EUPHIE LYN 
 
- •■■"%.;. ^^-^P?'r::^^i*3i- ■ 'vyrs:-^ 
 
 
EUPHIE LYN 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FISHERS OF OLD INWEERIE 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. J. K. LAWSON 
 
 author of 
 'a vain sacrifice,' etc. etc. 
 
 ►f* 
 
 EDINBURGH & LONDON 
 OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER 
 
 1893 
 

 t< 
 
 5^. -- 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO THE 
 
 LEAL AND KINDLY FISHER-FOLK 
 
 OF 
 
 ST. MONANS 
 
 P5 
 
 %i ■. 
 
 ^' 
 
 
 KORBISON AND GFEB, PRINTEBS, EDINBURGH. 
 

 
 
 ^^^^m^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAfJE 
 
 I. INWEERIE SCHOOLDAYS, . . .7 
 
 II. EXIT— TOM GOWANS, . . .15 
 
 III. A DISREPUTABLE BOOK, . . .26 
 
 IV. A BROKEN TRYST, . . .36 
 V. AN OLD-FASHIONED PENNY WEDDING, . 47 
 
 VI. THE poet's advice, . . .59 
 
 VIL A NIGHT OF TERROR, . . .67 
 
 VIII. A BRAVE DEED, . . . .77 
 
 IX. A GRAND OLD-WORLD SOIREE, . . 87 
 
 X. INTERCEPTED CORRESPONDENCE, . . 97 
 
 XI, DANCE MUSIC — ITS ORIGIN, . . 105 
 
 XIL A REVELATION, .... 114 
 
 XIII. BY THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF, . . 122 
 
 XIV. NEMESIS, ..... 129 
 XV. 'OOR TAM !' . . . . 137 
 
 XVI. BACK TO INWEERIE, . . .146 
 
 XVII. riER-HEAD POLITICS, . . . 156 
 
 XVIII. TOM PLAYS HIS PART TO ADVANTAGE, . 165 
 
 XIX. *A GOOD SMART WALK FROM HERE,' . 174 
 
 6 
 
6 Contents. 
 
 CKAP. PAGE 
 
 XX. ALAS FOR TAM ! . . . .183 
 
 XXI. FROM THE ANTIPODF.S, . . . 191 
 
 XXII. ANOTHER VISITOR FROM THh ANTIPODES, 202 
 
 XXIII. TO THE NORTH COUNTRY. . .210 
 
 XXIV. Tiri pedlar's information, . .219 
 
 XXV. died for love — OF MONEY, . . 229 
 
 XXVI. late-learned wisdom, . . . 239 
 
 XXVII. 'could he still LOVE HER?' . . 248 
 
EUPHIE LYN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INWEERIE SCHOOLDAYS. 
 
 ^NWEERIE was, and is yet, a typical fishing 
 village, peopled by fisher-folk only. The 
 incidental baker, grocer, tailor, shoemaker, 
 or ' licensed to sell ' individual, existed but to 
 minister to the wants of the seafaring population, 
 and, given industry and business ability, gener- 
 ally managed to make a paying thing of it — bad 
 debts, no profits, and the usual sibboleth of trade 
 to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 It is true that as such prospered they as a 
 rule began to spread themselves out in turkey- 
 cock fashion, privately holding the common folk 
 in high disdain, but then a wholesome dread of 
 losing valuable custom prevented them from 
 expressing this feeling, unless with bated breath 
 within the guild. It was a town also in which 
 evil-speaking was reduced to the minimum, not 
 exactly from principle, but from a wholesome 
 dread of the person spoken of, or perhaps some 
 relative who felt the family reflected on, suddenly 
 
8 Evphie Lyn. 
 
 (lashing in upon llie repeater of a slander with 
 fierce visage and sledge-hammer fists shaken 
 dangerously close to the traducer's nose, while in 
 a voice jjitched to high C, the personal pedigree 
 of the incautious one was sliown up and its 
 memorable points dilated on to the delectation of 
 the listening neighbours assembled round the 
 door. Thus, by the application of the rule similia 
 similihus curanfor, evil-speaking was reduced to 
 a safe science of phrases capable of double inter- 
 pretation should explanation be demanded ; to 
 pantomimic sniffs and innuendoes ; and to looks, 
 mute as the grave, but conveying thoughts ' too 
 ])ig for utterance.' All this, however, was nigh 
 half a century ago, and how much the world has 
 progressed since then, to be sure ! How much 
 human nature has changed ! 
 
 Meantime, then as now, Mother the Sea fed 
 them all. But for this she exacted hard work, 
 long and irregular hours, a certain bravery, un- 
 limited patience, and unquenchable hope. 
 
 Then as noAV, strangers coming to the town 
 and seeing the fishermen pacing • quarter-deck ' 
 upon the pier, inclined to think them stolid — 
 stolid as the bowed landsman whom the heavy 
 hand of incessant toil and poverty has crushed 
 the manhood out of, leaving only the dull, 
 obedient animal trudging stiffly to the grave. 
 Not so. The alert but unruffled calm of the 
 fishermen is the result of a life-long discipline of 
 patience. 
 
 When you go up to speak to them, you will 
 find that they neither lift the cap nor touch the 
 forelock after the manner of those accustomed to 
 be subject to others ; they stand up straight, look- 
 
Imvceric Schooldays. 9 
 
 ing searchingly at you — man to man. For in 
 this whole town of fishers master and man is a 
 relation unknown, all being equal ; and as you 
 begin to talk with them, they will quietly take 
 stock of you, trying to divine whether you are a 
 man, or merely an imitation, and according to 
 their judgment of you, so will their manner be. 
 
 And the idleness, which has perhaps struck 
 you with wonder, you will find to be enforced. 
 These bluff", ruddy men in blue are no loafers. 
 
 But, unless they wish to suicide en masxe, 
 Mother the Sea must be watched, even in her 
 most smiling moods. For, let the north-east 
 wind but sally forth, and she is up at once, green 
 and angry, her long white hair streaming behind 
 her as she rushes raging upon the rocks, while 
 all the coast echoes the sound of her roaring. 
 
 Moreover, the lines are all baited and carried 
 down and placed ready in the yawls rocking over 
 yonder by the West Pier, and the nets are set 
 down in the big boats that go out to the deep 
 sea fishing, with the great lines tidily packed 
 coil upon coil into the 'rips,' and the hooks 
 stuck fast all round like a corded rim of white 
 metal ; but until the Sea shall have come out of 
 her tantrums, and the hand of the barometer 
 incline to ' Fair,' there is nothing for it but to wait. 
 
 And he who, having done everything, can 
 possess his soul in patience and wait, when 
 everything is waiting on him, with the rent due 
 and the coal burning done ; with the children's 
 shoes wearing out, and a bill running up to the 
 grocer, who has begun to serve out the neces- 
 saries with an audible sigh, — the man who can 
 quietly wait in such circumstances, nor grumble 
 
lo Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 nor chafe, has learned one of life's most difficult 
 lessons. 
 
 But, indeed, this life of mute combat with 
 circumstance generally began at school — the old 
 parochial school, the only one in the place, if we 
 except a little house of two apartments, which 
 stood along the West Shore, having an outside 
 stair and one small window, built in those days 
 when statesmen laid a tax upon the light of the 
 sun. Here lived two maiden sisters, incomers 
 from nobody knew where ; and here the elder 
 sister, bearded and spectacled, taught the feminine 
 idea how to shoot in the direction of plain sewing 
 and knitting, thereby earning an arduous and 
 difficult livelihood ; while Peggy, the younger, 
 sold beef in the cellar below stairs. 
 
 This, however, had no connection whatever 
 with the parochial school, which, though built 
 on a rock, stood amid the sands, with the sea 
 washing the windows every high tide, the only 
 washing they ever got. From time immemorial 
 the place had been infested with rats. 
 
 Here the venerable schoolmaster stood up one 
 particular day at noon dismissal; and, after 
 announcing the usual Wednesday half-holiday, 
 concluded thus — 
 
 'Any boys who wish to come back to the 
 school in the afternoon to catch rats, let them 
 hold up their hands.' 
 
 The hand of every boy in the place went up 
 as high as it could reach. 
 
 ' Oh — ho, ho ! ' laughed the master, ' this will 
 never do. I think six will be enough.' 
 
 The young faces lengthened unanimously, but 
 no hand was withdrawn. 
 
Inweerie Schooldays. II 
 
 * I think,' said the master, wiping his spectacles 
 with his h. Ikerchief, ' the best thing would bo 
 to select the six boys who have behaved best 
 this week.' 
 
 The boys looked at each other ; a shamefaced, 
 roguish flicker of laughter illuminated their 
 countenances, and one by one the hands de- 
 scended. 
 
 * Come out here to the floor a dozen or so who 
 have been behaving well, and I'll see.' 
 
 The boys hung their heads, and laughed and 
 nudged each other, none feeling good enough to 
 get up first. 
 
 'You, Tom Innes, David Baxter — come out 
 here.' 
 
 As soon as they rose there were plenty of 
 other volunteers, until about a score stood candi- 
 dates for the honour of rat-catchers. 
 
 *Bob Syme, didn't you tramp down Mrs. 
 Brown's curly-kail plants yesterday 1 ' 
 
 'Tam Gowans shoved me,' pleaded Bob in 
 extenuation. 
 
 ' I didna,' spoke up Tam in defence. 
 
 * AVell, you will both go to your seats, and 
 don't let me hear any more complaints of that 
 kind.' 
 
 The two went to their seats, crushed, and the 
 master fixed a chilly stare on a roguish, bright- 
 eyed lad of fourteen, who waited with ill-con- 
 cealed eagerness for election. 
 
 * What do you want, Andrew ? ' he demanded 
 in his driest manner. 
 
 The boy hesitated, then answered — 
 
 ' I can catch rottens.' 
 
 The master looked upon the floor, and passed 
 
12 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 his hand across his face slowly, trying to smooth 
 out a smile which had begun to pucker the 
 corners of his eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, I have no doubt of that,' he responded, 
 with a sonorous gravity that made an impression ; 
 ' you can do a great many things, Andrew. For 
 instance, you can climb up on an old woman's 
 thatch roof and lay your slate upon the chimney 
 until the old body is smoked out, and when she 
 slips out at the door and down the close with a 
 large jug of water holding behind her to drown 
 her persecutors with, you sneak up behind her 
 and smash the jug with a stick. Then you 
 can also glue cockle-shells on to the cat's feet, 
 and lock it up into Saunders Johnston's garret, 
 frightening them so much that they turn out of 
 their beds at two o'clock in the morning, sure 
 that the house is haunted. Are you aware that 
 Captain Shaw's parrot cries " Drunk again ! " 
 every time the captain comes into the house 1 I 
 suppose you know who taught him that ? ' 
 
 The culprit hung his head, but the boys burst 
 into a laugh that the master did not try to re- 
 press, for the care Andrew had taken to instruct 
 the captain's parrot on every opportunity was 
 well known to them all. Andrew slunk to his 
 seat, feeling that Nemesis was upon him ; but the 
 master was not done with him yet. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will explain why you got hold 
 of Tom Gowans over there and shook him like 
 a rat, and sent him home to his mother with a 
 bleeding nose ? ' 
 
 Andrew did not answer. He was, like 
 Pharaoh's chief butler, remembering his faults, 
 and wondering how the master knew every- 
 
Iiiweerie Schooldays. 13 
 
 thing, when he was startled by a girl's voice 
 saying— 
 
 ' Please, sir, he thrashed Tam Gowans because 
 he stealt my aipple.' 
 
 The master glanced over to where a"^ pretty 
 little girl, with red hair and brown eyes, had 
 just risen up, with her face all aflame. 
 
 ' Oh, ho ! then Tam Gowans deserved what 
 he got, and ' — 
 
 Here the school door opened slowly, and a 
 stout woman, attired in a blue duffle petticoat 
 and shortgown, with a mutch on the back of her 
 head, and with a piece of soapy wet flannel in 
 one hand and a towel in the other, presented 
 herself, with a suave smile of apology, before the 
 master. 
 
 ' Maister Buchan, ye maunna be angry at me 
 comin' in, ye ken ; but, ye see, the minister's 
 comin' doon to bapteeze a no'-weel bairn in oor 
 hoose, an' that blackgaird, oor Tam, do you think 
 for the life o' me I can get that scoondrel to wash 
 his face ? No' me ! he'll no' mind a word I say. 
 But I tell't him this mornin* ; says I, " Tam, if 
 you dinna wash your face, so as to be decent 
 when ye come hame, an' the minister in the 
 hoose, as shure's death I'll come an' wash it in 
 the schule." Whaur is he, Maister Buchan 1' 
 
 * Tom Gowans ! ' 
 
 No answer, and no Tom to be seen. He had 
 dived down under the benches, and crawled 
 among the feet of the children away to the back 
 of the school. 
 
 * Tom Gowans ! ' thundered the master. 
 
 ' Please, please, sir — he's here,' piped a little 
 girl, geUing up in unmistakable fear and alarm. 
 
14 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ' The scoondrel ! ' exclaimed the irate mother ; 
 and, striding down L?tween the rows of forms, 
 she dived with the swoop of a seagull under a 
 desk, and fished him up, fierce and resistant, to 
 the surface. 
 
 ' I'll learn you to rin oot every mornin' with- 
 oot washin' your face, disgracin' decent folk ! 
 I'll let you ken wha's maister — you or me ! ' she 
 blustered, as he lay pinned to the floor with her 
 knee upon his breast, while she rubbed the soap 
 vigorously into his eyes, amid the loud laughter 
 of the children. It was in vain that he spat and 
 sputtered and hammered with his heels upon the 
 floor ; she rubbed and polished him off till his 
 cheeks shone like a ruddy apple, and then she 
 rose, remarking apologetically to the master as 
 she passed out — 
 
 ' His haffits are no' very clean, but he'll dae 
 noo till Sabbath.' 
 
 Tom sat upon the floor, the tears in his eyes, 
 his heart and brain scorching with the shame 
 he had undergone before the whole school. 
 Revenge ! Revenge, hot and speedy, was the 
 one devouring feeling in his soul, when a happy 
 idea occurred to him. His cuffs were moist with 
 the struggle to get the wet flannel out of his 
 mother's hand ; he raised them and sponged his 
 face afresh, then lay down and rubbed it back 
 and forth upon the dusty floor, until he became 
 quite unrecognisable, and thus, to his mother's 
 horror, he entered the house just as the minister 
 rose up to christen the child. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 EXIT — TOM GOWANS. 
 
 'ES, Andrew,' resumed the master, after 
 Tom Gowans had dashed out of the back- 
 door intent on his revenge, * you can do 
 a good many things. For instance, you meet 
 two boys coming down the moor with a nest oi 
 young birds in their hand, and up goes your fist 
 into their eyes, and you seize the nest and carry 
 it back and place it in the hedge again, threaten- 
 ing murder to the boys if they dare go near 
 them. Ehr 
 
 The two boys whom Andrew had punished for 
 robbing the nest slunk out of sight behind the 
 backs of those sitting in front of them. 
 
 ' Then, when you see half a ton of coals lying 
 at old Eppie Scott's door, you volunteer to carry 
 them in for her, and won't even take the fine 
 treacle bannock she spreads for you when you 
 had carried them all in and swept up the door 
 with her heather besom. And poor old Eppie 
 thinks you the best boy in the town, and never 
 suspects that it was you who smoked her out 
 and broke the jug she carried behind her to 
 drown you with. Yes, Andrew, after all these 
 exploits and many others quite as characteristic, 
 
 15 
 
1 6 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 I have not the slightest doubt that you could 
 catch rottens. Indeed, I think I shall have to 
 make you captain of the rat-catchers this after- 
 noon, just to keep you out of mischief.' 
 
 Andrew, whose toes had been tracing aimless 
 curves and lines upon the floor to keep himself 
 in countenance during this scathing rebuke, now 
 looked up, but catching a peculiar twinkle in the 
 admonishing eye, suddenly looked down again ; 
 and while the master picked out another four 
 boys, it took him winking hard to keep back the 
 hot tears. Indeed, once he surreptitiously drew 
 his sleeve across his eyes. He would rather 
 have taken a thrashing than an address like this, 
 where the master first exposed his misdeeds and 
 then slew him with his forgiveness, as he did now. 
 
 ' Now, Captain Andrew Craig,' said the 
 master, turning to Andrew without looking at 
 him, ' here are your four men for the afternoon 
 hunt. The fifth — well, you can bring Tom 
 Gowans along, by way of compensation for the 
 lie Bob Syme has told on him.' 
 
 Bob started and reddened visibly, but looked 
 defiance. 
 
 * I happen to know that when Mrs. Brown's 
 curly - kail plants were trodden down, Tom 
 Gowans was at Pittenweem. So, Bob Syme, 
 come up to the floor.' 
 
 Bob, with a sour visage, sidled up slowly, 
 and the master drew forth a long strip of 
 leathern * tawse.' 
 
 * Who knows the Ninth Commandment ? ' he 
 cried, appealing to the whole school. 
 
 Up went every hand, big and little, dirty and 
 clean. 
 
Exit — Torfi Gowans. 17 
 
 ' Repeat it.' 
 
 * Thou shalt not hear false witness ayainst thy 
 neighbour,' chanted the whole school promptly. 
 
 ' Well, what is false witness against a neigh- 
 bour 1 ' pursued the master. 
 
 Dead silence ensued. They knew dimly what 
 it meant ; the trouble was how to give it proper 
 expression. It was the Scotch peculiarity of 
 mind, understanding without expression. 
 
 ' You, Euphie Lyn, come, let me see you put 
 all these boys to shame. What is false witness 
 against a neighbour 1 ' 
 
 Euphie rose, blushing furiously above her 
 white pinafore, and answered in a clear voice — 
 
 ' Please, sir, it's tellin' lees on him.' 
 
 The boys all turned round and looked at the 
 clever girl of the school ; and Andrew Craig 
 smiled encouragingly, which made her blush 
 again as she sat down. 
 
 'Yes, that's it, Euphie. A lie is the only 
 thing I will not suffer to go unpunished in this 
 school. There are lies and lies, all more or less 
 mean, but this is the lie of the coward. Hold 
 up your hand, sir.' 
 
 The culprit slyly drew down the cuff of his 
 jacket as far as he could over his palm and held 
 it up ; but the master said, ' The other hand/ 
 and, pronouncing the letters of the word Z-t-e, 
 he brought down the tawse in three stinging 
 whacks. At the third whack Bob uttered a cry, 
 doubled up, and blew upon his hand, hot tears 
 filling his eyes. 
 
 ' Now, go to your seat, and remember, the 
 way of transgressors is hard,' said the master 
 sternly, after which he dismissed the school. 
 
 S 
 
l8 ' Euphie Lyn. 
 
 That evening, as Andrew came sauntering 
 down through the whins over the moor, a girl's 
 scream rang out shrilly, and he turned and 
 made straight to the place whence the sound 
 proceeded. There, behind a hedge, on her way 
 home from a neighbouring farm, stood Euphie 
 Lyn, crying and shrinking back as she held up 
 her little milk pail to ward off the nearer approach 
 of a dead rat, which Bob Syme was menacingly 
 swinging by the tail close to her face. 
 
 ' Ay nae ! Ye thocht ye was awfu' clever, 
 gettin' me into a lickin' the day. What was 
 your business if I tell't lees or no' ? I've gude 
 mind to gar ye eat this rotten, an' ' — 
 
 Here a rustling in the hedge behind caused 
 him to pause, and as he turned and caught a 
 glimpse of Andrew Craig fiercely breaking in 
 th-ough the gap, he dropped the rat and fled, 
 ^h avenger behind him. 
 
 ' Jom'/Z shake a rotten in the lassie's face ! ' he 
 gasped, as they both fell — Andrew uppermost — 
 over a bracken bush. 'I'll — I'll let ye see 
 whether ye will, ye muckle cooard ! I'll — I'll ' — 
 But here speech became lost in action. He 
 pounded and dug his fists into Bob's anatomy 
 everywhere with such fury, that Bob, feeling 
 defence impossible, seized the opportunity of a 
 breathing moment to get up and run. Andrew 
 was too exhausted to follow, and turned back to 
 where he had left Euphie. But she had sped 
 home with the milk, and Andrew followed 
 slowly, his passion cooling as he vrent. 
 
 His way home lay past Mrs, Lyn's garden 
 dyke, and as he passed along, some one softly 
 called — ' 
 
Exit — Tom Gotvafts. ' 19 
 
 * Andrae ! Andrae ! ' ■ * ' 
 
 *0h, is't you, Euphie ? Never mind, my 
 lass,' said Andrew, turning and smiling blithely. 
 'Never you mind. I've gi'en him his corn. 
 He'll better no' try that again.' 
 
 Euphie stood still, with one shoulder against 
 the dyke, holding something underneath her 
 pinafore. 
 
 'D'ye like sugar elephants, Andrae 1' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' Ay, fine,' replied Andrew expectantly. 
 
 Euphie slowly drew her hand from under her 
 pinafore, and offered him what was in it. 
 
 Andrew at once bit off the elephant's trunk, 
 and crunched it with evident relish. 
 
 ' But what's this 1 ' he queried, holding up a 
 small book-mark, with a blue ribbon attached, 
 which she also gave him. 
 
 * That's for your Bible. Kead it,' said Euphie. 
 
 * Remember me,^ read Andrew aloud; and, with 
 a shy smile, Euphie ran into the house. 
 
