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32X

SHADOWED LIVES.

SHADOWED
LIVES

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

> 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'."

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.

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

FORESHADOW INGS.

I
I |i II

llili

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

on I

th(

pel
art

PORESHADOWINGS.

«3

didna

erfect

, from

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.

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

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

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.

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

"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

Ker
*(|

leai
Mai

\l
in

TIIR RF.NVUNS.

? nature,
sly. She
him Willi
ot know,
:r brother

ould like
urning lo
rou and 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

"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

-1

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.

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-

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:;.

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

MOTHER AND SON.

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,

!i|

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

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."

h .;;!

II!::!;!

illli!

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."

»a#

SAUCY BEAUTY.

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

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

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

^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,

M!»'^fHVt» AMII WirPL

( 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

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

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

;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.

'W. ' ^a! ' - *l>' -j wi j - •'"-^ — —-

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^.

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."

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.

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."

■It ! -.T.',I

■■^mmt

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."

-"' and

A rnoi. rithtion.

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

^^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.

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

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.

* (

HAPPY LOVE.

" 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."

HAPPY I.OVE.

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

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.

"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 ,

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.

A BITTER AWAKENING.

" 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 .{■'

:imM4

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

THE NIGHT BEFORE.

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"

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.

" 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

«l

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.

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

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.

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

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.

: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

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

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.

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

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

SARA KENYON S STORY.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

(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^

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^

"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.

'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.

in
vr

ly.

tre

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

THK LAST OF THE HAMIT.TONS.

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.

•k
a

lut
lie
Ic

" 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

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n. 11

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Imt' over

IlilM. llir (.'lilliliil '^cill III' 'I lo » 'il» ll flic will ;(!' f'l
wmkIs. Ill' ImmIm'iI ;ii |i(-( ( ,i)4cfly, with th"(|f;af li^lit
of l'(M'i»!MMl iM|i ill lim rycK.

'' I I MM Mil, III i tllV lll'i'll'f IirfMI ';' III f'lf r*"

" N<». Sll |:is|ir? I 'iiiiil;" I'l \\rr |,l(|yslil(t ,'ili'iilt i*,

l»ul she s;nil llirrr w;is ii" iM'cssily y I ; .'iii'l I f'dil'j

wnM iIm ii nl tuy Mwn ;h » mkI

" pM 1 1 iiMw, llit'ii." 1 1' oil!, willi ffv'ci mil im[Mii''ri' '*,

" ttiimriji.iicly, witlioiil rt iMoiiHMirs fjcliy. 'I (jli her I

mil (lyiii^ "

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

;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.

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,

]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

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^.

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

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Corporation

23 WiST MAIN STRIIT

WEBSTIR.N.Y. USM

(716)872-4503

t i

I ■

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.

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

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.

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?'

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.

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

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

TIIK IIKATINU of IMF. SiOKM.

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.

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^
Mi

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.

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,

II'

R ■

. ! 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 ? "

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."

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.

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

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

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! -*■

8 "I

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-

133

SUR PRISE.

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.

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.

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

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