\nii M.u k evr"*. nn(< tlu' noxl nnn\Uf llie t ;ntiagc 
 l>,i«l xxhuloti o\»l o1 stoht 
 
 "How nnu h finthn is il ti> ('Irntitvtir. |.'1'?|wm?** 
 inq\nv. ,^ \ .■m\\ HrinnUon ni i.Mn><; •>! nn IliMf \vi;nnn"5««. 
 " 1 Auy «U\A«i tno«\. .in<i \h:\\ -^nn^lnnr !<? iti'^iHlni^Mf." 
 
 "Mv »1.nhn^. XV*' ;u<' nhnosl lionu\"s;n<l lui ln«sl>;niil, 
 btMi«lu\>i oviM luM, his Ini o sofwnrM l>y rt gUain of 
 ton*1oinoss. *Sfi\ tlioiv iwv the ji.-ites." 
 
 " 1 nm fil.K. to ht .n ii," trtunuM! her lulyship 
 unovn* ionslv. her exes \v;in»1ovin^ siijx nihon'slv ionn«l 
 as ihev sxvopt lip the \\h\c rt\t nne innlev the "^hiit'i- of 
 <he beeehes. ;^n*i hei hps emled penep1\Mv when ihey 
 *hvw up ii\ front ol the liivv riiinbling oUi luuise wliieh 
 XX .IS to be her future home 
 
 " Weloome home \o Cilent.irne, M.nul." wliisper.il 
 l;^vper H;>mih»>n. as they entered the ohMashioned 
 
 1 
 
 "n 
 
 ^reh. 
 
 It uexer hnd n t;\iier mistress. 
 
 There xvere a f« w seiv.mts xviiuin^i m the h;ill. The 
 housekeeper came forward, anti would have sinikcn, 
 
 4 
 
M!»'^fHVt» AMII WirPL 
 
 1/ 
 
 ( In li- r 
 nn I' <• '1 
 
 nun;', •»! 
 
 vhii \\ Sir 
 »', will) !» 
 
 >nl«<'>K' t < 
 urt', Willi 
 « riiniiim* 
 
 ]rt'']><M ?" 
 vr:uinrs^. 
 
 lni<5h:niM, 
 ^ll( !<m of 
 
 mly ionn<l 
 [» sb.n'f «>f 
 kvlirn tlu y 
 
 \va\\. Tlio 
 re 8iH>k(M), 
 
 « 
 
 luit l»»'i Mumt'-qq m\i|ii |tMql lift, ^fiviiii; tn lifM liMqliiiHl, 
 •" Sriul mun»' no*' iill'i ni*' In «»li»\v iM»' my Mtunm^ 
 ),is|»»'f ; iHi'l liM •liniKi It.- MM tht' i!iM»' «<liitMlv " 
 
 I lir «J»'»VlUllM ^^^ll:ml•»l^ t'JltK rq «t| qillpliMf, wlliill 
 till! nol I'Mi iijn- Si» |im|trt'q iinliri'. •• Sli'W I ridy 
 II iiMilinn ||. I mniM'!. I iiirt v«"». r»M»i;iMl." Ii»' q;n.| 
 !iMiniU In llif Ihmis. I ti|,»», "iiimI «liuri qlMml IJMf*' nil 
 
 1*1 \n\\ q|;HIII^ lll<«' jillitlM I" 
 
 I lif Imiimkt'inci lilt (III Mini (tijldurfl Imi in w 
 nii'^Mrqq npslMiH, ;iinl (<timil Ini ^t Miilnii> wiilnii lli»' 
 «li lUln^ ittoin (Innt, miivj'Vmy lln- ntnm wiili i nnt* inpl 
 
 " I lUn t tilin- lo sjlrvv Vnll \nMI innMm, my Inly," «!ll»l 
 
 Ml" jtini.ini. " lln'\ (im- inn mi lln^ (lout " 
 
 ' jq tlim lln- ili;nvmif ttiMiiif'" iii<|iin'(| h^r l!nlyq|ii|t, 
 ininnit', Ini H:n^lnn|i |i|;n k rytq on tin' Innisi k»'rji»»i's 
 |,H •'. " I <;iin \ m» '* 
 
 " V.s. iiiv l.nly " 
 
 •'('in Snm. iliini» will rrf|nJro to lip i|nin> llirrr," 
 sin- hikI Inill lo In m» II " \\ rjl, I miii •jniir Hiidy. | 
 liopc ilnn' iiin iio» iiniiiv nnn*- q|;iiiq (o « limli." 
 
 Mis. rnnnnit ;Mimv»'ir«l iiolliiii^ Sln« I«m| ||i»< wjiy, 
 li, I wln'lc sniil q\vi' ||||^ with somiw ninl iiiili|iii;iiMni. 
 
 " riicHn wnip I ,;nlv I IfiinillrMrq, Sii |!m|iri*H niMllirr'q, 
 roonm. my l.nlv." sin- t^MnJ, ;is qln- tliitw n|i« n m doni on 
 lilt in XI liinliii^. " lln ir ma miinif^ loonijir*! toom, 
 iiml (Im'vsih); loom. 'I liry nrn jiisf jn sin- Irll llir|,i." 
 
 I ;nlv ll;mnlion wnil (toiii loniii to room willi ||m> 
 R.-imn IniH ;iimm«Ml, Inih « nmrm|itii(nin mmir on In r lioq 
 
 " well, lliny am ol<l (jmhioinMJ rtion|',li to li;ivr In m 
 inli;ilnlr.| |>v oin's i;r( ;ii ^i.in<liiiotln-r , ImiI hrjoo- loiij^, 
 Ti ninint," she ;nl«l(Ml ;ill,il)|y, "I lio|».« to t;,.,< mimn 
 m\pl«>vnnn^(^ m (he hoiisn. Now, will yoii 8«;ii(l ii|» 
 inv tmnks niui some one in w;iit <ni nni'" 
 
 " l.;nlv ll.uinlton took In? iikikI with Inr, my lady, 
 Init I shall do my hcst lor you." 
 
 •* Ah, thanks," said her ladyship languidly. " I dare- 
 
3« 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 jiiiii ie 
 
 id 
 
 
 HI , 
 
 Ill ^li' 
 
 III! i!!i iH 
 
 say you'll do in the meantime. I have a French maid 
 at home, who will follow me sliorily. Now, see about 
 my lugj;age quickly, i)lcase." 
 
 Mrs. 'I'ennant bowed and withdrew. 
 
 " And it was for that proud hussey, Sir Jasper 
 turned his mother from (ilcntarne," was her inward 
 thought as she passed to do her bidding. "He'll be 
 punished for it yet, or I am much mistaken." 
 
 In the drawing room, Jns|)er iiamilton paced rest- 
 lessly up and down, awaiting his wife. Restlessly, and 
 impatiently also, for his thoughts were not pleasant 
 companions. That day he had brought home as his 
 wife the woman he loved, or fancied he loved, and 
 he ought to have been suj^remely happy. But there 
 was a skeleton on the hearth. 
 
 It was six o'clock when the drawing-room door 
 opened to admit his wife. In her rich evening dres:;, 
 with rare jewels sparkling on hair and bosom, she 
 looked superbly beautiful ; but hers was not the face 
 of a good woman. 
 
 Her husband went to meet her, with a passionate 
 light in his cold cruel eyes, and a slight flush in his 
 sallow cheek. " Maud, my darling, how beairtiful you 
 are. My wife, again welcome home." He passed 
 his arm about the perfect figure, and would have 
 drawn her to his breast, but she freed herself with a 
 look of utter weariness, almost of disgust, on her 
 haughty face. 
 
 " Don't bore me, Jasper," she said, moving from 
 him to the hearth. "Such nonsense is only excusable 
 before marriage, not after. There is no need for it 
 now." 
 
 A red flush rose to his brow, and he bit his lip to 
 keep back the angry words burning for utterance. 
 His wife saw it, and smiled carelessly. She leaned 
 her white arm on the marble mantel, and turned 
 
 1 1 
 
 i 
 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 39 
 
 ;h maid 
 
 e about 
 
 Jasper 
 inward 
 iHe'il be 
 
 ed rest- 
 sly, and 
 pleasant 
 e as his 
 ved, and 
 3ut there 
 
 om door 
 ng dres;;, 
 )Som, she 
 : the face 
 
 Dassionate 
 jsh in his 
 iivtifjl you 
 le passed 
 Duld have 
 ;elf with a 
 5t, on her 
 
 ving from 
 
 excusable 
 
 leed for it 
 
 t his lip to 
 
 utterance. 
 
 jhe leaned 
 
 nd turned 
 
 the badge of wife-hood round and round upon her 
 fini^cr. 
 
 " I say. Jnsper," she said su(i<lcnly, " where has your 
 mollici j^oiie? — you did not tell ine." 
 
 "To jeM'le on lier own property iii Sussex," replied 
 he. "Are you ready to go to the dining room ?" 
 
 " It seems a pity that the old lady had to turn out 
 for me," .s;iid >hc, with the same careless smile. " Wiiy 
 couldn't she stay; 1 should not have interfi-red with 
 her." 
 
 " Are you ready to go to the dining room, Maud," 
 repeated Jasper Hamilton. ** Dinner is on the table." 
 
 " She might, at least, have stayed to welcome me," 
 she said, again utterly ignoring his request, "an<l to 
 have made my aecjuaintance. It was not decent 
 civility to leave before." 
 
 "There is no need to discuss the matter, Maud," 
 said Sir Jasjjer, his temper rising agaui. " My mother 
 was at liberty to please herself. I tell you plainly she 
 disaj)proved of our marriage, and it was better to leave 
 Glentarne before you came here, and so avoid any 
 unpleasantness." 
 
 " 1 see." 
 
 The careless smile still curved Lady Hamilton's lips, 
 but the expression in the black eyes was not good to 
 see. 
 
 " Why did your mother disaj)prove of your marriage 
 with me?" 
 
 "Tliere is no need, as I said before, to discuss the 
 matter, Maud," said her husband, irritably. " Why 
 will you ])ersist ?" 
 
 "Simi)ly because I am anxious to know," was the 
 reply. "And 1 mean to know, Jasper, so you may as 
 well tell me now." 
 
 "This is scarcely *he way to begin your married 
 life, Maud," said Sir Jasper with increased uriiabiliiy. 
 
 1^ 
 
'W. ' ^a! ' - *l>' -j wi j - •'"-^ — —- 
 
 40 
 
 iiushanp anp wikf,. 
 
 " Tt i« no pnrt of wilrly <lnty to insist a^^ninst her 
 hiisb.uid's wish." 
 
 A |M';\I «»l iiKH kini^ l.ini'Jitrr ImoKc Ikmii my l.wly's 
 lips, "look ;U lur. )iis|t( r," she s.inl, diiiwiii}; lirr 
 fimire to lis Inll lu ii'Jit, and roniini^ nrjTor to him. 
 \\v tiuncil h)s <'vrs iipoii hri \,\rr, and ai;;ini. as it had 
 clotio manv tnncs hcloic, her luanty ionqnercd hun. 
 
 " Po I look hkc a woniiin \vh«) would make any 
 mail's will hiv law. Do yon think thiit IxManso I 
 have maniod you that 1 am to have no dioii^ht, no 
 wish that «loos not niitie in iw/ f ' 
 
 The slin}:;ing cmpli;isis on the last wonl roused every 
 evil passion in her husband's heart, tor it expressed 
 all the utter seorn and eontempt in whieh this woniiiii 
 Iield him. His sallow l;ue grew livid iu its passion, 
 as it hatl tlone in that veiy room onec belbie, and he 
 moved from her alraid lest he should be tempted to 
 raise his hand against the wile he had wedded but 
 yesterday. 
 
 " It will be as well to understand each other," she 
 said in her cool, haughty voice. '* You can go your 
 own way, while 1 " 
 
 " Maud Mortimer!" interrupted her husband passion- 
 ately, "Why dill you many me?" 
 
 Again the nuxking laugli rang through the room. 
 
 *' Shall I tell you?" she asktd, with her amused 
 smile. **1 married you beeause I was tiretl of Ralph's 
 snubbing, and beeause 1 wanted to be Lady Ibimillon, 
 iMlh a home and a purse ot my own. (.jood reasons, 
 •re they not?" 
 
 " V^eiy good, my lady," said Sir Jasper with bitter 
 cmj^hasis. "And. mark you, 1 swear to you that you 
 shall pay dearly lor what vou have won. Again, are 
 you ready to go to the dining room?" 
 
 So with a bitter quarrel on its very threshold their 
 married lite bcgai^. 
 
 as 
 
 saiil 
 tea.l 
 
 doc 
 
V I.mIv's 
 in;; luT 
 to liiin. 
 s it had 
 I liiiu. 
 ikc any 
 catisc I 
 ii^lit, no 
 
 0(1 every 
 x|)r('ss(Ml 
 woman 
 passu)!!, 
 , and he 
 nptcd to 
 Idcd but 
 
 her," she 
 1 go your 
 
 1 passion- 
 
 j room. 
 r annisod 
 )f Ralph's 
 lanullon, 
 I reasons, 
 
 vilh l)itler 
 \ that you 
 (\gani, are 
 
 hold their 
 
 
 CflAPIKK VII. 
 
 A COOL RF. CKFTION. 
 
 had gone sinrr fasprr Ifitnihon hrou'^ht 
 idr home to (il« iiiarrie. Il was S;iti(r(lay 
 morning, and Sara Kcnyon w.is mttiii^^ ;it the 
 breakfast tal>l<' waitin/^ for her hroiher. 
 The glorious snah^ht Hooded the whole room, arui 
 lav hrif^ht and beantilnl orj Sarah Kenyor)'s face. It 
 w IS ^rave and sad, and lu-r eyes were heavy. When 
 nine pealed from the cluirc h t( wer, she oj>ened the 
 sitting room thjor. 
 
 "Are you nearly ready, Christo[))ier ?** 
 
 "l-'oimn^, dear," and in a niinnte the sehoolmaster 
 took his seat at the table. His sister poured out his 
 tea, and handed it to h..n in silenre. 
 
 " Will you come back with the midday coach, Kit?" 
 she s;iid at length. 
 
 " No ; I think I shall walk home," returned the 
 sehoohnasler. "I have some books to f^et, and there 
 would be seareely titne to catch the coach." 
 
 ♦' Don't forget yourself in the bookslioj)s at I) 
 
 as you used to do in London somefune.," his sister 
 said with a sli[;ht smile. " lie sure and <:orne home to 
 tea. Mary is eominj^ down this aflernootj, and the 
 doctor, too, if possible." 
 
 "Yes; I shall be hotne, dear. There is the horn I 
 I did not think it was so late." 
 
 " Kit," she said, layinj^ her hand upon his shoulder 
 as he was opening the door, "Lady Hamilton will be 
 here to day." 
 
 
42 
 
 A COOL RF.CF.rriON. 
 
 " I scarcely think she will come at all, Sara," he 
 said. " \\ ha'i end would it serve?" 
 
 "Heaven knows," replied Miss Kenyon. "Kit, I 
 have been thniking lately it will be belter for ub to 
 leave The Linn." 
 
 " We have been very happy here, Sara," said the 
 master gently, and as he opened the door a Hood of 
 sunlight da/./.k'd their eyes. "But \vc can talk this 
 over another time." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her, as was his wont, and 
 turned down the garden path. At the gale he paused, 
 and, iv. it struck with a sudden thoui^ht, went back to 
 the doorstep. 
 
 "If you think she will come to-day, Sara," he said 
 slowly, "and if it would help you, 1 shall slay at home. 
 What I have to do can be done next Saturday." 
 
 " No, no, Kit. I know it would only vex you to 
 be obliged to meet her again. 1 am no coward, sir, 
 and 1 think I shall manage best alone. Now, go. 
 ■"I'here is the coach coming up, and — remember to be 
 home to tea," and with a parting smile Miss Kenyon 
 shut the door, and went back to the breakfast table. 
 
 After luncheon that afternoon. Lady Hamilton 
 ordered the pony carriage to be brought round to the 
 door. 
 
 " 1 am going alone,** she said, as she took the reina 
 from the groom's hand. "If Sir Jasper returns before 
 me, tell him I have gone to the village, and will be 
 home before dinner." 
 
 " Very well, my lady," replied the man, glad to be 
 relieved from attendance ujion her. Further acquaint- 
 ance with their new mistress had not impressed the 
 servants with her amiability. She touched the ponies 
 with her whip, and they started off at a pace which 
 brought them to The Linn in fifteen mmutes. She 
 drew up at the gate of the schoolhouse, and step[>cd 
 
 I she 
 
 slii 
 
 gonl 
 
 frie/ 
 
A COOL RF.CF.FIION. 
 
 43 
 
 Sara," he 
 
 " Kit. I 
 for uj> to 
 
 ' snid tho 
 I llood of 
 talk this 
 
 wont, and 
 le ])aiiscd, 
 nt back to 
 
 a," he said 
 Ly at home, 
 lay." 
 
 rex you to 
 ONvard, sir, 
 
 Now, j^o. 
 mber to be 
 ss Kenyon 
 ast table. 
 
 Hamilton 
 3und to the 
 
 Dk the reina 
 ;urns before 
 ind will be 
 
 , glad to be 
 er acquaint- 
 pressed the 
 1 the ponies 
 pace which 
 nutes. She 
 ind stepjjcJ 
 
 out. Gathering her rich skirts gracefully over her 
 arm, she went leisurely up the garden path, and 
 tapjjcd at the door with the end of the whip she still 
 held in her daintily-gloved hand. 
 
 It was opened innnediately, not by Miss Kenyon, 
 as her ladyship had expected, but by Mrs. Forbes, 
 who had come from Cluny only a few minutes before. 
 Intense amazement was in Mary's face wiien she found 
 herself face to face with Lady Hamilton. 
 
 *' Is Miss Kenyon at home?" inquired her ladyship, 
 in cool ' 'ear tones, which penetrated to the room 
 where Sara Kenyon was busy. 
 
 " Yes, she is at home," replied Mrs. Forbes. " Will 
 you come in, please ? " 
 
 lUit befoie she could accept the invitation, Sara 
 Kcnyon's light step sounded in the lobby. She came 
 forward, very pale, but calm and selt-|)Ossessed, and 
 she did not at first look at I^ady Hamilton. 
 
 "Will you go in, ])lease, Mary?" she said, laying 
 her hand on Mrs. Forbes' arm. " 1 shall talk to 
 Lady Hamilton here." 
 
 In sore amazement, Mrs. Forbes obeyed. Then 
 Miss Kenyon looked full at her visitor, with a slightly 
 enquiring gaze, but with no shadow of recognition in 
 her face. 
 
 " Wf 11, Sara, how are you?" asked her ladyship, 
 familiarly; "you don't look very glad to see me." 
 
 She stretched out her hand, but Miss Kenyon 
 moved away, as if afraid that it would touch her. 
 
 " What is your business with me. Lady Hamilton ?" 
 she said in a low quiet voice. " 1 have a visitor, as 
 you see, and you must not detain me long." 
 
 " Oh, come now, Sara," said Lady Hamilton, 
 slightly disconcerted, "don't talk like that. Let by- 
 gones be bygones, and say you are glad to see an old 
 friend." 
 
 m 
 
■It ! -.T.',I 
 
 ■■^mmt 
 
 44 
 
 A COOL RECEPTION. 
 
 t» 
 
 " It would not be tnie if I did say it," said Sara 
 Kenyon, a red spot rising to either check. " If that 
 is your errand, 1 am sorry it 's fruitless. Allow me to 
 bid y ju good afternoon." 
 
 Lady 1 1 am il ton bit her lip, and an angry gleam shot 
 through her dark eyes. 
 
 "When Rnlj)h told me you were here, I congratu- 
 lated myself that 1 would not be without a friend when 
 1 came to Glentarne," she said. " Wont you make 
 up, as the children say, and visit me sometimes at that 
 wretched dull place up there," she pointed with her 
 whip in the direction of Glentarne, and waited Miss 
 Kenyon's answer. 
 
 " It would ill befit the schoolmaster's sister to place 
 herself on a footing with the lady of Glentarne," said 
 tiie low quiet voice, with an unmistakeable scorn in 
 its tones. "1 naust bid you good afternoon, Lady 
 Hamilton." 
 
 " The schoolmaster's sister is still Squire Kenyon's 
 daughter," said her ladyship calmly. *' How is Chris- 
 topher? He and I used to be great friends." 
 
 There are limits to human endurance. Sara Ken- 
 yon's lips were firmly set, and the red spot burning on 
 either cheek told the indignation she would not utter. 
 
 *' Lady Hamilton, I must bid you good afternoon," 
 slie repeated. " And 1 must also ask you not to in- 
 trude upon me again. Remembering the past, I am 
 amazed that you are not ashamed to do it. I thank 
 }ou lor your otifered friendship; but 1 must decline it, 
 once for all." 
 