 Bit this eventful week was not yet over. 
 Mrs. Gowans, as has been seen, was a pushing, 
 energetic woman, a grey mare who was by a 
 long way the better horse in the matrimonial 
 team. Under her prompting and guidance, her 
 husband Tammas, a quiet, inoffensive man, whose 
 one unfulfilled desire was to lead a peaceable 
 life, had become the owner of a boat, ^ house, 
 and plenty of good sea-gear. Her windows were 
 of the brightest, her house the cleanest ; no 
 higher polished fender, no whiter hearthstone 
 or more daintily sanded floor, could be found 
 between the kirk on the west, or the Pans on the 
 east, of the town. It took her a full hour and 
 
20 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 more every Saturday to dust the fine array of 
 coloured glass vases which, with a china dog 
 at each end, adorned her mantelshelf, to say 
 nothing of the two great glass globes enclosing 
 wreaths of artificial flowers, which Tammas had 
 brought to her from Yarmouth when he was 
 courting her, and which had stood on top of the 
 stately chest of mahogany drawers ever since 
 she took up house. These drawers were only 
 matched in magnificence by the tall eight-day 
 clock, which stood up between the two box-beds, 
 Avith brass cupolas and mahogany horns upon its 
 head, and the maker's name handed down to 
 posterity in large letters across the dial-plate. 
 The beds seemed too good to sleep in, so neatly 
 were the snowy quilts laid with a fold along 
 the front, the crimson curtains enhancing their 
 whiteness. 
 
 Hitherto Mrs. Gowans had ruled with undis- 
 puted authority, shaping the plastic material of 
 which her husband and her other children were 
 made, just as it suited her ; but now in Tom she 
 found herself confronted with a will as strong as 
 her own. She was continually trying to conquer 
 her own intensified duplicate, and the result 
 generally was a drawn battle, with the victory 
 tending to Tom. Of late she had thought of 
 trying conciliatory tactics, and this morning had 
 presented him with a new pair of moleskin 
 trousers as a sort of truce to hostilities. The 
 trousers he put on, with the new red braces 
 above his blue jersey, so that they could be seen \ 
 but the jacket — no. No argument would induce 
 him to put on that jacket, so off he went to 
 school in the new moleskins, blue jersey, and 
 
Exit — Tom Goivans. 21 
 
 flaming red braces, the peak of his cap down in 
 the nape of his neck. 
 
 Although it was summer, the master, for his 
 own personal comfort, generally kept on a small 
 fire in the large wide fireplace, and it was now 
 burned down to Avhite ashes, being late in the 
 afternoon and near dismissal-time. A knock 
 came to the door, and as the master opened it 
 the boys got a glimpse of a packman selling 
 books, and rejoiced. When tliat bookman came 
 round, and the master put on his hat and shut 
 the door to examine the pack, there was always 
 plenty of time for a little fun ere he came in 
 again. A geography class of some ten of the 
 biggest boys were standing with their toes upon 
 a crescent which the master had traced upon the 
 floor with chalk, but as the time passed they 
 began to get restive, and forgot to toe the 
 mark. ; .; u 
 
 * The fire's oot,' remarked Tom Gowans, looking 
 around. . . , 
 
 *No, it's no',' said Bob Syma 
 
 ' What'll ye wager \ ' 
 
 'Tippence.' 
 
 *I would like to see the tippence,' sneered 
 Tom ; but Bob Syme fished up two coins from 
 his pockets, and held them up with triumphant 
 ostentation. A thrill of despairing envy ran 
 through the class, for they were only fishers' 
 bairns, whereas Bob's father kept *a public,' 
 and had always plenty of bawbees. 
 
 'Stick your thoom i' the aise an' ye'll see,' 
 suggested Andrew. 
 
 Bob stepped over, and gingerly stuck his 
 thumb into the grey ash, but instantly with- 
 
22 Enphie Lyn, 
 
 drew it, spitting like a cat upon the scorched 
 member. 
 
 * He's just pretendin' he's brunt,' sneered Tom. 
 ' I wouldna be feared to sit on that fire till the 
 maister comes in.' 
 
 *I would like to see ye try it,' retorted 
 Bob. 
 
 ' Try't, try't ! Try't, Tani ; we'll tell ye when 
 the maister's comin',' said they all; and thus 
 urged, Tam stepped over, and, cautiously getting 
 his head up the chimney, sat down on the top 
 of the ashes, with his legs hanging down in front 
 of the fireplace, to the delight of the whole 
 school. ' ' 
 
 ' Is't het, Tam 1 ' asked several, as eagerly as 
 though he were winning the Derby. 
 
 'Hetl No!' quoth Tom, with lofty scorn; and 
 the whole class faced round to watch the hero 
 of the moment, and how long he would sit. 
 
 Tom leant back against the sooty chimney, 
 folded his arms, and surveyed them all with 
 dignified defiance; while o«. /^side the door the 
 master, pleased to miss the usual outbreak of din 
 when he went out, indulged in a more lengthy 
 chat than usual. 
 
 Presently, however, Tom began to fidget. 
 
 ' Is't het, Tam 1 ' inquired Andrew Craig. 
 
 * Het ! ' retorted Tom fiercely ; ' lioo can it be 
 het when it's black oot % It's — it's just a wee 
 thingie warm.' 
 
 Tom laid hold of the jambs and eased himself 
 up a little, crossing his legs and folding his 
 arms. He had pushed back the brown hair 
 from his eyes with his sooty hands, and what 
 with the smut and the attitude he took, he 
 
Exit — Tom Goivaus. 23 
 
 looked, framed in the fireplace, not unlike some 
 heathen idol. 
 
 * Better come doon,' suggested Andrew Craig. 
 
 * No,' spoke Mrs. Go wans' son; *I said I 
 would sit on the fire till the maister comes, an' 
 I'll sit.' And he slid down closer into the 
 ashes. 
 
 But, in spite of all this bravado, it was clear 
 Tom was far from comfortable. Through the 
 smut his face began to redden ; he tried to shift 
 about unobserved, when a tense whisper of 
 ' The maister ! ' reached him, and he hurriedly 
 climbed down. He was making for the crescent 
 round which the boys now stood with their backs 
 toward him, when the master, with a sudden 
 exclamation of alarm, came across Tom with a 
 swinging swish of the tawse. Tom uttered a 
 wild scream, and sprang up over the desks to- 
 ward the back-door, which he found locked ; 
 while the ignited moleskin, already smoking, 
 began to flame with the wind of his going, and 
 there was a smell as of cloth burning. 
 
 Im^ -^diately the school broke up in the 
 y' 'iest uproar, the master and big boys chasing 
 Tom, ^"n o, ^.er to extinguish the fire ; Tom, 
 desperate v. h pain and heat, plunging, leaping, 
 dodging, k^ .»cking every one over in a mad 
 attempt to get out and escape the dreaded tawse. 
 At length he eluded them all, reached the door, 
 and bolted, the whole school after him. Tom 
 cleared the steps at a bound, ran down the sands 
 to where the tide, blue and limpid, came gurgling 
 in over the rocks, and promptly sat down in the 
 cooling waters. 
 
 He fled the town that night. His mother that 
 
24 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 afternoon had gone to Elie, so his misfortune 
 was unnoticed, especially as he took care to slip 
 about sideways like a crab when, with his father, 
 he came in to tea, his last meal, which he ate 
 with an uncontrollable feeling of chokiness. Her 
 wrath he might have braved, for it was loud and 
 soon over ; but the laughter, the gibes of his 
 companions, the new nickname he had already 
 heard shouted round a corner at him — no, 
 never ! He knew, as surely as that he was a 
 living and repentant boy, that he would never 
 hear the end of this, so he drew his savings out 
 of the bank, the little * pirlie-pig ' that stood in 
 the far back corner of his bed-shelf, the money 
 he had been hoarding up to buy * a pair o' doos ' 
 with — elevenpence in all \ and, with a small loaf 
 of bread and two buffed herrings tied up in the 
 jacket he hated so to wear, he set out after dark 
 to make his way in the world. 
 
 The high-road eastward out of the to^vn led 
 up to an eminence called the Taft Hill, from the 
 top of which one could get a good view of the 
 west before descending on the opposite side. 
 Here Tom stopped, threw down his bundle on 
 the grass, and, drawing his sleeve once or twice 
 across his eyes, looked mutely back towards 
 the town. The moon had risen, and from the 
 shore away over to shadowland a silvern path 
 of light wimpled invitingly; but Tom took no 
 note of it. His eyes were turned to where 
 the quaint conical tower of the old church rose 
 up dimly in a corner of the night ; the rest of 
 the town was all a dark, confused blur. A 
 quick, convulsive sob escaped him ; he hesitated, 
 lifted the bundle slowly, and began to retrace 
 
Exit — Tom Gowcns. 2$ 
 
 his steps, when he suddenly wheeled about 
 again, dashed his arm once more across his eyes, 
 and soon the little figure, with the bundle upon 
 its shoulder, bobbing bravely along in the moon- 
 light, was seen no more. 
 
 Good-night, Tom, and God be wi' ye, for even 
 of such stuff as you are brave men made. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DISREPUTABLE BOOK. 
 
 H, well ! away yonder at the west end of 
 the town, on the placid green slope 
 dipping down to the burn on one side, 
 and on the other to the sea, sleeps the school- 
 master among many of his scholars ; the shadow 
 of the old church, like that of a dial, moving 
 over them with sun and with moon, indicating 
 the hours of time above the place where time is 
 now no more. The children are children no 
 longer ; the lessons they learn now are taught in 
 a sterner school. 
 
 Euphie Lyn has long since outgrown pina- 
 fores, being now a maiden of eighteen, with hair 
 like corn ripened by the sun ; a pair of clear 
 dark eyes, that at once challenge notice by con- 
 trast of hair and complexion ; and a straight, 
 shapely figure, set off by a clear lilac print gown 
 and white apron. Moreover, she has two lovers ; 
 and here, as elsewhere, the course of true love 
 runs with its usual perverseness. For Andrew 
 Craig is a young fisherman, with but a fisher- 
 man's luck, and a widowed mother to support ; 
 and though it is well known that he and Euphie, 
 ever since their schooldays, have been dear as 
 
 26 
 
A Disreputable Book. ' 27 
 
 light unto the eyes to each other, still Mrs. Lyn, 
 though but a fisherman's widow herself, con- 
 tinues to propound this question : ' What has 
 her . 
 
 What he is^ is nothing to the point. Intelli- 
 gent, true-hearted, brave ; with a stainless life, 
 a pair of willing hands, and a manly, honest 
 love — granted. But what does all that amount 
 to when you come to reduce it to pounds, 
 shillings, and pence ? 
 
 ' J^aething, nihil, naething ! ' insisted Mrs. 
 Lyn. 'But there's Bob Syme, a braw man, 
 whose father died a few years syne, leavin' him 
 "the business," with the licence sure to be 
 renewed; a well-conducted young man, and 
 well-dressed, with a' that fine property made 
 afi" the business, — a man that need never cast 
 his coat to do a day's work from the one year's 
 end to the ither. Such a splendid doon- 
 sittin' ! ' — What ! If Euphie was fool enough 
 to turn up her nose at such a chance, she wasn't ; 
 and if Andrew Craig didn't get a flea in his 
 ear one of these days, it would be none of her 
 fault 
 
 Such was the state of afiairs one Lammas 
 morning when Euphie came skipping in, in 
 great excitement. 
 
 ' Mither, whaur is yon auld oilskin petticoat 
 0' yours that used to hing i' the garret ? ' 
 
 'An oilskin coat? What d'ye want wi' an 
 oilskin coat % ' 
 
 'I'm gaun to the herrin', mither; there's 
 herrin' i' the Haiks, an' the boats are a' comin' 
 in load to the gun'les, an' the curers canna get 
 enough women to pack them.' 
 
0- _ Euphie Lyn. 
 
 "Deed, than, ye're no' gaun one fit. What 
 would folk think o' me if I let ye gang to the 
 herrin'r 
 
 ' It's nane o' folk's business what I dae. I'm 
 gaun to the herrin', mithor, to earn some honest 
 bawbees. I never hae a penny I can ca' my 
 ain.' 
 
 'Wait, an' I'll send ye to the dressmakin'; 
 it's mail genteel.' 
 
 'An' to wait a' that time — a year or twa — 
 afore I can mak' onything % No, I'm gaun to 
 the herrin', an' if ye winna gie me your petticoat 
 I'll gang withoot.' 
 
 ' Oh, weel, please yoursel' ; the coat's in the 
 garret hingin',' said Mrs. Lyn, who had a shop, 
 or what she modestly called 'a sma' way o' 
 doin',' and had been already infected with the 
 aristocratic exclusiveness of trade and love of 
 the 'genteel.' * 
 
 ' It's just the way wi' bairns when ye bring 
 them up,' she explained to a customer ; ' but, 
 ye ken, ye canna pit an auld head on young 
 shouthers. Let her gang to the herrin', she'll 
 sune get her tirin' o't. She's like mony mair, 
 she disna ken when she's weel-aff. Deed, ay ! 
 Tippence an' thrippence is fivepencc, an' five- 
 pence for twa pund o' sugar, that'll be tenpence ; 
 that's just tippence I've to gie you in.' 
 
 Mrs. Lyn took up the shilling and returned 
 the twopence; but though the customer took it 
 up, she hesitated to go. 
 
 'D'ye ken Andrae Craig's folks in wi' a 
 grand shot? They were in first this mornin', 
 and got a fine price — a pound the barrel, an' 
 they've aichty if they've a cran. By faigs ! if 
 
A Disreputable Book. 29 
 
 he bauds on like this, he'll be ca'in' it aff wi' 
 Euphie at the end o' the drave.' 
 
 * Ca'in it aff wi' oor Euphie ! ' snorted Mrs. 
 Lyn, with her nose in the air. ' Na, na ; 
 Euphie doesna need to tak' up wi' ony fisher. 
 My lassie has ither prospecks, Jennie lass.' 
 
 ' Aweel, there's some folk pleased to say that, 
 ony way ; and Andrae Craig is a fine chap, an' a 
 gude son to bis mither.' 
 
 'I'm no' sayin' onythin' again' him, Jenny, 
 but he's no' for oor Euphie. I'll no' say but 
 what she raicld be marrit gin the end o' the 
 drave, — things are no' a' settled yet, — but it'll 
 no' be to Andrae Craig.' 
 
 The customer passed out of the shop, looking 
 somewhat puzzled. She couldn't make this 
 thing out, for if Euphie was not to marry 
 Andrew Craig, it was a very strange thing why 
 they always went up to Greendykes Farm 
 together for curds and cream on Sunday even- 
 ings with the other lads and lasses. 
 
 ' When ye get as muckle fisher-wark as I've 
 haen in my day, ye'll no' be sae fond o't,' Mrs. Lyn 
 remarked, as Euphie came down from the garret 
 arrayed in the petticoat over her dress, and her 
 golden hair full of cobwebs. 'Guttin' herrin' 
 is nasty, clarty wark, an' folk '11 no' forget to 
 cast it up to ye, maybe when ye're braw and 
 weel-aff, boo ye ance wrocht amon' the herrin'.' 
 
 'There's little chance o' me ever bein' sae 
 weel-aff as a' that,' laughed Euphie, stripping 
 off the petticoat, and proceeding tc array herself 
 in old clothes that wouldn't spoil. 
 
 ' If ye dinna, it's your ain fau't,' retorted Mrs. 
 Lyn significantly. 
 
JO ■ Euphie Lyn. 
 
 Euphie kept silence, quite understanding what 
 her mother meant. After a little she went up 
 to the mirror. 
 
 *Eh,' she cried, with a laugh, as she saw her- 
 self, * sic a head wi'. moose- wabs ! That garret's 
 just fu' o' ettercaps. I wonder, mither, what 
 way my head's sae yellow and yours sae black ? 
 Was my father's hair like mine V 
 
 ' What gars ye spier sic daft-like questions ? ' 
 fretted Mrs. Lyn in a snappish tone. 
 
 'Me? Naething. It just cam' in my head 
 to spier. Ye needna be sae soor aboot it, 
 mither. What gars ye aye speak sae hard to 
 me % ' asked Euphie, looking hurt. 
 
 ' Hard % D'ye think I havena reason to be 
 hard, to see you gaun throwin' yoursel' awa' on 
 a puir naething o' a fisher wi' an auld mither to 
 keep up, when a wag o' your little finger could 
 bring ye a doonsittin' that would mak' a leddy 
 o'ye?' 
 
 * Mither, dinna speak aboot it. I canna bear 
 that Bob Syme ; he's an ill e'e in his head. I'm 
 no' wantin' a man ; but if I did, he would hae 
 to be a gude ane.' : 
 
 'A gude man '11 no' gie a lassie like you 
 blackgaird books to read, would he ? ' 
 
 Euphie started guiltily ; her face flamed 
 crimson. She looked into her mother's face a 
 moment, then mutely dashed up-stairs; while 
 Mrs. Lyn chuckled, * That nickit her ! ' 
 
 Euphie sprang over to the box-bed in her own 
 little room, and snatched up the pillows. There 
 was nothing under them. She pulled the bed- 
 clothes out upon the floor, and turned the tick 
 up. There was no book there. Then she made 
 
A Disreputable Book. 3 1 
 
 the bed up again, shaking out the blankets care- 
 fully, but still she found no trace of the book 
 she had been reading, night after night, long 
 after her mother had gone to sleep down-stairs. 
 She explored the table-drawer, behind the big 
 chest, everywhere, but saw no sign of it. Then 
 she went up to the little looking-glass, and looked 
 long into its depths, and saw a fair face, with an 
 abundance of hair, yellow as the flaxen curls of 
 childhood, coiled and twisted and fastened with 
 a comb on the back of her head ; while a pair of 
 sweet lips were pressed together firmly, and two 
 bright brown eyes angrily flashed the question, 
 'Where can it be?' Euphie Avas of a nature 
 that could suiFer long and be kind, but she had 
 begun to resist her mother's too oppressive 
 domination of late, and now ran down-stairs, pre- 
 j>ared to defend herself. Mrs. Lyn was grimly 
 knitting in the big chair. 
 
 ' What did ye dae wi' the book, mither ? ' 
 ' Oh, I've the book a' safe enough.' 
 'But I want it, mither; it's no' mine.' 
 'No, it's no' yours; I ken that. I saw 
 Andrae Craig's name in't. A shame an' a dis- 
 grace for onybody to own sic a book, far less a 
 chap that gaed forrit an' joined the kirk a whilie 
 syne.' 
 
 ' I want the book, an' I maun get it, mither,' 
 said Euphie, so quietly that Mrs. Lyn looked at 
 her a minute or so, and then, easing herself up, 
 pulled from under the chair-cushion a leather- 
 bound copy of Shakespeare. 
 
 ' It's the awfu'est book ever I read. The bad 
 language in't is perfectly fearsome. An' the 
 folk's morals ! Ae lass, a Mrs. Macbeth, eggin' 
 
32 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 on her man to kill the tither man; a black-a- 
 moor smotherin' his ain decent wife; young 
 leddies trampin' aboot in men's claes amon' 
 witches an' a' kind o' evil speerits, ane o' 
 them half a man an' half a cuddy ; to say nae- 
 thing o' a daft auld carle they ca' Lear, a man 
 that should hae been lockit up i' the madhoose, 
 if it was for naething but for his ill-scrapit 
 tongue ! Ca' ye that readin' for a decent young 
 woman % ' 
 
 ' Mither, ye've read mair o' Shakespeare than 
 I've done. I've only gotten through " Hamlet," 
 an' you appear to have read them a',' said 
 Euphie, smiling, but stretching out her hand 
 for the book. 
 
 'An' is't no' my duty to see what you're 
 readin' ? ' demanded Mrs. Lyn, nothing daunted. 
 * ^^^lat I dinna like is Andrae Craig gi'en you a 
 book like that. It's no' moral.' 
 
 * I can tak' the gude an' leave the ill, just as 
 we dae wi' the Bibla Ye may as weel say ' — 
 
 'Weel, weel, never mind what we may as 
 weel say. Whaur did Andrae Craig get a book 
 like that?' 
 
 ' Tammas ^Mathers, the poet, ga'e him the 
 book in a present.' 
 
 * Tammas Mathers ? What was that ye ca'ed 
 himi A what?' 
 
 * A poet.' 
 
 ' Lordsake ! A fisherman, an' a braw ill-afF 
 ane at that. Gaed by the door there, wi' his 
 muckle sea-boots on, an' a net on his shouther, 
 no' half an oor syne — ca' tliat a poet ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, mither, he's a' that. Look, there's 
 ane o' his poems.' Euphie took the volume 
 
A Disreputable Book. 33 
 
 from her mother's lianJ, and, opening it, took 
 out a slip cut from a local paper, and laid it 
 before her. 
 
 ' Noo, I maun awa' to the herrin' ; ' and she 
 carried the book up-stairs and placed it in her 
 chest locker. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn was so astonished by the news that 
 Thomas Mathers had written the verses she held 
 in her hand, that she let Euphie go off to work 
 without further parley. 
 
 ' Me, I canna understand it,' she soliloquised. 
 ' Yon ordinar' red-headed man ! A puir fisher, 
 gaun to the lines every day ! I'm sure, wlia did 
 I ken better than Tammas an' a' his folk when 
 my man was livin'? I never saw ony poetry 
 aboot him. Humph ! what's this he says ? — 
 
 " Oh, these were hours — ay, gowdeii hours, in love's 
 
 fantastic dream, 
 For hope had buskit fairer flowers than Nature e'er 
 
 could claim ; 
 AlFection knit our hearts in one, as at her shrine 
 
 we knelt. 
 For ours was love — ay, love as pure as mortals ever 
 
 felt." 
 
 Noo, mercy me ! hoo did Tammas Mathers ever 
 learn to pit words thegither like that % He got 
 nae mair schulin' than I did, an' never saw nae- 
 thing a' his days but bark-wuss an' bow-tows. 
 It's no' like as if he was weel-aff an' had siller i' 
 the bank, either. I canna mak' oot hoo a man 
 withoot a bawbee can be a poet. A poet — an' 
 him only a fisher ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Lyn read the whole poem, which was 
 called *A Response to Nature,' over and over 
 again, but it gave her no clue to the mystery. 
 
 3 
 
34 Eupliie Lyn. 
 
 It was quite late when Eu[)lue came liome, 
 tired and hungry, her cilskin petticoat shining; 
 Avith herring-scales. It had been a busy day in 
 town; hundreds on hundreds of crans of herrings 
 had been landed, the town was crowded with 
 barrels piled high as the house-tops, and the 
 streets were strewn with salt and odorous of 
 herrings. Cadgers from rll parts of the country 
 were down with their carts and nags, anxious to 
 get a bargain of plump herrings to haAvk about 
 the countryside. The girls at the curing stations 
 sang as they Avorked. All day the town was 
 resonant with the sound of hoofs and wheels ; 
 the sharp knocking of the coopers' hatchets as 
 they headed up the barrels ; the laughter and 
 long whoop-like ' skirl ' of the women as the 
 jokes went bantering round, and the curing and 
 packing of the herrings drove merrily on. 
 
 For it was a heartsome and jovial time when 
 the heavy schools of fish swam down into the 
 fine spawning grounds at the Haiks, to the east 
 of Crail, or ' The Traith,' between the Bass and 
 the May, out of which the fishermen had fished 
 so much gold that it had come to be called Cali- 
 fornia. A blithe and hopeful time, indeed ; for 
 at the back of all this business doing there was 
 hope and good cheer, and many were the workers 
 whose fingers were propelled by the nimble elec- 
 tricity of love, by the consciousness that they 
 were earning the lining of a snug little nest of 
 their own, and by visions of a gay wedding and 
 a dance till daylight in the Town House, after 
 the drave. 
 
 Euphie was tired, but happy. Her hands 
 were sore, and smarted with the salt, but she 
 
A Disreputable Book. 
 
 35 
 
 had earned five b.iillings. Moreover, on her 
 return home she had met Andrew Craig, coming 
 down the Wynd, with his sea-boots on, and a 
 pile of nets on his shoulder, and he had smiled 
 with his dark eyes as he passed, bringing all the 
 blood in a rush to her face, bespattered as it was 
 with scales and salt. Was there any girl in 
 all Inweerie more blissfully happy this lovely 
 Lammas evening as the boats put out to sea 1 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A BROKEN TRYST. 
 
 ^TdTOWEVER busy the week-days, there was 
 PJl' X. always peace and rest in Inweerie on 
 Sunday. The boats lay deserted in the 
 harbour, and the Sabbatic stillness was broken 
 only by the flowing and ebbing of the tides, and 
 the shrill kling-klang of the church-bell ringing 
 out the call to worship. As evening wore on, 
 however, there was a little social relaxation. 
 The old and married folk made quiet, friendly 
 calls upon their relations ; the children began to 
 run about in the streets ; and the young people 
 of both sexes, in Sunday evening toilets, went 
 sauntering up the long green country roads 
 towards Balcaskie Woods, enjoying the soft 
 twilights — the lingering golden twilights one 
 sees only in this part of Scotland. Here, by the 
 edge of a copse, Andrew Craig and Euphie, by 
 tacit understanding, were accustomed to meet, 
 and though never a word of love had passed be- 
 tween them, each felt somehow belonging to the 
 other. 
 
 Andrew, looking very manly and winsome in 
 his blue fisherman's suit and smart peaked cap, 
 was on his way up there to keep the usual 
 
A Broken Tryst. 37 
 
 tryst, when he encoimterecl Mrs. Lyn, arrayed 
 in her best l)lack merino, black net mutch, grey 
 shoulder shawl, and black Sunday apron, stand- 
 ing on the doorstep. Hhe had observed ]>ob 
 Syme pass up a few minutes ago, following 
 Euphie. 
 
 'It's a fine e'enin',' she remarked amiably. 
 
 * Ay, a fine nicht,' returned Andrew, rather 
 pleased. 
 
 * Are ye no' comin' in to sit doon a wee ? ' she 
 said, with an inflection of voice which a spider 
 might use to invite a fly. 
 
 Andre'.v hesitated. 
 
 ' Thank ye, but I was just gaun up the brae 
 for a walk.' 
 
 'Ye're weel-aff that can get oot,' she said, 
 lifting her eyebrows. ' I never kens what it is 
 to get a moothfu' o' fresh air. Folk wi' a way 
 o' daein' like me has just a continwal wait-on.' 
 
 'Ay, it's confinin',' said Andrew, taking a 
 step forward. 
 
 ' Eh, what way was ye gaun, Andrae laddie % 
 Was ye gaun up by Balcaskie, or alang by the 
 Coalfarm ? ' she inquired sweetly. 
 
 The young man was taken aback. It wasn't 
 in human nature to tell where he was going 
 just then, that was his own sacred afiair, so 
 with an assumption of supreme indifference he 
 answered — 
 
 'I'm iiae ways particular. I'm thinkin' I'll 
 go along by the Coalfarm.' 
 
 Up went Mrs. Lyn's palm in astonishment. 
 
 ' Aweel, if that disna beat a' ! Just provi- 
 dential ! Here was me wussin' I could see 
 somebody gaun that way, for I dinna like to be 
 
38 . Euphie Lyii. 
 
 stravaigin' my lane an' sae mony folk oot aboot. 
 Just wait or I lock my door, an' I'll gang that 
 length wi' ye ; ' and, to Andrew's consternation, 
 she swiftly turned the key in the lock, and 
 stepped along by his side. 
 
 To gain the goodwill of Euphie's mother he 
 would have walked twenty times the length of 
 the Coalfarm at anv other time : but what would 
 Euphie think ? However, he was in for it now, 
 and there was nothing but to go through the 
 ordeal as quickly as possible, and then, ho, for 
 Balcaskie Woods. lie had told a fib when he 
 said he was going by the Coalfarm, but he would 
 take his punishment bravely. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn was a healthy, able-bodied woman 
 as yet, but she walked extremely slow. 
 
 The smell of the whins just did her good, she 
 said, and she stopped every few minutes to enjoy 
 it. Then she met several acquaintances, whom 
 she paused to chat to, always including Andrew 
 in the conversation, so that ho could not possibly 
 walk on. Andrew tried to be patient, but his 
 patience was too apparent. 
 
 ' I think I'll go back now,' he said, when they 
 reached the other side of the Coalfarm, and she 
 still held on ; ' but you can gang on. It's a fine 
 nicht, an' the caller air '11 dae ye gude.' 
 
 'Maybe I'm hinderin' ye, Andrae? Maybe 
 ye're wantin' to gang some ither gate % ' 
 
 ' Me ? Oh no ; I'm gaun straucht hame,' he 
 protested. 
 
 'Oh, weel, then I'll just turn an' gang 
 back wi' ye,' said his companion, with great 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Andrew's heart died within him. Euphie 
 
A Broken Tryst. 39 
 
 would be up the road to the old chapel near 
 Balcaskie, waiting and wondering what kept 
 him. He conjured up her image, with the dark 
 blue dress and tidy little shawl setting off her 
 fair complexl.^n and yellow hair, her shining 
 dark eyes looking shyly into his. 
 
 He had already told two fibs ; should he tell 
 another, and say he had an engagement? Im- 
 possible ! Hadn't he just said he was going 
 straight home 1 
 
 But oh, if Mrs. Lyn would only walk faster, 
 and be less observant of what she saw ; if he 
 could only hurry home, so that, having rid him- 
 self of her, he could fly with winged feet to 
 where Euphie now strolled, or sat plucking 
 spores of grass under the hedge that skirted 
 the copse. But Mrs. Lyn was not to be hurried. 
 
 ' Losh me, Andrae,' she panted, ' ye forget 
 that you're young an' I'm auld. What's a' your 
 hurry, min? Tak' time ; it's a bonnie nicht, an' 
 the air's fine an caller.' 
 
 Andrew slackened his pace, but his pulses 
 began to beat uiadiy, and he was wicked enough 
 to wish his companion at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 ' No, as you say, there's nae hurry,' he assented, 
 and resigned himself to his bitter fate. 
 
 ' Eh,' she said, pausing and turning round, 
 ' isn't that a bonnie sicht to see a' thae stooks 
 upon the fields up yonder by Waterless ? ' 
 
 'Very bonnie,' responded Andrew, and had not 
 his back been turned to the sunset one would 
 have thought it was its ruddy reflection which 
 crimsoned his face as he spoke. 
 
 * An' did ye ever notice,' she continued, waving 
 her right arm up toward the north, — ' did ye ever 
 
40 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 notice hoo yon bonnie yellow licht brundes awa' 
 ayont the back o' Kelly Law 'oors after the sun's 
 (loon % Hoo's that, Andrae ? ' 
 
 *I dinna ken. It's^the reflection, I fancy,* 
 said Andrew, moving on a step or two ahead. 
 
 ' Bide a wee, Andrae. What's a' your liurry, 
 min ? Ye see, a' this is just sic a treat to me, seein' 
 I'm sae little oot. Look, see, up by the Taft Hill 
 yonder, there's twa fields o' neeps.' 
 
 Yes, Andrew saw the fields, and in his soul 
 wished both she and they were with the yellow 
 light at the back of Kelly Law. 
 
 'Weel, noo, what gars the shaws o' thae 
 Swedish neeps hae sic a blae kin' o' colour, sae 
 different f rae the white neeps ? ' 
 
 * I dinna ken ; it's the nature o' them, I fancy,' 
 said Andrew desperately. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn could find no other pretext for 
 delaying, so she stepped along brisk enough for 
 a time. He felt his hopes and his spirits rising 
 as they moved forward. 
 
 ' That was an unco book ye lent Euphie — that 
 what d'ye ca' 'im % ' 
 
 ' Shakespeare,' said Andrew eagerly. * Did ye 
 like it 1 Did Euphie like it?' 
 
 ' Weel, I canna say that play-actin' is in my 
 line. A gude volume o' sermons is mair to my 
 way o' thinkin'. But it's very gude an' very 
 freendly o' ye. I was just sayin' to Bob that he 
 maun gie ye a biddin'.' 
 
 ' Bob % — a biddin' ? What is't ye're speakin' 
 aboot, Mrs. Lyn \ ' 
 
 * Weel, maybe I shouldna let the cat oot o' the 
 pock just yet ; for, ye see, Euphie likes to get her 
 fling wi' you an' the ither lads as lang as she can. 
 
A Broken Tryst. : 41 
 
 But, as I tell her, it's no' richt to be leadin' on a 
 young chap when she kens there'll be nae mair o't. 
 But for gudesake say naething to naebody just 
 yet. Bob, ye ken, michtna like me speakin'.' 
 
 Mrs. Lyn shot a furtive glance at the young 
 man, and saw that the shaft had struck home. 
 
 ' Ay, is that the way o't ? ' he said quietly. 
 
 * 'Deed, ay, Andrae. Ye ken it's the road we 
 a' maun gang. I'm real weel-pleased to think 
 she'll hae sic a gude doonsittin', for she never 
 was brocht up to fisher-wark, ye see. Bob 
 Syme '11 be able to keep her full an' plenty.' 
 
 Andrew's face had grow^n white, and his eyes 
 glittered like steel. 
 
 * If Euphie would tak' up wi' a fellow like that, 
 or hae onything to say to him, she's no' what I 
 tak' her for,' he said, feeling a sudden difficulty 
 in speaking, a sort of hoarseness. 
 
 * What have ye again' the chap, Andrae Craig 1 ' 
 demanded Mrs. Lyn, stiffening, 
 
 * What I hae again' him is no' for a woman 
 body to hear,' replied Andrew steijnly. 
 
 ' Humph ! ' snorted Mrs. Lyn. 
 
 ' An' I think ye've made some mistak',' added 
 Andrew, with emphasis ; and, careless now 
 whether she saw him or not, he left her without 
 ceremony, and struck into a path leading to the 
 copse where Euphie generally waited. His brain 
 was on fire. He would not, coulr* Tiot, believe 
 that Euphie had only been making fun of him 
 all the time, while intending to marry Bob Syme, 
 Anyhow, he would see. Perhaps he had been 
 too backward in never speaking out what had 
 been in his mind ever since he was a boy at 
 school. He had never mustered courage to say 
 
42 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 in so many words that he loved her, that she was 
 all the world to him, and that as soon as he had 
 a comfortable home to offer her he wanted her 
 for his wife. No. But surely — surely she knew, 
 she must have known, that it was for this he 
 sought her out every Sunday evening, walking and 
 talking with her only, and feeling all the time in 
 a blissful day-dream. No, he could not believe 
 it. A hundred looks — swift flashes charged with 
 subtle feeling ; a hundred tender tones that he 
 remembered in their long walks together, when 
 they spoke of everything but the one thing 
 uppermost in both their minds —assured him 
 otherwise. No, no, no ! 
 
 But Euphie was not at the trysting-place. 
 There were other happy pairs there, some to 
 whose weddings he had already been invited ; 
 and each couple sat a little apart from the others 
 among the sweet clovered grass under the hedges, 
 talking in low tones, with their feet among 
 the rank wildflowers growing out of the dry 
 ditch. 
 
 He bit his under lip at the corner, and tried to 
 look unconcerned as he wandered up and down, 
 but there was a new look of trouble in his eyes 
 which he could not hide. He noticed his 
 acquaintances nudging each other as he ap- 
 proached, and he nodded in a quick, friendly 
 way and passed on. 
 
 ' Lookin' for your lass ? ' inquired an outspoken 
 but quick-witted youngster, who had intuitively 
 liivined Andrew's anxious survey of the road. 
 
 At any other time he would have resented the 
 boy's impudence, but at this moment he was too 
 troubled to be scrupulous. Besides, this was the 
 
A Broken Tryst. 43 
 
 son of a near neighbour, whom he knew inti- 
 mately, so he immediately answered — 
 
 ' Ay. Where is she, d'ye ken % ' 
 
 * I saw her sittin' doon there wi' Bob Syme a 
 lang time. I think they gaed up to Greendykes 
 thegither.' 
 
 Andrew passed the boy hastily, lest he should 
 observe the feeling he knew he was showing in 
 his face. 
 
 Away up to Greendykes with Bob Syme ! A 
 sudden faintness came over him for a moment, a 
 quick rush of blood to his head, and a loud sing- 
 ing in his ears. Then it passed off, and left him 
 quiet and cold — so quiet that he wondered at 
 himself, while a chill, hard anger took possession 
 of him. Not anger at Bob Syme ; no, he would 
 be just, even in the intensity of this terrible pain. 
 Why should not Bob ask her, if he could get her ? 
 His anger, his pride, roused by the thought of 
 her making a fool of him all this time, was up in 
 arms against lier. 
 
 He forgave her mother then and there. No 
 doubt she had the best of motives for warning 
 him, though she was a woman whom he did not 
 like. He turned at once to go back by the way 
 he came. But no, he could not. His acquaint- 
 ances would see his face as he passed, and might 
 pity him ; they all had seen how he had been 
 jilted. She had been sitting there under the 
 hedge where he had so often sat with her, the 
 happiest man on earth, and she had before them 
 all gone off to Greendykes with that fellow. 
 Bah ! he would go to Greendykes himself. He 
 wished he could only get some girl to go with 
 him, just to show how little he cared. 
 
44 ■ Euphie Lyn. 
 
 'Ah — hillo— Mary ! ' he cried, as, walking 
 rapidly, he encountered a modest little girl, with 
 a shining black head and eyes, and a pair of long 
 rings dangling in her ears — a girl who lived a 
 few doors from him. 
 
 ' Come on up to Greendykes, an' I'll gie ye 
 curds an' cream,' he said, with a sudden wild 
 impulse, 
 
 * Eh, Andrae, g'wa ! ' said the girl archly. 
 ' Whaur's Euphie Lyn r 
 
 * Oh, she's up there gettin' treated too, I fancy. 
 Never mind her, Mary. Come you up wi' me.' 
 
 Mary, after some slight demur, consented, for 
 Andrew was a lad any girl might be proud to 
 walk with — a lad without reproach ; and "^ she 
 began to think it was not true about him and 
 Euphie. 
 
 There were many couples in the big kitchen 
 of the farmhouse this Sunday evening ; and the 
 lads had treated the lasses to curds much as the 
 fashionable young gentlemen of the present day 
 treat their young lady friends to ice-creams and 
 lemonade. Andrew and his friend Mary were 
 treated to theirs in a soup-plate, with a horn- 
 spoon for each to sup with. The curds were 
 excellent, the cream delicious, but Andrew only 
 made a feint of eating. For there, at the far end 
 of the stone-paved kitchen, with their backs 
 toward them, sat Bob Syme and Euphie, talking 
 and laughing as if there was no such person as 
 Andrew Craig in the world. 
 
 The chill pain which had struck him through 
 grew sharper ; and, as they made a movement to 
 rise, Andrew, possessed by the demon of jealousy, 
 threw his arm along the back of his companion's 
 
A Broken Tryst. 45 
 
 chair, and looked into her smiling face with well- 
 feigned admiration. 
 
 This tableau, improvised for her special benefit, 
 Euphie saw as she turned to walk out with Bob 
 Syme. There was a certain luxury in the self- 
 torture which Andrew thus inflicte 1 upon himself, 
 but he missed the start, the muffled exclamation 
 which escaped Euphie, as, with every vestige of 
 colour faded from her face, she grasped the back 
 of the chair for a moment before stepping out. 
 
 And it had all come about so simply. She 
 had wandered up to the old trysting-place, but 
 was scarcely seated on the grass when Bob Syme, 
 spruce and dandified, and with a flower in his 
 buttonhole, came up, and without ceremony sat 
 down beside her. Bob, young as he was, had 
 had two or three love-affairs already, but he 
 seemed to have lost his head altogether over 
 Euphie Lyn. He came regularly up to her 
 mother's house two or three evenings a week, 
 but getting no encouragement, he followed her 
 every Sunday evening up the brae, only to find 
 her monopolised by Andrew Craig. Now, how- 
 ever, he had got a chance, and he determined to 
 make the most of it. Euphie frowned when he 
 sat down ; but there were others near by, and she 
 did not care to be uncivil and make a scene. 
 Bob could chat well ; he began to relate some- 
 thing which interested her, and she relaxed a 
 little — never failing, however, to glance down 
 the road for Andrew's appearance. But no 
 Andrew came. The time wore on, and the sun 
 went completely down, leaving a great yellow 
 glow in the west, but still no sign of her tardy 
 lover. 
 
46 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 Some couples rose and went away, others 
 came and went, but still he came not. She began 
 to get hot and restless, and rose up and shook 
 out her dress, so that she could see farther down 
 the road. 
 
 ' Come awa' up to Greendykes, Euphie,' said 
 Bob. 
 
 Euphie glanced down the road, and answered — 
 
 ' No ; I think not.' 
 
 She walked up and down the path, hoping 
 Bob would get tired and go away ; but Bob had 
 no such intention. 
 
 ' Od, we micht as weel go up ; we'll no' be 
 lang,' pleaded Bob ; and Euphie, looking down 
 the road with rising resentment, hesitated. 
 Perhaps if she did go up with Bob it would be 
 better than standing or strolling here, where 
 every one was noting Bob's manifest attentions. 
 Slie stole another long look down the road, and 
 then, suppressing a sigh, she said, ' I'll gang, but 
 I maunna stay lang.' 
 
 She had gone hoping Andrew would be down 
 by the time she came back, when she could tell 
 him how it all happened. And to think he had 
 played her such a trick as this ! To think, while 
 she had waited and waited till in decency she 
 could wait no longer, he had been walking and 
 talking with Mary Scott instead of keeping tryst 
 with her ! 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED PENNY WEDDING. 
 
 HE drave was over, the streets cleared, and 
 the barrels carted away, and now the 
 
 weddings 
 
 were coming off ding-dong. 
 
 The chief baker in the town, if he wan making 
 money, was also losing flesh, working late and 
 rising up early, making great farls of shortbread, 
 currant loaves, mammoth pies of choice beef- 
 steak, — cut where beefsteak never grew, so the 
 drunken little butcher whispered to a friend in 
 maudlin confidence, — besides roasts, and large 
 dishes of mashed potatoes, which also had to be 
 browned in the baker's oven. All this was 
 served on a vast table spread in the Town Hall, 
 or the 'Toon Hoose,' which stood in the middle 
 of the Broad Wynd, being the only edifice in the 
 town capable of seating from thirty to fifty 
 couples. For in these days they were all penny 
 weddings, where each guest paid a shilling, and 
 provided a fiddler or two for the dance in the 
 evening. 
 
 Jenny Buwhannan's wedding had been talked 
 about for the last fortnight incessantly. It was 
 whispered that the young couple had six black 
 birch chairs and a table, but subsequent informa- 
 
 47 
 
48 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 tion was obtained to the effect that there were 
 also an eight-day clock and a mahogany chest of 
 drawers. It was also well known that she had 
 been gathering pigs {i.e. dishes) for a long ''me 
 past ; and Jamie Scott, the bridegroom, ad 
 brought a set of china from "Wick, with M 
 Present from Wick' written in gold letters 
 around every one of the teacups, and ' Be cannie 
 wi' the Sugar,' and ^ Be s^mrin' o' the Cream,' 
 inscribed on the sugar-bowl and cream -jug. 
 This china had been shown to one or two 
 privileged persons only, and as they had been 
 solemnly sworn to secrecy, and never mentioned 
 china to a living soul, it was an unfathomable 
 mystery how the public ever came to know of it. 
 