 "Time was, when you would not have turned Maud 
 Mortimer froia your door," said my lady bitterly. 
 *' Well, good afternoon, Sara, since you wont ask me 
 in," she added, suddenly recovering her equanimity. 
 " And if you should think better of it, I shall be glad 
 to see you at Glentarne whenever you like to come." 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 -"' and 
 
A rnoi. rithtion. 
 
 45 
 
 said Sara 
 
 " If that 
 
 How me to 
 
 gleam shot 
 
 : congratu- 
 riend when 
 you make 
 mes at tliat 
 ;d with her 
 aited Miss 
 
 ter to place 
 tarne," said 
 le scorn in 
 loon, Lady 
 
 e Kenyon's 
 jw is Chris- 
 Is." 
 
 Sara Ken- 
 burning on 
 d not utter, 
 afternoon," 
 u not to in- 
 i past, I am 
 it. I thank 
 it decUne it, 
 
 urned Maud 
 dy bitterly, 
 ont ask n-^e 
 equanimity, 
 shall be glad 
 ; to come." 
 
 Miss Kcnynn closed the door and left her visitor 
 on the step, wiihoul ollciini^ a reply to llic friendly 
 invitation. 
 
 Ai;ain Lady Hamilton threw her skirts over her 
 arm and swept down the path, a careless smile curving 
 her scornful lips, but anger and bitter humiliation in 
 her heart. 
 
 In the sitting room, in much surprise, Mrs. Forbes 
 awaited her friend. She looked at her anxiously 
 when she joined hor, and saw that she was unusually 
 agitated. She sat down at the table and leaned her 
 head on her hands. 
 
 •• You are surprised that Lady Hamilton should 
 come here asking for me, Mary," she said at last. 
 
 ' Yes," Mary admitted frankly. 
 
 " Years ago — before we came to Strathlinn — I knew 
 her and her brother well." 
 
 Very bitterly were the words spoken, and there was 
 unutterable pain on Sara Kenyon's face. 
 
 " Some other time, Mary," she said, rising, " I shall 
 tell you the story of Christopher's life and mine, but 
 not now. Forgive me if my manner is strange to- 
 night ; I have many painful memories to ui)Set me. 
 Now I must go and see after tea. Kit will be home 
 in a very short time." 
 
 "There he is now," said Mary, "and John with 
 him. I wonder where he picked him up." 
 
 The tea table that night was not so happy as it 
 generally was, for there was a shallow on the face of 
 its presiding genius. 
 
 Early in the evening the visitors took their leave, 
 because' Mary felt that Miss Kenyon wished to be 
 alone. 
 
 And on the way home, as a matter of course, she 
 confided the incident of the afternoon to her husband, 
 and they marvelled over it together. 
 
 >i • 
 
iimm 
 
 '>f\'"^'v'^r' ^T^'-~^^''Cv *)^^'^kot^ 
 
 CIIATIKR VIIL 
 
 HAPPV I^OVK. 
 
 "T^Y the middle of Scptctnhcr not a stook wns left 
 I .1| stMiidiiii: )i) the coiulu ItU .ilxiiii Tin' l.mii. Am 
 JL/ c.iily and bount ful harvest h.id hern the result 
 ^0 of a fnie seed mnc and a warm (hy suunnei ; 
 and the winter hade hiir to he a cheery one. The 
 rro|)s on the Lea Kig were universally admitted to he 
 the tinest in the chslriet. Old Simon Duncan had 
 resigned the farm niana,i;enient entirely into jamii s 
 hands, and it amply rei)ai<l the painstaking lahour tin- 
 energetic young man hcslowed Ujjon it. Tiicy lived 
 alone, father and son, in the old house on the hill-t()|), 
 and it sorely needed a woman's supervision. It was 
 many a year since Jamie Duncan's mother had been 
 laid in the kirkyard, and the neighbours said Simon 
 Duncan had never held up his head since. His only 
 son was the very apple of his eye, the ])ride of his 
 heart, the one object on which all his interest in lilo 
 was centred. A life of hard toil and exposure, early 
 and late, had prematurely broken down his constitu- 
 tion, and at sixty Simon Duncan was a frail weak 
 old man, and it was feared he would not weather the 
 storms of another winter. The fears were too well 
 grounded, for, killed by the snell November blast, the 
 feeble spark of life went quietly out one grey rainy 
 afternoon, and at three-and-twenty James Duncan was 
 left fatherless and motherless to inhabit the Lea Rig 
 alone; but everybody knew he was only waiting 
 
 
 i 
 
 ^^n 
 
r>k wns left 
 LiMii. All 
 1 the result 
 y suiniiK'i ; 
 one. 'I'lu' 
 iitted to l»o 
 iiMCiin had 
 ito Jamie s 
 labour tlu- 
 'Tiu-y lived 
 the hill-loi), 
 311. It was 
 r had been 
 said Simon 
 His only 
 )ride of his 
 erest in lilo 
 osure, early 
 lis const itti- 
 . frail weak 
 weather the 
 :re too well 
 er blast, the 
 J grey rainy 
 Duncan was 
 the Lea Rig 
 tnly waiting 
 
 MAPI'V l.nVK. 
 
 41 
 
 I,i/7ie I'nlror.rr's word to Ihid^ a mistress to the f.irtn. 
 She siill kepi hini at aim's lc|v''i, thoujj;h he lolloacd 
 her like a shadow. Yet sohi. •limes a sweet hope 
 whispered in the tme manly heart, that the lime was 
 at hand when she would not say him nay. I)miii:; 
 the winter months strange stf)ries catne from (ilentariM-, 
 fiunishiii}^' never-ending; ^'ossip for the villagers. 'I'l-e 
 servants told of avvhil strife between the ill niat< lied 
 pair, of <|uarreis so violent that they sometimes feared 
 there would be murder done ; for the Laird's unj^over- 
 nahle temper was roused by his wife's increasing 
 extravagance, and most of all by her contemptuous 
 ignoring of his authority. Lady Hamilton was uol 
 received into county society, but she tilled the house 
 with her own friends — a gay set of fashionable men 
 and women, whose character and antecedents she did 
 not too strictly investigate. Ay, Iasj)er Il.imilton's 
 mother was well away from Gleniarne ; the (;ld house 
 iiad fallen very low. 'I'ite Kenyons were still at Tlie 
 Linn; Lady Hamilton had not again troubled the 
 snhoobhouse with her presence, and though being so 
 nar Glentarne, the brother avfd sister had never 
 happened to encounter lier. That year the winter 
 was severe and protracted ; it was late in March 
 belore the last snow-storm disappeared under the hrst 
 breath of Spring. But April was a glorious month, 
 and ere it closed, wood and meadow were clothed 
 with the delicate freshness of the loveliest season of 
 the year. Though busy with jhe seed-time, Jamie 
 Duncan found time and opportunity of seeing Li.'zie 
 Falconer ofiener ti:an he had ever done befor-i. 
 Taking his wife's advice, John Falconer never again 
 mentioned Jamie Duncan's name to his daughter, and 
 he was beginning to see that, after all, young people 
 and their love affairs are best left alone. Just before 
 sundown on the first evening in May, the young man 
 
 
 
. ^..^ 
 
 !!■( i 
 
 48 
 
 HAPfV I-OVR. 
 
 I'M 
 
 stepped into the kitchen at Glentnrne Mains. His 
 nigliily visit had become an iiistiiuiion now, and the 
 farmer often said, jokingly, to his wife, that he "wad 
 miss Jamie's crack when Lizzie gaed up tae the Lea 
 Kig." You will perceive that there did not exist a 
 shadow of doubt in his mind regarding her future lot. 
 
 Lizzie was sitting in the window when her lover 
 came in, and she bent her head demurely over her 
 sewing, and answered his greeting in a scarcely 
 audible whisper. He took the seat the farmer offered 
 him, but he seemed absent and pre-occupied, and 
 did not join in the conversation with his usual readi- 
 ness. 
 
 ** It's a bonnie nicht, Lizzie," he said, suddenly, 
 interrupting the farmer in his prophecy regarding the 
 harvest, " wad ye mind gaun oot a bit wi* me ?" 
 
 Lizzie lifted her head, and flashed a glance of her 
 bonnie blue eyes upon his face, and a slight blush 
 rose to her own. But she spoke no word, only sewed 
 on with increased industry. 
 
 " Ay, bairn, gang awa'," said the mother, with a 
 sly glance at her husband. ** Ye hinna been outside 
 the door the day ; but dinna bide ower lang." 
 
 "Very well, niither," replied the young damsel, 
 wonderfully submissive, and without waiting to heai 
 more, she caught up her hac and slipped out, leaving 
 Jamie to follow. 
 
 " It'll be settled the nicht, guidwife," said the 
 farmer, well pleased. " Weel, it's a lang lane that 
 has nae turnin'." 
 
 Whether or not the proverb was aptly applied, it 
 seemed to afford them amusement, for both had a 
 hearty laugh over it. 
 
 Meanwhile the young pair had taken the winding 
 path to the glen, and were walking in unusual and 
 incomprehensible silence. 
 
i 
 
 * ( 
 
 HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 49 
 
 " Leddy Hamilton's brither cam' tae the castle the 
 day," said Lizzie, at length feeling that something 
 must be said to break the embarrassing silence. 
 
 '* Did he?" inquired her comi)anion, without much 
 show of interest. '* Lizzie," he broke otf suddenly, 
 " d'ye mind the day you an' me cam doon tae fish at 
 this very bit, an' you gaed aff hame wi' the Laird and 
 his friend?" 
 
 "Ay, I mind," said Lizzie, absenUy; "it's a long 
 time ago." 
 
 " Lizzie, I was sair angert that nicht, for I lo'ed ye 
 then, 1 think, tho' 1 was only a laddie," said the 
 young rian, half jestingly. *' Ye wadna leave me noo 
 as ye did then, wad ye, Lizzie ? " 
 
 For a moment the saucy eyes full of mischief met 
 his, but they fell beneath his gaze, and she turned 
 away her head to hide the crimson on her face. 
 
 " Lizzie, stand here a meenit," he said to her in 
 low earnest tones, " 1 hae something tae say tae ye 
 the nicht." 
 
 "Say awa* then, and be quick," she said, laugh- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Lizzie, are ye gaun tae be serious wi' me noo ?'* 
 he asked, bending his grave winning eyes upon her 
 face ; " I've waited lang and patiently on ye tae listen 
 tae me as ye promised last sinmier." 
 
 " Weel, is that a', Jamie?" she asked, with a, 
 bewitching glance into his face. " I've heard a' that, 
 an' mair, afore." 
 
 He caught both ner hands and held them fast, and 
 bent his head till she was oblit^ed to look at him. 
 
 " Lizzie, gie me ?y or no the nicht ; if it's tae be * no ' 
 tell me frankly, an I'll bear it like a man, but if ye 
 thnik ye can even care for me, nae maiiter hoo little, 
 tell me the noo, fur I can bear this suspense nae 
 langer." 
 
 D 
 
so 
 
 HAPPY I.OVE. 
 
 mm 
 
 The girl was a born roqmtre. *• Hoo niiirkle o' 
 that's true, Jamie?" she uskcd, (larin;^ly. '-My 
 mither whiles tells me that I can safely believe aboot 
 a third o* what you chaps say tae me." 
 
 At that moment the sharp bark of a dog, followed 
 by u long low whistle, starded them. "There's the 
 laird," said Lizzie, " and my leddy's brither. Jamie, 
 come on name." 
 
 The young man turned his head, and saw Jasper 
 and Ralph Mortimer leisurely approaching, with dinars 
 in their mouths, and a i)ack of doi^s at their heels. 
 
 "Stand here, Lizzie," he said, gently, "an' wait till 
 they ])ass." 
 
 " Very weel." 
 
 She broke a twig from the tree, and bent her eyes 
 upon it, while the gentlemen drew nearer to them. 
 
 "The Hebe I admired so much last time I was 
 here, Hamilton, upon my word!" said Ralph Mortimer 
 to his companion, "and her cavalier too. Have the 
 embryo lovers grown into lovers in earnest. Tlie 
 deuce ! what a beauty she is, — worth coming to this 
 vile place to catch a glimpse of a face like that." 
 
 Jasper Hamilton sneered. 
 
 " You always were a fool about women, Mortimer," 
 he said. " The girl's nothing extra ; she's go.^g to be 
 married I hear. Ah ! good evening, Duncan.'' 
 
 " Guid e'enin*. Sir Jasper," returned the young man, 
 touching his hat, and unconsciously moving in front 
 of Lizzie, chafing at the look of insolent admiration 
 Ralph Mortimer bent upon his darhng's face. 
 
 " Have you forgotten me. Miss Falconer," said 
 Ralph Mortimer, moving nearer to Lizzie ; " I can 
 hardly hope that among so many admirers so un- 
 deserving a one as I should be remembered." 
 
 A coarse laugh broke from Jasper Hamilton's lips, 
 and Jamie Duncan's face grew pale with anger. 
 
HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 5« 
 
 He drew Lizzie's arm within his own, and, not 
 d.irinjj; to trust his voice, he touched his cap a,L;ain to 
 the laird, and led her in an opposite direction. 
 
 " Ye needna hae been in sic a hurry, Jamie," said 
 Lizzie pettishly ; *' ye wasna ceevil t le the laird." 
 
 " Lizzie!" The word was uttered in a tone of such 
 min,:^led sorrow and surprise that it touched her in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 " Will ye no come in, Jamie," she said in the win- 
 ning way she knew so well how to assume. " It's no 
 late yet." 
 
 " Late enough by the time I get hame," he replied 
 coldly. *' I'll see yr tae the door, but nae further." 
 
 She made some gay careless reply, then the two 
 crossed the farmyard in silence, and stopped outside 
 the porch at the kitchen door. 
 
 Duncan held out his hand, saying, in constrained 
 tones, " Guid nicht, Lizzie; it's time ye were in." 
 
 She laid ner hand upon his and looked into his 
 face with a shy tender drooping of her eyelids. 
 
 '• Lizzie ! ye'll drive me mad," he said hoarsely. 
 *' For guid sake gie me some hope or send me awa a' 
 thegither. I canna gang on like this. WuU ye be 
 my wife or no." 
 
 " if ye'll hae me, Jamie," she said. " Could ye no 
 see that 1 lo'ed ye a' the time ?" 
 
 A sudden light of a great joy broke upon the 
 true earnest face as he took his hrst lover's kiss from 
 Lizzie Falconer's lips. 
 
 'i tl 
 
 ^W^f^ 
 
 i r 
 
 i| 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A BliTKR AWAKKNINO. 
 
 JUNE'S loveliest days were fleeting, and still Ralph 
 Mortimer remained at (iieniarne. What kept 
 hini there was known only to himself, and one 
 «/;, other. For the tirst few weeks Jamie Duncan 
 ^as as supremely blest as an accepted lover ought to 
 be. Lizzie did not avoid him now, and slie had 
 given him a shy promise to come to tlu I,ea Rig 
 before the year was out. One evening Lady Hamilton 
 and her brotlicr found themselves alone together in 
 the drawing-room at Glentarne. There were no 
 visitors in the house, and Sir Jasper had not yet left 
 his dressing-room. 
 
 " Ralph," said Lady Hamilton, " Jasper is getting 
 very tired of you." 
 
 '* And so are you, ma chbre," added her brothtfr 
 carelessly. " Well, I am scrry to inconvenience you, 
 but 1 am not tired of you yet. In fact, I've been 
 seriously thinking of staying till the 12th. The moors 
 on this charming domain are really worth going over, 
 and it will save me coming down again." 
 
 "The 1 2th," repealed her ladyship slowly. "That 
 is six weeks hence. Ralph, you cannot mean it ; for 
 you must see plainly that Jasper wants to be rid of 
 you." 
 
 " Bah I what is that to me ; you ought to know by 
 this time, Maud, how little I study Jasper Hamilton's 
 likes or dislikes." 
 
 ■i 
 
A BITTI R AWAKKNINO. 
 
 53 
 
 "You were not wont to be so fond of (r'Tilarne,*' 
 Rai<l my lady with a sm-cr. " Is that girl down at the 
 farm the attraction ? What a fool you arc, Ralph ; 
 she is to be married in the aiitnmn." 
 
 "isshe?" Ralph Mortimer turned to the window, 
 and there was a smile on his lips, a snnle a thonsiind 
 tunes more repellent than his bitterest frown. 'I'herc 
 was a moment's sileiu e. 
 
 '* Have you seen any of the Kenyons?" was her 
 ladyshi|)'s next (juestion. 
 
 "No; but 1 should like to see the fair Sara onr:e 
 auMin," rei)lied her brother hall mockingly, "only I 
 fear she would not acroni me a very flattering 
 reception. Do you remember the iscene in the library 
 at 'I'he Holt, the night Kenyon died. By Jove, what 
 a tragedy cjueen she looked, though she is an 
 insignificant woman on ordmary occasions 1" 
 
 Lady Hamilton shrugged her shoulders. "She can 
 be haughty enough when she likes," 'he said re- 
 niembering how die insigifificant woman had treated 
 her. " Here comes Jasper." Sh(jrtly afterwards Ralph 
 left the house. 
 
 IJghting his cigar, he struck into the wood, and 
 went along the water's edge for about a mile, until he 
 reached a little unfrequented dell, almost hidden by 
 the tall belt of fir and beech trees. Against the trunk 
 of a fallen tree stood a girl's figure, with the face half 
 hidden by a broad sun hat. Ralph Mortimer went 
 close to her, and, pushing back the hat familiarly from 
 the golden head, touched the fair brow with his lips. 
 
 " I am late, lazzie ; but dinner was late, and I 
 could not get out sooner. Have you waited long ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 The word was scarcely audible, and the girl's face 
 grew crimson. Ay, and well it miglit be. 
 
 Returning by the fields from the market at D , 
 
54 
 
 A BITTER AWAKENING. 
 
 Jamie Duncan passed close to the dell, and his dog, sl 
 keen hunter, scented a hare, and scampered through 
 the trees after him, and his master followed him. 
 And something met his eyes which almost made his 
 heart stand still. Was that Lizzie alone there at dusk 
 with Ralph Mortimer? Only a second did he hesitate, 
 as if unable to credit his senses, then he strode through 
 the dell and faced t'aem. 
 
 " What are ye daein' here, Lizzie ?" he asked, never 
 looking at Mortimer, but keeping his stern eyes fixed 
 upon the girl's conscious face. "Tell me the truth." 
 
 But she stood before him mute, and wild passion 
 surged in his heart when he saw the appealing look 
 she cast upon her companion. 
 
 " I met Miss Falconer," said Ralph Mortimer, 
 coolly, recovering himself, "and, of course, stopped 
 to speak to her. I meant to take her safely home ; 
 but I suppose my services will be dispensed with 
 
 now." 
 
 For the first time the young man turned his flasTiing 
 grey eyes upon the coward face. 
 
 " Ralph Mortimer!" he said steadily, "you lie." 
 
 An oath broke from Mortimer's lips, and the terrified 
 girl crept nearer to her lover. 
 
 " This is my promised wife, Ralph Mortimer," he 
 said quietly ; " an' I kenna what brings her here wi* 
 you at this time. Maybe ye can tell. But, mind, if 
 I ever ken o' ye attempin' tae see or speak to her 
 again ye'U feel the weight o* a strong man's airm. 
 Come, Lizzie." 
 
 They left the dell together, she clinging to his arm, 
 not daring to lift her shame-stricken eyes to his white 
 and rigid face. In utter silence they walked home 
 through the sweet summer dusk until they paused, as 
 they had done many times before, outside the ivied 
 porch. 
 
 m 
 
A BITTER AWAKENING. 
 
 55 
 
 " Here, Lizzie," said Jamie Duncan, then, " whaur 
 I've listened tae the sweetest words that ever fell on 
 man's ears, ye'll tell me the mean in* o' what I saw the 
 nicht." 
 
 She leaned against the doorway, weeping helplessly, 
 while he waited in stern, unyielding silence for her 
 answer. 
 
 " Lizzie," he said again. " This is no a thing that 
 can be settled wi' bairn's tears. Tell me the truth, 
 was this the first time ye've met Ralph Mortimer?" 
 
 She shook her head, and hid her tear-stained face in 
 her hands, but he removed them, and keeping them 
 in his own, made her look at him. 
 
 " Tell me the truth," was all he said. 
 
 " I've seen him maybe half a dizzen times or sae at 
 the dell," she said, between her sobs. " But I never 
 will again, though there was no harm in't." He 
 dropped her hands, and turned from her, she had 
 hurt him cruelly. " Half a dizzen times ! Oh, Lizzie, I 
 wad hae trusted ye wi' my very life.'' 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then he held out his 
 hand, and moved to go. 
 
 " I'll see ye the morn, maybe," he said, in a low, 
 tired voice. 
 