 And for a whole week there had been two 
 women at the * washin'-pat ' at the burn, washing, 
 bleaching, synding, and drying the bride's linen 
 providing, which, when spread out, covered a 
 whole side of the burn-park — a fine undulating 
 washing-green, used from time immemorial by 
 the people of Inweerie as a bleaching-ground, 
 but long since appropriated by a thrifty farmer, 
 who found the fishers of Inweerie less tenacious 
 of their rights than Ahab found Naboth the 
 Jezreelite. 
 
 For the people were only fishers, without 
 money to go to law with, and consequently at 
 the mercy of more than one spoiler ; so the 
 potatoes grow in goodly rows and the corn 
 waves fair in the place where the old bleaching- 
 green is tilled — just as though the Eighth. Com- 
 mandment had been cancelled by the removal of 
 the ancient landmarks. 
 
 When the bridegroom and best man went 
 
Ati Old-fashioned Penny Wedding. 49 
 
 around to invite the guests, according to custom, 
 Mrs. Lyn received them very affably. Euphie 
 was out, but she would certainly come to Jenny's 
 wedding, that was a matter of course. 
 
 'An' nae doot ilka ane '11 hae their richt 
 pairtners bidden?' she added, with suave curiosity. 
 ' For, ye ken, when ye bid the wrang lad for the 
 wrang lass it mak's jealousy, an' jealousy's no' 
 easy amon' young folk.' 
 
 ' Oh, but we took gude care o' that,' said the 
 best man cheerfully. 
 
 ' That's richt. Then ye've bidden Bob Syme 
 for Euphie ? ' 
 
 ' Bob Syme ? ' exclaimed the best man, looking 
 at his companion in astonishment. 
 
 ' We bade Andrae Craig for Euphie,' said the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 ' Aweel, ye're wrang,' said Mrs. Lyn decisively. 
 ' Ye ken it'll hae to be Bob.' 
 
 When the two departed, they went straight 
 back to Mrs. Buwhannan's to consult about the 
 mistake they had made. 
 
 ' If we bid Bob Syme we'll hae to get anither 
 pairtner for Andrae Craig,' said the bride's 
 mother practically. ' It'll just be ae couple 
 mair, ye ken, an' the mair the merrier.' 
 
 'I saw Mary Scott up at Greendykes ae 
 Sabbath nicht wi' Andrae,' suggested the bride 
 herself. 
 
 'That beats a',' mused the best man aloud. 
 'I aye thocht Andrae Craig an' Euphie were 
 thrang.' 
 
 * The swine's maybe ran through't,' suggested 
 the bridegroom, putting his finger on a nail in 
 the partition. 
 
 4 
 
50 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 The best man hastily clapped his thumb on a 
 pair of scissors that lay upon the table, and Jenny 
 and her mother breathed, * Cauld iron ! ' 
 
 'Weel, just bid Mary Scott. She's a fine 
 decent lassie, an' if they want to swap pairtners 
 after they're a' there, let them dae't,' spoke up a 
 neighbour who had dropped in and heard the 
 conference. 
 
 * Ay, 'deed, ay,' was the response in chorus ; 
 and the two again departed on their tour of 
 invitation. 
 
 Since that Sunday evening, four weeks ago, a 
 visible change, both in appearance and behaviour, 
 had come over Enphie Lyn. From being a 
 sweet-tempered, sensible girl, with a wholesome 
 love of fun in her, she had suddenly developed 
 a sharp, cynical tongue, a reckless, care-naught 
 manner, and a free-and-easy way of running off 
 to Pittenweem or Elie or anywhere else without 
 a note of warning. She had come home from 
 Greendykes that Sunday night laughing and 
 talking to Bob Syme in a way to cause comment ; 
 and ever since, when she had happened to meet 
 Andrew in the street, she had made it a point to 
 utter a loud and laughing remark to some one 
 over the way, to show him how little she cared, 
 while Andrew passed on in grim silence. One 
 day, however, as she went dashing down through 
 the Cribs, a narrow passage of some two feet 
 wide between two gables, she gasped and stopped 
 short, for there stood Andrew Craig, pressing his 
 back hard against the wall, so as to let her pass. 
 The path was so narrow, the walls so inflexible, 
 she had to touch him, and his breath flushed 
 her cheek as she pushed by ; but she pressed 
 
An Old-fashioned Penny Wedding. 51 
 
 forward, with her head swimming strangely, 
 until she reached the end of the close, when she 
 leant against the wall, with her hand to her 
 side, panting hard. Then she heard his foot- 
 steps coming after her, and she fled, all her pride 
 taking tire. 
 
 That evening Bob Syme, when he came up, 
 did not see her — she was in bed up-stairs. * Ko' 
 very weel,' explained Mrs. Lyn. 
 
 But when he came again, Euphie was there, 
 laughing and gibing as unmercifully as ever ; and 
 while she laughed she did not spare Bob's egotism 
 and vanity. She was merrier than usual, indeed ; 
 but even he could not fail to see how thin she 
 had grown, how dark were the shadows under 
 her eyes, how hard and sharp and white ' '^ 
 grown her sweet, firm mouth. 
 
 * Ye're lookin' awfu' thin, Euphie,' he said to 
 her, as they sat on opposite sides of the hearth. 
 
 Euphie, who had lapsed into one of these fits 
 of abstraction she was subject to, started and 
 looked up wearily. 
 
 ' "Were you speakin' to me 1 ' she said, in a 
 daze. 
 
 'I was say in' ye're awfu' thin,' repeated 
 Bob. 
 
 'Is that aT she said, rousing herself and 
 taking up her knitting. ' Ye micht tell a body 
 something they dinna ken for a change.' 
 
 'It's no' much ye dinna ken, Euphie,' said 
 Bob gallantly. Nothing she could say could 
 give him offence. 
 
 * There's ae thing I dinna ken, but maybe you 
 could tell me.' 
 
 'Whatis'tr said Bob. 
 
52 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 « 
 
 *I dinna ken what ye come here for every 
 ither nicht.' 
 
 'D'ye no'? What's the use o' speakin' that 
 wey when ye ken perfectly weel it's for yersel' % ' 
 
 'Aweel, Bob, ye needna fash,' snapped 
 Euphie. 
 
 ' I cam' up the nicht to see aboot us twa gaun 
 to Jenny Buwhannan's waddin',' pursued Bob, 
 undaunted. 
 
 'I never was bidden.' 
 
 * Ay, ye was,' persisted Bob. 
 
 'Mither,' called Euphie, into the shop where 
 Mrs. Lyn sat knitting, ' did onybody bid me to 
 Jenny Buwhannan's waddin' ? ' 
 
 * Ay, eh ay ! I forgot. Ay, the bridegroom 
 and the best man was here the nicht afore last.' 
 
 'I tell't ye that,' said Bob triumphantly. 
 ' D'ye ken wha's a' gaun % ' inquired Euphie. 
 Bob ran over a list of names, all in couples ; 
 among others, Andrew Craig and Mary Scott. 
 
 * It's gaun to be a fine waddin', surely,' 
 remarked Euphie in a quiet voice, as she picked 
 up a loop she had dropped. 
 
 ' Ay, splendid. They've gotten a fiddler f rae 
 Colinsburgh a' the way.' 
 
 ' Aweel, then, I think I'll go an' hae a dance. 
 That's to say, if ye'll mak' yersel' ony way decent 
 for a pairtner,' quoth Euphie, still knitting. 
 
 ' I'll hae on the finest suit o' claes i' the Toon 
 Hoose that nicht. I'm no' hard up, like some o' 
 them,' said Bob ; and he stood up, and, with his 
 hands in his trousers pockets, stiffened up his 
 shoulders, Euphie regarding him with sarcastic 
 surprise. 
 
 'Ay, surely ye ocht to be the best dressed. 
 
An Old-fashioned Penny Wedding. 53 
 
 onyway, an' your claes micht weel be paid for, 
 seein' ye can mak' plenty withoot workin' for't. 
 It's no' like as ye had to rise oot 0' your warm 
 bed at ony 'oor o' the nicht, an' gang oot in the 
 cauld an' the dark an' face death an' danger to 
 get the price o' a suit o' claes. It's easier to 
 pour oot a gill o' whisky, an' baud oot your 
 hand for the siller, than tossin' aboot on the sea 
 a' nicht. Isn't it?' 
 
 Bob, thick-skinned though he was, felt the 
 bite of her sarcasm, and winced. 
 
 ' But look what we've to pay for Jeeshins ! ' 
 he cried, with instinctive extenuation. 
 
 'Ay, 'deed, ay, look what ye've to pay for 
 leeshins ! ' echoed Euphie, with a mocking 
 emphasis that made Bob frown. He would have 
 gone out and never come back again had he been 
 the master of his own will at that moment ; but 
 her face, thin and sweet, in spite of all its 
 mockery and undisguised contempt, held him as 
 a : j^net holds the needle it has drawn to it. 
 He lelt she was despising him, and he immedi- 
 ately resolved to let her see he was not afraid 
 of going out to sea any more than — than that 
 Andrew Craig. 
 
 ' Maybe ye think I'm feared,' he said, ' but I 
 wouldna be feared to gang to the sea wi' ony man.' 
 
 A derisive laugh, that had a hard sound in it, 
 greeted this statement 
 
 ' I think I see ye ! ' 
 
 If she had challenged him to go through fire 
 he felt bold enough to do it just then ; as it was, 
 it inwardly strengthened the resolution to silence 
 her doubiis of his bravery. Meanwhile he moved 
 off towards the door, saying, as he went — 
 
54 Eiiphie Lyii. 
 
 * Aweel, ye'll gang to the waddin', onyway % ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, Bob, I'll go, an' dance a' nicht wi' 
 ye,' said Euphie gaily ; and Bob, feeling com- 
 pensated, went out and shut the door behind 
 him. Euphie closed her eyes, and leant her 
 head wearily against the jamb. 
 
 In these degenerate, unromantic days, which 
 tolerate this way of slipping off unobserved to be 
 married at a distance to whomsoever you may 
 choose, just as if it were nobody's business but 
 your own when, why, or whom you marry, it 
 must be diificult to imagine the intense interest 
 which a forthcoming marriage aroused in the 
 old town of Inweerie. On the wedding-day a 
 fine flapping display of the flags of the red, 
 white, and blue waved triumphantly in the 
 harbour, announcing that Love wp,s lord of all ; 
 the town flag was also unfurled, with its boat 
 and its griffin and its motto of * Mare vivimus.^ 
 And the long wedding procession was an impos- 
 ing sight as it moved off to the manse, a mile 
 oft', amid the hurrahs of the populace, the shouts 
 of the children, and the hot, sharp firing of 
 musketry above the bride's head. Marching 
 gloriously up the Broad "Wynd, two abreast, 
 arrayed in broadcloth, their weatherbeatcn, sun- 
 burnt faces glistening under tall silk hats — the 
 women in Sunday gowns and white net mutches, 
 with flowers and flying ties of white satin — the 
 younger girls with flowers in their hair and 
 ribbons, and all with yellow gloves on. 
 
 And after the old minister had tied the knot, 
 and they had all been served with a tiny glass 
 of ginger cordial and a morsel of currant loaf, 
 what rare fun, what a delightful excitement, the 
 
An Old-fashioned Penny Wedding. 55 
 
 marching home again ! with the new-made wife 
 on her husband's arm, and the laughter and 
 good-natured raillery running electrically up and 
 down the whole procession, till the new-married 
 couple halted before their own door, where a 
 great farl of shortbread was broken over the 
 bride's head and thrown out among the crowd to 
 be scrambled for. Why, it was the birth of an 
 era — a chronological basis — from which the 
 interested parties, long decades afterwards, dated 
 previous and subsequent events. 
 
 At the dinner in the Town House the best 
 man and his aides cast their coats before tackling 
 to the carving and serving duties ; and the bride's 
 father, perspiring and unaccustomed, mumbled 
 a grace in a must-needs and apologetic manner, 
 after which, feeling more like himself again, he 
 hilariously urged all and sundry to ' fa* to ' and 
 'ca' awa',' himself setting the example. 
 
 It so happened that Andrew's partner was 
 seated next to Euphie, and many were the 
 furtive glances cast in their direction to see how 
 Euphie would take it. For somehow Euphie 
 had always held her head up in the town, being 
 as much respected as she was misunderstood, 
 and it had been considered quite a downcome 
 for Andrew Craig to take up with Mary Scott 
 after "being as good as engaged to Euphie Lyn. 
 Not that there was anything wrong with Mary, 
 — she was a decent, nice little girl, — but — there 
 was no accounting for these things. Moreover, 
 no one could get at the bottom of the quarrel, if 
 quarrel there had been, for both parties kept 
 their own counsel ; and some had come to jalouse 
 that Bob Syme's money and ' business * were at 
 
$6 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 the bottom of it. To their surprise, Euphie 
 spoke to Mary Scott in a friendly way, and Mary 
 was as surprised as she seemed pleased. 
 
 *But, gude bless me, Andrae man, ye're no' 
 eatin' a bite ! ' exclaimed a hearty gude wife, as 
 she passed up to refill some of the plates. 
 
 'Oh, he's livin' on love,' bantered another; 
 ' it'll be his turn next.' 
 
 To escape such remarks, Andrew was fain to 
 eat something ; but the food choked him, and as 
 soon as he possibly could with decency he rose 
 from the table. As he did so, he caught a 
 glance of Euphie, with a white rose in her hair 
 and another at her throat, and with a vain pang 
 he saw she was as white as the roses, and looking 
 weary andjistless. In an instant all his anger 
 died out. "Why should he keep up this canker- 
 ing ill-will, Avhich was eating his own heart out ? 
 If she preferred Bob Syme to him it could not 
 be helped, but he could not go on hating her, 
 trying to hate her, nourishing and cherishing 
 hatred because of her duplicity. N^o, no ! and 
 she looking so white and woe-begone ; he must 
 speak to her, and learn to be friendly, as indeed 
 all Christians should be. He took one step 
 towards where she stood, looking absently at 
 the merry crowd, but a hand was laid on his 
 arm just then. 
 
 ' Andrew min,' said a middle-aged woman in 
 a white net mutch and blue dress, 'just gie's a 
 lift wi' this basket, will ye ? ' 
 
 It was a clean herring basket, lined and 
 covered with white towels, and it was filled 
 with fragments of the feast, which she wished 
 carried over the street after dark to the house of 
 
An Old-fashioned Penny Wedding. 57 
 
 a widow, whose husband had perished in a 
 storm, leaving her with seven boys to provide 
 for. 
 
 'We'll just carry 't ben the hoose till after 
 dark,' she explained ; and Andrew, pushing her 
 aside, took the basket in his own strong arms 
 and carried it to the other room. 
 
 When he returned, Euphie was gone, and so 
 was Bob Syme — gone home with others to 
 change their dress for the evening's dance. 
 Well, he would certainly speak to her when she 
 came back — that white face troubled him. 
 
 But when the fiddler tuned up and the reel was 
 set, lo ! there was Euphie in a light print dress, 
 with her cheeks crimson — more crimson than 
 ever he had seen j;hem all the time, he hadknown 
 her, and her eyes glowing like stars. The 
 fiddler struck up the reel of Tullochgorum, and 
 away she went, the most graceful dancer there, 
 with Bob Syme for her partner. Two or three 
 times during the country dances he found him- 
 self opposite her ; but she looked everywhere 
 but at him, and when he had to take hold of 
 her hand to promenade it was icy cold. She 
 danced with him once, but at the end of the 
 reel she bowed, and sat down beside Bob Syme, 
 and he did not ask her again. 
 
 'I'm gaun hame, Bob,' she said suddenly; 
 ' but stay you here.' 
 
 'Nonsense, so sune? The bride's no' awa* 
 
 yet.' 
 
 'I ken, but I'm — tired. Gude-nicht.' And 
 she slipped from the room unobserved. She 
 had not gone far, however, when she heard a 
 footstep behind her, running. 
 
58 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 * Mercy ! you've forgotten your shawl,' cried 
 Bob. 
 
 ' Thank ye, Bob. Gude-nicht.' 
 
 *D'ye think I'm gaun to stay an' you no' 
 there % ' said Bob, with implied reproach. 
 
 'Stay or gang hame, it's a' ane to me,' she 
 said in an apathetic tone. *I don't want ye 
 hame wi' me. I said I would gang to the 
 waddin' an' dance wi' ye, an' I did it. What 
 niair would ye hae 1 ' 
 
 'Oh, Euphie,' pleaded Bob, trying to circle 
 her waist with his long arm, ' whan's oor waddin' 
 to be noo ? I wish it was the morn.' 
 
 But Euphie, uttering a queer eldritch laugh, 
 darted from his side and' fled lionie, breathing * 
 fiercely to herself, as she ran — 
 
 ' Never ! nev3r ! never ! ' 
 
 Bob came back to the dance not much con- 
 cerned. He had heard a great deal of worldly 
 wisdom in his father's bar-room respecting the 
 pretences and shams under which women veiled 
 their real feelings ; and Mrs. Lyn, too, had given 
 him to understand that ' a' that was just women's 
 ways.' So with a light heart he danced all 
 night, in his generosity sending over to his own 
 shop for some whisky to drink the bride's health 
 in, after which the fun waxed fast and furious, 
 the men thumped and 'hooched' and snapped 
 their thumbs wildly, until Andrew said to Mary 
 Scott, 'I think, Mary, it's time we were awa' 
 hame. The sooner the women folk are oot o* 
 this the better.' Mary was inclined to stay and 
 see the fun out, but Andrew took her home. 
 
CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE POET S ADVICE. 
 
 rrr^HOMAS MATHERS, the fisherman poet, 
 }'y^ was redding his great lines at the edge of 
 a saw-pit at the entrance to the moor 
 which was the town's commons. l%omas wafe a 
 fair man, with reddish hair and sandy beard, 
 a broad white brow above his weather-beaten 
 features, and a pair of meditadve, deep-set, bhic- 
 grey eyes. 
 
 Euphie came up and sat down on the log 
 beside him, holding something under her apron. 
 
 ' Eh, lassie, is that you ? ' he said in a fatherly 
 kind of way. 
 
 * Yes, Tammas ' — Here Euphie hesitated, and 
 Thomas looked at her long and searchingly. 
 
 ' What ails ye, Euphie, my doo 1 Ye're awfu' 
 thin an' dune-like.' 
 
 ' I'm weel enough,' said Euphie evasively. 
 ' Here's a book, Tammas ; it ance belanged to 
 you. Will ye gie't back to the owner for me 1 * 
 
 Thomas took the book from her hand, and 
 saw il vy'as the Shakespeare he had given Andrew 
 Craig. 
 
 ' Why no' gie it back to himsel' ? ' he asked, 
 with a keen look. 
 
 59 
 
6o Enphie Lyn. 
 
 ' Oh, he disna speak to me noo,' said Euphie 
 in a don't-care tone. 
 
 'Nae wonder, Euphie. I never thocht you 
 were the lassie to throw ower Andrae Craig for 
 a man that's no' fit to tie his shoestrings.' 
 
 • I never threw him up, Tammas. If he tell't 
 ye that, he kens different. It was him, rather, 
 threw me up, — though really there was naething 
 atween us, — an' — I for ane am no' carin'.' 
 
 She took hold of the marline, and began to 
 stick the hooks round the rip as she spoke, 
 Tammas gazing pitifully into her face. 
 
 'No, no,' he said, with mild and smiling 
 sarcasm, — *no, no, my lass, you're no' carin', 
 an' he's no' carin', an' ye'll gang by ither wi' 
 your heads as high as though your hearts werena 
 dreepin' bluid wi' every fitstep. An' you'll 
 marry an' be miserable, an' he'll marry an' be 
 miserable ; but aye across the gulf that divides 
 ye will soul cry to soul, an' empty airms stretch 
 oot for what may never fill them. Ay, ay, lassie, 
 it's an awfu' hunger the hunger o' the heart ; 
 for ye daurna let it be seen, an' it maunna be 
 spoken o', an' wha can ye mak' your mane to ? ' 
 
 Euphie continued to stick up the hooks, and 
 Thomas fell into a reverie, his eyes looking 
 dreamily out over the sea from under the rim of 
 his sou'-wester. 
 
 * Ay, it's a queer world this ; an' we've gane 
 aboot wi' steekit een an' stappit ears sae lang, 
 we're feared to open them for fear the licht be na 
 what we want it to be, an' we daurna open our 
 ears for fear we hear the truth. Oh, lassie,' he 
 said, turning suddenly to Euphie, with glistening 
 eyes, * you're young yet. Dinna let foolish pride 
 
The Poefs Advice. 6i 
 
 wreck your days on the very threshold o* life. 
 Open your een an' see things as they are. 
 What's the gude o' siller to ye if the faither 
 o' your bairns is a cuif that ye despise in 
 your heart ? ' 
 
 ' I wish my mither heard ye,' said Euphie. 
 
 ' Your mither % — your mither ? Ay, puir young 
 thing ! ' 
 
 Euphie dropped the marline and looked at 
 Thomas in surprise. 
 