 Lizzie went close to him, laying her head upon his 
 breast. He could not repulse her. The golden hair 
 he had so loved to see there, was dearer still than 
 anything else on earth. 
 
 " Guid nicht, Lizzie," he said again. " I wad fain 
 hope yer heart's mine yet, as mine is yours tae the end 
 o' my life." 
 
 Then he gently unclasped her arms, and without 
 another word, or even one backward glance, he went 
 away home. 
 
 Two days later Ralph Mortimer left Glentarne. 
 
 ;\l 4 
 
•i .{■' 
 
 \i 
 
 :imM4 
 
 m 
 
 sumWi 1, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE. 
 
 <( 
 
 CANNA think what's come ower Lizzie thij 
 
 while, Jamie," said Mrs. Falconer. " She's no 
 
 like the same lassie. She's quiet an' douce 
 
 enough noo tae please her faither, but 1 liket 
 
 the bairn better as she was." 
 
 Although Lizzie had been assured of her lover's 
 free and full forgiveness, he could not forget how 
 sorely his faith had been tried. A new element had 
 crept into his passionate love, a jealous fear \v'hich 
 gave him rest neither night nor day. It was his one 
 hope to be able to call her wife before Ralph Mortimer 
 came again to JStrathlinn, but it was not to be. 
 
 The weeks sped, and she would give him no de- 
 finite promise, and September's earliest days brought 
 Ralph Mortimer back to Scotland. Ostensibly for 
 the shooting, but in reality he was planning his revenge 
 on the fearless young farmer who had called him a 
 liar to his face. He had not forgotten, either, that 
 summer evening in the dell. No, Ralph Mortimer 
 was not the man to forget or forgive a real or fancied 
 injury. 
 
 It was the middle of October before the harvest was 
 ingathered about The Linn. The last sheaf on The 
 Mains was led into the stackyard on a Tuesday after- 
 noon, and it was Joan Falconer's yearly custom to 
 entertain his workpeople to su{)per at the conclusion 
 of the harvest. So that day, as usual, the granary was 
 
 ii 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE. 
 
 57 
 
 cleared, and a long table, stretching from end to end, 
 groaned beneath the weight of good clieer the farmer's 
 wife provided for the guests. If her hands and her 
 bead had not been so busily occupied she could not 
 have failed to notice the strange unrest which seemed 
 to possess Lizzie that day, but she did notice how 
 eager the girl was to assist with the preparations ; she 
 seemed to dread being left a moment idle. About 
 seven Jamie Duncan came over to The Mains anxious 
 for a talk with her. But she avoided him, pleading 
 that she had to wait on the guests. So he stood 
 within the barn door, watching the dainty fii^ure 
 flitting to and fro, and the busy hands helping those 
 seated at the table. Lover's eyes are sharp and critical, 
 and he noticed in a moment the unusual simplicity of 
 her attire. He knew she loved gay dresses, and 
 bright ribbons, but to-night she wore a dark closely 
 fitting robe, relieved only by a plain linen collar and 
 cuffs. There was none of the fanciful adornments she 
 usually wore, even her hair ribbon was discarded, and 
 the rich golden waves were coiled simply behind the 
 shapely head. Her face was pale, and her eyes 
 avoided his; perhaps she feared he would see the mist 
 of unshed tears marring their brightness. 
 
 It was nearly ten when the party broke up, and when 
 they were all gone, Lizzie threw a shawl over her head, 
 and went to the door to bid her lover good-night. 
 
 She took his arm, saying, in a low voice, that she 
 would go with him to the farm yard. And when they 
 paused there, and she turned her face to the light of 
 the harvest moon, he saw that it was as white as the 
 collar at her throat. Her eyes were gleaming with a 
 strange brilliancy, and she clasped her hands together 
 to still their trembling. 
 
 " Lizzie," he said very tenderly, " Are ye well 
 
 enouj^h ; 
 
 1 never saw ye look as ilL" 
 
58 
 
 THE NIGHT DEFOKE. 
 
 " Yes, yes, well enough," she said hurriedly, " only 
 tired." 
 
 " Weel, I'll no keep ye standin'," he said ; but she 
 leaned against the gate as if slie did not care to go 
 yet." 
 
 ** Lizzie," he said then, "Will ye tell me the niclit 
 when ye'll be my wife, I'm weary waitin", and as ye 
 ken the Lea Rig's been ready for its mistress lor 
 months." 
 
 She shivered, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " Dinna ask me the nicht, Jamie ; this nicht o' a' 
 nichts, dinna speak o' that if ye lo'e me." 
 
 He went very close to her, and took her hands from 
 her face, sorely puzzled to understand her. 
 
 " Ye're no weel, Lizzie, 1 can see ; lassie, ye're as 
 white's a ghost. I'll no bother ye the niclit, but niiiid 
 ye'll hae tae answer sune/' 
 
 She laid her slim hand on his broad shoulder, and 
 looked into his lace with a great wistfiilness m her own. 
 
 "Jamie," she said, "d'ye ioe me as much as ever? " 
 
 He passed his arm round the slender rigure, and 
 drew the golden head to his breast. " As much as 
 ever, Lizzie," he repeated, with passionate tenderness. 
 " Sae much that I behev« it wad kill me tae lose ye 
 noo. Mind, ye're a* I hae on earth." 
 
 She dared not stay there ; she dared not listen to 
 the words coming from the depths of the truest heart 
 man ever gave to woman. She drew back from him 
 sobbing, " Send me away, Jamie ! send me away ! 
 I'm no worth sae much love ; I wish ye didna care for 
 me. I was never tit to be a wife tae a man like you." 
 
 " My darhng, ye're worn out," he said, gently. " Say 
 guid nicht, an' no be gettin' sic fancies intae yer heid. 
 Please God, when ye're my wife, ye'll be the happiest 
 woman in the warld ; there'll no be a care come near 
 ye, Lizzie, if I can help it ava'." 
 
 'Jl 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE. 
 
 59 
 
 " D'ye think ye wad care for me through a', Jamie ; 
 wad naething turn ye against me ? " 
 
 " Listen, Lizzie," he said, almost solemnly, *' I've 
 telt ye afore that ye're dearer tae me than ony thin^ 
 else on earth. My love canna change. It's stronger 
 than death. Noo gang in, an* let me see ye wi' the 
 auld roses on yer cheeks the morn 3 I likena that whiie 
 face." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her, not seeing how white 
 and still was the face so near his own. She turned 
 away from him, and he watched her till she reached 
 the ivied doorway. 
 
 I 
 
 i i 
 
 «l 
 
ii 
 
 lj'li$ 
 
 , 
 
 I ai; iffilH' iG 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 
 
 EXT morning a terrible rumour was abroad in 
 The Linn. It was whispered with bated 
 breath that during the night Lizzie Falconer, 
 the Pride of The Linn, had left her home with 
 Lady Hamilton's brother. One of the plouuhmen at 
 The Mains brought the news as he passed through the 
 village with his cart before seven o'clock. Between 
 nine and ten Jamie Duncan rode into the village, as 
 he did every morniLg for his letters. On his way 
 down he drew rein a moment to talk to Miss Kenyon, 
 who was busy among her flowers, and he thought her 
 manner never had been so odd. When he left her 
 she stood watching the handsome manly figure, which 
 looked its best on horseback, and a broken prayer 
 fell from her lips. 
 
 " Lord, help him to bear it." 
 
 He wondered why the people looked at him so 
 curiously, and directly he went down the street he 
 saw that something unusual seemed to occupy the 
 attention of the villagers. The women had left their 
 morning work to discuss the news, and down at the 
 inn door there was quite a gathering. 
 
 Jamie, having some business with the blacksmith, 
 went leisurely down the street by his horse's side, 
 reading as he went. Sandy was leaning against the 
 door of the forge, his brawny arms folded, and the 
 inevitable black pipe in his mouth, listening to the 
 
THE DAY AFTF.R. 
 
 01 
 
 talk of the women, and occasionally venturing to put 
 in a word. But a husli fell upon thoni when the young 
 firmer came up, and he looked from one to another, 
 again amazed at the curious compassion in their faces. 
 
 " There's surely a stir in The Linn this niornin;^, 
 Sandy," he said carelessly. " What's the best o' the 
 news." 
 
 " Hae ye no heard," inquired the smith staring at 
 him; "but I needna ask, if ye kent ye wadna be 
 fipeirin'. Indeed if ye kent ye wadna be here ava." 
 
 " What is't, Sandy ?" 
 
 " The weemin'll tell ye," said Sandy, slipping into 
 the forge to escape the task his easy mind had no wish 
 to undertake, and, with a sudden indefinable fear at 
 his heart, Jamie turned to the group at the inn door, 
 and repeated his question. But they were also dumb. 
 
 " Will ye come in a meenit, Jamie," said Mrs. Scott 
 at length, her motherly face full of pity ; " I want tae 
 speak tae ye." 
 
 Jock Irvine took his horse's bridle, and the young 
 man followed the landlady into her own little parlour 
 at the back. She shut the door before she uttered a 
 word. 
 
 " I'll be better tae tell ye here, awa' frae a' the een," 
 she said. " Jamie, my man, Lizzie Falconer's awa' 
 wi' Ralph Mortimer." 
 
 For one moment he looked at her incredulously, 
 and then as the full realization of her words came 
 home to him, the whiteness of death overspread his 
 face, and he clutched at the back of a chair for 
 sui)port. 
 
 '* Is this kent for certain, Mrs. Scott?" he said, after 
 a while, in a voice which the widow never forgot. " Is 
 there nae doot ?" 
 
 "Nane; her faither an' mither are maistly mad. 
 I'm telt it wasna a thing onybody expeckit. We 
 
63 
 
 THK DAY AFTER. 
 
 il^ 
 
 Hidna ken she had even spoken tae the man. Jamie, 
 my lad, I kent yer nmlier wed; my heart's sair for ye." 
 
 He heard the kindly words, and saw the pitiful 
 tears in the widow's eyes, but at that moment he had 
 no power to answer her. All feeling and sensation 
 seemed dead ; he stood looking through the window 
 into the stable yard like one in a dream. 
 
 '• 1 think I'll gang up tae the Mains," he said, "and 
 hear aboot it ; it's maybe no true." 
 
 He spoke with some difficulty, and a slight shiver 
 ran through the stalwart figure as if he felt a sudden 
 chill. 
 
 Mrs. Scott opened the door, with her apron to her 
 eyes, and Jamie Duncan passed out into the clear 
 Uctol)t;r sunlight with the very blackness of midnight 
 in his heart He mounted his horse, and rode slowly 
 ^^ith his head bent upon his breast. Sarah Kenyon 
 saw him coming, and she opened the gate, and stood 
 la the road waiting for him. But when he stopped, 
 she uttered no word of sympathy ; only looking into 
 his haggard face with her pitying eyes, she said — 
 
 " When you have been up to the farm and learn the 
 particulars, Mr. Duncan, come back to me; there is 
 something I can tell you." 
 
 " Very well, Miss Kenyon," he answered. He did 
 not even feel surprised at her words, but they roused 
 some sudden energy in his heart, for he dug his spurs 
 into the mare's glossy sides, and flew off like an arrow. 
 Five minutes brought him to The Mains. Springing 
 to the ground, he pushed open the kitchen door, and 
 stood a moment on the threshold unobserved. If 
 there had been a lingering hope in his mind, it was 
 dispelled now, for there was an awful look of desola- 
 tion about the familiar place. The blackened fire, 
 the half-closed shutters at the window, the unnatural 
 stillness reigning in the house told of the blow which 
 
THE DAY AFTI R. 
 
 63 
 
 had fallen upon its inmates. And at the taMe, with 
 his arms flung across it, and the poor old wtuit. head 
 lying low upon them, sat John Falconer, and the iron 
 had entered into his soul. 
 
 He seemed to know intuitively who was at the door, 
 for he pushed back his chair, and turned to the young 
 man with a hard set expression on his rugged (ace. 
 
 "Jamie, my man," he said, "1 caniia Icuk upon 
 yer lace this mornin* for very shame ; ye've been 
 waur treated than even me, by her that was my 
 dochter. But, lad, it was nae blame o' mine nor her 
 miiher's, we kent nought about ii till six o'clock this 
 morning." He paused, but Jamie's eyes upon his 
 face asked for more. 
 
 " Her mither gaed tae wauken her, as she aye does, 
 an' syne cam doon, but wonderin' what way she was 
 sae lang o' comin' doon, she gaed up again, and fund 
 that the bed hadna been sleepit in, and there was a 
 letter tae you. She opened it and read it. I heaid 
 her scream, an' when 1 gaed up tae see, she was lyin* 
 on the flure insensible. She's *' 
 
 "The letter," said Jamie Duncan. " Let's see it.** 
 
 The old man took a crumpled piece of paper from 
 his pocket, and Jamie went into the sunshine 10 read 
 it. This was all : — 
 
 " When you get this I shall be far away from you 
 and from The Linn for ever, for Ralj)h Mortimer has 
 promised to make me his wile. I loved you, Jamie, 
 but never so madly as I do the man for whom I am 
 leaving all ; and he will make a lady of me, as I have 
 always wanted to be. I could not have been happy 
 at Lea Rig, for 1 always wanted to be something 
 grander than a farmer's wife. 1 should have been 
 discontented, and made you unhappy. Forget me if 
 you can, and, if not, try to thmk kindly of me for the 
 
64 
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 
 
 II : 
 
 sake of what I used to be in the old days when we 
 ])Iayed together. And, oh, Jamie, try and comfort 
 my father and mother, and tell them that I hoi)e to 
 come back to them a lady to be forgiven for what I 
 have done. Good-bye, good bye, my last tears are 
 for you, for I know your true heart; I never was 
 wortiiy of its love. «« i^izzie." 
 
 Jamie Duncan folded up the paper, and put it in 
 his pocket, then he turned to the old man with an 
 iron resolution in his haggard face. " Mr. Falconer," 
 he said, " Lizzie was my promised wife, and though 
 she's lost tae me for ever, I've the best richt yet tae 
 see whether that black-hearted villain (I daurna let 
 his name upon my lips) has keepit his promise. If she 
 be a truly wedded wife, well and guid, I'll come hanie 
 and say nae mair, but if he has failed, he'll answer for 
 it tae me, and the Lord help me then tae keep my 
 hands aff him." 
 
 ** Jamie," said the old man with a great huskiness 
 in his voice. " Let it a-be. She's no worth the trouble 
 noo, an' she richly deserves tae be punished for her 
 sin. Let it a-be." 
 
 *' I couldna rest, no kennin' whaur she is, an* how 
 it is wi' her," said the young man in a low, hoarse 
 voice. " I'm gaun frae The Linn this very nicht. 
 Ye'll gie a look tae the Lea Rig till I come back." 
 
 " But, Jamie, ye dinna ken whaur they may be. 
 Ye micht wander for ever an* no find them." 
 
 *' '1 hey canna be far awa, yet," said the young man, 
 moving to the mare's side. " As sure as I stand here, 
 I'll meet Ralph Mortimer face tae face afore the week's 
 gane, an' bring back news o' Lizzie, guid or bad." 
 
 " An* whaur are ye gaun the noo," enquired the 
 old man, laying a trembling hand on the bridle, as 
 Jamie sprang to the saddle. 
 
TIIK DAY AKTKR. 
 
 65 
 
 :ht. 
 
 "Tae Miss Kenyon's first, an' svne tae the laird's, 
 an' then tae the station," and wiihout anoilier word 
 he rode off. 
 
 In the window of her sittin,L,'-room stood Sara 
 Kcnyon waitui;^ for Jamie Duncan. Christopher had 
 ^one to school more lluin an hour before, but the 
 breakfast things still stood u|)on the table. Miss 
 Kenyon's thoughts were far from household duties at 
 that moment. When the young man again drew rein 
 at the gate, she o|)ened the door and motioned him 
 to come in. Fastening the bridle to the gate-post, he 
 obeyed her, and she led him into the silting-n jm and 
 shut the door. Then briefly in answer to her ques- 
 tions, he repeated what he had learned at the fann. 
 
 "Wrll you let me see the letter, Mr. Duncan?" she 
 asked. ** It is no idle curiosity wliich makes me wish 
 to learn everything here." Looking with that pale 
 patient face, lit up by the clear steadfast eyes, he 
 knew that he could trust this woman with life itself, 
 and took from his pocket-book the poor crumpled 
 piece of paper and handed it to her without a moment's 
 hesitation. A great pity filled her eyes as she read 
 the blotted, unsteady lines, and her voice shook a 
 little when she spoke. 
 
 " Do you intend to seek them,'* she asked. 
 
 "Ay, I'm gaun frae The Linn this very nicht, 
 Miss Kenyon," he said in his clear resolute voic*.. 
 *• I've only tae gang tae the laird's an' spier for Ralph 
 Mortimer's address." 
 
 Miss Kenyon took two turns up and down the floor, 
 and then faced him, leaning one hand upon the table. 
 " Perhaps you have wondered why I asked you to 
 come here, and why I wished to know every particular. 
 Let me tell you. Years ago, before we came to 
 Linn, Ralph Mortimer ruined my father, and even 
 caused his death." 
 
 LUi 
 
66 
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 
 
 The stendy voice faltered as if some awful memory 
 
 swept across her heart. 
 
 " I know him well, Mr. Duncan, none better, and 
 you may tear the very worst. Poor Lizzie ; she says 
 here that he has promised to make her his wile, but 
 never was a promise so utterly false. He will bre.ik 
 her he;ut and cast her from him like a broken toy. 
 If you can see her, and persuade her to come home, 
 she will live to thank you all her life. Tell her 1 said 
 it, who know that Ralph Mortimer is wicked and 
 heartless to the core." The young man sprang to his 
 feet ^s if grudging every monjent which kept him 
 from his purixise. 
 
 '• There will be no need for you to go to Sir Jaspei 
 Hamilton or his wife," said Miss Kenyon, " 1 can 
 tell you where you will fmd them. Go fust to The 
 Holt, Wesldeane, Kent; the place belongs to Ralph 
 Mortimer, and if they are not there, you will learn 
 his whereabouts at the Garden Club, Hortoii Street, 
 in London." 
 
 In silence Jamie Duncan noted the addresses. 
 Then he held out his hand to her, his firm under lip 
 quivering as he tried to thank her. 
 
 She laid her gentle hand on his tall shoulder, and 
 all her great womanly pity shone in her face when 
 she spoke. " I am a woman who has suffered much, 
 Mr. Duncan, and I know the agony you endure to-day. 
 My heart and prayers go with you in your journey, 
 and God give you strength to bear what has come 
 already, and what may come in the future. You will 
 come to me when you return to Strathlinn ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 The words fell brokenly from his lips, and with a 
 grasp of her hand which spoke volumes, he hurried 
 Irom her presence. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SARA KENYON's STORY. 
 
 fHAT day there was no rest for Sara Kenyon. 
 Feeling as if the little house could not hold 
 ^^^ her, she put on her bonnet immediately afu r 
 y^ dinner and went up the long hilly road to Cluny. 
 And, to Mrs. Forbes' surprise and delight, she walked 
 into the drawing-room shortly after three o'clock. 
 The Doctor's young wife had grown older and more 
 matronly looking, but the cares of wifeliood and 
 motherhood had not dimmed the sunshine on the 
 sweet face. Two children had been born to her — a 
 boy and girl; the latter, the elder of the two, bore 
 Sara Kenyon's name. The son and heir was just 
 beginning to toddle on his own sturdy little legs, and 
 when her visitor was announced, mother was coaxing 
 him with sugar plums to come to her from the end of 
 the long room. She sprang to her, and kissed her 
 with her usual impulsive affection. 
 
 " Sara! what an unexpected pleasure. You walked 
 up, of course ? " 
 
 "Yes, I walked," replied Miss Kenyon, abruptly. 
 " I have come to tell you a long story, Mary ; have 
 you time to listen ?" 
 
 " Yes ; shall I send the children away ? " 
 
 "No, let them stay," returned Miss Kenyon, in the 
 same abrupt way. " You have heard about poor 
 Lizzie Falconer, I suppose?" she said, suddenly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Forbes, very gravely. " John 
 
68 
 
 SARA KENYON S STORY. 
 
 was at the farm this forenoon ; her mother is very ill. 
 It is a terrible affair." 
 