 ' Young % My mither's as auld as you, Tammas. 
 Yes, an' I ken I can trust ye, for ye have a kind 
 heart, an' ye're a poet, an' I ken what ye think 
 aboot love, for I've read a' your verses.* 
 
 ' Eh, bless ye, lassie, ye'll inspire me to write 
 mair if ye look at me like that,' said Thomas, 
 pleased to think he had gratified one human 
 heart, even the heart of a girl. 
 
 * Tammas,' said Euphie, with a break in her 
 voice, ' I cam' up to speak to ye, just ance 
 errand to speak to ye. I maun speak to some- 
 body, or my heart '11 break, I think.* 
 
 ' My lassie, my puir lassie,' said Thomas, lay- 
 ing a fatherly hand upon her shoulder, ' I ken 
 withoot ye tellin' me. Your heart's breakin* for 
 Andrae Craig, an' that auld, near-begaun sinner, 
 Nannie Lyn, wants ye to marry that young 
 whisky-cask. Am nae I richt 1 ' 
 
 ' Ye're richt, Tammas ; but — I dinna like ye 
 to speak that wey o' my mither. She has her 
 ain way, but she's my mither, an' I maun respect 
 her.' 
 
 Thomas laid his hand, red and rough, upon 
 her yellow hair tenderly. ' Puir lassie ! puir 
 wee lassie ! God help ye ! ' 
 
62 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * What should I dae, Tammas % What would 
 ye advise me ? My mither has set her heart on 
 Bob Syme, an' she'll gie me nae peace. I dinna 
 want to marry onybody. Andrae can tak' Mary 
 Scott if he likes ' — 
 
 'An' what thenT queried Thomas, with an 
 amused smile. 
 
 *Aweel, Tammas, I can be an auld maid. 
 What for no' % The best women I ken are auld 
 maids ; it's better than — than — Bob Syme.' 
 
 'Weel, that's a' richt — he an auld maid,' 
 responded Thomas, his eyes twinkling with 
 fun. 
 
 ' But that's what my mither wunna let me be. 
 I've pleaded an' prayed, ay, an' grat, but her 
 mind's made up ; an' she said, nae farther gane 
 than last nicht, that she was to get him put in 
 the cries the Sabbath after next, so I couldna 
 draw back. Tammas, Tammas ! ' whispered 
 Euphie, laying both hands upon his sleeve, ' if 
 ye hear I've run awa' some momin', will ye gang 
 wast to Andrae, an' tell him I've gane nae ill 
 gate"? Tell him I'll never dae nae ill — never, 
 never to think that.' 
 
 Thomas seemed not to hear Euphie. He 
 appeared to be weighing some question in his 
 mind, and presently he thought aloud, as was 
 his fashion at times. 
 
 * So she's made up her mind, has she ? The 
 cauld-hearted, cruel limmer ! — ^just siller, siller ! 
 get siller ! An' so, to get it, she would sell the 
 bairn, soul an' body ! No' content wi' what she 
 brocht her at first, she maun mak' mair aff her. 
 An' the puir bairn tryin' to respect an' obey 
 her in the belief — Euphie,' he said, turning to 
 
The Poefs Advice. ^ 
 
 her sternly, 'don't you daur do what Nannie 
 Lyn bids ye.' 
 
 * Tammas ! my mither ! ' exclaimed Eiiphie, in 
 horror. 
 
 ' Mither ? ' said Thomas, with stern contempt. 
 * Mither ? She never had a mither's milk in her ! 
 Lassie,' he continued, stooping so that he could 
 look straight into her eyes, while his fingers 
 clutched her shoulder, ' hae ye wisdom ? Hae ye 
 sense to hear an' keep to yoursel' what ye hear ? 
 Can ye keep the secret o' the dead — a secret I 
 would never reveal if it wasna to save ye frae 
 throwin' yersel' awa' through a sense o' filial 
 duty?' 
 
 ' What d'ye mean, Tammas ?' breathed Euphie, 
 half afraid of Thomas's intense earnestness. 
 
 'Will ye say "No" the next time Bob 
 Syme's marriage with you is mentioned?' he 
 demanded. 
 
 * I've said " No " ower an' ower again, but it's 
 nae use. My mither's hard, hard, Tammas ; God 
 forgi'e me for sayin't.' 
 
 ' Your mither, my lassie, was the bonniest 
 young thing the sun ever shone on, I've been 
 tell't ; but she's dead this seventeen year,' said 
 Thomas, with a sigh. 
 
 ' My mither ? Tammas, what are ye say in' ? ' 
 
 ' What I never thocht I would hae to say — 
 the truth. Nannie Lyn got a thoosand pound 
 when she took you an' promised to bring ye up, 
 an' she's aye passed ye aff as her ain. Nannie 
 Lyn was a servant to your mither ance — that's a' 
 I can tell ye the noo.' 
 
 Euphie sat staring at Thomas, her eyes full of 
 interrogation and astonishment. She was trying 
 
64 Euphie Lyn. • 
 
 to grasp the fact that Mrs. Lyn was not her 
 mother, and now a hundred little things rose up 
 to confirm it. She remembered how, as a child, 
 she had never slept with her as other little girls 
 did with their mothers ; she remembered none of 
 that fondling and petting which is such an outlet 
 for love between mother and child ; she remem- 
 bered the ceaseless, unappeased craving for love 
 which had devoured her as a girl — a love which 
 had wound itself about Andrew Craig with the 
 consciousness of being loved by him. 
 
 Suddenly she burst into tears, passionate tears. 
 If Mrs. Lyn was not her mother, she was alone 
 in this world, and had nobody, nobody who cared 
 whether she lived or died. 
 
 Tammas mutely resumed the redding of his 
 line, knowing this was not the time for any word 
 of his. 
 
 By and by she dried her eyes and looked 
 up. 
 
 •Tammas,' she said, 'I maun be a wicked 
 sinner ; for, if onything, I'm rather glad, though 
 it's a kind o' lonesome. Oh, I kent a' the time 
 there was something wrang, but I aye thocht it 
 was my ain wicked disposition. I aye tried to 
 be fond o' my mither (I canna help ca'in' her 
 mither yet), but I couldna, she was sae cauld 
 an' hard an' worldly. But oh, my mither ! my 
 bonnie young mither! Oh, Tammas, was she 
 like me?' 
 
 ' Ay, very like — the same bonnie yellow hair, 
 but I believe she had blue een. Ye maun hae 
 your faither's een, lassie.' 
 
 • Tell me aboot him, Tammas,' she pleaded ; 
 but Tammas shook his head. 
 
The Poets Advice. 65 
 
 ' No, my dear, ye maun be content. I tell't 
 ye only because I saw ye were gaun to sacrifice 
 yersel', an marry whaur your heart didna lead 
 ye. Noo, when ye ken that you're no' behauden 
 to Nannie Lyn, ye can daur her to force ye. But 
 (linna betray me, if ye can help it. I dinna care 
 for mysel', but Nannie has a siccar temper an' 
 a cruel tongue when she likes, an' she wouldna 
 think twice to mak' it het enough for my wife 
 an' bairns. An' I'm no' a man o' strife, Euphie. 
 A' I desire in this world is to earn an honest bite 
 for the bairns, an' sing a bit sang noo an' then in 
 mj ain way. An' then I have my dreams, lassie, 
 ray ain dreams that nane but Ane kens aught 
 aboot.' 
 
 ' D'ye ken, Tammas, that Bob Syme gaed aff 
 in Andrae Craig's boat this afternoon?' said 
 Euphie. ' I ance said to him it was braver to 
 sail the sea than to sell whisky, an' he said he 
 would let me see he could gang aff in a boat as 
 weel as ony man.' 
 
 ' Humph ! ' said Thomas, lifting his lines up 
 on his shoulder ; ' he'll get a fine shakin'-up, then, 
 for the wind's risin', and there was a lunar bow 
 last night. The wind aye blaws through the 
 bow, an' it'll be wast-nor'-wast, an' a stiff blaw 
 at that. Ay, I'll gie Andrae the book,' he 
 added. 
 
 They separated, and Euphie turned to go up 
 among the whins to think over the new revela- 
 tion she had received, when Thomas called after 
 her, ' Hoy ! ' 
 
 ' There's an avdd sayin' 0' John Knox's I want 
 ye to think on when ye lie doon the nicht,' he 
 said, as she came back to him, 'an' ye ken a 
 
 5 
 
66 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 word in season hoc gude it is. I'm think in' 
 John, although he aye let on to be sae siccar, 
 kent geyan weel hoo it was himsel' when Love 
 cam' into the business. He says : " They that 
 marry where they affect not, will affect where they 
 marry not." Tak' you the snell auld billie's 
 warnin', Euphie lass.' 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A NIGHT OF TERROR. 
 
 kLL afternoon great grey watery clouds 
 *■ had been massing in the north-west, 
 and now loomed Alp on Alp menac- 
 ingly. Long white shafts of light, escaping 
 through the rifts, shot fan-like into the sea — a 
 sure omen of ill weather; and evening, dark- 
 browed and lowering, had closed in over a white 
 and sickly sunset. The wind rose, afar off the 
 sea growled ominously, and the tide swept in 
 with long foam-crested rollers, that broke hissing 
 against the pier. Women came out and looked 
 up at the sky, and went indoors again with 
 knitted brows and anxious eyes. 
 
 As the night deepened the gale increased, and 
 what with the wailing of the wind and the 
 hollow booing of it in the chimney, with the 
 roar and din of the sea dashing darkly against 
 the rocks, there was but little sleep in the town. 
 Away out on the Forth the boats were tossing 
 in the storm, and sickening dread kept the 
 women awake. Some never went to bed at all, 
 but, tying shawls about their heads, went into 
 neighbours' houses to comfort and be comforted 
 
 with sympathetic company. 
 
 67 
 
68 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * You, d'ye hear that ? Is that a' wind % ' 
 said Willie Brown's wife, with wild and scared 
 eyes. She had run across the road, with her 
 sleeping baby wrapped in a blanket in her arms, 
 to Jenny Buwhannan's, where an old woman had 
 come already. 
 
 * Ay,' responded Jenny, putting on more coal, 
 ' if it was only daylicht ; but it's awfu' to be 
 daudin' oot there i' the dark.' 
 
 She gave the big chair to the old woman, told 
 Willie Brown's wife to put the baby down on 
 the bed, and then she sat down on the corner of 
 the fender, and they all waited for whatever God 
 might send. Come life or come death, they 
 could only wait. 
 
 By and by Euphie Lyn stepped in, with a 
 shawl about her, and her yellow hair a-blown 
 about her thin face. 
 
 ' I couldna sleep, Jenny,' she apologised. * I 
 got up, and when I saw the licht in your window 
 I cam' rinnin' ower, thinkin' ye would be oneasy 
 aboot the boats.' 
 
 ' 'Deed am T, Euphie. I couldna gang to my 
 bed, an' I was glad when Meggie there an' her 
 auntie cam' in. Sit doon. I'm glad ye tuk a 
 thocht to come ower.' 
 
 ' Eh, you, sic a nicht ! ' exclaimed another 
 neighbour who now rushed in, closing the door 
 nervously behind her. * Me, I couldna bide i' 
 the hoose. Euphie, you're weel-aff. You'll no' 
 hae onybody oot on the sea to think aboot, like 
 the like o' us.' 
 
 It was evident that this neighbour knew some- 
 thing of the town gossip ; but Euphie answered 
 evasively — 
 
A Night of Terror. 69 
 
 * It's hard for Jenny an' you, that have men at 
 the sea in sic a nicht,' she sighed. 
 
 Jenny drew her little shawl tighter across her 
 breast and gazed into the fire, while the wind 
 bluffed and boohed and thundered in the 
 chimney. 
 
 ' D'ye hear the wind i' the lum % ' said Willie 
 Brown's wife Meggie. 'Mind ye, something'U 
 come o' this gale. Sabbath nicht I dreamed I 
 saw a coffin wantin' a lid, an' I waukened wi' the 
 fricht o't.' 
 
 * Aweel, we're a' in God's hands,' said the old 
 woman gently. 'It's no' the thing we expect 
 that aye happens. The sea was like a lookin'- 
 gless, an' the mune was hingin' ower the harbour- 
 head, the bonniest sicht ever ye saw, no' a breath 
 o' wind, an' the air sae mild an' warm, when my 
 man gaed oot wi' the tide at twa o'clock ae 
 bonnie simmer mornin'. I lay an' lookit ower 
 the window till he was oot o' sicht. Ay, I've 
 aye been glad I did it, for he was a gude man to 
 me ; but little did I ken that was the last I was 
 to see o'm. Ay ! eh ay ! It'll be twenty year 
 come the time.' 
 
 The old woman lapsed into silence, and they 
 all gazed mutely into the fire. 
 
 After a little, Meggie Brown spoke again. 
 
 'Woman, there's things ye canna get oot o' 
 your head. Nicht afore last, when Jean an' me 
 was takin' a bite o' supper, there cam' three great 
 raps' on oor door — ^just like tlmt^^ and she 
 reached over and rapped eerily on the press 
 door with her knuckles. * " Me ! " I says, " what's 
 that ? " an' I opened the door ; but there was 
 nae thing there. "Losh !" says I, "that's geyan 
 
j^ Euphie Lyn. 
 
 queer," an Jean she got feared, an' jamp intill 
 her bed, an' I in after her. Mind ye, I hadna 
 power to blaw oot the caimel ! Aweel, yesterday 
 mornin' we just lauched at oorsel's for bein' sic 
 fules. But last nicht I says to Jean, " Lassie, 
 ye'Il better rin oot an' get a loaf o' bread for 
 the breakfast the morn's mornin'." Weel, she 
 wasna weel oot when in she flew again, wi' a 
 face as white's a cloot, an' bangs the door ahint 
 her. 
 
 * " Mither," says she, " there's something i' the 
 transe." 
 
 ' " Lassie, g'wa," says I, " it'll be some o' the 
 neebors comin' in, an' what'll they think, you 
 daudin' the door i' their face like that ? " An' wi' 
 that, takin' nae thocht, I opens the door an* 
 looks oot, an' there was something stannin' i' 
 the transe. It wasna a man, an' it wasna a 
 woman, but just like a human shadow, an' it 
 stood, an' stood, an' stood. Me, I got feared, 
 an' I cries oot, " Wha's that ? " but it never spoke 
 nor moved, an' I ran in an' lockit the door, an' 
 I thocht I would faint. Jean she lichtit the 
 caunel, though it wasna what ye would ca' dark, 
 an' I gaed ower to draw doon the window-screen. 
 Aweel, as sure as I've God to meet wi'- there 
 it was, richt afore the hoose, stannin', an' stannin', 
 an' stannin' ! 
 
 'Me, I canna get it oot o' my head, an' I 
 wuss oor Willie was in. I didna want him to 
 gang aff the nicht, but he says to me, " Meggie 
 woman, d'ye no' ken we're a' i' the Lord's hands, 
 an' honest folk maun fend for their ain % " ' 
 
 Jenny Buwhannan shivered and covered her 
 eyes with her hand ; and Euphie slipped down 
 
A Night of Terror. 71 
 
 on the stool beside her, and laid a hand on her 
 shoulder in sympathy. 
 
 * Dinna be feared, Jenny i the boats will a' be 
 in by daylicht,' she said, comforting her own 
 heart with the same hope, for Andrew Craig and 
 Jamie Scott went both in one boat. 
 
 ' Ay, but if ony thing should happen to Jamie 
 Scott, I couldna thole it, Euphie,' said the young 
 wife, with a moan. 
 
 'Folk maun thole a hantle in this world, 
 Jenny lass,' said the old woman • nnd Meggie 
 sighed. 
 
 ' Ay, eh ay, auntie ; you've come mrough't a', 
 an' ken hoo it is.' 
 
 A wild blast struck the house and made it 
 tremble, and the women looked at each other. 
 Behind the pale and shivering group the candle 
 had burned down unobserved, and the flame was 
 clinging with a sickly light to the long unsnuffed 
 wick. 
 
 * Jenny, look at your caunel ! ' exclaimed the 
 neighbour who had come in last. 'That's a 
 windin'-sheet ! Eh, God help the boats this 
 nicht ! Just hear that wind hoo it shakes the 
 door, for a' I lockit it when I cam' in ! What — 
 what's that % ' she whispered, shrinking close to 
 the fireplace as a chill gust blew in under the 
 door, and a heavy tramp of sea-boots sounded in 
 the passage. 
 
 ' It's Jamie — it's Jamie Scott ! ' shrieked the 
 young wife, and, starting up, wild with joy, she 
 opened the door and threw it wide. A chill air 
 filled the room, but no one appeared. 
 
 *I lockit the door when I cam' in,' gasped 
 the neighbour, with blue lips. 
 
72 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 Eupliie, thinking Jamie Scott was playing some 
 trick upon them, took the candle, snuffed it, and 
 went down the long passage, the draught blowing 
 the flame blue as she went. There was no one ! 
 Nothing there except the white walls on each side 
 of her, and the door was locked on the inside ! 
 She re-entered the room, her eyes wide with a 
 nameless fear, and with a sudden thrill of terror 
 she banged the door and turned the key in the 
 lock. They were all standing mute and awe- 
 struck looking into each other's faces, while the 
 blast shook the window-sashes and rain rattled 
 on the panes. " -' ' 
 
 *Ye needna fash lockin' the door, Euphie,' 
 saitl the elder woman, with a strange calm ; ' the 
 lock was never made that would keep oot the 
 like o' that. That was the fitfa' o' nae livin' man.' 
 
 The young wife sat down, and burst into wild 
 weeping and sobbing. 
 
 ' Ay,' pursued the old woman, ' they're weel- 
 aif that can earn their bread upon the land. 
 Puir fisher folk hae to fecht wi' what they've 
 nae command o' — coorse weather an' roarin' seas 
 — a' to get an honest livin'. Folk little ken 
 what fish costs sometimes.' 
 
 The tension of their feelings was such that for 
 a full hour they sat, dumb with an undefined 
 dread, each thinking of her own, when a sharp 
 tap upon the window made them all start. 
 
 ' Jenny, Jenny ! ' called a familiar voice at 
 the window ; and Euphie, the only one who 
 dared to move, went and lifted the blind. The 
 candle shone upon the face of a man under a 
 sou'-wester, ruddy and weather-beaten, but smil- 
 ing, with fine white teeth showing pleasantly. 
 
A Night of Terror. 73 
 
 ' It's Jamie Scott ! ' she exclaimed gladly, and 
 ran to open the door. 
 
 * Bless me ! what's adae ? ' he asked, looking 
 at the houseful as he stepped into the room, 
 wrapped in his oilskin coat, and with his sea- 
 hoots reaching to his loins. 
 
 ' Me, Jamie ! I've been f richtened oot o' my 
 wits. I thocht ye was lost,' answered Jenny 
 his wife, drying her eyes, and smiling wanly. 
 ' D'ye ken, something cam' trampin' up through 
 the transe a wee whilie syne, an' near took my 
 breath awa' ? ' 
 
 ' Havers ! ' said Jamie ; ' ye're just nervish, you 
 women folk.' And he seated himself and began 
 to roll down the legs of his damp sea-boots. 
 
 * Na, Jamie,' said the woman with the infant 
 in the shawl, ' nervishness disna gar a pair 0' big 
 sea-boots come trampin' up your transe through 
 a lockit door. Didn't they ^ ' she added, appeal- 
 ing to them all. 
 
 'They did that,' came the ready response. 
 
 Jamie pulled off both boots, and then looked 
 meditatively at the little table in front of him, 
 whereon his wife had just set bread and butter, 
 and a teacup and saucer. 
 
 'Aweel,' he said reflectively, * it micht be. 
 There was twa men cam' as near losin' their lives 
 the nicht as ever they'll be in this world. Bob 
 Syme, ye see, tuk a notion to gang aff wi's this 
 efternune. Aweel, just as we were on the ither 
 side o' the May there was a high sea rinnin', 
 an' the spray washin' clean ower the boat, an' as 
 we cam' roond we had to tack. A' at ance I 
 hears a great cry, an' this was Bob Syme ower- 
 buird. It just dang me stupid, for it was dark, 
 
74 Etiphie Lyn, 
 
 an' if it hadna been for the May-licht glintin', 
 we couldna seen oor finger afore us. But Andrae 
 Craig — I never saw the like o't — hd just grabbit 
 a rope an' jamp owerbuird richt into that boilin' 
 sea. I dinna ken hoo he ever got a baud o'm, 
 but we heard him cry, " Haul ! haul on the 
 rope ! " an' we hauled ; an' there was Andrew 
 hingin' on like grim death to the hair o' Bob's 
 head wi' ae hand, an' the rope reeved ower his 
 ither airm. The sea very near threw them a- 
 buird, but ' — 
 
 * God's mercy ! ' exclaimed the old woman ; for 
 Euphie had fallen back over the stool she sat 
 upon in a dead faint. 
 
 When she came to, the women took her home ; 
 and Mrs. Lyn, somewhat grumpy at being 
 wakened out of her sleep, was at first disposed 
 to be angry. But her habitual policy prevailed, 
 and she listened with amazement to the narrative 
 of Bob's rescue. 
 
 ' Ay, that's it, that's just it,' she said, with a 
 long indraw of her breath and an elevation of 
 her black eyebrows. ' Ye see, she's gaun to be 
 marrit to Bob, an' hearin' he was sae near 
 drooned just gaed till her heart. It was nateral. 
 I'm sure, he's surely muckle obleeged to Andrae 
 Craig, though nae doot he kent he would be 
 weel paid for't when he did it.' 
 