 "This is my birthday, Mary," said Miss Kenyon, 
 in the abrupt sudden manner so unusual to her ; " I 
 am thirty-one to-day. My father was the second son 
 of Squire Kenyon of The Holt, an old and impover- 
 ished estate in one of the sunniest- spots in Kent. 
 Bit by bit the spendthrift Kenyons had lessened their 
 inheritance, until, when my father entered into 
 possession on the sudden death of his elder brothe;, 
 The Holt was little more than a name. I don't 
 thin:^ there were more than fifty acres of land together 
 with the house and policies. My mother died when 
 1 was very young, and though my heart was breaking 
 for her loss, there came a time when I was unspeak- 
 ably thankful that she was at rest before the worst 
 came. You have known only good men in your 
 happy life, Mary, so I hardly think I can make you 
 well understand what my father was. From the 
 beginning he was taught that because he was a Kenyon 
 of The Holt, all honest work was beneath him. Idle- 
 ness was his ruin. I never saw The Holt until we 
 went to live there, after it passed into my father's 
 hands, when I was ten years old. Christopher was 
 thirteen then, a quiet, studious boy, perfectly content 
 and happy if allowed to live among books. He had no 
 interest or care beyond his studies. I sometimes 
 think if it had been otherwise — but that is a needless 
 thought. Kit and I were almost entirely left alone. 
 I don't think my father ever spent more than three 
 months in the year at The Holt. He lived abroad 
 and in London. When I grew older I learned why it 
 was so. Sometimes money was plentiful in the house, 
 and at other times our solitary domestic could scarcely 
 procure us the necessaries of life. She had grown 
 grey in the service of the Kenyons, and would, I 
 
SARA KENYONS STORY. 
 
 69 
 
 believe, have laid down her life willingly any day for 
 us. I used to look forward with childish pleasure to 
 the time when my father came home, for he brought 
 liis friends with him, and the house was gay and 
 merrv. But Kit used to dread it. He had a little 
 den up in the tower looking to the West. What a place 
 it was I and I think he lived there almost while my 
 father remained at home." 
 
 Sara Kenyon paused a moment, and turned her 
 eyes to the window. 
 
 " When I was fifteen," she resumed, " our faithful 
 servant died, and it seemed to me that that was the 
 beginning of my trouble. The household care rested 
 on my shoulders, and my only help was a hired girl 
 from the neighbouring village. You can imagine how 
 the old house was kept. Old Bright told me before 
 she died, that my father lived on what he won at the 
 gaming table. 1 could not fully realise what that 
 meant then, but still it gave me a shock, and her last 
 words filled me with a strange sense of uneasiness. 
 
 " * Miss Sara,' she said. *Take care of yourself when 
 I be gone, and keep close to your brother. And 
 when the Squire comes down, keep yourself away from 
 the folk he brings with him. Oh, Miss Sara, dear, 
 they'll never do ye any good.' 
 
 " I promised her through my tears to do her bid- 
 ding, and during the years that followed, I tried my 
 best, but it was impossible to keep my promise always. 
 I cannot remember the time when 1 did not love my 
 father with my whole heart. He was always kind to 
 me, whatever may have been his treatment of others, 
 and though, by-and-by, I saw and shrank from many 
 traits in his character, my love did not diminish, only 
 a great pity mingled with it. I was little more than 
 seventeen, I think, when I first saw Ralph Mortimer 
 and his sister, now Sir Jasper Hamilton's wife. They 
 
I 
 
 I 
 'I 
 
 70 
 
 SARA KENYONS STORY. 
 
 
 came with my father to The Holt one Cliristmas time, 
 and stayed vviih us nearly a month. 1 was a yount; 
 inexperienced girl, Mary, who had never had a girl 
 hiend in her life, and un the first day Maud Mortimer 
 came to The Holt I fell down and worshii)pe(l her. 
 She was so gay, so gracious, and so beautiful, that in 
 my simplicity I thought there was not her equal in the 
 world. But from the first I shrank with unutterable 
 dislike from her brother. I tried to overcome it, fur 
 1 saw that my father wished me to be amiable to him, 
 but the attention he lavished on me only increased 
 my aversion to him. Maud told me then with a little 
 pitiful air, that she and dear Rali)h v-ere orphans, and 
 that the dear squire had been almost a father to them 
 both, and could not be hapj^y until he had introduced 
 us to his littie girl. Christopher was of no account, 
 Mary. I used to wonder if my father had forgotten 
 his existence, so utterly did he ignore him. While 
 the Mortimers were with us, he was offered a tutorship 
 from a friend of our mother's in Cumberland, and I 
 was left alone. It was then I felt how utterly alone 
 I was and how dependent on myself. My father and 
 Maud Mortimer often hinted at Ralph's growing 
 attachment to rne, and I could see it plainly enough, 
 but there was something about him which made me 
 shiver. He had some influence over my father; he 
 was growing old you see, and was weaker than 
 he used to be ; and his way of living aged him before 
 his time. Before Ralph Mortimer left The Holt he 
 asked me to be his wife. 1 refused as kindly as I 
 could, though I don't think I concealed all the dislike 
 I felt. There was another reason, Mary, I — I — 
 cared for some one else. We were parted scarcely 
 hoping to meet again, but my heart had gone with him. 
 If I might not be his wife, I could be none other's. 
 My father came to me and spoke more angrily than 
 
 |iii 
 
w 
 
 SARA KENYON S STORY. 
 
 7' 
 
 he had ever done before. He told me Ralph would 
 make nu! a ;j;ood hiishniid, that lie was a geivUnian's 
 soil, and would be able to give me a belter ])().siuon 
 than 1 had occupied; but, Mary, not a wurd of 
 this was true. The case was that he was deejily 
 indebted to Mortimer, who had promised to absolve 
 him on condition that I became his wife. lietween 
 them they had sold me, but all my pride rose up in 
 arms, and with a firmness 1 had never fell, much less 
 shown before, I decH ned to become a ])arty to it, 
 even though the selling of The Holt shc^uld be the 
 result. 1 pass over the scenes which followed ; one 
 was but a repetit-i-i of the other That spring I saw 
 the worst side of my father's character, and vvlim they 
 left early in the summer 1 experienced an uiis|jeakable 
 sense of thankfulness. In the aulumn, Christopher 
 came home for his month's holid.iv, belore goiiv^ 
 abroad for the winter with his pupil. VV^e had 
 a quiet time of peaceful happiness, die last we 
 were ever to enjoy at The Holt. I told him all 
 my troubles, and he talked in his gentle way of the 
 time when he and 1 should be in a liitle home of our 
 own, not dreaming what was to lead to the making of 
 that home, nor where it was to be. It was the end of 
 September when he went away, and I clung to him 
 at the last with a forlorn sense of desolation in my 
 heart and a strange sense of coming evil. A month 
 later my father came home accompanied, as he had 
 been before, by Ralph Mortimer and liis sister. My 
 father looked worn and ill, and he seemed moody and 
 irritable, and there M'as a certain crini^ing in his manner 
 to the Mortimers which I did not like to see. They 
 were changed also. Maud's manner to me was 
 haughty and condescending, while her brother as- 
 sumed an air of patronising familiarity which to me 
 was infinitely humiliating. To be my father's guests, 
 
 J ill 
 
.*< 
 
 7» 
 
 SARA KENYON S STORY. 
 
 their beh.iviour was very odd. A few tinromfortable 
 day."5 (lra[jg(.'d themselves slowly away. I was wonder- 
 ing with a kin'^ of desperation how I was to endure 
 weeks of the same ; but a great rliange was at hand, 
 l.ate one still November ahentoon the Mortimers 
 were out somewhere, and vre were left alone in the 
 house. I found my father in the library, silting with 
 his face buried in his hands. I went to him, my 
 heart full of yearning love, and k, leeling beside him 
 asked him to tell me what his trouble was, anti above 
 all why he was obhged to tolerate the Mortimers at 
 The Holt. We might be so jiai)|)y together, I saiit, 
 if he would come and live quietly at home with 
 me. 
 
 "'My child,* he said, taking both my hands in his 
 trembling ones, * you don't understand. There can 
 never be any more hripi)iness for me; my sins are 
 visited on my head to-day.' 
 
 " He told me then what made my heart grow sick 
 within me in its despair. It seems that some yeiirs 
 before he had been guilty of some crime punishable 
 by law. He did not tell me what it was and 1 never 
 learned afterwards; but Ralph Mortimer knew it, and 
 this was the hold he had upon him. Do you see, 
 Mary, my father had to buy his silence. ' It was he 
 who first put the ihoughi into my head, Sara,' he 
 said. ' For I was in difheulties at tlie time and could 
 not see a way to extricate myself, and then when I 
 had done it he turned upon me and asked a price for 
 his silence. Until now I have been able to meet his 
 demands witli money; but this time The Holt has 
 passed into his hands. Sara, you and I arc only 
 guests in our old home, liable to be sent away at any 
 time by its new owner.' 1 hid my face, Mary, feeling 
 as if no other sorrow could ecpial this one in depth, 
 but I was mistaken. My poor lather lifted my head 
 
SARA KKNYONS STORY. 
 
 73 
 
 and looked into my eyes with a long, long look. If 
 he h;ul sinned he liad also siitfered, lor his face was 
 pinched and drawn, and there were deep ploughhncs 
 on his brow. 
 
 "*My poor little girl,' he murmured brokenly. 
 'Look at me. Sara, with your mudicr's eyes, and icll 
 me that you forgive me for all i have been and tiune 
 in the past.' 
 
 " I crept closer to his side, and laid my head on 
 his breast, and for a long time there was nodiing said. 
 Then 1 heard the Mortmier-. returning, and springini^ 
 up I left my father with a hasiy kiss, and iuirried to 
 my own room. The one wild thought in my heart 
 was to get away from The Holt, away from the pre- 
 sence of the people I felt as if 1 could never face 
 again. I had locked my door, and when in passing 
 to her own room Maud Mortimer tried to enter mine, 
 I told her to leave me in pence for a moment. [ 
 threw open the window and knelt there, but the chill 
 November air could not cool the fever on my brow, 
 nor soothe the aching pain at my heart. It might be 
 half an hour afterwards, an awful report rang thi jugh 
 the house. I sprang up, and with lightning step. Hew 
 to the library. Ralph Mortimer was there and Maud, 
 and, and ." 
 
 Miss Kenyon paused, shuddering, and pressed her 
 hand to her eyes, as if some terrible picture rose up 
 before them. 
 
 " My lather had shot himself through the heart, 
 and he lay with his face downwards, and when they 
 raised him there was the snadow of a smile on his 
 white lips, as if death had been very welcome. I 
 turned upon the brother and sister, some awlul impulse 
 [)rompling me to speak. 1 don't remember if I would 
 what I said, but I know they quailed beneath my 
 ^cadiing words. What followed, I remember only 
 
74 
 
 SARA KENYON S STORY. 
 
 dimly. A great commotion in the house, and Chris- 
 topher coming home, and then the funeral. During 
 these dreary days the Mortimers — especially Maud — • 
 treated us with a heartlessness 1 have never forgotten. 
 They s])ared no effort to make us feel our position 
 more acutely; and we were both very thankful to turn 
 our backs on The Holt for ever, and hide ourselves 
 in London. But Ralph Mortimer sought us out, and 
 made my Ufe a misery to me with his attentions and 
 h: .^ft i-jated request that I would go back to The 
 Hoh't -^nc only difference being that I should be his 
 wife ' i 1. 3t. weary and sick, we bethought ourselves 
 to leave Er; nd and seek shelter in some far off 
 corner, free from all association with the past. So we 
 came here, but even in this place, we have come in 
 contact with those we avoided. You can understand 
 now, why I refused Lady Hamilton admittance when 
 she came. It was another proof of her heartlessness 
 to intrude upon us, for she had treated me very 
 cruelly." 
 
 Miss Kenyon paused abruptly, and leaned her head 
 on her hands. " During all the years, Mary," she 
 said, after a while, " I've been happy in your never- 
 failing kindness. You have been a true friend. You 
 knew nothing of our past, yet you gave me your 
 friendship without a question or a doubi." 
 
 " Hush ! " said the young wife, tears of pity and 
 sympathy in her bright eyes. '* To know you was to 
 trust you. My poor Sara, how you have suffered !" 
 
 " It is past now, but the memory remains," returned 
 Miss Kenyon wearily. " At times its bitterness j^'^'ms 
 almost too much for me t*:* bear, yet God has been 
 very good ; I am ashamed sometimes of my want of 
 thankfulness." 
 
 The little blue-eyed fairy who bore Miss Kenyon's 
 name left her play and came to her, looking up into 
 
SARA KENYON's STORY. 
 
 75 
 
 her face with wondering eyes, as if seeking to know 
 why nuimma and aunt Sara looked so sad. 
 
 "Sara Kenyon Forbes," repeated Miss Kenyon, 
 laying a tond hand upon the sunny head. " You 
 ou^ht not to have given her my name, Mary. Would 
 you if you had known?" 
 
 " It is my constant prayer, Sara," returned Mrs. 
 Forbes, laying her hand on Miss Kenyon's shoulder, 
 with a grave, sweet smile on her lips, "that my 
 little girl may grow up as good a woman as the one 
 whi)se name she bears. And when she is older she 
 will learn, as 1 have done, to love and honour you 
 widi all her heart." 
 
 And the little one crept up into Mis. } nyon*s 
 arms, and clasped her hands about her p :k, it she 
 understood and approved of her mother w »rds. 
 
 f'M 
 
tm 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 N the last evenirvj; in Octolier, tbe London train 
 <liie at Westdearuf was twenty inidiitcs late, and 
 only broii;,'ht a sihliIc |)as>i'nger to the i>Iace — 
 a youn^ ni.in. i.iU and broad-shouldered, who 
 •asked the porter whore he could find a night's lodging;. 
 The man directed Inni to the little inn across the wny, 
 and the stranger asked there if he could have some 
 tea and a bed for the night. The landlady rec|uestt(i 
 him to step into the cosy parlour, and proceeded to 
 set the table with a cheerful alacrity very pleasant 
 to see. 
 
 " Will you please tell me, ma'am," he said at length, 
 "whether or no there's anybody at The Holt the 
 now ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Mr. Mortimer and his young wife are 
 here. They came the other day, and took us all by 
 surprise. Do you know them, sir ?" 
 
 " They are living at The Holt, then," said the 
 stranger. " Is it far from here ?" 
 
 "Bless you, sir, no; only a mile — scarcely that," 
 said the woman. " What a beautiful creature Mr. 
 Mortimer's wife is ; but nobody knows where she 
 comes from ; even the servants did not expect them. 
 The marriage seems to be so sudden, though I don't 
 know, either. Mr. Mortimer was always a strange 
 gentleman ; it is not long since he got The Holt — ■ 
 
 
PACE TO FACK. 
 
 77 
 
 after poor Squire Kcnyon's time. You will know the 
 sad siory of his ilcMlli." 
 
 The stranger shook his head. 
 
 "Will ye tell me the road to The Holt?" he asked, 
 ri'^ing, and movinj; to the door. *' 1 think 1*11 walk as 
 far; it's a fine night." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," said the brisk little woman. 
 "It's dark, but the moon should be up by-and bye. 
 You can't miss it, sir. Oo strai.;ht along the road 
 past the station, and you'll come to the gates on the 
 left hand side. There's a lodge, but it's been emi)ty 
 since j)()or Squire Kenyon died ; you'll easily find it. 
 Shall 1 have supper ready when you come home, sir?" 
 
 " No, no, I shall not be long, thank you. Good 
 night just now." 
 
 *'Good night, sir — good night." 
 
 It was very dark, but there was a glimmer of bright- 
 ness on the edge of the cloud, behind which ll e new 
 moon was hidden. The road the straiv rr took was 
 bordered on one side by a low ragged Ik < gc, <^e'virating 
 it from the fields; and, on the other, b) a high stone 
 wall, above which the oak trees reared their sturdy 
 heads. He kept close to the wall, and w...kcd si >\vly, 
 with his head bent, until he reached the ga.es; as he 
 passed through them he strode with quick tirm step up 
 the wide avenue. After the first hundred yards, it 
 took a winding turn, and there he saw a grey mass 
 she.ving against the sky, brightened here and there bv 
 a lighted window. It was The Holt, and it held 
 Lizzie. That was the one thought in the stranger's 
 mind, and a mad impulse prompted him to enter it, 
 and take her thence away back to the home she had 
 left. He stepped from the gravel, and crossed the 
 lawn, until he was close to the house. Two windows 
 on the ground flat were brillianily lighted, and the 
 blinds only partially drawn. And this was what the 
 
»• 
 
 FA( K H) KA( K, 
 
 H I 
 
 str.in<:rr s.'uv -A lur^c nv>m, <liii',v .iiid sombre ii) iti 
 tiiii)islui)t;s, aixl a liic Itiiiiiiiii; ,il tlu* l.ir ( n*l, and a 
 wtinin's limine on a low ( han at tlic luaiih. Ilcr 
 l>a« k was to Www, Imt ihcsc slender shoulders were 
 laz/ie's, that was the m»Mcn In ad ihu had lain so 
 olicii on his breast, lie stood |>erlt« dy siill. restrain 
 inj; with an iron hand the thonsand nM|iiilsi's boundinL; 
 
 in his h 
 
 Ml ms Heart. I Men anotner ti;;nre sainuen-ii n|) Hie 
 room, a nian's this time, an«l bent l»)w ov«r the (han 
 U|n>n the hearth. And ho saw with what a s»nile her 
 laeo was raised to meet i)is kiss, aiul theie was a l.imi 
 l)lusli upon the lonnded elu'ck. 
 
 '['hen, shivering, the siran;;er turned and went his 
 way. As he passed ihroiiuh the f;ali's onee inoii', 
 the elouds broke overluNul, and a Hood of tremUhiii; 
 uu)onhj;lit shone upon his face. St) white and ri^id 
 was it, that when he returned to the inn, little Miss 
 Tibbets wondered if 'he stranger had seen the ghost 
 ot Squire Ki'n\on up at The Holt. 
 
 The nu>nuni;, tlie lirst ot" No\ember, broke calm, 
 still, and bnnlu. with almost siiinmer mildiu'ss in the 
 air. Miss Tibbets' guest was uj) early. Helore the 
 ]u)uselu)ld was stirring, she heard him walking 
 overheail, and it inereased her conviction that 
 he was troublei? in mind. He breakfasted at 
 nine, ami a liiilc atler ten left the house, and she 
 waiehed that he took the road to The Holt. As lie 
 went again thrtnigh the iron gateway in the stone wall, 
 the clear morning light revealed the desolation within 
 the policies. The a\.iuie was strewn with the leaves 
 ot many autumns, ami the turf, on eiliier side, was 
 overgrown with rank grass and nettles. lOven the 
 wide sweep of gravel in trout of the house was carpeted 
 with weeds. It would be impossible to describe the 
 architecture of the house. 'I'he original mansion had 
 been a square, solid pile, destitute of any attempt at 
 
FACK JO KACK. 
 
 79 
 
 (Icrorntion, hut there IncI Meen a tower added here, 
 niid a win^ there, wine li ^ave it an ixld pK iiire .i|iiir 
 «I»|»e.«r;iinc, hiither «Mih.im ed hy the ivy ol a « eiitur)'H 
 ^iiiwlh, which rre|>t .dMnii every window ,-iiid into 
 t!very crevH c. S.ive lor the ihin line <<t hliie smoke 
 < urhn;^ n|>w.iril to the sky, there was little si^n (1 lilo 
 about '\'\\v. Holt on th;it Novenilxr morning. 
 
 And when the slr.m;;er toM( hetl the knocker, the 
 echo resounded through every < orner ol the (jiiiet 
 lionse. 'I he door w.is opened iiiiiiK di.itely liy a iiiiiid 
 seivant, who stared at the ^c nilnnanly lookin:^ yoiiii;; 
 man, as she waited to learn his business. Lvidcnlly 
 visitors wi-re ran.' Uv The Moll. 
 
 •Man I sec the lady of the house?" in(|uire(l he 
 (juielly. 
 
 ••* \'es ; that is, I'll see, sir. Will you step in, please ? " 
 
 The stranger shook his head. 
 
 "(live me your name then, and I'll take it to my 
 missus," said the ^\r\, slij^luly perplexed. 
 
 lie tore a leaf Iroin his pocket book and scribbled 
 bis name* upon it, and handed it to her. 
 
 She lelt him on the doorsteji, and he saw her ^'O 
 upstairs. She was not two minutes ^one. '* My 
 missus declines to see you, sir," she said, politely but 
 decidedly. 
 
 The stranger did not offer to move. There was 
 somethinj^f very odd about him, the eirl thoii-^dit. lie 
 tore another leaf from his jxx ket book and wrcjte upon 
 it, " For your lather and mother's sake, let me see you 
 for a moment." 
 
 The girl looked dubious, as he asked her to take it 
 to her mistress. lUit she was obliging and went, and 
 did not read the message on her way upstairs. 
 
 J was ten minutes before she returned, with a 
 sealed envelope in her hand. She gave it him, and 
 deliber.itely shut the door in his face, as if acting 
 
!f^ 
 
 80 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 inidcr instruction. But he stood there and read the 
 niess;i:j;e within, in the li;uni\viiting he knew so well, 
 :\nd which had evidently been penned by trembling 
 li niters. 
 
 " I cantwt see you. You are m;id to ask me. Tell 
 my father and mother 1 am married, and that I will 
 write soon. £, ^ »' 
 
 He crushed it in his strong right hand as he had 
 done another cruel message, and strode oft' with his 
 hat drawn over his brows, and renewed bitterness in 
 his soul. He iiad learned the truth, the truth he had 
 hOj)ed for, but why did his heart grow sick within him 
 in its desjxair ? Before him tliere stretched a dreary 
 waste of years, durmg which it would be his task to 
 try to forget. Ah ! friends, when we need it most, 
 the bliss of forgetfulness is far from our reach. 
 
 Just as the stranger n eared the gates, a horseman 
 drew rein there, ami sprang down to open it. The 
 stranger raised his head and their eyes met. Face to 
 face the scoundrel and the true honest heart he had 
 broken. I'here was a moment of intense silence. 
 Then Ralph Mortimer swore a fearful oath. " You 
 cur, what are you domg here ? Get off the place or 
 I'll set my dog to hunt you off; like the sneak you 
 are !" With folded arm.s the stranger stood, looking 
 upon the dark face, crimson with rage, his own pale 
 with the intensity of suppressed passion. 
 
 " Raljjh Mortimer, take care!" he said steadily; 
 **I have sworn to keep my hands oft' you, but 1 may 
 be tem[)ted ! O God !" he broke off with trembling 
 lips, " is this the man who calls my darling wife?" 
 
 "Your darling," sneered Ralph Mortimer, in his 
 brutal triumph. *' Did you think she ever cared for 
 you, She only amused herself with you, and laughed 
 to me over your boorish fondness," 
 
FACE ^3 p^\(>g^ 
 
 8i 
 
 "Ralph Mortimer," said the young man in a low 
 steady voice; "I have said it before and I say it 
 again, you he." ^ 
 
 Mortimer turned contemptuously aside. "Av but 
 I am richly repaid to-day, I would not have missed 
 meeting you here for a hundred guineas. lU.t 
 remember, the next time you impertinently intru.ie 
 J<pon the mistress of The Holt, I shall not be so 
 ement with you. I .ay, don't forget my hint about 
 the dog. You might find him an unpleasant 
 acciuaintance." ^ 
 
 In one moment Jamie Duncan's self-control was 
 flnng to the wm<ls. He caught the whip from 
 Mortimer's hand, and with all the force of his sfron.; 
 right arm, brought it across the dastard face. And 
 Kalph Mortimer carried thu mark of that stroke with 
 him to the grave. 
 
 >^ 
 
it^ 
 
 
 CHArrKR XIV. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE HAMH/IONS. 
 
 ir 
 
 
 
 'WO yonrs nftcr. 
 
 Tiiiie is ;i wondorful physician, l)nt there nre 
 sores wliich even he cannot heal. Ontu.inllv, 
 i/o there was not much change in the iinnates of 
 the farm-house at The Mains, The poor old fallier 
 anil n\other ])uried their grief very dee]), hut the heart 
 knoweth its own bitterness. Beyond what Jamie 
 Duncan had to tell wlien he come home from 
 lM\uland, nolhiuL; had been heard of Li/; ie. 
 
 llcr name was seldom mentioned in the house, 
 but there were a thousand things which daily reminded 
 them of the child they had lost. Little things — the 
 poultry in the farmyard, wailing for her to iced them 
 — the t)ld pony who used to tollow her everywhere, 
 standing at the fence whiimying for the sound of iier 
 voice and the touch o\' her hand— the neglected garden 
 — the emj^ty roi)m — the dreary stillness in the house ; 
 — these things broke the mother's heart every d.iy. 
 And at the end of the years the sorrow was as deep as 
 al the beginning, and more hopeless. We think it is 
 a bitter grief io lay a h)ViHl one m the grave, but there 
 are things worse tlian death. 
 
 At Lea Rig abode Jamie Ouncan in his loneliness. 
 He was changed. His work was well and faithfully 
 done as it IkuI been, and his oj)inion carried weight 
 among liis neighbours, though ♦iiey shook their heads, 
 saying it was not good to see so old a head on young 
 
TIIF, I-ASf OF TIIF. HAMnTONS. 
 
 83 
 
 in 
 vr 
 
 Ml 
 
 ly. 
 
 as 
 
 is 
 
 tre 
 
 It 
 
 s, 
 
 shoulders. At six-nnd-lvventy ho was ,1 ^rnvo, scdatr, 
 nii(l(lle-agc(l man, with a incniorv in Ins li'art which 
 time would never dim. The years passed over The 
 l,imi without l)rin,i;in^ any material ehanL^'e in tlunr 
 tr.un. The gossips were busy, as of yore, but Lizzio 
 Falconer's llii^ht had ^iven place loiit^ since to the 
 ever fresh tales from (llentarne. Jasper Hamilton 
 had added the sin of drunkenness to his other mis- 
 deeds, and he turned the home of his ancestors into a 
 very Hades. His fits of drunken fury were frequent 
 and terrn)le. The servants told lunv my lady was 
 olten obliged to lock herself in her own rooms for 
 days at a time, in absolute fear of her life. Maud 
 MortiuRT had paid dearly for the name <,nd pr)sition 
 she had won. lUit was she huinbled ? Ten times 
 iiaughtier and more scornful than of yore. No child- 
 ren had been born to them, for whi( h, in her far off 
 Sussex home, Jas|)er Hamilton's mother was humbly 
 thankful. A child of such parents would not be 
 likely to do much honour to the house of Hamilton — 
 better, far better, the name should die with her own 
 unworthy son. 
 
 J between ten an(i eleven o'clock on a fair Se|)tember 
 morning, Jasper Hamilton and his wife were idling 
 over their breakfast table. Regally beaut ilul was my 
 lady, and faultless her attire. Not so her husband; 
 careless even to slovenliness in his dress, his figure 
 looked its worst, while the antutnn sunshine lay 
 mercilessly bright upon his effeminate face, with its 
 coarse sensual mouth, and bleared unsteady eyes. 
 
 *' Jasper," said her ladyship, coolly, " 1 don't mean 
 to spend another winter in these backwoods. Next 
 month 1 intend to go to the Continent, returning in 
 the spring." 
 
 " buited! You seem to have it all laid out. And 
 what if 1 object?" incjuired bir Jasper. 
 
■■ Hf f''i 
 
 84 
 
 THK LAST OF THE HAMIT.TONS. 
 
 w 
 
 i v. 
 
 " S(inie ]icop1e never learn," returned lier Indyship 
 cniL;inatic;illy. " Do I generally give U}) my i)leasurc 
 when you express disapproval?" 
 
 *' No," replied her husband with an oath, to which 
 she was too well accustomed to heed; "but I'm going 
 to be^in anew, and make you obey me, madam." 
 
 1-ady Hamilton laughed — the quiet, insulting laugh 
 which nearly drove him mad. 
 
 "'loo late in the day, ///on a//ii" she said carelessly. 
 "You don't make Glentarne so agreeable that I should 
 care to stay in it for ever. Ivook at yourself, Jasper, 
 in the mirror there, and tell mc if you are fit to be 
 seen; if you won't stoj) that horrible drinking, I warn 
 you what the end will be. Doctor Forbes told me 
 yesterday you would not last long at the rate you are 
 going just now." 
 
 " So you have been consulting Forbes as to t1ie 
 probability of your speedy release," he said, snec U!;.;ly. 
 " But rU outwit you and him too, yet. I'm not ready 
 to depart, even to please such disinterested friends." 
 
 " I wonder the letters are never coming," said her 
 ladyship, with a careless yawn. " Eleven o'clock, 
 is'nt it? There ought to be one from Rai|}h, this 
 morning. By the by, I'll need a cheque one of dicj>e 
 days. I've hardly a copj)er left." 
 
 '* Why, I gave you f.wv pounds scarcely a week 
 ago, Maud," £ id her husbr'.id rising from the; table. 
 " And I don't mean to give you another j)cnny for a 
 month at least. You waste more in a month than my 
 mother needed for her own use in a year." 
 
 " Possibly," said her ladyship, rising also. " But 
 there is a slight difference. Another thing too," she 
 added, pausing at the door, " I need a new horse. 
 That iDrute Chevalier threw me yesterday, and then 
 went over a bank and cut his knees, I think the 
 groom said." 
 
THE LAST OF TUK HAMII.TONS. 
 
 8S 
 
 •k 
 a 
 
 lut 
 lie 
 Ic 
 
 Ml 
 
 he 
 
 " What right liad you to mount Chevalier?" askc(] 
 Sir Jasper, angrily. '' 1 forbade you already. VViiat 
 laiili have you to your own mare." 
 
 " Too slow for me," reiurin-' her ladyshiji, coolly. 
 *' I wrote to Benson yesterday, though, to send me on 
 a good rider. 1 expect him to-uiorrow, that's what 
 I wanted the checpie for, if you are anxious to learn." 
 
 Another oath broke from Sir Jasjjer's lips. " I'll 
 tell you what it is, Maud," he said passionately. *' I 
 can't afford to keej) you in such extravagance. If the 
 beast conies, I'll send him back to Jk-nson, and tell 
 him not to fulfil any orders you may favour him with. 
 Since you have rendered Chevalier useless, you can 
 ride your own mare, or walk." 
 
 Very jiale grew my lady in her angry passion. 
 
 " licnson knows, I fancy," she said coolly, "which 
 of us to obey. And you have small need to talk of 
 extravagance. How many horses do you use up in a 
 } ear. The new one you brought home the other day 
 v/ould not cost less than a hundred." 
 
 "I only got him on trial, but I haven't mounted 
 him yet. And he is only to cost eighty i)ounds." 
 
 "Humph ! plenty I think. 1 winildn't mount him, 
 and fear isn't one of my characteristics. The groom 
 says he is as full of vice as he can be." 
 
 Jasper Hamilton laughed. " He's as quiet as a 
 
 lamb. I'm goin;^ to drive him to D this 
 
 morning; will you come?'* 
 
 My lady looked surprised. It was self n, indeed, 
 her husband expressed even so slight a (i>..5ire for her 
 company. 
 
 " No, thanks ;" she said, " I haven i a horse I 
 would ride into town, and my habit i?^ ;n tatters with 
 the fall I got ; so I will wish you good .nurning and a 
 safe journey." 
 
 From her dressing-room window, half an hour later, 
 
•^A 
 
 1 ttr t f^l t't 1 iir t» \'^ni inNq. 
 
 lU 
 
 
 n. 11 
 
 ini to Miicf iM lin ini :iil?.n." 'ihi- tti 
 
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 Sot\>r > on p:i*';tn<^ <oint\i hnn l\ni;i .tt i> hnli>«' ^nlo 
 msonsthlo. n\\y\ tho ttjiht lo!^ t5 InoKott \\r h.tti lo;! 
 »-otttnM o>ot ti>r .mti\);il. lho> ^WppO"?!*, :1t\«i h;1(l h. . n 
 
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 i^t'.ni i^r viv'>i"io th.U n^ \1(N-oss;u\ till thi Poi loi . .nnos. 
 ''f* V' >>x «>t hi* ,in'\,ii, \ ^M^!\ to soo hnt\. Sond 
 
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i 
 
 8 a 
 
 THF. LAST OF IHF. M MM I ! IONS. 
 
 
 "( Ml, Sir f.'isprt " 'rinMP u-rtr ir;ns ifi ll)r uo!ii;M)'ft 
 eyes MS slio hiinud Ijoin tli*^ nxun 1<» do his l.tddiiii;. 
 
 Thr (i(Mf«it IciumI the liiil ilncud of Hfr wonlil sii.'ip 
 biltMt' th<' iiiolhrr t;Miu\ ImiI ihfihiii^ ticiii < liint; lo 
 It with '.Ml h irn.'n ilv th.ti h>' w;is .\\\\v whm tin- 
 r;ini,)!',o dtove np in thr dour <im the" rvcinii^ of the 
 
 SiToni 
 
 1 .1 
 
 IV 
 
 ;iii\ (' 
 
 but 
 
 iio lUOIC 
 
 Iti her l.wotii itc Miiittidc. Icinni}^ (M;1( rhillv ;iu;iiiist 
 the mnthlf in;\ttl('l. with hvv \v\\v\ vohc swiM-pini; th(» 
 hr.Htlmi};, was M;iud I l.uniUon Jiwailiti); \\v\ hiislMiid's 
 motl 
 
 KT. 
 
 "Tell l,;idv Unniihoti 1 .-nv.iit hvv hi the diiiiti<4 
 TO(>i\i." slio h,td said to the siiv.itits, and \vhi't» iht* 
 ratiiai;r whnhMi ttp, she ttniicd h(-i r\(-s oxprc taiitly 
 U> the d(M)i. ]\v\ iiK'ssage liad hrcn faiihtiiHv do- 
 livorod. but the stately fij^inc m its soinbte uido\v*s 
 weeds passeil the <iiiitiig tooin without even a f;laiuc 
 through tlie opeti door, ami went straight upstairs to 
 luT son. The housekeeper left tlie rootn when ^hc 
 
 entcre«t. onlv, m passing, slie eanglit the sUnder 
 jrloveii hand and pvesr-ed it ]Mssiotia!ely to lier hps. 
 Then slie shut the door, and lady llannlton fell on 
 her knees at the bedside, with a gnat ery — a rry 
 whieh Mand Hamilton I'.eaid in the eoiridor. and 
 
 ^ven .v/r dared not intnuh 
 
 There were tears in 
 
 jasper HaniiUon's poor dun eyes, and he t<nielied his 
 mother's hands as it it eonilorteii hiin as it nsrd tt) do 
 in his ehihlish davs. She liltevi his |>ale tare to licrs 
 and kissed linn, witli a kiss wlii« h lilotted out all 
 remenibiance of the jiast. No need for the weak 
 penitent lips io ask foigiveness, for there was nothing 
 but love in his mother's faee. CX this mighty mother's 
 love ; there 
 
 Cioi 
 
 \ h 
 
 \s e 
 
 !!:■ none other like unto it on earth, for 
 osen to compare it with His own. There 
 
 were no words sjuiken — none were needecl — till the 
 door opened, and Maud came in. There was an odd 
 
iMK i.A^r or I UP. FfAMirroNji. 
 
 80 
 
 rx^lI^t;^l()n of prido .'if)rl flrfiiinrr in flip bpniififiil fnrc, 
 !uhI v I a slimier yfnrnin'^ look in lirr «l;itk ryes. 
 SI 
 
 \r uts Ji w 
 
 n»n;ui ;iflrr nil, .'iMfl flwTP w.is a yji-vn 
 
 spot Imldrn jnvnv somrwiirtp in lirr lirnrf. 
 
 " 'litis la M.'Mid, tnollirt," said llir sick man in a 
 flint voicp. and n red llnsli tnoMnlfd to liis < hcrk a'l 
 
 Mf saw Ins innlln't risr fo f;M v lirt, 
 
 Tl 
 
 ]r'\i^ f\v(» M'ini'-n 
 
 \v»i(* liMHud lo liun l»v till' ri'aKsf and dearest firt?, 
 
 and V'' '"' trmilijiMJ lo src Hi' in nc ft 
 
 \V 
 
 latcvr 
 
 Ins nHtlJK r niav li;i\c felt, 'ilir liid it ucll, and slic 
 liMK IumI tl\r li;ind licr d;tii!',lit<i m law olJcrt'd Iht, 
 dmnrli ihrrc; was no s?nili' npnn Im r (a<c. 
 
 " \ (III \\c\o riidit altoni tin- I m I'.t. M.md," said |as[irr. 
 " It li;is don«' for inc. I'ctliajis il iH the best tiling 
 tliiil ninld liavo li;ipp('nc(l." 
 
 Ilnsi 
 
 I, niv ?ion. 
 
 His niodirr's cool soft li.ind foiu lird iiis iifi?], and 
 slio dirw a rhair « lost- to Ins bedside, turning her far o 
 Ik nil his wile. What liiid come ovir /v/ now ? lit r 
 fare w.is pale, and lur li|»s (jiiiverin^, and there was 
 soniethmj; like tears in her eyes. Her jewelled hand 
 fell on the elder woman'?! shoulder, and she said 
 
 "Ladv Hamilton, wont yon say one kind vvt>rd to 
 ffrr f [ am jasper's wile." i'nt before t'lC astonishetl 
 lady could make reply, the qneenly h^nrc had Inirri'rl 
 from the room, as it ashamed of \\vt impetuous words. 
 And just then a sudden pain caused a low moan f(; 
 escape the sullerer's hps, and his mother had to ring 
 for assistance, and so she hjrL;ot Maud. 
 
 At davliMik Jasper Hamilton turned upon his side, 
 and died as peaccliilly as a child wiiild fall asleep. 
 Only his niother was with him when the end came. 
 He was the last of his race. ilcncclorfh the house of 
 I lannhon would be an existein c of the past, and (ilcn- 
 tariH^ the inhcritanee of stian^cr^. 
 
\n 
 
 
 ill 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. 
 
 BURING the dreary days interveninf; between the 
 death and the funeral these two lonely women 
 might have comforted one another. 
 >- 13ut Lady Hamilton was cold and distant in 
 
 her demeanour to her daughter-in-law, and, as may bij 
 imagined, Maud was ready to resent it bitterly. 'I'licre 
 was an indefinable change in Maud Hamilton. It 
 might be only the natural outcome of the shock 
 caused by the suddenness of her bereavement, and 
 the solemnity of death in the house, but certain it 
 w^as that much of her haughty manner had disappeared. 
 It was noticed quickly enough by the servants. 
 
 The housekeeper commented on it to her old 
 mistress, but she listened scarcely heeding. It was 
 a mistake ; she might have shown a If' ,le more kind- 
 ness and sympathy with her son's wiu -^w. She was 
 not unfeeling, as we know, but there was a sore, bitter 
 feeling in her heart against her which she might have 
 tried to overcome. She did not guess how Maud's 
 heart was yearning towards her; she did not know 
 how often she was very near seeking her, and begging 
 again for a kind word. And so the days dragged 
 their weary lengths along until the day appointed for 
 the funeral. It was a large one, for Sir Jasper was 
 well known, and many who had known him in life 
 were anxious to pay the last tribute to his memory. 
 
THE CARRIAGK FOR MISS KENYON. 
 
 9» 
 
 It rained heavily all afternoon. Lady Hamilton 
 kept her own room, and so dul Maud, yet eacli was 
 in the other's thoughts when the procession moved 
 away, bearing Jasper Hamilton to his last resting 
 l)lace. Between tour and five, the Keiiyons were 
 surprised to see the Glentarne carriage drive up to 
 the gate of tlie schoolhouse. It was empty,, but *^e 
 coachman brought a note for Miss Kenycn. Sue 
 broke the seal, -and read it, then, without comment, 
 handed it to her brother, and hastily drank the tea 
 left in her cup. It was from Mauii, and ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 "I am in great trouble, Sara; and I think if I 
 cannot speak to some one I shall die. My husband's 
 mother will not see me. If you can forgive the [wst, 
 come to me. I know I am asking a great deal, but I 
 cannot help it — something makes me send for you; 
 oh, do come." 
 
 Christopher looked up, and met his sister's eyes. 
 
 ** You will go, Sara, of course," he said, as if there 
 could not be a shadow of doubt about it. 
 
 " Yes," replied Miss Kenyon, gravely. " She is in 
 trouble ; and we must not be unforgiving." 
 
 The schoolmister came round to his sister, and 
 kissed her. She understood him, and with a halt sad, 
 half happy smile, looked up into his face. 
 
 " It is what our mother would have me to do, Kit. 
 I can remember her lessons yet." 
 
 Then she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went 
 out to the carriage. 
 
 To say that there was amazement on the coachman's 
 face weakly describes its expression. 
 
 Sara leaned back among the cushions, marvelling 
 much that Maud Hamilton should have written so 
 humble a letter to her. But she marvelled more 
 when she was shown ud into the luxurious dressing 
 
£1 
 
IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 i.O 
 
 bilM |25 
 ■^ l&i 12.2 
 
 11.25 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sdences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WiST MAIN STRIIT 
 
 WEBSTIR.N.Y. USM 
 
 (716)872-4503 
 

 ^ 
 
il 
 
 u 
 
 t i 
 
 I ■ 
 
 92 
 
 THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENVON. 
 
 room and saw her. She was sitting, with her white 
 hands clasped upon her heavy widow's dress, and her 
 eyes bent upon the fire. And when Miss Kenyon 
 came to her, and said gently — 
 
 •' I am here, Lady Ilamilion ; I am sorry for your 
 trouble," the very sound of her voice broke her down 
 utterly, and she cried like a child. 
 
 I believe it was the first lime since her childish days. 
 
 Miss Kenyon stood beside her puzzled how to act. 
 
 ** Will you sit down, please," said Maud at length, 
 very hutnbly. *' I want to talk to you." 
 
 Sara took a chair opposite her, and waited for her 
 to begin. 
 