 Th3 morning broke calm and peaceful over 
 the town, and there was only the low, sullen 
 swell of the subsiding tide reverberating dully 
 away to the eastward, and the great heaps of 
 glistening brown wrack strewn high upon the 
 sands to tell of last night's storm. All the boats 
 were in but one, and messengers were off to 
 
A Night of Terror. 75 
 
 Anstruther and Elie and Crail and Largo to see 
 if she had run in anywhere for refuge. 
 
 But while they waited for their return, the 
 white-haired, frail old pastor came walking down 
 slowly through the town, with a light not of 
 this world upon his countenance, and every one 
 darted to the doors to look where he was going. 
 He had a letter in his hand, brought to him 
 from Cellardyke some half an hour ago by the 
 son of a skipper who had also been out in the 
 storm last night, and he paused a moment before 
 Willie Brown's door, and pressed his hand to his 
 forehead before entering. The women who saw 
 him left their doors, and assembled in grave, 
 sympathetic groups, knowing only too well what 
 this meant. The relatives, with trouble in their 
 eyes and dire apprehension, ran forward and 
 followed the minister in. The door was ajar, 
 and he gently pushed it open and entered. The 
 baby lay kicking in the cradle, with a little 
 sister playing beside him, the house was clean 
 and tidy, and the hearth white and cheerful, 
 with a welcome for Willie Brown when he 
 should come. Meggie was out at the back-door, 
 and came in with her little four-year-old boy 
 tucked under her arm. 
 
 'Now,' she said cheerfully, depositing him 
 upon the floor; but when she saw them all 
 standing, with the white-haired minister in their 
 midst, she threw up her arms with a wild cry — 
 
 'Willie! O God, my Willie ! ' 
 
 A woman caught her in her arras, and her 
 head dropped limp on the friendly shoulder as 
 she slid down upon a chair. 
 
 ' Let us pray ! ' said the minister, uncovering 
 
'j6 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 his head ; but poor Meggie, holding her head 
 with both hands, whispered in gasps — 
 * Mak' — doon — my — bed — Jenny ! ' 
 While the minister prayed for the widow and 
 the fatherless, Jenny Buwhannan turned down 
 the blankets, and helped the stricken creature 
 into bed. She turned her face to the wall with 
 a moan that started the tears to the eyes of the 
 women ; but when the minister at length came 
 over and laid his thin hand upon her shoulder, 
 she waved him away with her hand. 
 ' Let me alane ! Oh, let me alane ! ' 
 ' Poor thing ! poor thing ! Yes, the heart 
 knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger 
 intermeddleth not therewith,' said the old man ; 
 and, wiping his eyes, he went outside with one of 
 the relatives, and showed him the letter. The 
 skipper who wrote it had seen the boat go down 
 a little after midnight. He knew her, and had 
 spoken her as they passed. When she had gone 
 down he tacked to try to save some of the 
 men, but nothing could be seen of them. Would 
 the minister be so kind as to break the news to 
 William Brown's widow ? Ah yes ! it was the 
 old story ; and there were six other houses of 
 mourning that day in old Inweerie — for skipper 
 and crew numbered seven. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 REGRETFUL hush brooded over the 
 town while the fishermen left ofi" fishing 
 and tried to recover the bodies ; but the 
 sea kept all that was mortal of those who had 
 gone down into its solemn depths. The people 
 spoke with soft sympathy to each other when 
 they met in the streets, and it was long before 
 the shadow lifted. For it loas a shadow, and 
 sank into the memory as such, — not a death and 
 a visible funeral, with the dead laid reverently 
 under the sod in the quiet kirkyard west the 
 town, but a remembrance of fine hearty men, 
 leaving the harbour full of life and hope, and 
 returning hither no more for ever ; no more to 
 the cheerful hearth, with the cradle on the 
 warmest side — to the arch, off-hand welcome so 
 thoroughly understood — to the kisses of the 
 children — to the hearts sickening and breaking 
 with vain and intolerable longing to look on 
 their faces but once again. 
 
 The saving of Bob Syme was a brave and 
 daring act, but Andrew Craig was a brave and 
 daring man, albeit a quiet and shy one. His 
 brow had flushed and his pleasant eyes had 
 
 77 
 
yS Euphie Lyn. 
 
 hardened when he saw Bob come on board, for 
 with unerring judgment he divined the bravado 
 which had led him to select Jamie Scott's out 
 of all the boats in the harbour. 
 
 * What on earth are you wantin' aff in a nicht 
 like this % ' demanded the oldest man in the boat, 
 when well out at sea. 
 
 ' Oh, just for the gude o' my health,' answered 
 Bob flippantly. 'Here's something you'll no' 
 refuse, Saunders,' and he drew from his overcoat 
 pocket a bottle. 
 
 * Xo, atweel no,' replied Saunders. 'I never 
 refuse a drink o' gude whusky when I get it for 
 nae thing.' 
 
 * 'Deed, no,' said another of the crew. ' See a 
 drap, Bob V 
 
 Bob handed the man the bottle ; but Andrew, 
 who had been looking on with a frown, laid an 
 iron grip on the man's wrist and took the bottle 
 from him. 
 
 An oath broke from Bob Syme ; but Andrew 
 ignored him. 
 
 ' What d'ye want wi' whisky ? ' he remon- 
 strated. ' Tak' care ye dinna need a' your senses, 
 an' mair, aboot ye the nicht.' 
 
 ' Od, Andrae, it's no' costin' ony thing,' said 
 the man good-naturedly. 
 
 ' Cost ! It may cost ye your life, if ye dinna 
 look oot.' • 
 
 ' G'wa' wi' your teetotal notions, Andrae min. 
 Rax me the bottle.' 
 
 Andrew answered by raising his arm and 
 casting the bottle far out into the sea. - - ---. 
 
 ' What's that ? ' cried Jamie Scott, the skipper, 
 coming aft to where they were grouped. 
 
A Brave Deed. 79 
 
 * It's a bottle o' M'husky — gude whusky — he's 
 thrown owerbuird,' answered Saunders indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 ' Whusky ! Wha brocht whusky abuird ? ' 
 
 * Lord bless me ! it was just Bob here, brocht 
 it for a treat till's a'. There's nae ill in that.' 
 
 ' Aweel, Sr.unders,' said the skipper, with a 
 smile, ' it's safer whaur it is than in your stam- 
 mack, my man.' 
 
 Andrew had gone down below, and the skipper 
 lit his pipe and sat down at the helm, watching 
 the leaden blue clouds moving up from the 
 north. 
 
 ' Thae teetotal capers are just turnin' the 
 world upside doon,' growled Saunders, as he 
 began to bait his greatline hooks. 'Perfect 
 dowg i' the manger — neither drink yersel' nor 
 let ony ither body drink.' 
 
 * Oh, weel, efter a', maybe we're better 
 withoot it,' said the man whom Andrew had 
 taken the bottle from ; * it's gettin' geyan black 
 awa to the north yonder.' 
 
 * Humph ! wha cares for a bit hurricane % 
 What I canna get ower is that godless waste 
 o' gude whusky.' 
 
 ' Oh, I ken what a' that's for,' said Bob, with 
 smiling significance. ' He would just as sune 
 fling me ower efter't, if he daured.' 
 
 Saunders stopped baiting ^lis hooks and looked 
 keenly at Bob's face, which v.as getting wonder- 
 fully white with the motion of the boat, and a 
 remembrance of some bit of gossip recurred to 
 him just then. 
 
 * Oh, ho, ihat^s the way o't, eh ? Aweel, mind 
 ye, women's kittle cattle to deal wi'. If they 
 
8o Euphie Lyn. 
 
 say ae thing, they aye mean anither. Better 
 mind your weather-e'e an' pit your helm hard 
 aport when ye spy ane o' iliae craft hearin' doon 
 on ye. "When I was a young chap like you, I 
 lost my bearin's, an' was ta'en in tow afore I kent 
 whaur I was, an', by gosh, I've been in tow 
 ever sin' syne.' 
 
 * An' a very gude thing it was for yon, 
 Saunders,' laughed Andrew, who had come up 
 unobserved. ' Ye would been sunk lang-syne if 
 it h&Jna been for your gude thrifty wife.' 
 
 * Oh, weel, I'm no' sayin' onything again' her,' 
 protested Saunders. ' She'll pass.' 
 
 Bob Syme had crawled away over to the other 
 end of the vessel, prostrate and overwhelmed 
 with mortal sickness. He had not bargained for 
 this when he proposed showing what a brave 
 sailor he could be. 
 
 Saunders chuckled grimly as he watched him 
 from under his sou'-wester. 
 
 ' Gosh ! I mind ae nicht comin' hame frae 
 Pittenweem wi' his faither an' he was that drunk 
 he didna ken me, an' tuk me for some woman 
 body, an' began palaverin' ye never heard the 
 like. He tell't me hoo mony hunder pound he 
 had i' the bank, an' hoo his wife was dead, pn' 
 he had ae son he was gaun to leave a' his siller 
 till. I near split my sides lauchin' at him. But 
 when he whuppit his airm round my neck an' 
 wantit a kiss, th'vl-.s I, by gosh, this is ca'en the 
 joke to a heicht, an' soys I, " Sim," says I, " ye've 
 tji'en the wrang soo by the lug, my man," an' I 
 tuk an' ga<''m the best threshin' ever he got ia 
 his life. Wccl, min, it Hobercul him up a wee, 
 un' 1 towt'd him Imme, au' next day whi-it 1 tcU't 
 
y-j 
 
 i Brave Deed. 8i 
 
 him the way he carrit on he woiildna hardly 
 believe me. Hoosomever, he ga'e me a glide 
 dram ower the head o't. Oh, 'deed, I'll no' smo'er 
 his honour ; he ga'e me a real gude dram.' 
 
 It was midnight before Bob again rose up to 
 speak to them. The lines were shot, and the 
 buoys and flags set, but the gale increased, so that 
 they saw they would have to leave them and 
 make for a haven. They were lowering the sail 
 to tack when somehow Bob came staggering 
 down the deck. With a great flap of the sail 
 the vessel lurched, and Bob, with a terrific cry, 
 disappeared over the side. One moment Andrew 
 took to realise what had happened, then seizing 
 a rope he whirled it dexterously about his arm 
 and leaped into the boiling surf. By the gleam 
 of the May-light he caught the flicker of a white 
 face among the glistening blackness and the 
 foam, and swimming toward it with immense 
 difficulty, because of his heavy boots, laid hold 
 upon the hair of the head and called to pull on 
 the rope. A heavy sea almost washed them on 
 board, and in a few minutes both were safe. 
 
 ' By gosh ! ' roared Saunders, • I thocht ye 
 was awa' after that bottle o' whusky. Never 
 mind, Andrae, my man,' he added, slapping 
 Andrew's soaking shoulders, * I tak' back a' I 
 evcT- said aboot teetot'iers. Hoo was I to ken 
 ye were a man o' that kind ? ' 
 
 Jamie Scott grii)ped Andrew's sleeve in the 
 dark and shook hiai fiercely. 
 
 ' Laddi» ! * he said in an awe-struck voice, 
 ' tbat was ai? awfu'-like thing to duo. Yc put 
 the very fear o' death on me.' 
 
 Audruw laughed shortly. 
 
 • 
 
82 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ' What ither could I dae, Jamie ? ' he queried, 
 and, turning, scrambled down below into the 
 bunk. 
 
 Bob Syme was sitting on a kit, and holding on 
 to one of the beds, while a couple of fishermen 
 disrobed him. After they had rolled him into a 
 bed, and covered him up, he still spat out sea- 
 water. Between the intervals he remarked, — 
 
 ' Ye'll no' catch me riskin' my life on the sea 
 in a hurry again.' 
 
 * !N'o ! ' responded Andrew, with a grim smile. 
 
 And while all this was taking place on board 
 the ' Morning Star,' a mile or more to the east- 
 ward Willie Brown and all his crew went down 
 in the darkness, and the heavy footfalls in the 
 transe startled the watchers on shore. 
 
 Bob Syme was laid up for a fortnight, and for 
 that time Euphie enjoyed a respite from his 
 visits. But again a listlessness nad seized upon 
 her; she began to grow weary of everything. 
 Only the strange statement which Thomas 
 Mathers had made lent interest to her life. It 
 took her days and weeks to realise it, but she 
 was glad, glad that she was not the daughter of 
 Nannie Lyn. And oh, to be worthy of the 
 young mother whom Xannie Lyn had served, 
 and been trusted ])y so implicitly ! 
 
 Surely Nannie could not have been so hard 
 and worldly in these days of her youth as she was 
 now, so hard as to compel her to marry a man 
 slie di'tested. Kupliie, however, ke{)t sacred the 
 . knowl(Hlg(! wljjcli th(! poet had revealed to lier. 
 Mrs. Lyn'H vindictivcdiHposition was better known 
 to lier than to Thomas, who wuh but an outsider, 
 uuil hud uei n lutiH uf her worst side than Kuphie 
 
A Brave Deed. 83 
 
 There had grown a subtle, indefinable change 
 in the girl's manner that Mrs. Lyn could 
 not account for; she felt she had suddenly 
 withdrawn from her influence ; she became im- 
 pressed with a conviction that her power over 
 her was gone. Once or twice, when she had, as 
 usual, been lamenting over Bob's heavy cold 
 caught in the storm that night, Euphie had 
 lifted up her eyes and looked at her strangely, 
 making no answer. 
 
 *I think, Euphie,' she said one Sabbath 
 afternoon, as both sat reading their Bibles, ' ye 
 should really tak' a thocht o' joinin' the Kirk. 
 Ye're auld eneuch noo, an' it saves trouble efter, 
 ye ken.' 
 
 ' What do you mean \ ' said Euphie. 
 
 * Oo, weel, ye ken, when folk's marrit, an' 
 bairns to be christened, ye ken it's a' to be gane 
 through wi' afore ye could get a bairn bap- 
 teezed.* 
 
 Euphie looked at her in mingled horror and 
 amazement. 
 
 * Is it for that ye a' join the Kirk V she cried. 
 
 * 'Deed, ay. Ye ken it's only the members 0' 
 the veesible Kirk can hae their bairns bapteezed.' 
 
 * It's 7io' for that some join the Kirk, I ken, 
 said Euphie, with a tender rush of memory that 
 was pain to her now. No such thouglit had 
 entered Andrew's hei:.d when he had of his uwn 
 desire joined the Church. Had he not told her 
 himself liow long ho ha«l thought of it by lan»l 
 and sea, until, unknown to his nwn mother even, 
 he had g<me up to the whit^ hailed old puMtor, 
 and been admitted ua a connnunicunt'/ Ah, 
 well I 
 
84 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 ' I was tliiiikin' aboot it mysel',' she resumed, 
 ' but for a different reason.' 
 
 ' Oo, weel, it's naething to me what reason ye 
 hae sae lang's ye gang. A' respectable folk that 
 thinks onything o' theirsel's ava joins the Kirk. 
 I've been a member this thirty year an' mair,' 
 said Mrs. Lyn, with unction. 
 
 Euphie said nothing. 
 
 For some Sundays past there had been a great 
 attendance of ploughmen and farm-labourers at 
 church, for the ' preachin's ' were coming on, 
 and for decency's sake they tried to put in an 
 appearance twice or so before the Sacrament 
 IJay came round. They came plodding up into 
 the aisles, heavy-footed and shy, with a sort of 
 apology in their gait, and some slight embarrass- 
 ment in their kindly, sunburnt faces, with their 
 hats awkwardly in their hands, and their Sunday 
 black clothes sitting ill upon them. 
 
 They took their seats with hushed and modest 
 demeanour, remembering the sanctity of the 
 place and the day j while later, after the church 
 was well filled, ' the maister,' two or three of 
 them, strutted in, straight-backed and stately, 
 and sat down with gentlemanly ease in the 
 s(juare crimson-cushioned seats apportioned to 
 ' the gentry,' — the Epistle of James being con- 
 ;sidered uninspired. 
 
 After a sernutu l)y tlie pastor's assistant, it was 
 announced that the minister w*»uM receive in- 
 teiwUng coniiuunicunts at the manse every even- 
 ing the following week. 
 
 On Monday evening Kuphie was half way up 
 the country roiul to the munse when hIic heard 
 votuuM uulliu^ behind hur. 
 
A Brave Deed. 85 
 
 It was Mary Scott and another girl running to 
 catch up to her. 
 
 ' Eh, Euphie, I'm that glad to see you gaun 
 up. Ye ken you're sae clever, an' at the schule 
 ye had aye sic a grand memory. D'ye ken, I've 
 been tryin' to get thae requirin's an' forbiddin's 
 into my head a' last week, an' noo Annie my 
 sister, that gaed forrit last year, says the 
 minister only spiers " adoption," an' " sanctifica- 
 tion," an' "justification," an' "What is God?" 
 at ye. Oh, weel, I ken "What is God?" a' richt; 
 I canna be beat at that ; but " effectual calling " 
 just dings me doutit. Let's hear ii I can say't, 
 Euphie.' And Mary offered her Shorter Cate- 
 chism to Euphie, and began to stammer and 
 hesitate over the order of the sentences. 
 
 * Ye'll better ^earn it,' said Euphie quietly. 
 ' What icay are ye joinin' the Kirk, Mary ? ' 
 
 ' Me, I dinna ken ; only oor Ann gaed forrit 
 last year, an' my mither says it's best to get it 
 ower an' hae dune wi't. I'm nineteen noo, ye 
 ken, an' it's a thing a' respectable folk does.' 
 
 * When I'm up this length I'll gang as far as 
 the manse wi' ye, an' come doon the Balcaskie 
 Road,* said Euphie, as if with sudden impulse. 
 
 ' An' are ye no' gaun forrit wi' the rest o's ? ' 
 ' No,' answered Euphie in a low voice. 
 When the girls entered the manse she passed 
 on to the Balcaskie Road and turned eastward, 
 her licart hot within her, and the tears surging 
 to l)er eyes. She join thi' Church ! she take the 
 holy symbols into her hands with such hard, 
 bitter tli<»ughts in her heart ! Never ! God for- 
 giv»! her! but slic liail not dieaim'd it was in lier 
 to be so rebellious and wicked until Au- liad m(mmi 
 
86 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 Mary rattling over ' What is God ? ' and thought 
 of her as Andrew Craig's wife. 
 
 * Eh, lassie ! ' exclaimed Thomas Mathers, 
 whom she met as she entered the town, ' I was 
 just wussin' I could see ye.* Here Thomas 
 fumbled in his blue sleeve waistcoat pockets and 
 drew out a ticket. 
 
 * There's to be a grand social the nicht in the 
 hall east the toon, an' I thocht I would bring ye 
 a ticket. There's to be fine speeches an' singin', 
 an' we're wantin' a fu' hoose. There's an auld 
 freend o' your ain gaun to gie them twa-ree fare- 
 well words afore he leaves the toon.' 
 
 * A freend o' mine ! ' echoed Euphie, with a 
 sudden perception. Whaur's he gaun ? ' 
 
 Tammas looked astonished, and asked wonaer- 
 ingly, * Did ye no' ken % ' , 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A GRAND OLD-WORLD SOIREE. 
 
 ^HE hall east the toon' was an old car- 
 penter's shop, cleared out and fitted 
 with forms and a desk by the owner, a 
 man of strong religious convictions, and by him 
 given up for the holding of meetings, religious 
 or moral, or whatever tended to the public 
 good. 
 
 Some time ago a few of the more spirited of 
 the religious people, bewailing the ravages which 
 drink made in the town, and feeling that it 
 would be cowardice any longer to confine them- 
 selves to bewailing only, had formed the nucleus 
 of a Tempsrance Society, which still flourishes 
 under another name to this day. Wise men 
 were they in their generation ; for, discerning 
 that human nature had a social and laughter- 
 loving side as well as a more solemn one, they 
 set themselves to getting up social entertain- 
 ments, where the speeches, like the songs, were 
 given in the vernacular, and though neither 
 were classical in their expression, they were 
 thoroughly understood and enjoyed, which was 
 infinitely more to the purpose. Already it had 
 
 become a formidable rival to tiio public-house, 
 
 t7 
 
SS Euphie Lyn. 
 
 whose owners and frequenters poured ridicule 
 upon the whole movement. 'He was a poor 
 weak creatur' (hie !) that couldna tak' a gude 
 (hie !) creatur' o' God — an honest dram (hie !) — 
 withoot gettin' fii' on't,' asserted the latter, as 
 they reeled home o' nights. 
 
 This evening the hall was decorated with some 
 flags and evergreens, for a neighbouring minister 
 had promised to come, some of the members and 
 speakers that evening being of the flock whereof 
 he was appointed shepherd. The owner of the 
 hall himself belonged to a different denomina- 
 tion, but for the sake of the cause he had buried 
 the sectarian hatchet, and this, to a man of his 
 convictions, meant a good deal. 
 
 There was tea in flagons, and toothsome buns 
 in basketfuls, with a great clattering of cups and 
 saucers audible amid the jokes and laughter ; 
 currant bread and cookies and shortbread, with 
 apples and sweeties by way of second and third 
 courses ; and when all this was well over, and 
 the perspiring stewards had retired, the audience 
 were in capital trim for the feast of reason and 
 the flow of soul which was to follow. 
 
 The minister was unanimously voted to the 
 chair, and never in all his life, he declared, had 
 he felt more flattered and honoured. Never 
 in all his experience had he seen a brighter 
 or more appreciative audience — (hear, hear !) — 
 and he felt sure that with such soldiers in the 
 ranks, and with such officers (here ho turned to 
 the platform whereon sat the heads of the 
 Society), they would soon overcome the enemy 
 which was overrunning and blighting this our 
 fair land. They all knew that beautiful pnalm — 
 
A Grand Old- World Soiree. 89 
 
 ' Behold how good a thing it is, 
 And how becoming well, 
 Together such as brethren are, 
 In unity to dwell.' 
 