 "In the first place, Sara, I want to ask you to 
 forgive me for my part in the past. Can you ever 
 do it?" 
 
 " I have done it long ago," replied Miss K enyon, 
 in a low voice. "Let your mind be at rest on that 
 point." 
 
 " I am ashamed to see you sitting there when I 
 remember it," went on Maud, in the same humble 
 voice. "I have been ashamed to think of it many 
 limes. O Sara, I am very wretched !" 
 
 The proud head bent low on her hands, and her 
 voice was broken by sobs. 
 
 •* I have been a wicked woman, but I have been 
 punished for it, for in all my life I cannot remember 
 one happy dav. My mother died when I was a child, 
 Sara, and I was left in Ralph's care. If he had been 
 a good man, I miuht have been different; but liis 
 example and his lite, you know what they would be 
 for a young girl who had not even the memory of a 
 mother's teaching to guide her. Our father was an 
 ("dicer ir; the army, but he died when I was only a 
 few weeks old. Ralph inherited all his wild, sinful 
 nature ; and his aim was to get through life as easily 
 
THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYOM. 
 
 91 
 
 and as pleasantly as possible. We were left with a 
 small portion, sufficient for our boy and girl needs ; 
 but when Ralph grew up he was wildly extravagant, 
 and was never out of debt. He was proud of me, and 
 i was useful to him, so he kept me with him, and took 
 me abroad with him. You know he was a frequenter 
 of the gaming table, and was generally \n huk, 
 although he sometimes lost largely. It was the 
 easiest way of earning a livelihood, and suited his 
 taste. At Homburg we met Jasper one year, and, 
 knowing his weak, yielding nature, Ralph easily got 
 him into his power. O Sara, I am ashamed to 
 remember how often Ralph induced him to play! He 
 was no match for Raij^h, and he won thousands 
 from him. He had a fancy for me from the first ; 
 and, to please Ralph, for I was afraid of him then, I 
 encouraged it, till he made me an offer. I accepted 
 him — a man whom I despised, I almost hated — 
 simply for his possessions and the home he could 
 give me ; and I knew I should never get so brilliant 
 a chance, for not one of those I flirted with would 
 have married me, and I knew it. But I have 
 been punished for it, for often since I came to Glen- 
 tarne 1 have wished myself dead, so utter was my 
 misery." 
 
 She paused, and Miss Kenyon spoke, in a low 
 pitying voice, "I am very sorry for you, Lady 
 Hamilton." 
 
 " I don't deserve it, Sara," she sobbed. " Tell me 
 again you have forgiven me for the past ; I can never 
 forgive myself." 
 
 '* Yes, I forgive you freely, as I hope to be forgiven," 
 repeated Miss Kenyon. " I only want to ask one 
 question, and then the past must be buried for ever 
 Will you answer it ?" 
 
 " If I can — willingly." 
 
■•■■V.l 
 
 94 
 
 THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. 
 
 " What — what was the crime my father spoke of? 
 Was he guilty, do you know ?'' 
 
 Maud Hamilton's face grew crimson in its sh..me. 
 
 " It was forgery ! and, but for my brother, it would 
 never have been committed, l^ was he who urged 
 him to it." 
 
 For one brief moment Sara Kenyon hid her face, 
 then she rose, and came near to Lady Hamilton, and 
 laid iicr hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 "Now we will talk of yourself You say your 
 husband's mother will not see you. Do you know 
 why?" 
 
 " I deserve her scorn ; but it is none the less hard 
 to bear. O Sara, I wish I was a good woman." 
 
 "You may be," said Miss Kenyon, gently. "Live 
 to prove it Lady Hamilton used to be a kind-hearted 
 woman ; go to her, and try to make friends with her. 
 She would not repulse you." 
 
 Maud shook her head. 
 
 " I fear she would, and I am so proud yet, Sara, I 
 cannot force myself upon her ; but I could love her if 
 ahe would let me, and she could teach me to be good." 
 
 Sarah Kenyon thought a moment. 
 
 " If you will take my advice, go to her and tell her 
 what you have told me. I am very hopeful of the 
 result." 
 
 "It will need to be to-night, then, for she leaves 
 Glentarne to-morrow." 
 
 " Let it be now," urged Miss Kenyon. " I must 
 go. I am thankful now that I came, Lady Hamilton, 
 if I have done you the smallest good." 
 
 "You are an angel, Sara," returned the humbled 
 beauty. " I believe there is not another woman like 
 you on earth." 
 
 Then she touched the bell, and ordered the carriage 
 for Miss Kenyon. 
 
THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. 
 
 95 
 
 Sara tied on her bonnet, and held out her liand, 
 with a sliL;lu smile. 
 
 "Good-bye, Lady Hamilton. I am glad we part 
 friends a.^ain." 
 
 But Maud did not touch the offered hand. 
 
 " Won't you kiss me, Sara?" she said wistfully. "It 
 is so lonu' since I heard a kind word from anybody." 
 
 Miss Kenyon "Pushed to the roots of the hair, but 
 she did not refuse the request. 
 
 " God bless you. Lady Hamilton," she said earnestly. 
 "And I hope you will find in the future the peace and 
 happiness denied you in the past" 
 
 Then she went away. 
 
 • «•«•• 
 
 Three days later, a carnage from Glentarne came 
 again to the schoolhouse. Its occu|)ant was the 
 younger Lady Hamilton, and she stayed with Miss 
 Kenyon for half-an-hour. She had acted, upon her 
 advice, and had come to tell her that henceforth her 
 home was to be with her husband's motiier. "She 
 Las been so good to me, Sara," she said brokenly. " I 
 lold her everything, and she treated me like a daughter 
 of her own. With her 1 think I shall learn to be a 
 good woman, and I owe it all to you. As long as I 
 live, I shall never forget thau" 
 
 And she never did. 
 
i?' 
 
 I 
 
 
 w 
 
 CHAPTER XVr. 
 
 THE BEATING OF THE STOKM. 
 
 fEANWHILE, how fared it with Lizzie Falconer 
 Let us see. 
 Four o'clock on a dull February afternoon, 
 g, ^j; Lowering clouds overhangint; the city, and a 
 chill wind moaning through the trees in Hyde Park. 
 
 Walking restlessly up and down one of the broad 
 walks, a woman with a baby in her arms. She was 
 well diessed, and looked like a lady. Her figure was 
 slight and delicate, and her face was pale, yet so lovely 
 that passers-by looked at it in wonder. Up and down, 
 up and down, with a red spot burning on either cheek, 
 and a wild fever at her heart. Shall I tell you what 
 it was? Jealousy! And it is cruel as the grave. 
 Suddenly the woman pressed her baby closer to her 
 breast, and with a strange tightening of her lips, looked 
 in the distance. Leisurely approaching was a gentle- 
 man, handsome, and nearly middle-aged, with a young 
 timid girl upon his arm. She had a sweet fair face 
 and innocent brown eyes, which were bent upon the 
 ground. Her companion was talking rapidly, with a 
 smile on his face, which was faintly reflected on the 
 girl's lips. As they drew near, the woman with the 
 baby slipped behind a tree, as if to escape observa- 
 tion. But when they were close to her she stepped 
 out, and cast one switt steady look into the gentleman's 
 face. His grew livid; yet he turned to his companion, 
 whose eyes had not been raised from the ground; and 
 
THE BEATING OF THE STORM. 
 
 97 
 
 the woman with the baby passed on. As she went 
 through the park gales, the first drops of the coming 
 storm began to fall, and a shiver ran through the 
 dehcate frame. She was far from liome, and had 
 money enough in her pocket to ])rocure conveyance, 
 yet possessed with a wikl unrest, slie went her way on 
 foot. The sloejjing child lay heavily in her arms, and 
 when at length she reached her destination, she was 
 scarcely able to sustain her own weight. It was a 
 quiet street, and the houses were mostly the better 
 class of boarding-houses. Everyone was full, for the 
 locality was genteel, and was conveniently near the 
 city's centre for business men. When the woman 
 knocked at one of the doors, it was opened by a maid 
 servant, neat and even stylishly dressed. 
 
 •' La ! Mrs. Mortimer," she exclaimed, "where 'ave 
 you been out in all the rain ; couldn't you get a 'bus 
 or a 'ansom." 
 
 *' Plenty of them, but I preferred walking," returned 
 the woman wearily, as she crossed the threshold; "1 am 
 very tired, will you please send up tea immediately." 
 
 " Will Mr. Mortimer be home, ma'am ?*' enquired 
 the girl. 
 
 *' No ! Tea for one," returned Mrs. Mortimer so 
 sharply that the girl looked in amazement at her as 
 she turned and went up stairs ; and immediately de- 
 parted below to inform her fellows that the first floor 
 had been quarrelling again. 
 
 There was a cheery fire burning in the sitting 
 room on the first floor, and the dreary twilight was 
 deepening into darkness. Mrs. Mortimer sat down at 
 the fire, and took off her baby's outer dress, then, 
 carrying him into the adjoining bedroom, laid him in 
 his crib. He was still sleeping soundly. A beautiful 
 child he was, and startlingly like his mother She 
 kissed him once in an unusual sort of way, and then 
 
 G 
 
1 
 
 9« 
 
 THK. lUMINC. OF nil- STORM, 
 
 t;»kini; off Ium own \\c\ Imnnct ;\iul simwl, wnit h.ick 
 |.> iho siuinu room, -^'h' loaiird oiu* ;nm on ilu* 
 tniOitcl, and bent hrr «'vrs npon tlir (ire. I lor «lrrss 
 It'll \\\ luMvy lt»Ms abtnit [Uc slon«l<'r li^nri-. and tlu* 
 shonKlcrs tlroojXNl a Imlc, as if ilurc was a bunii n 
 thorc. She did noi lonk like a hap])v woman. Tlu' 
 lines aboni the month were loo satily njarked, and llu! 
 Iu)nme eyes had lost much ot their brightness. Anil 
 there \vas a strani; ■ gravity alH)nt her whieh laz/ie 
 Vahoner had never possessed. 
 
 As she looked into the glowing fire, great tears 
 gathered in her eves, and fell one by one, but she 
 brnshed them <jnn kly awav, lor the girl entered with 
 the tea tray. And she sat down and tric«l to cat. 
 She was tilling with her seeond enp when the door 
 opened, atui a gentleman eamc in — the same she had 
 met in the al'ternoon. He was angry, and she knew 
 It, and at tirst did not lift her eyes to his (are. He 
 ^tro^^e into the bedroom, looked at the slee|>ing child, 
 then eame baek, closing the tloor behind him. 
 
 *• Will you have some tea, Rali)h ?" 
 
 Her voice was calm and steady, but it had a strange 
 Lard ring in it. 
 
 •• What were you doing in the Park this afternoon ?" 
 he asked quietly, yet she knew the passion beneath 
 that subdued voice. 
 
 She rose and looked at him, the firelight shining 
 full upon her face. It was strangely resolute. 
 
 ♦* I went, Ralph," she said, " to watch you." 
 
 " You did," he sneered. ** Well, 1 hope you were 
 rewarded for your pains." 
 
 She pressed her hand to her heart, and spoke again 
 very rapidly. 
 
 *' I will tell you all the truth, because I would scorn 
 to hide it. It is long since I knew you had tired of 
 me, your wife ; but it is only since we came to London 
 
 
 i 
 
TIIK IIKATINU of IMF. SiOKM. 
 
 99 
 
 th;it I Imvr siis|)(Tto(l you g.'ivc yonr love and jUfcn- 
 lioii t'lscwlRTC. I he R»is|)i( ion ;^rcvv till it I)1(miiu.* a 
 rcit.iiiiiy ; I watrhcd for the proof 1 w.uitcd, ami s.iid 
 iinil)iM|4 until I found it ycsttiday in ilie iioic yon 
 ran lossly kit in yonr dressing room. That was what 
 took tnc to the I'ark to-day, so that I might icll you 
 that I knew." 
 
 "And what thru?" 
 
 There was a nio( king smile upon R;d[)h Morliiner'.s 
 lips, and the words were jestingly spoken. 
 
 •' You ask me, what then?" reiterated la/zic, [>as- 
 sionately. " You took me from my hcjine, Kalph, 
 where I was hap|)y till I met you. I ^-^ve up all .til, 
 (Jod hel|) me I for you, and I have tried to he a ^ood 
 wife to you. Have I ever complained of y«)ur nc^lec t, 
 of your daily increasing unkindness? Have 1 ever 
 answered your bitter words as I might have done? 
 I have borne it all, as the just punishment for the 
 suflering I knew I left behind me. But till to-day I 
 have not known all the bitterness in store for me." 
 
 *• Very pathetic," repeated Ralph Mortimer, with 
 the same look and tone, "You say I took you from 
 your home. Cast your memory back, and tell mc if 
 I found you unwilling to go." 
 
 She stood still, her hands clasped, no sound escap- 
 ing her lii)S. Not yet had she grown so accustomed 
 lo his insulting words as to hear them unmoved. 
 
 •' Ralph," she said ; then, very wearily, "have you 
 given the heart you used to say was mme, to the girl 
 1 met you with to-day. 
 
 Ralph Mortimer laughed. 
 
 " It is as much hers as it ever was yours," he said, 
 carelessly ; "and she amuses me as you did." 
 
 A crimson wave swept across Lizzie's face. 
 
 " You are speaking to your wife, Ralph," she said 
 with proud dignity. 
 
I! 
 
 ! 
 
 1' 
 
 III' 
 
 ,1,1 
 
 lOO 
 
 THE HEATING OF THE STORM. 
 
 "Ay ! or you tlnnk so!" he replied ; and there was 
 a significance in his tones she could not but observe. 
 
 "I think so? What do you mean?" Tlie words 
 fell low and trembling from her lips. 
 
 " l-)on't ask (juestions, if you are wise," he said 
 calmly. "The answers are frequently unpleasant." 
 
 She moved nearer to him, a great horror seizing on 
 her heart. 
 
 " Ralph," she said, " tell me what your words 
 ineant. If it was a cruel jest, say so. 
 
 " Don't bother," he said rudely. " Give me some 
 tea ; 1 am going out ai^ain." 
 
 She took no heed of his words. 
 
 "Tell me what you meant," she said steadily. " I 
 was married to you; I remember it well. Why should 
 you speak as if there was a possibility of doubt ?" 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, but, pondering that the 
 truth would need to be told some time, he answered 
 her questions, with his eyes averted from her face. 
 
 " You are not my wife, Lizzie," he said. " The 
 marriage was not legal ; I can prove it to you if you 
 will. See, I warned you not to ask unpleasant ques- 
 tions. There is no need to make a fuss. I don't 
 mean to desert you if you choose to stay." 
 
 Fuss I never was word so needlessly applied. Save 
 for the close pressure of the grave lips, and the con- 
 traction of the white brows as if in pain, there was 
 no sign that she heard or comprehended" his words. 
 There are moments of agony so intense that the very 
 life blood seems to be stilled in the veins. Siie 
 uttered not one word. Moving to her old place at 
 the fire, she turned her eyes to its glowing depths, an 
 icy hand clutching at her heart Ralph Mortimer 
 caught up his hat, and left the house. For a long 
 time Lizzie remained as he had left her. The fire 
 was dying in the grate, only a red glow played about 
 
THF. BEATING OF THE ST^RM. 
 
 101 
 
 her fc"t, and dimly on her face. Suddenly she fell 
 ii|)(»n ihc hearth, with her white face hidden, and a 
 l«>ii;^ stilled cry broke from her lips. And she did 
 not rise until the servant's stej) soumled on the stair, 
 t!ien she went into the bedroom, and shut the door. 
 The noise aroused the sleeping child, and he sat up 
 in his crib, stretching out his arms to be lifted. For 
 the first time in his short life his mother did not come 
 to him. She opened the wardrobe, and took from it 
 an old shabby dress, plainly made, and a hat and 
 shawl she hau not worn for many a day. These she 
 put on. The baby watched her, wonderment on his 
 face, till she took him up in a swift, sudden way, and 
 without a word spoken, dressed him also. That done, 
 she took a scrap of paper, and wrote upon it with a 
 pencil: — 
 
 " I am going from you, taking my child with me. 
 I have no message to leave, except that God may 
 forgive you for what you have done. In time, perhaps, 
 He may lead me to forgive you, too. Only one thing 
 I have to say, if there be one tender memory of your 
 mother in your heart, for her sake, spare the poor 
 young girl I met you with to-day. That we may never 
 meet again on earth is the only prayer of this crushed 
 and broken heart." 
 
 She laid it on the dressing table, and taking the 
 child in her arms passed out of the room. Down stairs 
 witii swift noiseless step, and out into the street. Out 
 into the storm and pitiless rain, with notliing in the 
 witie world she could call her own but the baby at her 
 , breast. 
 
 And in a far-off Scottish home, a mother was pray- 
 ing for the child she never hoped to see again on earth. 
 
 And the storm grew fiercer and fiercer, and the 
 moaning rain wept in the street 
 
11^ 
 
 1^ 
 
 I 
 
 1^ 
 Mi 
 
 ml 
 
 M 
 
 9 : 
 
 \' 
 
 CIIAPTKR XVIL 
 
 CUKISTMAS EVE. 
 
 <K9 "Yes. Sara." 
 A.\ •• 'l"hi)iii;h we have 
 (^i\ I have never gr^wn 
 
 lived here so long now, 
 accustonuMi to the way 
 Scotch pt'ople ignore Christmas. In Kiigland to-night 
 lliere will be rejoicing everywhere. 1 wish I couKi 
 hear one peal of bells above the storm ; it would make 
 nie fancy myself a chikl again." 
 
 They were in their sitting room, the brother and 
 sister, with their chairs drawn close to the hearth. 
 Miss Kenyon's head was leaning on her hand, and 
 there was a dreamy look upon her face, as if memories 
 thronged about her heart. 
 
 " Suppose you go up and ring a peal from the 
 church tower, dear," said the schoolmaster, touching 
 her brown head in his gentle way. " The custom 
 only needs a beginning." 
 
 " The good people would think I had taken leave 
 of my senses," returned Miss Kenyon with a low 
 laugh. " Kit, what's that 1 Was it a knock at the 
 door?" 
 
 " Only the wind rattling the garden gate, I thii'k, 
 Sara," was the reply. "It hangs loosely on its hingts. 
 It is a fearful storm." 
 
 Ay, so it was. 
 
 The wind shrieked and howled in its mad fury, 
 whirling the falling snowflakes into a blinding maze, 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 «03 
 
 and piling up drifts level with the hedges at cvrrv 
 ro.'ulsuic. Surh a storm had not hccn known in Tlio 
 Linn, even in the njcin<»ry of the oldest uiliahifnnt. 
 
 ** M.iry aiul her hushand c;dle<l for a lew nnniilrs 
 this afternoon, Kit. I lor^ot to tell you," said Miss 
 Kenvon, after a moment's silence. ** 'i hey were 
 
 dnvini^ from 1> . I low careful he is of her. 'I'liey 
 
 are very haj)|)y." 
 
 " Let us he thankful for it, Sara," said the school- 
 master, chcerluliy. " Vou are cryin,', dear; what is it?" 
 
 She brushed the bright drops from her eyes, and 
 looked up with her brave smile. 
 
 *• Don't think I am selfish, or grud;;e them it. Kit," 
 she said, laying her head down on his arm. "Some- 
 times I am very foolish, 1 know; but 1 am only a 
 woman. Kit, and a weak one." 
 
 " A weak one !" interrupted her brother, touching 
 her forehead with his lips. "If you are weak, who ;s 
 strong, 1 wonder?" 
 
 ** Only a woman, then. Kit," she said, smiling 
 slightly, though her eyes were dim. "And 1 cann(*t 
 quite forget — forget, you know wiiat." 
 
 She spoke hurriedly now, and her voice was very low. 
 
 "It is foolish, is it not, to think about what is so 
 long gone, and can never be part of my life again ?" 
 
 " Not foolish, dear — very natural," returned the 
 schoolmaster. " You " 
 
 " Kit, there is some one knocking at the door," 
 interrupted Miss Kenyon, starting up. "I heard it 
 quite distinctly." 
 
 She kit the room, and opened the outside door, to 
 find a woman standing on liie step, covered with snow 
 from head to foot. 
 
 "Can I speak to you for a few minutes, please?" 
 she said in a low, mullled voice, whicii Sara did not 
 recognise. 
 
I04 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 .;v 
 
 «'t. 
 
 "Come in," she said quickly. "You must have 
 come far. Surely it is urgent need that brings you 
 out of doors on such a night." 
 
 The woman stepped within the door, and pushing 
 back her bonnet, turned her face to the light. 
 
 *' Miss Kenyon, don't you know me." 
 
 Sara Kenyon looked a moment wonderingly at the 
 pile haggard face, at the deep blue eyes with the dark 
 shadows beneath them, and shook her head. But 
 there was something strangely familiar about the hgure 
 and the voice. 
 
 " Not —not Lizzie Falconer!" she stammered at 
 length, a great light breaking over her. "Ohl I hope 
 not" 
 
 The woman covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "Yes — Lizzie Falconer," she said in a low, hard 
 voice. "Will you let me stay in this house for a 
 
 little while. I have walked from D to-night, and 
 
 1 am vevy weary, and I cannot go home yet." 
 
 Miss Kenyon shut the door, and bidding her follow, 
 led the way to the little kitchen at the back. There 
 was a blazing fire there, and the kettle singing on the 
 hob. 
 
 " Let me help you to take off your wet things," she 
 said in ner kind firm way. " You must be wet through, 
 liush, don't speak yet; there is time enough. You 
 will stay with me all night." Then she went to her 
 room, and returned with some of her own things. 
 
 "Put these on," she said. "1 shall be back directly." 
 
 Then she shut the door, and went to her brother. 
 
 He was walking up and down the floor, wondering 
 who the visitor was, and why Sara was so long in 
 comuig. 
 
 " O Kit ! " she said in a low, pitiful voice. " It is 
 poor Lizzie Falconer come back home ; and I can 
 See, though she has said nothing yet, what the years 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 105 
 
 have held for her. She is so changed, Kit, you would 
 not know her." 
 
 " Poor girl — poor girl.** The w^ords fell tenderly, 
 pitifully from the schoolmaster's lips. " You have 
 brought her in, Sara." 
 
 '* Yes, yes. O Kit ! think what it will be for the 
 poor old pair at Glentarne. This will be a haj)pv 
 Christmas for them, I know, though Lizzie has come 
 back poor and ill and wretched. Now I will go back 
 to her. It will be better, I think, if she sees only me 
 to-night ; but I will come and tell you anything she 
 may say to me." 
 
 And so she went back to the kitchen, to find the 
 wanderer on her knees on the hearth, with her face 
 hidden. The golden hair had escaped from its 
 fastening, and fell on her shoulders, shining in the 
 firelight. 
 
 Noiselessly Miss Kenyon proceeded to make some 
 coffee, and to set the supper things upon the table. 
 Then she went to the bowed figure, and her hand fell 
 upon her shoulder, infinite gentleness in the light 
 touch. 
 
 " Lizzie," she said, "come, take something to e-it. 
 You mtist be faint after such a walk on such a 
 ^.Tight." 
 
 A slight shiver ran through the slender frame, and 
 a convulsive sob broke the stillness, but she did not 
 raise her heao. 
 
 *' Come," said Miss Kenyon more firmly, " you must 
 do what I ask ; you will be ill after the drenching you 
 got to-night." 
 
 " III," repeated the girl, rising, and turning her white 
 face to the light once more ; '* I am ill, body and soul. 
 Oh, Miss Kenyon," she cried suddenly, "if you knew, 
 if you knew, you would not touch me." 
 
 A great pity shone in Sara Kenyon's eyes. 
 
 i| 
 
f 
 
 
 M: 
 
 
 lM;i 
 
 io6 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " My child, I do know. I knew what would be 
 before you went ; and, see, 1 don'i shrink from you." 
 
 No she did not. She placeil one arm about the 
 drooping shoulders, and led her to the table, and 
 stood beside her till she saw her drink some cotk.e 
 and svvdilow a morsel of bread. Then, while she 
 carried the supper tray to Christopher, Lizzie sat down 
 close to the fire, as if she was very cold, and hid her 
 face again in her hands. Sara left her alone for a 
 time, and when she came back she found her weeping 
 as if her heart would break. Miss Kenyon stood by 
 the hearth with her arm leaning on the mantel, waituig 
 till the tears were all shed. 
 
 " Miss Kenyon," said Lizzie, at length, with a gasp, 
 '• Is my — my mother dead ?" 
 
 "They are. both alive," returned Miss Kenyon 
 quickly, "and waiting for you to come home every 
 day." 
 
 " But not as I am ; they will not forgive me when 
 they know all," she moaned. " Oh, Miss Kenyon, I 
 was never married. He told me a lie, and I believed 
 it." 
 
 Miss Kenyon kneeled down on the hearth, and 
 took both the poor trembling hands in her fir.n grasp, 
 and turned her clear hazel eyes upon Lizzie's face 
 
 " Listen, Lizzie," she said, " you know that J. would 
 not deceive you. When you go home to-m.orrow — • 
 to-morrow, remember, for no time must be lost — you 
 will find nothing but love and forgiveness awaiting you. 
 At first your father felt a just indignatior, but it is all 
 gone now. You will be taken as you are, just as Gu<l 
 takes all who come to Hnu. O Lizzie I be very 
 thankful for it, and thank God that you have not come 
 home to find that your desertion killed them." 
 
 The worn blue eye'j rested a moment on Miss Ken- 
 yon's sweet face, and then fixed upon the glowing fire. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 107 
 
 " You will let me tell you, Miss Kenyon,' she said 
 in a very low voice, " how it was from ilie first," 
 
 " Yes," replied Sara gently, •' if you are able." 
 
 " There is no need to tell you how I was persuaded 
 to leave home. You can understand how a man like 
 him could influence an inexperienced girl, full as I 
 was of vanity, and longing for a grandeur above my 
 station. We left that night," she said, " and readied 
 Edinburgh the next afternoon. He took me to a 
 hotel, and we were married, as I thought. Then we 
 went on to England, to The Holt." 
 
 Miss Keiiyon turned her face away. It had grown 
 very pale, and her )'ps were trembling. 
 
 *' We stayed there for nearly fifteen months. I was 
 happy, or fancied myself so, for about half of that time. 
 He was often away for weeks at a time, and I was very 
 lonely, for it was a great house, standing alone among 
 woods. There was a village near it, but I never went 
 out. He would not let me speak of my fjther and 
 mother or my home, and he taught me to tail: as he did. 
 He used to be angry if I forgot and said a Scotch 
 word. I was very wretched for a time before my baby 
 was born. Oh, Miss Kenyon, rr y poor litde baby.** 
 
 She stopped, sobbing, and again hid her face. 
 
 " Not very long after that," she continued, " we 
 went to London to live. I don't know why. I didn't 
 know anything about his affairs, and 1 dared not ask, 
 for I was afraid of him. He was often unkind to me. 
 I could tell you of days so miserable that I used to 
 creep away up to my baby's crib, and pray that we 
 might die, he and I together. And I was hungering 
 to get home, starving to see my mother and my old 
 home, and 1 dared not say it. He used to say things 
 1 could not understand, when he was angry, but their 
 meaning became clear to me after. I had found out 
 long ago that I had no real love for him in my heart, 
 
 1! 
 
w 
 
 II' 
 
 v 
 
 R ■ 
 
 If 
 
 . ! i 
 
 I 08 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 as he had none for me ; and I used to wonder ho\f 
 my life was to he lived, and to prav, thou ;h it was 
 sinful, that it miL;ht be very short. lUit though I did 
 not love him, 1 was jealous — so jealous, that my life 
 became a torment to me. I watched him like a 
 serpent, until 1 found that he often went to see a 
 young girl, the daughter of an old artist, in the city. 
 She was a good girl, Miss Kertyon ; she was only 
 being deceived, as I was. One day I had learned he 
 was to meet her in the Park, and I went there, and 
 saw them together ; and that night, when he came 
 home, I spoke to him about it, and he told me then 
 th.at I had no claim on him, that our marriage was a 
 mockery, that I was no more his wife than the girl I 
 had seen with him in 'lie afternoon. Miss Kenyon, I 
 swear to you that if I hail not believed implicitly that 
 he would make me his wife, I would never have left 
 The Linn. You believe that ?" 
 
 ** Yes, I believe it," returned Miss Kenyon, and 
 Lizzie caught her hand and touched it with her lips. 
 
 " I went away out of the house that night," she 
 went on, " with only one thought in my heart — to get 
 miles away from him if I could. It was a fearful 
 night, I remember, but I did not seem to feel it. [ 
 had a little money in my pocket — /lis money ; and 
 but for my baby's sake, I would not have touched it, 
 and with that I procured a poor lodging in the very 
 heart of the city, where I knew I was securely hid. I 
 had to earn my living, and my baby's, too, and the 
 only thing I could do was to sew ; and it is not easy 
 to get work even in London. Sometimes," she said, 
 with a great sob, " I had neither food nor fire. I did 
 not mind for myself, but I knew my baby was pining 
 away ; I could see it every day. I have stood on one 
 of the bridges many a time, Miss Kenyon, with him in 
 my arms, almost on the brink of ending my misery in 
 
 ■ ] \- ' 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 109 
 
 a 
 a 
 
 the river ; but God kept me from that sin, tlioiigh I 
 was olicn sorely templed. My own slrent^lh was 
 failini; me, want of nourisliment, hard work, and 
 anxietv for my baby made me ill ; but 1 held iij) till 
 he died. I cannot tell you how it was. 1 cannot 
 speak about it yet, only 1 knew that if he had had 
 proper nourisliment he would have lived, and I could 
 not }^et it for him. I saw him die j and I remember 
 iiMthing for a long time. When I awoke, I was in an 
 hospital, and they told me I had been ill three weeks; 
 my baby was buried. I wanted to die then. Miss 
 Kenyon, I think my heart was broken. But 1 mended 
 slowly, and in another three weeks I was out of the 
 hospital. 'I'hen I determined to come home; but it 
 was montlis before I had saved from my scanty 
 earnings enough to pay my way. My last i)enny was 
 
 gone when I arrived in 1) this alternoon, or I 
 
 should have stayed all night there. I do not know 
 what made me come to yoii, except the renienibrance 
 of what you used to be before I went away. There 
 was nobody else I could come to; and oh. Miss 
 Kenyon, God bless you for your kindness, though I 
 don't deserve it ; 1 don'r indeed." 
 
 "You have been more sinned against than sinning, 
 my poor ch'"' ^,," said Miss Kenyon gently, " and you 
 have been sorely punished for it. Now, you must go 
 to bed ; your face is quite white, and your hands are 
 burning — come." 
 
 Obediently as a child, the drooping figure rose and 
 followed Miss Kenyon to a bed room. A fire had been 
 lit there, and a cheery glow lay upon the pretty room. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Kenyon," said Lizzie, "it is a long time 
 since I was in a room like this. I believe I atn in a 
 dream. Will you tell me, please," she said in a low, 
 scarcely audible voice, "how — how Jamie Duncan is? 
 Does he live in The Linn yet ? " 
 
', 
 
 fr 
 
 no 
 
 ClfRISlMAS KVR. 
 
 '• lie lives ni I.cu Ri^ still/' rftiirnni Miss Kcnyon, 
 not looking i\{ ihc fill's I. 111*. " ( )i», l.i/zic, l,i//u'. it 
 \v;is i\ sole l)lo\v to hun. He loved you very dearly." 
 
 " I know -I know." 
 
 The low voice broke, am! aj^ain the tears filic<l her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Kcnyon, if only I rniyht wake to-morrow 
 morning, and Inid the hideous \),\A a dream. Are you 
 ^////(' sure my lather and mother will take me back?'' 
 
 " As sure as I arn standing by your bedside tO'nif;hl, 
 l-izzie, when you go home to-niorrow ii will be indeed 
 going home. Now, try and sleep; it is very late, and 
 you look in sore need of rest." 
 
 She tried to free her hand, but liizzie held it firmly 
 in both her own ; so Miss Kenyon «lrew her chaii to 
 the bedside, and sat by her till slie fell asleep. 
 
 :-n 
 
 W ', 
 
 i'M 
 
CIIAITKR XVIII. 
 
 MOM R. 
 
 eAT,M arifl smilin<^ broke that Cl'ri-tmns morn over 
 'I'lic I -inn. I'ar and near the whitened fields 
 sparklet! beneath the sunshine, anii the woods 
 ('jM» were a perfect vision of fairyland. The snow 
 was fourteen invlies deep, and the frost was as hard as 
 iion. Farm work was at a standstill. Hut ere day- 
 break the busy inmates of the farmhouse at The 
 Mains were astir. Hefore the sun rose, Mrs. Falconer, 
 careful for the comfort of her poultry, went out to feed 
 them in the covered court adjoining their coop. Let 
 us look at her as she steps from the ivied jKirch, and 
 carefully crosses the slippery sarmyard. A little older 
 looking, a few more grey hairs, and a line here and 
 there upon her brow, and a sort of hungry look in her 
 deep motherly eyes, tell of the sorrow the years have 
 held, but she has never given way to useless repining. 
 She accepted the cross — the first she had been called 
 upon to bear — with a patient, humble resignation, 
 which her neighbours see with wonder and respect. 
 She stood a few mmutes, as she always did, watching 
 the fowls at their breakfast; — these minutes were full of 
 memories of Lizzie, for, as you know, the poultry had 
 been Lizzie's special care. Coming out oi" the stable, 
 the farmer saw her, and sauntered up to her side. 
 
 "There are some prime beasties there, guid wife," 
 he said. " I'm thinkin* ye'll make a bonniq penny aflf 
 the chickens this year." 
 
113 
 
 HOME. 
 
 I' ' 
 If 
 
 
 
 
 !l'! 
 
 Mrs. Falconer smiled. She could smile sometimes 
 yet, tliouuh it had lost mucli of its gladiu'ss. 
 
 "Ay; but, John," she said, her voice shaking; a 
 little, "tlicre's nae miicklc ])lecsure in tiie money they 
 bring noo. It's jist laid by (or nae end that I c.tn 
 see. D'ye mind hoo ye used tae torment /ter abooi 
 the pennies they brocht." 
 
 The farmer turned his head swiftly away. There 
 was a moisture in his eyes, and a strangely troubled 
 look upon his rugged face, which told how full of pain 
 the memory was. 
 
 " Let's get oor breakfast, guid wife," he said abruptly. 
 *' It's getlin' on for nine. This'll be an idle day, I'm 
 thinkin*. Wark's dune till fresh comes. But we canna 
 complain," 
 
 The day wore on. In the afternoon, the farmer 
 
 went off to D on business, and Mrs. Falconer 
 
 took her knitting, and sat down by the kitchen 
 fireside. The tins were still hung brightly on the 
 wall, the sanded floor was as clean as it used to 
 be, and the old eight-day clock ticked solemnly in 
 the corner. But the strange stillness — it was strange 
 yet, though of so long continuance — made the 
 mother's heart ache, and her knitting fell, as it often 
 did, from her hands, and her head leaned a little 
 on her breast. But she did not cry; it might be 
 that her tears had all been shed long ago. Slowly 
 the Christmas sun sunk redly to rest, and the shadows 
 began to gather in the corners of the kitchen. Mrs. 
 Falconer was startled by a knock at the door. 
 
 In answer to her " Come in," Miss Kertyon entered, 
 and shut the door again behind. 
 
 " Come awa* in, my wummin," said Mrs. Falconer, 
 in her warm, mc^therly way, " I'm as gled to see ye as 
 
 I can be, for John's awa' tae D , and it's lanely 
 
 here, ye ken." 
 
 .1 
 
 
HOMF- 
 
 «M 
 
 Miss Kenyon took the seat offered to her, and the 
 farmer's wife talked on, never noticing how quiet her 
 listener was, nor what an unusual colour there was 
 in her face. 
 
 •* We'll just hae oor tea cosy, you an' me, the noo," 
 she said, setting the kettle rii^ht on the fire. '* John'll 
 no be hnnie till late." 
 
 15ut at that moment the door opened, and the 
 farmer came in. 
 
 " I forgot the paper I was gaun to D aboot, so 
 
 I had tae come back afore 1 was half road," he said, 
 in reply to his wife's amazement. ** I'm richt gled to 
 see ye, Miss Kenyon," he said, with a firm hearty 
 grasp of her hand. " We'll hae oor tea, guid wife, i( 
 ye hae nae objections. It's a cauld nicht." 
 
 " I'll hae tae get the lamp set, tho'," replied his 
 wife. " It's no fower, but it's dark." 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Miss Kenyon quickly. ** I 
 have something to say to you before the lamp is lit.** 
 
 The farmer sat down in his arm chair, while his wife 
 leaned against the white table, looking at her visitor in 
 some surprise. 
 
 For the first time in her life, Sara Kenyon's womanly 
 tact failed her. She looked from one to the other, 
 not knowing how to tell them. 
 
 " Is't ony thing aboot oor bairn," said Mrs. Falconer, 
 then, in a strange voice, "Miss Kenyon, is she deid?** 
 
 "O Mrs. Falconer I Mr. Falconer!" cried Miss 
 Kenyon then, great tears running down I.<:r cheeks ; 
 " she has come home — she is here — I brought her 
 with me — I left her standing at the door — I " — 
 
 There was a sudden noise behind ; then from the 
 shadow came forth a bent and drooping figure, and the 
 firelight shone upon a face so changed that the father 
 and mother scarcely knew it. Then a great cry rang 
 tiirough the quiet house. 
 
 H 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 HOME. 
 
 " Father ! — mother ! — I am come home. Don't 
 look upon me like that. I am Lizzie. Oh ! take me 
 back or I shall die." 
 
 She was kneeling at her mother's feet, not darinj? to 
 look higher, till she felt a tear upon her face. Then 
 she crept into her arms, and laid her tired head upon 
 her mother's breast, and there was the li;,'ht of a great 
 joy in that mother's face. John Falconer did not 
 move. His face was hidden, and his strcng frame 
 shaking from head to foot. 
 
 " John," said his A^ife, in a voice broken with joy, 
 " hae ye nae word for the bairn ye lo'ed sae weel ?" 
 
 He rose then, his rugged face quivering with 
 emotion, and his strong arms closed about his wife 
 and child as if they would never loose again. And 
 his grey locks mingled with his daughter's golden 
 ones, and she put up her lips and kissed him, and 
 laid her arm about his neck. 
 
 But before this, Miss Kenyon had closed the door 
 very softly, and gone away home. 
 
 « « « • « 
 
 Lizzie Falconer lay down in her own little room 
 that night with a great sense of rest and peace and 
 unuttciable gladness in her heart. And the memory 
 of her father's "good night" words, and of the last 
 kiss her mother had pressed upon her lips, mingled 
 with her dreams. But they could not sleep for joy. 
 Sl«e had told them all, and it was agreed that the past 
 snould be buried for ever. 
 
 Early next morning, she slipped quickly downstairs, 
 and performed the household duties that had been 
 hers before. She lit the fire, swept up the hearth, 
 and set the table for breakfast Then, throwing a 
 shawl over her shoulders, she crept out of doors. The 
 sky was clear and starlit, and in the distant east the 
 ciay was dawning. The dog set up a sharp bark from 
 
 ' t 
 
HOME. 
 
 '»5 
 
 in 
 
 his kennel, but when she went to him, whispering his 
 nnme, he was hke to break his chain in his mau joy. 
 With swift step she crossed the famihar farmyard, and 
 pushed o|>en the door of the httle stable, where the 
 old pony used to stand, wonderini; if she would see 
 him there still. Yes, there he was, his bonnie dappled 
 head growing white with age, and his limbs stitfer 
 tlian they used to be. She went up to the stall and 
 caressed him, but no word could her quivf»'-ing lips 
 utter. He pricked up his ears, as if unable to believe 
 the evidence of his senses, and then, with a low 
 whinny of delight, rubbed hia nose against her 
 shoulder. Her arms crept about his neck, and she 
 hid her face and wept. To see how she was remem- 
 bered and loved, nearly broke her heart. 
 
 " O Lord," she said to herself, pausing within the 
 ivied porch on her way back to the house, " let me 
 never forget, as long as I live. Thy goodness to me, a 
 poor sinful girl who has gone so far astray. And 
 
 God, help me, as long as my life and theirs shall last, 
 to devote myself to my father and mother, to try, as 
 far as lies in my poor power, to atone for the suffering 
 
 1 have caused them, and to shew my love and gratilu<le 
 for their great love to me, who am deserving of nothing 
 but their reproach. Keep me lowly in heart, and ever 
 mnidful of '1 hee. For Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 
 1 cannot tell you, friends, how that father and 
 mother watched iheir child that day, bec.iuse my 
 words are so weak. There was not one shadow of 
 reproach in their thoughts of her, not a shadow of 
 anger or resentment, only an infinite protecting love. 
 She must be doubly cherished by them, because she 
 had trodden a thorny path, and had come back with 
 weak and weary feet to her childish home. It is such 
 love as this which sometimes gives our human hsajts 
 a faint conception of the mighty heart of God. 
 
Mi!' 
 
 ,»i ') 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER yix 
 
 EXI LED. 
 
 .J'EXT day John Falconer went up to Lea Rig 
 to break the news of Lizzie's return to Jamie 
 Duncan. 
 " It wadna dae," he said to his wife, "if the 
 lad was tae come in sudden like an' see Lizzie here; 
 and he may come ony meenit, an* as little maun 
 he hear the news frae ither folk. He deserves this 
 frae me, Pegj^ie, for he's been a guid freend tae us 
 baith." 
 