 * Let us all sing it ! ' 
 
 David Forsyth, the tailor, struck up the tune 
 Eastgate, and they sang — how the Inweerie folk 
 do sing, to be sure ! The landlord of a licensed 
 grocery near by heard the hearty music as he 
 stood in his door, and observed loftily that he 
 thought there was such a thing as carrying 
 things too far. Certainly it did go far, that 
 music ; for it sounded in many lands beyond the 
 sea long years afterwards, when memory, looking 
 back, unsealed her magic phonograph. 
 
 Then the minister prayed for a blessing on 
 the movement — prayed for all concerned with 
 it, prayed for those who did not yet pray for 
 themselves, and finally commended to God's 
 keeping the young member of the Society who 
 was about to leave them for a land beyond 
 the sea. Then they all sat down in silence, 
 and Euphie grew still and cold, dreading 
 the time when Andrew Craig should rise to 
 speak. 
 
 ' Mr. Forsyth will now address the meeting,' 
 said the minister, as he sat down ; and David, 
 who was the town's tailor, a man of slender 
 physique but wide forehead, and eyes sparkling 
 with shrewdness and humour, rose up and 
 })assed his hand two or three times caressingly 
 over his beard., whicli v.as iron-grey. 
 
 *My freends,' he said, witli a twinkle of 
 drollery in his eye, ' this is an extraordinar' age 
 W(3 iivii in, this age of steuiu. We've steam- 
 
90 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 boats on the watter an' steam-engines on the 
 land ; we travel by steam, we spin and weave 
 by steam, we print by steam ; an' I wish to 
 gudeness we could only get up a speech by 
 steam. It's only aboot fower hoors sin' I got 
 notice that there was to be a sor-ee in this hall 
 an' I was expeckit to speak, an' if you ca' that 
 fair hornie, I dinna. So I just tell ye fore- 
 hand that I've begged, borrit, and stealt the 
 speech I'm gaun to gie ye the nicht.' (Laughter 
 and cheers.) 
 
 The speaker then cleverly sketched the origin 
 and purposes of the Society, the success it had 
 met with, and the good work it was doing. He 
 referred to Andrew as a temperance thistle-seed 
 about to blow over the Pacific and take root and 
 flourish in the new land of Ophir; and then, 
 pausing to assume a solemn expression of comic 
 alarm, he continued : ' My freends, mind ye, 
 this is gaun to be a bad business for the publics. 
 I'm beginnin' to pity the puir wretches muckle 
 as Burns pitied the de'il. I could point ye oot a 
 score an' mair ower there amon' you young folk, 
 that if ye hadna been here the nicht would hae 
 been in a waur place, whuppin' ower your gless.' 
 (Here, amid much laughter, he tipped the con- 
 tents of an imaginary dram glass into his mouth. ) 
 'Ay, ye may lauch! mony a ane I've ta'en in my 
 day, an' like you I lauched. Oo, 'deed, ay, I 
 lauched. But the Bible says there's a time to 
 lauch an' a time to greet, an my time to greet 
 cam' when I fand that the whusky that had been 
 my servant had gotten to be my maister ; ay, 
 an' a hard maister at that. Nae maitter whaur 
 1 was, or what I was daein', when it said 
 
A Grand Old- World Soiree. 91 
 
 "Come," I had to come, an' when it said "Go," 
 I had to «,'u. The centurion in Scripter was 
 naething to that centurion o' the deevil in 
 my inside demaundin' me to supply him wi' 
 whusky ; ay, though there wasna a bite in the 
 hoose an' the bairns needin' bread. For whusky, 
 my freends, has an inveesible speerit, an infernal 
 speerit, that enters into ye wi' the drink ye pour 
 doon your throat, an' there he is, inside ye, aye 
 cry in', " Give, give, give!" An' there's plenty o' 
 ye ower there that kens what that awfu' cravin' 
 is when ance it comes on a man, an' hoo hard it 
 is to resist it. But it's twenty year an' mair sin' 
 I got the upper hand o' the billie, an' noo I can 
 snap my fingers at him. Noo, is there onybody 
 here willin' to say, "Get thee behind me, Sautan"? 
 Then, my man, just stap this way ; tak' the 
 pledge here an' noo, an' ye'll find oot that God 
 never failed yet to help them that tried to help 
 themselves. Hoo did I get rid o' the billie, d'ye 
 spier?' (Here the speaker laid his hand on his 
 stomach, bent over, and uplifted his forefinger 
 with a sly smile. ) ' Weel, I drooned him oot ! 
 I drank tea, I drank coffee, I drank plenty o' 
 gude cauld watter, an' aye when he cried for 
 whusky I ga'e him watter, till — till I drooned 
 him as ye would droon a rotten. An' every 
 drink o' watter I gae'm I plumpit a big NO 
 intill't.' 
 
 The speaker sat down amid great applause, 
 and then a song was announced, and a tall, 
 reddish-haired girl, with a turn-up nose, sang 
 * The March o' the Cameron Men.' 
 
 At the close of the song the minister started 
 up with a burst of enthusiasm. 
 
92 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * Yes, my friends, that is the spirit with which 
 we must enter upon thi^* campaign — 
 
 " And proudly we'll follow our chiefs to the field. 
 For a Cameron never can yield ! " 
 
 What heart has not thrilled at the proud record 
 of the Cameron Highlanders? In what land 
 has not their slogan struck terror to the heart 
 of the enemy? And shall not the slogan of 
 temperance be heard all over this land — in 
 the highways and byways, in the slums and 
 closes which disgrace our civilisation? Let us 
 be infused with the true Cameron spirit of the 
 Church militant, and from this meeting go forth 
 conquering and co conquer ; and now we'll 
 all sing, standing up, " Onward, Christian 
 soldiers ! " ' 
 
 Another grand burst of singing followed, and 
 then a friend, a piper from Elie, screwed up, and 
 with flying ribbons and proper dignity blew 
 ' Lochaber no more,' and afterward the reel of 
 Tullochgorum, on his bagpipes, while the feet 
 under the forms, with much thumping, and an 
 occasional * Hooch ! ' from the back seats, exe- 
 cuted an invisible reel, pointing the time of the 
 figure 8 to a nicety. The applause, after the 
 piper sat down, was deafening. 
 
 Then a handsome elderly fisherman stood up, 
 attired in a snug blue suit and red cravat, his 
 pea jacket unbuttoned for air, and an expression 
 of real enjoyment on his face. Evidently he 
 was a favourite, for he had to wait a few moments 
 for the cheering to subside. That the man was 
 a born orator there could be no doubt ; the fluency 
 of his speech and the grace of his gestures surely 
 
A Grand Old- World Soiree. 93 
 
 indicated liim one of the great army of might- 
 have-beens. But his schooling had been scant, 
 and he could but express himself in such forms 
 of speech as were familiar to him. His theme 
 was warning against temptation of every kind, 
 and after speaking very much to the purpose 
 for some time, he implored them to be truth 
 speakers, citing examples of the danger of deceit 
 from Old Testament history. 
 
 *Ye've a' read in the Bible aboot the pairt- 
 ricks — the three great pairtricks, Aubrahaum, 
 Isaac, an' Jawcob — sic gude an' holy men they 
 were. An' yet luk hoo they yielded to tempta- 
 tion ! Luk what a nottorus sinner auld Aubra- 
 haum turned oot, tellin' a deliberate, doonricht 
 lee to the King o' Egypt, an' sayin' that Saurah 
 was his sister when she was his lawfu' marrit 
 wife. Ah, but he paid for that ! An' luk at 
 Jawcob, hoo his very mither learnt him to lee, 
 an' deceive his auld blin' faither. ^ly freends, 
 that's mair than ony fisherman i' this toon would 
 daur dae, it's no' nateral ; an' when Kebekah 
 eggit on her son to twa-facedness an deceit, she 
 little kent she was makin' a character till hersel 
 for future generations to point her moral an 
 adorn her tale, as the poet says. For she was the 
 wife o' a pairtrick, an' the mother o' a pairtrick, 
 an' ocht to hae kent better, even though she wa>i 
 but a woman. I'm sure, my young freends, if oor 
 succeeders could rise oot o' their graves wast the 
 toon they would be prood ' — 
 
 Here David Forsyth pulled the tail of the pea 
 jacket, and said audibly, 'Are ye gaun to speak 
 a'nicht? It's ten o'clock.' 
 
 'Oo, weel, then, I'll see an' wind up noo, 
 
94 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 though I could speak twa 'oors yet,' said the 
 speaker, with great good-nature. 
 
 'I havena the sma'est doot o' that,' retorted 
 David, with dry humour. 
 
 ' Say awa' ! say awa' ! ' shouted the audience ; 
 and, thus encouraged, tlie auditor concluded — 
 
 * Ay, an' though it was twenty o'clock, I maun 
 say thae twa things to the young folk here. 
 First, avide a' kinds o' deceit ; an' secondly, 
 get eddication. Get eddication, I say, for a man 
 withoot eddication's like the plooghman that ance 
 cam' doon to the harbour here, an' when he saw 
 the reef-points on the sails, says he, " Losh, sic 
 pridefu' deevils thae fishers are ! nae less than 
 taissels on their sails ! " That's the want o' 
 eddication ! Ye may as weel expeck a mason to 
 build a hoose withoot tools, or a captain that 
 canna box the compass to tak' a ship to Indy, as 
 to get on withoot eddication. If I mysel' had 
 only gotten eddication, instead o' bein' a puir 
 fisher, takin' me a' my time to gar the twa ends 
 meet, I micht hae been up, gude kens whaur — 
 ay, maybe sittin' on the throne aside Queen 
 Vic-tory ! ' 
 
 * Ay, ye'U dae noo ! ' audibly exclaimed the 
 sarcastic David, as amid thunders of api)lause 
 the speaker resumed his seat, and a group of 
 young men with music-books in their hands 
 stood up. 
 
 'Three Blind Mice,' the chairman next an- 
 nounced ; and after this had been rendered and 
 encored, Andrew Craig, flushed and embarrassed, 
 came up to the desk. 
 
 He wasn't in the way of public speaking, but 
 as a member of this Society he had been urged 
 
A Grand Old- World Soiree. 95 
 
 to say a few farewell words before leaving for 
 Australia. He liked his native town and 
 country, but he had made up his mind to see the 
 world, and had decided to go away next week, 
 and he wanted to say to his co-M'orkers here that 
 he hoped they would carry on the good work 
 begun ; for many a wife and mother in this town 
 had already blessed the day which had led their 
 men folk to this hall instead of to the public- 
 house. As he proceeded, the embarrassment 
 wore off; he spoke easily and rapidly, feeling 
 strung up to his highest tension, conscious only 
 of one pair of eyes watching him. challenging 
 himself to dare do other than quit himself like 
 a man. But he was white when he left the 
 platform and disappeared behind the seats, and 
 Euphie sat, feeling her heart breaking within her. 
 For he looked so handsome ; she had never 
 seen him looking so before, and he was so grave 
 and manly withal, and his thinness, though it 
 made him older-looking, rather improved him. 
 He had dressed with studied care, not in his 
 usual fisherman's garb ; he had laid that aside 
 now, and the tidv black suit set off his fine 
 figure to perfection. His brown hair was 
 brushed straight back from his white forehead, 
 his clear eyes were grave and gentle, and his 
 bronzed features had taken on a maturer, 
 manlier look. 
 
 Euphie, while he stood up, looked at him 
 steadily, purposely photographing him in her 
 mind. She had not seen him for weeks, and 
 this was the last look of him she would ever 
 get. Oh, he had been cruel, cruel ! After all 
 these years of pleasant companionship, after the 
 
96 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 loii^' walks iinel talks on Sunday evenings for 
 summers past, to turn all of a sudden and take 
 uj) with iSfary Scott ! Mary, who had never 
 opened a book, who hadn't an idea beyond 
 shelling mussels or sanding a floor, a hai)py-go- 
 lucky, decent girl, but — no wife — no wife for 
 Andrew Craig. There were plenty other clever 
 jjirls — girls who read and thought as well as 
 worked, any one of whom could have been a 
 companion to him — but Mary ! Could it be he 
 was going away because he had found that out? 
 Her heart throbl^ed at the possibility. If she 
 could only think that, she would write him a 
 kind good-bye before he left, just to let him 
 know that she wished him well, and for the 
 sake of — auld lang-syne. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn scolded loudly for Euphie keeping 
 such unbecoming hours, a girl on the eve of 
 taking the Sacrament ! 
 
 ' I've changed my mind aboot that. I'm no' 
 gaun,' said Euphie. 
 
 * JS^o' gaun ! Are ye daft ? ' 
 
 ' Maybe I am, but I'm no' gaun,' was the quiet 
 answer. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn's black brows lowered, and she 
 turned furiously upon Euphie. But Euphie 
 stood looking at her steadfastly, and something 
 in her expression arrested the angry woman. 
 
 ' Hoo daur ye glower at yer mither like that ? ' 
 she said, with a perceptible weakening in her 
 voice. 
 
 Euphie lit her candle, and without a word 
 went up-stairs to bed. She had made up her 
 mind to write a farewell note to Andrew in the 
 morning. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 INTERCEPTED CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 (>Oj 
 
 UPHIE was up betimes next morning, for 
 in truth she had not slept well. "What 
 should she say? how word that letter 
 which would convey her good wishes and good- 
 bye without betraying the love he had not cared 
 to ask for 1 without in any way hinting how she 
 felt his cruelty ? She wrote note after note on 
 the little table whereon stood the mirror, lifting 
 up her eyes now and again to behold their own 
 reflection looking at her with sad and wistful 
 reproach — to behold a white, grieved face framed 
 in a great mass of flaxen hair falling about her 
 shoulders. But every note she tore up again ; 
 for the feeling, the longing, the reproach, she 
 could not frame her sentences to hide. She took 
 a sheet of paper and addressed it, and laid the 
 little box of wafers ready to seal it when she 
 should fold her letter in it, and then fancying 
 she heard a foot on the stairs, she hastily thrust 
 everything into the little table drawer, and pro- 
 ceeded to brush out her hair and coil it up on 
 her head. She need not have hurried. Mrs. 
 Lyn, down-stairs, was as fearful of being iiiStruded 
 on just then as Euphie herself, for she was at 
 
 7 
 
98 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 that moment engaged in holding a letter, ad- 
 dressed to Miss Euphemia Lyn, over the boiling 
 kettle-spout, in order to detach the wafer. 
 
 * Here's a letter to Euphie,' a youngster had 
 said, as she undid the shop shutter at an early 
 hour. 
 
 ' Wha frac ? ' she demanded. 
 
 ' Andrae Craig,' said the child ; and, with her 
 black brows knit, Mrs. Lyn took the letter, stepped 
 to the foot of the stairs and listened. She could 
 hear no movement. She slipped her shoes off on 
 to the mat, and, noiseless as a cat, stole up to 
 the door. Not a sound. Euphie must be sound 
 asleep yet ; her late hours were a providence this 
 time. Then she came down as softly, and thrust 
 under the kettle a greasy paper, which blazed 
 and sent the steam curling damp out at the 
 spout. About an hour after this, the door up- 
 stairs opened, and Euphie came down. 
 
 'Here's a letter a laddie brocht to ye this 
 mornin',' said Mrs. Lyn coolly, 
 
 ' A letter ! Wha frae ?' 
 
 * Hoo should I ken wha it's frae ? I'm no' a 
 witch to see through what's solid. Better open't.' 
 
 But Euphie knew that handwriting, and 
 turned and went up-stairs again, opening the 
 well-sealed wafer at the corner as she went. It 
 was a narrow, long-shaped missive, with some- 
 thing firm inside, and as she unfolded it, a 
 book-mark, her own little old book-mark, with 
 the pale blue ribbon attached, fell upon the 
 table. The book-mark she had given Andrew 
 Craig wnen sn^ was a little girl, with the 
 words ' Remember me ' sewed in blue silk on the 
 cardboard, returned to her without a word ! 
 
Intercepted Correspondence. 99 
 
 Not one little 'good-bye,' even, after all their 
 seven years of courtship ! For it was courtship. 
 It was ! it was ! No matter how he miglit 
 justify it to his own conscience, he knew, he 
 mud know, he had used her cruelly. She 
 looked on the floor, and on the table, and down 
 by the side of it, to see if nj enclosed slip of 
 paper, with somethimj, even a little word, written 
 on it, had not escaped and fluttered down as she 
 opened it ; but there was nothing — nothing ! 
 
 Euphie had not been aware of the strength of 
 the hope that had lingered in her until she saw 
 the returned book-mark and realised it was all 
 over, completely over. She turned the key in 
 her door, and lay down prone upon the bed, and 
 sobbed until a sharp pain in her left side com- 
 pelled her to stop and sit up. Oh, the desolation 
 of that hour ! Orphaned, bereft, persecuted ; 
 surely God would look down on her and pity 
 her? 
 
 'Are ye no' comin' doon to your breakfast, 
 Euphie ? ' called Mrs. Lyn from below. 
 
 The call roused her, and her pride began to 
 stir. What a mercy she had not written ! Oh, 
 if she had sent that kindly note she had torn up, 
 and he feeling '^towards her like this, she would 
 surely have died with mortification. It was the 
 one sweet drop in her bitter cup that she had 
 never by word or look expressed regret — that 
 she had held her head highest and talked her 
 merriest when her heart was at its sorest. 
 
 She folded the book-mark up in the paper 
 which constituted the envelope, after the fashion 
 of those days, and ran down-stairs, thrusting it 
 into her bosom as she went. 
 
lOO Euphic Lyu. 
 
 She drank a cup of tea, tasting nothing else, 
 and began to husy lierself about the house, when 
 her eye fell on a basket of half-dried clothes in 
 the corner. 
 
 ' Maybe I should spread thae things oot on the 
 whins this fine mornin'l' she remarked. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn eyed the basket thoughtfully, and 
 then answered, ' Aweel.' 
 
 Euphie hoisted the heavy basket on her side 
 and proceeded to the moor, glad to get away from 
 the inquisitive observance of Mrs. Lyn — glad to 
 get up among the whins, where she could sigh 
 and moan to her heart's relief without beinj; 
 observed. 
 
 As soon as she was safely up the brae, Mrs. Lyn 
 ran up-stairs on a tour of discovery. She looked 
 for Andrew's envelope everywhere, but could see 
 nothing of it or its contents. As she searched, 
 she came upon the sheet of paper which Euphie 
 had addressed to Andrew, and also the little 
 clam-shell full of wafers. Then a devil entered 
 into the woman, for demoniac possession is by 
 no means a thing of the past ; or, if it be, how 
 account for the devil-work done ^ 
 
 * The very tiling ! ' she exclaimed ; and, licking 
 up a couple of wafers with her tongue, she ran 
 down-stairs, and pulled out a drawer in the shop, 
 and rummaged until she drew forth a package of 
 flaring caricature valentines, horrible nightmares 
 of vulgarity, left over from last February's valen- 
 tine season. 
 
 * This'U end it for gude an' a ! ' she laughed, 
 evidently with the keenest enjoyment, as she 
 selected a bow-legged sailor, with an enormous 
 head and a squinting leer, supposed to be mouth- 
 
Intercepted Correspondence. lOl 
 
 ing something intended for an insult to the 
 recipient. This she folded, and, writing in a 
 hand as near like that of the address as possible, 
 ' The Book-mark,' on the hack of it, she enclosed 
 it in Euphie's addressed sheet, wafered it, and 
 gave a boy a halfpenny to carry it straight to 
 Andrew Craig. 
 
 Andrew was talking to a friend in front of his 
 mother's door when the urchin touched him on 
 thii sleeve and presented the letter. He glanced 
 at the address, and a wild thrill of joy sent the 
 light to his eyes and a flush to his cheek, but he 
 put it in his pocket and continued his conversa- 
 tion. It was enough that she had answered. 
 The letter felt thick to the touch ; she had re- 
 turned the book-mark, as he had- hoped she 
 would ! He would see her yet before he left, 
 and maybe — oh, God grant it ! — maybe he might 
 yet go away as full of hope as he was now of 
 misery and despair. His friend went away, and 
 with a light foot he sprang up the stops, two at 
 a time, and entered the house. His mother was 
 out somewhere, and with trembling hands he 
 tore open the folded sheet, and saw written on 
 a coarse paper within, 'The Book-mark.' He 
 unfolded the paper and leant back against the 
 wall, white as death, his eyes staring dully at 
 the horrible thing. He cleared his throat, which 
 had grown suddenly dry, and then looked closely 
 at the address. 
 
 It was Euphie's handwriting, no doubt of 
 that. He would have known it anywhere. He 
 had known it ever since they had been at school 
 together. God ! and how he had loved her ! — 
 the woman who had sent him, in response to this 
 
102 Euphie Lyji. 
 
 last fond appeal, a — a thing like that ! But 
 she should not escape ! He would tell her in 
 plain language what he thought of her, and all 
 her duplicity. She had made life in the old 
 town intolerable with the torment of her 
 presence. She had driven him away from home 
 and kindred, to seek among strangers the forget- 
 fulness he could not find here. It was well he 
 had fixed principles, or he might, in the madness 
 of his pain, have gone headlong to the devil. 
 No, she should not escape his just anger. 
 
 Andrew went into the ben-end and locked the 
 door behind him, and, full of outraged love, sat 
 down to write. 
 