 After he was p'one, Mrs. Falconer told Lizzie, and 
 the girl crept away up to her own room, and shut the 
 door ; and at that moment even her mother did not 
 dare to follow her. 
 
 John Falconer had never been up at the farmhouse 
 on the hill since Lizzie went away. The young man 
 had come often to The Mains, but the sight of the 
 home he had hoped to see Lizzie occupy reopened 
 afresh the terrible sorrow in the old man's heart. It 
 was a bonnie place even in winter, only strangely 
 still and desolate. Excepting two apartments on the 
 ground floor, it was entirely locked up, and the rooms 
 which had been furnished with such care and pride 
 for the mistress who never came to inhabit them, were 
 the prey of moth and dust Jamie Duncan never 
 entered them himself, and no other woman's eyes 
 would ever rest upon them. So he had said in his 
 anguish. The rough servant girl who answered John 
 
 
 I 1 H 
 
rXILKD. 
 
 117 
 
 Falconer's knock bade him come in. and she would go 
 for the master; he was onl in the barn. 
 
 He returned with her, and there was some surprise 
 on his face when he saw who the visitor was. 
 
 "Shut the door, Jamie, lad," said the old man 
 hurriedly. " I have something to tell." 
 
 News of Lizzie was the one thought in the young 
 man's mind as he closed the door. 1 do not think 
 .she had been out of his heart for a day at a time since 
 she went away. His was indeed the love which many 
 waters cannot quench. 
 
 "Jamie, Lizzie cam' hame last nicht," said John 
 Falconer in the same hurried manner; "an' I thocht 
 it richt tae come up an' tell ye." 
 
 Jamie Duncan walked to the window, and looked 
 out upon the snow-clad fields, his face working with 
 emotion. It was a long time before his lips could 
 frame an answer to the farmer's words. 
 
 " Hoo is't wi' her ?" he asked, at last, in a husky 
 voice. " Is she weel and hai)py ?" 
 
 "She's come hame, my lad, like a lost sheep that's 
 wandered faur frae the fauld, an' been oot in mony a 
 blast The villain wha stole her frae you an* me 
 didna mak' her his wife, my lad ; the mairrage was a 
 mrckery tae deceive her; an* when he tired o' her, he 
 telt her the truth, kennin* it was the easiest way to 
 get rid o' her. An' she left him, wi* her bairn, tae 
 fecht the battle her lane in that great wilderness o* 
 Lunnon, an' the bairn de'ed, and syne she cam' hame, 
 O Jamie, my man, sae sairly changed ye wadna ken 
 her ; but I thank the Lord she's come hame. Jamie, 
 hae ye never forgotten her yet?'* 
 
 " Forgotten her?" returned the young man, more to 
 himself than to him. " I've prayed that I micht forget 
 her ; but the prayer *s no been answered." 
 
 I do not know what it was in the young man's 
 
s 
 
 tiS 
 
 rxiLKD. 
 
 
 voire that made the old man fee! that it would be 
 hotter tor him to go at once ; he n^se liom his chair, 
 put on his i),it, aiul took his stick from the corner. 
 
 "(iml day wi' ye, Jamie," he said, his deep tones 
 faltering a little. "I canna speak w'lat's in my lie.irt 
 this day, maybe ye can guess. Clod bless ye, l.id." 
 
 He hurried from the room, and Jamie Duncan 
 moved to the door, and turned the key. He was 
 hours in that room, alone with his agony, alone with 
 the (TOSS that had been pressing on his young shoulders 
 for years. The conllict /i<itf told upon liiin, (or Ins 
 lirow was deeply lined, and there were while threads 
 nmong the glossy brown hair. And when he went 
 forth, there was a half formed resolution i\\ his mind — 
 a resolution to leave I'lic Linn, and seek in aiu)lher 
 land the rest denied hitn here. Sore enough had the 
 struggle been to live and work where every tree an(' 
 Ikfrt'er, every bend and turn of the roads, reminded 
 him of w iiat he had lost ; but now, when s/ze was so 
 near, the struggle would be too hard, even for his iron 
 will, to bear. 
 
 Lizzie had come home; it would be better for both 
 that he should go. For it would be impossible to 
 avoid meeting each other, and that was an ordeal he 
 did not care to face, 'i'he news of the return sjjread 
 like wildfire in the village, and it furnished a to|)ic for 
 conversation for davs. Now that Glentarne was shut 
 up, there was a dearth of gossip in The Linn. The 
 art'air was discussed in all its bearings, and the general 
 feeling was one of satisfaction, for the sake of John 
 Falconer and his wife. 13ut, as usual, Nancy Irvine 
 and her kindred spirit, the i'ostmaster, passed their 
 righteous condemnation on her. It afforded them a 
 grim pleasure that she had come home broken-hearted 
 and humbler, for she *' aye was a saucy crater," said 
 Nancy, " an' pride aye gangs afore a fa', 
 
 .' » 
 
KXII.Iil). 
 
 119 
 
 " Whcesht, N.iMcy!" said a ^tnller ni'i^hhoiir ; 
 "sbc's siilUrcd pUiity. I'll w.irr;mt. I,ft her a-bo." 
 
 Ill the course of the next low weeks another niniotir 
 got ahioad, causing llie wildt-st cousicriialioii in The 
 J.iMM. It was, that Jamie I)un(an had ^^iven up the 
 1 ,ea ki^, and was tneditaliiiL; leavinj^ The Linn and 
 Scotland for ever, 'ilx- matter was kept very (lose, 
 and the eve of his depariure was at lurid belorc 
 credence was given to the rumour. 
 
 On a lovely April ev( inn:;, Sara Kcnyon was busy 
 in her garden uhi-n J.inne hinican ca ne to the school- 
 house. She ^u« ssed his err.ind, and led him into the 
 sitting-room, wiihouf jven a word of greeting. 
 
 " You have come to say good-bye, Mr. Uuncan," 
 she said. " Is it r.ot so?" 
 
 lie nodded, unable to trust his voice. Although he 
 knew he was taking the best course, this leaving the 
 only home and friends he had ever known was a very 
 severing of the heart-strings. 
 
 *' It IS not easy to say much when the heart is full," 
 said Miss Kenyon, with a slight smile. "You know 
 how much Kit and I shall miss you ; but I think you 
 are doing right, Mr. Duncan ; indeed, I am sure 
 of it." 
 
 *' I'm daein wliat seems tae mo the only thing I can 
 dae," relumed the young man simply. " 1*11 no say 
 but what it's been a sad tii.il tae me tae leave The 
 Linnj but ye see it wadna be guid for either //rr or 
 me to meet, an' it wad hae tae come some time." 
 
 *' Have you never seen iier yet?" 
 
 Tlie young man shook his head. 
 
 *' Never, face tae face ; I got a glimpse o' her frae 
 ane o' the fields ae day, an' 1 kent llieii that the suiier 
 1 was awa' frae The Linn tlie beiier f(jr me." 
 
 "You are going to Australia," said Miss Kenyon j 
 " have vou friends diere ?" 
 
ill 
 
 1 20 
 
 EXILED. 
 
 ii! -*■ 
 
 \i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 1) 
 
 8 "I 
 
 m 
 
 i '' -I 
 
 ,1 -f 
 
 , f 
 
 iil' 
 
 "Yes; my mitlier's only brither lives in Adelaide; 
 it's there I'm gaun." 
 
 He had moved to the window, and above the 
 budding beech trees he saw the blue smoke from 
 The Mains curling upward to the sky. 
 
 " I'm gaun doon tae The Mains noo, Miss Kenyon," 
 he said, "an* if she's there I'll see her. It canna 
 maitter much noo, when I'm gaun awa' the morn. I 
 think I wad like tae see her aince afore I gang" — 
 
 "I Understand," said Miss Kenyon gently; "I shall 
 tell Christopher to come and see you. He is in the 
 study." 
 
 The young man wheeled round suddenly, and 
 caught her hand in a grip of iron, 
 
 *' Miss Kenyon, afore I gang, let me try tae thank 
 ye for what ye've been, no only tae me, but tae hei' 
 I daurna name," he said huskily. " I'll never forget it 
 as ijng as I live; and tho' I'm gaun sae faur awa*, 
 I'll pray every day that the Lord may bless ye a' yer 
 life." 
 
 Tears sprang to Sara Kenyon*s eyes. No need for 
 me to record her answer. Years after, in the lonelv 
 Australian wilds, where his exiled life was spent, Jamie 
 Duncan remembered the precious words of womanly 
 help and comfort, and then, as he did now, blessed 
 their utterer. 
 
 ♦ «««•• 
 
 He saw Lizzie alone that night ; but what passed 
 between them was never told. Even if it had been, I 
 do not think I could write it. For, oh ! are there not 
 moments in the life of every one of us, over which it 
 is best to draw the veil ? The farmer met Jamie as he 
 passed through the kitchen, and dared not speak to 
 him, for he "vas weeping like a child. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SURPRISE. 
 
 Jl [HE Castle had been shut up since Sir Jasper's 
 nlf T death, but at midsummer it transpired that the 
 %*? estate had been disj)osed of by private bargain. 
 %^ It was rumoured that the purchaser was an old 
 man, unmarried, and possessed of enormous wealth ; 
 that he had amassed his fortune abroad, and, being of 
 Scotch parentage, had come to enjoy it in his native 
 land. But when August brought him to The Linn, 
 they found him to be a man in the prime of life, and 
 handsome enough to do credit to the grand old home 
 he had made his own. 
 
 The gentleman's name was Liddel. 
 
 It happened one Saturday afternoon that Christopher 
 Kenyon had strolled up as far as The Castle, not 
 knowing that the new owner had arrived the previous 
 day. He was leisurely making his way up the avenue, 
 when in the distance he saw a tall figure approaching, 
 dressed in a light tweed suit, a deer-stalker cap, and a 
 gun over his shoulder. Wondering who he could be, 
 the schoolmaster bethought himself of turning inta 
 the wood (he was shy of meeting strangers), but the 
 gentlen>an, whoever he was, made his escape im- 
 possible by perceptibly quickening his pace until he 
 was within a hundred yards of him. Then he stood 
 stock still in the road, and absolutely stared at the 
 ?:choolmaster. I am bound to say that, unlike hiru- 
 
m 
 
 
 133 
 
 SUR PRISE. 
 
 I 
 
 srir. Kit returned the st.-ire with interest. 'Die stranj^er 
 spoke Inst. 
 
 '' Km ! In the n;ime ofnll that's womlerfnl. is it v«>n i^'* 
 
 Tlie srhoohnastcr si.wed nito (lie liandsunio liank 
 face, too bewildered at first to speak. 
 
 " Kohett l.iddel !" lie said at last. " I cannot believe 
 it ! How strange tliat we should meet here." 
 
 The stranger's rij^ht hand went forth and grasped 
 Christopher's with a grip of'non. 
 
 "A lnttle older looking, but the same Kit I used 
 to know, as I stand here," said he a little (juic kly. 
 *• \\ hat brinjj;s yon here ? and where is .Sara ?" 
 
 "What brings yon here, Robert ?" said the school 
 masiei, answering his (jnestion with another. " \Vc 
 tluniuht yon had died, «>r forgotten ns a!)road.''' 
 
 " Haven't you heard." said laddel, •' I came into a 
 torume, and bought (ilentarnc? My mother was a 
 native of I> — ." 
 
 " Indeed I" No other word could (Christopher 
 Kcnyon utter, so intense was his am.azement. 
 
 ••Come into the house, Kit," said laddel ; "and 
 we can talk over oUl tinu s. \ want to know how you 
 hapiHMi to be here, and all about you and Sara. She 
 will be married now, I supjiose?" 
 
 All these i]uestions C'luistopher answered silting 
 with his friend in the library of The Casil'% and it was 
 long past the tea hour wnen he went bav k to the 
 schoolhouse. He returned alone, but Liddel was to 
 follow later in the evening. 
 
 Sara was leaning over the gate looking up and down 
 the road, \.ondenng what was keeping her brother; 
 and when he came up she saw that he looked utuisually 
 cxoiied. 
 
 ** Where have you been. Kit," she said, holding 
 open the gate. "1 was thinking of going up to Cluny 
 lo seek you. Have you been there?" 
 
BURrRt5;p,. 
 
 123 
 
 " No ; 1 have bprn at The Castle." 
 
 "raking tea with the im'w owner?" she asked 
 mrrrily ; arul he answered, " Yes." 
 
 When they enlerid the house, he sndMcnly laid his 
 hand on her head, and h)oked into her lace with an 
 odd expression iti his ^Mave eyes. 
 
 '•Sara, <an you bear a ^reat .surprise?" 
 
 " Ye.s what?" 
 
 "The luw owner of (llentarne is Rf)l)ert I.idrlel. 
 I met hini there, and have been with him thrse two 
 hours, lie has never for^^fften us, Sara. VV^e mis- 
 judged him. And he is coming here to night to see 
 you. 
 
 Then he went away, ajid left her to herself 
 
 It was nine o'rlork bffore Robert Taddei came. 
 Christopher admitted him, and opened the siiting- 
 rootn door, but he di«l not enter with him. Sara was 
 standing on the hearth. She moved at the closing of 
 the door, but did not turn her head. Robert laddel 
 went to her, and touched her arm, then she looked at 
 him with a long searching look. At first these two, 
 parted for so long, had no wonl to say. 
 
 "Sara," he said, at length, in the tones she remem- 
 bered well, •' have you no word of welcome for me — • 
 not one ?" 
 
 Her li|)s quivered, and her eyes fell. 
 
 *' I am glad to see you back," she said, with a 
 slight constraint in her voice, and unconsciously she 
 niuved a little further from him. 
 
 For a moment, Robert Liddcl looked at the only 
 Woman he had ever loved, wondering to see how little 
 she was moved by his presence. She had loved him 
 once, and he had thought it would be for ever; but it 
 had been a mistake, alter all. She was as fickle as 
 
124 
 
 SURPRISE. 
 
 11 
 
 the rest of them. There was not much change in her 
 outwardly, in his eyes. She was more beautiful than 
 she had ever been ; but what did it matter if she was 
 not " fair for him " ? 
 
 "I have been vainly seeking for you, Sara, since I 
 returned to PIngland," he said, with quiet constrai it. 
 "And of all places in the world, I least expected to 
 find you here." 
 
 "It is strange how people meet," she said con- 
 fusedly. " I did not expect to meet you here, or — or 
 anywhere." 
 
 " Why? Have you forgotten what passed between 
 us the night before I left for Jamaica ?" 
 
 Had she forgotten? No need to ask Sara Kenyon 
 that question. She had not so many happy memories 
 in her heart that the sweetest of all should be forgotten 
 80 soon. 
 
 Robert Liddel wem close to her again, and bent 
 his blue eyes on her downc?f:t face, thinking how 
 sweet it was, and yet so sorely chanf^jed ! 
 
 " Sara, the hope of this meeting has been with me, 
 I believe, night and day since A left you at The Holt 
 that night," he said in his frank, true voice. " It is 
 twelve years ago now, I think. \ knew many changes 
 might take place in that time ; but that you would be 
 so sadly changed to me I did not dream. What is its 
 cause ?" 
 
 The sweet hazel eyes were raised at length to his 
 face, and the quiet voice trembled in its utterance ? 
 
 "I am not changed — at least, not as you think, 
 though I am growing to be an old woman now," she 
 said hurriedly. "It is the suddenness. I so little 
 expected it ; and happiness has so long been strange 
 to me, that I can scarcely realise it O Robert, 
 I— I " 
 
 Her voice broke, but the tears which followed were 
 
SURPRISE. 
 
 '25 
 
 slied upon the breast which was henceforth to be hei 
 shelter for evermore. 
 
 It might be an hour after before Christopher 
 ventured to peep in. Then Sara slipped away and 
 busied herself with preparations for supper, while the 
 two friends, who had been boys together at West- 
 deane, sat down, with a new bond between them, tc 
 live over again these long-gone days. What a pleasant 
 meal that was ! I cannot describe to you the unselfish 
 happiness on Christopher's face ; to see him there 
 beaming on his sister and his friend was a sight so 
 pleasant, and yet so touching, that Sara dared not 
 look at him, and even Robert Liddel a gay eyes were 
 dim. 
 
 Uh, it was a happy evening, made all the happier 
 that it was only the precursor of many more to come. 
 
 " I can't realise it, old fellow," said Robert, as 
 Christopher and he lingered at the gate. " I am afraid 
 I shall wake up to-morrow, and find myself back, 
 among the sugar canes of Jamaica," he said, half jest- 
 ingly ; but his tone changed, and he added seriously, 
 " Providence has been very good to me, Kit." 
 
 The schoolmaster glanced upward to the sky, and 
 answered reverently, ** He is good to every one of us, 
 Robert, if we could but see it. His hand is with us 
 alike in sunshine and shadow." 
 
 " My heart is full, old friend ; good night, good 
 night." 
 
 4i-^ 
 
 W^/ 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 V' 
 
 I' 
 
 m 
 
 fc. ) 
 
 OHN Falconer and his wife are growing old and 
 ^1 frail, but the down-hill path is made smooth and 
 ^1 easy for them by the love and care of the grave, 
 gentle, helpful woman, whom they still tenderly 
 speak of as the bairn, Lizzie. That love and care 
 have never faltered, never known change or wavering, 
 since she came back. Well and faithfully has Lizzie 
 Falconer kept her vow. She is a friend to all in 
 trouble, and far and wide many lips mention her name 
 in love and blessing. She is a beautiful woman still, 
 but her face is shadowed, and will be to the end. 
 
 Two memories live with her. One a little mound 
 in a far-away hospital graveyard, and the other, the 
 faithful heart who is an exile for her sake. Old friends 
 hear sometimes of Jamie Duncan. He has done well 
 on the other side of the Pacific, and is a wealthy and 
 prosperous man. He hai never married, and never 
 will. Sara writes to him constantly from her happy 
 home at Glentarne, and his rare letters are ever wel- 
 come. She takes them to the farm, and reads th':m to 
 John Falconer and his wife , then leaves them to 
 Lizzie. S/ie treasures them, how dearly tne writer 
 will never know. 
 
 In Robert Liddel's hands the inheritance of the 
 Hamiltons flourishes as it never did before. He is a 
 good landlord, and one of the most popular men in 
 the county. He says he owes it to his wife. Those 
 
 p 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 127 
 
 who know her think he is ri^'ht. In her bcnntiful 
 home, haj)py in the devotion of her hiisl innd and the 
 love of her children, Sara Kenyon's hie i>< all sunshine 
 now. Christoplier Uves with them. lie has his own 
 rooms in The Castle, and pursues his studies undis- 
 turbed, except by the children, who are seldom from 
 his side. And in the summer time, it is a sight to see 
 him the centre of a merry throng (for the you g folks 
 from Cluny are often at The Castle) allowing himself 
 to be crowned and decked with daisy chains, made by 
 loving fingers. He has a favourite among them — a 
 little fairy with her mother's face and eyes, and her 
 name is Mary Haldane Forbes. Tiiey wonder at it, 
 for they have never guessed his secret. It will go 
 with him to the grave. 
 
 Mrs. Liddel hears sometimes, also, from Maud 
 Himikon. She is the slay and comfort of Lady 
 Hamilton's declining years. The change in the proud 
 heart has been firm and lasting. 
 
 Of Ralph Mortimer there is nothing to tell. He 
 seldom sees his sister, for now their ways lie apart. 
 AVhether or not he is t'/cr visited by the remorse 
 Y.'hich comes soo'ier or later to the wicked is known 
 only to himself and his Maker. 
 
 And in the dear old village among the hills Father 
 Time is leaving his footpn-its. Tlie blacksmith has 
 gone, and the business dwindling away to nothing in 
 Jock's hands. Nancy is a fretful invalid, bemoaning 
 her troubles, and grumbling at tlie want of sympathy 
 shown by the neighbours. Mrs. Scott is failing, too, 
 but is cheery as of yore. Her bonnie daughter, Madge, 
 is her right hand ; and Geordie tenants the Lea Rig, 
 with a wife and bairns of his own. 
 
 There is a new schoolmaster, a dapper individual, 
 with bran new notions about educational systems, and 
 a partiality for corporeal punishment Whether or not 
 
138 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 the children are better taught, I don't know ; but I do 
 know that Christopher Kenyon's gentle rule is regret- 
 fully remembered by old and young. 
 
 The family at Glentarne have a firm hold upon the 
 hearts of the people. Robert Liddel and his wife 
 are ever ready to help a struggling brother or sister 
 to fight life's battle ; and never even in good Sir 
 William's time were the poor so generously remem- 
 bered. They are faiihiul stewards, and tiicir reward 
 will not be denied theuL 
 
 FaiewelL 
 
t 1^0 
 
 egret- 
 
 n the 
 wife 
 sister 
 J Sir 
 nern- 
 ward