 And there was no angel, wise and far-seeing, 
 to stay his hand, or to say, * Xever im'ite unkind 
 things.' 1^0 one to say, * If you must give place 
 to the devil so far as to hurl poisoned javelins at 
 those you have loved, and who have provoked 
 you, do it in person, with the fire in your eye 
 and the flush on your brow, and the words like 
 sparks flying hot from your lips ; for afterward 
 the very remembrance of your anger will preserve 
 love to you, and with time will come the reflec- 
 tion that all these cruel things were spoken 
 hastily, and are therefore to be forgotten. But, 
 as you value unpurchasable human love and 
 human friendship, set not down such words on 
 paper; for the passion passes with the flash 
 from your eye and the blood that returns to the 
 heart, but the cold cruel words remain, and 
 you will not be by to see how they sting and stab 
 and slay. And your friend may be in trouble 
 when they come, and you shall have added to it ; 
 or sick, and you shall have made him worse ; if 
 
Intercepted Correspondence. 103 
 
 happy, you have spoiled the day for him, and of 
 a friend made an enemy.' 
 
 There was no one to reason thus with Andrew, 
 and he wrote and wrote, in ink apparently, but 
 really in his heart's blood. 
 
 When his mother came in, his chest was 
 packed and locked and bound taut with a 
 stout rope, and he was busy nailing on the 
 address. 
 
 'Dear me, laddie, what's a' this?' she said, 
 looking at him shrewdly. ' I thocht ye werena 
 gaun awa' till Monday ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I see nae use in stayin' till Monday, 
 mither dear ; I'll no' be richt noo till I get awa'. 
 I'll go this afternune.' 
 
 * I kent that black limmer wouldna let ye 
 alane ! ' she said, with a wild burst of tears. 
 'Oh, ye canna hide onything frae me. I saw 
 the laddie gi'en ye the letter, an' I kent whaur it 
 cam' frae.' 
 
 'Aweel, mither, what canna be cured maun 
 be endured, I fancy. I wuss her weel — after a'. 
 I'll get the better o't a' when I get ower the 
 water an' cot o' sicht.' 
 
 'Did ye ever get speech o' Euphic hersel', 
 Andrae ? I've aye a notion that Nannie Lyn was 
 at the bottom o' a' this. I dinna think it's been 
 Euphie hersel'.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, it was ; I ken noo,' said Andrew, 
 locking his carpet-bag viciously. 
 
 ' Hoo did ye ken ? ' asked the sagacious 
 mother. 
 
 ' I wrote to her — yon was the answer.' 
 
 * An' what did she say % ' 
 
 ' That's a' she said,' answered Andrew, and, 
 
104 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 handing his mother the ugly missive, himself 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 In the afternoon, as Euphie went up the moor 
 to take in the clothes, which were drv now, she 
 heard a shrill voice calling — 
 
 * Hoy, Euphie ! hoy ! ' 
 
 She turned, and waited until a boy, breathless 
 with runnmg, came, and without ceremony, said, 
 handing her a letter — 
 
 * Andrew Craig bade me gie ye that.' 
 'Where is he?' asked Euphie, anxious for 
 
 news. 
 
 'He's awa to Austreelyie. Jock Watt drove 
 his kist to the boat at Anst'er, an' he's awa' to 
 Leith wi' her.' 
 
 'Thank ye,' said Euphie mechanically, and 
 went up among the whins to read this second 
 letter. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DANCE MUSIC — ITS ORIGIN. 
 0->«-T> 
 
 UPHIE went up among the whins, and, 
 sitting behind a bush, opened the letter 
 with shaking hands. He had written 
 'good-bye,' after all. "What had he said ? — what 
 had he said ? 
 
 Andrew, like herself, had always been one of 
 the old master's brightest scholars, and when he 
 had left school he by no means stopped reading. 
 At that remote period Inweerie boasted a public 
 library, though of a limited kind, and the books 
 borrowed on the lending day, which was Sunday 
 afternoon, were pretty well exhausted by Andrew 
 Craig. There were books of travel and fiction 
 by good authors, and by constant communication 
 Avith such he had unconsciously acquired a terse 
 and correct way of expressing himself when he 
 liad occasion to write. On this occasion, being 
 strung to the highest tension of feeling, he sur- 
 passed himself, and his words struck the girl like 
 hammers. He was too hot to be conventional, 
 and simply began — 
 
 ' EuPHiE, — If I have lost all faith in women, 
 I have you, and you only, to thank for it. I had 
 
 106 
 
lo6 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 read in books of wicked women who wilfully 
 brought men to shipwreck and ruin for their 
 own vanity, but I did not dream that such 
 depravity as you have shown could be hid be- 
 hind such a face. Wherever I go I will never 
 see a face like yours but I will remember that 
 a mocking, lying soul is at the back of it; I 
 will never hear a voice like yours but I will 
 think of you, laughing and talking to the men, 
 the poor weak men, who come in to buy whisky 
 in Syme's shop. To think that the little yellow- 
 haired lassie I loved at school should turn out 
 like this! When I returned the book-mark, it 
 was to remind you of our schooldays. I thought 
 maybe you would send it back for me to keep 
 for auld lang-syne, but I never dreamed that you 
 would insult me as you have done. I will try 
 to forgive you in time, but it will need time to 
 forget too. The money I had saved up in the 
 bank will keep my kind old mother in comfort 
 for some years, so I can leave her with a clear 
 conscience. I do not ask you to forgive me for 
 the hard and bitter things I have written, for I 
 think you deserve them all, because I know that 
 you know better. Andrew Craig.' 
 
 Euphie shrank into herself as if scorched by 
 the hot and burning words which Andrew had 
 written in his righteous anger. What was he 
 writing to her like that for ? When did she ever 
 insult him % How was she to know he wanted 
 the book-mark back % And he fancied her selling 
 whisky ! S)ie selling whisky in Syme's shop ! 
 Never, while the world stood ! Never ! But 
 what did he mean by all this ? What had she 
 
Dance Music — its Origin. 107 
 
 ever done that lie should taunt her with depravity? 
 Had he not left her of his own accord, and gone 
 walking with Mary Scott, while she waited and 
 waited for him, ready to jump up and leave Bob 
 Syme sitting there as &oon as he came % Had he 
 not insulted her by making love to Mary right 
 before her eyes up in Greendykes' -kitchen? 
 "Would she ever forget the awful suffocating grip 
 at her heart when she turned and saw them 
 there \ ' Oh, Andrae, Andrae, why did you 
 ill-use me like that % ' she moaned, breaking out 
 into audible speech and bitter tears of hopeless 
 despair. 
 
 After a little she folded the cruel letter and 
 put it into her bosom, and having cried until 
 that old pain again woke in [her heart, she dried 
 her eyes and began to gather the clothes off the 
 whins, and fill them into the basket. It was 
 pretty heavy, and she rested it upon the gun- 
 wale of an old boat which lay rotting on the 
 edge of the moor, waiting till the traces of tears 
 should fade from her eyes before facing Mrs. Lyn. 
 
 * Hillo, lassie, is that you ? ' said Thomas 
 Mathers, emerging from the other side of the 
 boat. 
 
 ' Ay, I'm takin' a rest,' explained Euphie. 
 
 'I was just takin' a dander afore gaun doon 
 to my tea,' he said, and he drew out a slip of 
 paper from his pocket and handed ifc to her to 
 read. 
 
 ♦What's this, Tammas?' 
 
 * Oo, just twa-ree lines oot o' a fu' heart to 
 express sympathy wi' the puir souls left desolate 
 that nicht 0' the gale,' he answered, with that 
 pathetic hungering for sympathy and companion- 
 
io8 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ship which he craved continually, and instinct- 
 ively sought for now. He would show Euphie 
 Lyn a poem he had composed sooner than any 
 one else in the town. Euphie read — 
 
 'There was wailin' in Ramah, lamentin' an' grief; 
 Nae balm could assuage, an' nae tear gie relief,' etc. 
 
 She read on to the end, and then said honestly — 
 
 * It's no' the best poem you've written, Tammas, 
 but it expresses what we a' feel for them, an' 
 that's the main thing.' 
 
 'It's a geyan mixed-up life,' she added, 
 handing him back the paper. ' I'm beginnin' to 
 see it's no' a' sunshine, Tammas.' 
 
 ' No, atweel no, lassie ; but the sunshine's 
 bounie while it lasts, an' it never leaves the 
 heart it has ance visited. The sunshine o' the 
 past lives in the heart o' man, just as the sun- 
 licht o' past ages lives in the bowels o' the earth, 
 to be drawn upon for licht an' warmth when the 
 need for't arises. But ye're no' tellin's hoo ye 
 likit the social last nicht. Didn't Clark just 
 play up yon pibroch grand ? Od, I was feared 
 my feet would rin awa' wi' me — though, atweel, 
 my dancin'-days are dune.' 
 
 * Ay, it was fine, fine,' assented Euphie, with 
 a faint smile of recollection. 'Indeed, my ain 
 taes were maist set agaun.' 
 
 ' I'se warrant ! I dinna envy the man that 
 can keep his feet still when an auld Scots reel 
 is bein' played, either on the fiddle or the pipes. 
 There maun either be lead in his veins or a 
 wecht at his heart.' 
 
 'Ay, that's true,' said Euphie, thinking of the 
 weight at her own heart even now. 
 
Da7ice Music— Its Origin. 109 
 
 ' D'ye ken,' began Thomas, now fairly in the 
 vein, having a sympathetic and appreciative 
 listener, — 'd'ye ken, lassie, I made a discovery 
 the ither .rmmer, though I never mentioned it 
 to a livin' sowl till the noo ? For what's the use 
 o' speakin' ? They would only lauch at me, an' 
 say I was daft. The maist half o' the folk in this 
 Avorld are like moles, burrowin' an' borin' i' the 
 earth, wi' een, but nae e'esicht ; an' the l)lue an' 
 silver o' the day, an' the purple an' gold 0' the 
 e'enin's, an' the glory o' the Lord in His holy 
 temple o' Nature, they canna see ava ; for, ye 
 ken, there's nae siller in a' the like 0' that. But, 
 waes me ! what they miss — what they miss ! ' 
 
 The poet lapsed into a reverie, and Euphie 
 sighed, reflecting how like Andrew Craig he was 
 in his way of thinking. Andrew and she had 
 watched the sunsets on the Sabbath eves — ah, 
 how often ! Now — 
 
 ' But what did ye discover, Tammas % ' 
 
 Tammas started, called back from dreamland. 
 
 ' Discover ? ' he said hazily. ' Ah ! — 00 ay ; 
 I maist forgot what I wantit to tell ye. Ye ken 
 it's aye been an extraordinar' source o' wonder- 
 ment to me whaur the Scotch ever got their dance 
 music. But ae mornin', aboot four o'clock, I was 
 oot spreadin' my nets, an' ootower frae me a bit 
 a laerock sprang up, singin', singin', singin' ! I 
 think I hear the bit creatur' yet ! Up she gaed 
 — up an' up — aye singin', till she was just a 
 mote i' the blue, an' I steekit my een to listen. 
 Aweel, as I stood there wi' my een closed, as 
 sure as death I could see hunders on hunders o' 
 fairies, wee bits o' colour, just like flooers ye've 
 seen dancin' i' the wind, an' they reeled an' 
 
I lo Euphie Lyii. 
 
 cleekit an' whirled, ay, an' snappit their thooms, 
 in a wild intoxication o' delight, keepin' time to 
 the music that cam' ringin' doon — a perfect oot- 
 poor o' liquid joy an' mirth. An' then she 
 (Irappit, an' in the silence I opened my een, an' 
 there were the flowers a' nid-noddin' amon' the 
 grass, just as if naething had happened ; but I 
 had discovered ane o' Nature's secrets. An' noo, 
 if ony man would come to me wonderin' whaur 
 we get oor reels an' strathspeys, I would tell him 
 to gang oot on a fine summer mornin', when the 
 mists are liftin' frae the Laws, an' the grey 
 speeder wabs are a' strung wi' pearls on the 
 laigh young whins, an' ilka blade o' grass is 
 tipped wi' a diamond, an' the sun is just risin' 
 oot o' the sea ; let him stand there an' listen to 
 the laerocks, an' if he has ears to hear ava, he'll 
 sune find oot whaur the Scotch get their dance 
 music frae.' 
 
 ' Ye're an awfu' man, Tammas,' said Euphie, 
 looking with undisguised admiration at the 
 fisherman's weather-beaten face and well-worn 
 blue waistcoat. 'You should hae been some- 
 thing better than a fisherman.' 
 
 ' Whisht, lassie, whisht ! ye dinna ken what 
 ye're sayin'. Wha but fishers were chosen to 
 be sent oot like lambs amon' wolves, as Christ 
 weel said, to preach His new gospel o' peace an' 
 goodwill an' universal brotherhood to a world 
 rotten to the core wi' selfishness an' pride, an' 
 lust o' power an' pleasure? Wha but fishers 
 left their nets an' followed the puir hameless 
 Carpenter o' Nazareth, only half understandin', 
 but aye believin' in Him through a' up to 
 Calvary? Ay, just as they follow Him yet, 
 
Dance Music — its Origin. \ 1 1 
 
 only half comprehendin', but aye believin', just 
 in this very toon. Oh, 'deed, ay, when I hear 
 sae muckle lamentin' ower the condition o' the 
 fishers by folk that ken naething aboot them an' 
 their ways, 1 think o' what Christ said to the 
 scribes an' Pharisees when they were look in' 
 doon on their neebors, " These shall enter into 
 the kingdom before you." Na, Euphie lass, 
 I'm prood to be ane o' the craft that Jesus likit 
 to tak' up wi', the men that revolutionised the 
 world by a strength that never was human.' 
 
 'Tammas,' said Euphie, breaking in upon him 
 with sudden impulse, 'tell me — who is my 
 father?' 
 ' Lassie ! ' 
 
 ' Tell me what you know, Tammas.' 
 'Aweel, my lass, to tell ye the truth, I've 
 often thocht sin' I spoke to ye that day that ye 
 micht as weel ken the hale story. It's no' lang. 
 When I was sailin' oot o' London ance — I used 
 to take a voyage up the Mediterranean noo an' 
 then when I was a youngster — there was ane o' 
 the sailors, when I happened to say I hailed frae 
 Inweerie, lookit at me a sort o' queer-like. By 
 an' by, when we were by oorsel's reevin' ropes, 
 he says to me, " You're frae Inweerie ? " " Yes," 
 I said. " Do ye ken a Mrs. Lyn there ? " says 
 he. Weel, I minded o' ^^'ck Lyn an' his wife 
 an' a bairn comin' to the toon, — North country 
 folk they said they were, — an' they took the very 
 hoose they're in noo, that hoose o' Syme's, Jack 
 he gaed to the sea, and his wife she keepit a bit 
 shop, an' they never had ony mair family. I 
 teirt the sailor a' this, an' he lauched, an', says 
 he, " I houp that wife o' Jack Ljti's 'U be gude 
 
1 1 2 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 to that bairn, for he got a gude sum o' money 
 wi' her. The captain, before he sailed, adver- 
 teesed for a servant, an' got this Jack Lyn's 
 wife — she gaed to service when Jack took his 
 long voyages to Indy, ye see. When the captain 
 cam' back, his wife was dead, an' Nannie was in 
 the hoose wi' the infant. Aweel, the captain had 
 made a rin-awa' marriage, ye see, an' noo, bein' 
 in desperation, an' haein' to sail in a week to 
 Calcutta, he says, ' Look here, Mrs. Lyn. The 
 child seems to be thrivin' wi' ye. Here is my 
 cheque for .£1000 now, and when I return and 
 find the child well, you can bring her up so far, 
 an' I will see you comfortably provided for.'" 
 Well, Mrs. Lyn took the child, cam' to In- 
 weerie, and they settled the.^e, passin' you aff as 
 their ain, for the captain or his ship were never 
 mair seen after they got fairly oot to sea. The 
 captain's wife was the pretties!/ young creature 
 he ever saw, this sailor said, and ye may be sure, 
 Euphie, I was very interested. Jack Lyn told 
 him the hale story with his ain lips ae day, when 
 he had met him, half-seas ower, in Leith. Next 
 day I tried to get him to tell me the captain's 
 name, but he wadna; an' mair, he bound me 
 doon no' to mention the thine:, for Jack an' he 
 were freends. An' I never would, Euphie, until 
 I saw that Nannie Lyn was takin' advantage 
 o' her position as yer mither to force ye to a 
 marriage against your will.' 
 
 ' An' that's a', Taramas % ' 
 
 ' That's a', my lass.' 
 
 'Tammas, I'm glad ye tell't me. I said to 
 ye before that I v/ould rin awa' ; I'm gaun noo.' 
 -'Dae naething rash, my bairn, dae naething 
 
Dance Music — its Origin. 113 
 
 rash ! ' said Thomas, with evident concern. 
 * Tell Nannie Lyn that I've tell't ye the truth ; 
 she'll no' force ye then.' 
 
 'It would mak' nae aifference. Ye see, I've 
 naebody to tak' my pairt. An', Tammas,' she 
 said, looking into his face with sudden alarm, 
 ' I'm feared for mysel' ; if that Bob Syme comes 
 back to the hoose, an' torments me, I'll — I'll kill 
 him. It's a' his doin's an' my mith — Nannie 
 Lyn's. Atween them, they've broken my heart.' 
 
 With a sudden jerk she hoisted the basket on 
 to her side, a sob escaping her lips as she turned 
 away and walked down I'he brae. 
 
 * God lielp the pair thing,' said Thomas. ' I 
 wonder, noo, if I shouldna go wast an' see 
 Andrae Craig ? I believe there's some deeviltry 
 at the bottom 0' a' this.' 
 
 Thomas went, but he was too late. Andrew 
 was away, and his mother was in bed weeping, 
 as mothers weep. 
 
 8 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 fHAT very evening Bob Syme, in a warm 
 overcoat and enormous muffler, stepped 
 into Mrs. Lyn's kitchen. She herself 
 was out, hut Euphie was in, which was more to 
 the purpose, for Bob had come to seal his fate 
 once for all, feeling invincible. 
 
 ' Is your mither no' in ? ' he began, by way of 
 introduction. 
 
 Euphie was lying back in the depths of an 
 old-fashioned easy-chair, which was covered with 
 blue chintz, her yellow hair loosened somewhat, 
 one hand lying listlessly in her lap, the other 
 closed over something. She did not look up 
 when he entered, or when he spoke. 
 
 ' Ye're no' speirin' hoo I am, after me riskin' 
 my life to please ye.' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 'I aye thocht ye would be doon to see me 
 when ye kent I wasna able to come up.' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 'What would ye thocht, Euphie, if I had 
 gaen doon to the boddom that nicht 'i ' 
 
 No answer; but — was that a tear trickling from 
 under her long lashes 1 Ah, that had touched her ! 
 
 114 
 
A Revelation. 115 
 
 'But (linna greet, Euphie, — ^,just say whan, 
 my clear, just say whan. There's a penter frae 
 Anst'er comin' to pent the hoose inside an' oot- 
 side the morn's mornin'.' 
 
 There was no stir nor movement in the chair, 
 only a tear trickling slowly down her cheek as 
 she gazed into the tire. 
 
 'Eh ay, it was awfu',' he resumed, feeling 
 that he was working on her feelings ; ' I was 
 that fu' 0' saut water I couldna speak for twa 
 'oors an' mair. Aweel, I'm no' carin' noo, when 
 it's ower. I said I would let ye see I wasna 
 feared, and I've latten ye see. But I'm wantin' 
 ye ower-by noo, an' I cam' to see gin ye'll let 
 me pit up the cries on Sabbath mornin' ] ' 
 
 There was no answer but the trickling tears 
 on both cheeks, and the hands lay inert. 
 
 ' Eh, my lassie,* pursued Bob, quite touched 
 by this melting softness ; and, feeling he had 
 won her at last, he rose and stepped over, and 
 laid his hand about her neck with a gentle hug. 
 ' Eh, my lass, will that dae ? ' 
 
 Roused by the touch, she rose up, and looked 
 at him in hazy surprise. 
 
 'What is't? What did ye say?' she said 
 absently. 
 
 'I wis speirin' if that'll dae?' he repeated, 
 with an insinuating smile. 
 
 'Dae? Oh ay — yes — 'deed, ay — it'll dae.' 
 
 She held her hand up to the back of her head 
 and smiled at him. 
 
 ' My head's a kind o' sooniin' ; I dinna just 
 ken what I'm sayin' or doin'. I think I'll gang 
 up to my bed.' 
 
 * But wha'll mind the shop ? ' exclaimed Bob 
 
ii6 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 in alarm. He enjoyed attending to his own 
 business, but he felt his dignity would be 
 seriously compromised by api)earing behind 
 Xannie Lyn's counter. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn's appearance solved the problem, 
 however. 
 
 'AVliaur are ye gaun, lassie?' she asked, 
 scanning Euphie's dazed and bewildered coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Euphie passed her mutely, and with her right 
 hand still closed went mechanically up-stairs. 
 
 ' Let her alane,' said Bob. ' It's a' vicht. lier 
 head's sair, but she says I can put in the cries 
 for Sabbath.' 
 
 ' No ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Lyn, her face brighten- 
 ing with inward gladness ; ' no' possible ! ' 
 
 ' Ay. I speired if Sabbath would dae, an' she 
 said yes. She grat when I tell't her hoo near I 
 was drooned. Ay, puir thing, she grat.' 
 
 *Me, she's been behavin' awfu' queer this 
 while; but there, ye never can tell what a 
 lassie '11 dae. But, "^'ob, ye'll keep your word an' 
 mak' me liferented in this hoose noo when it's 
 a' settled ? I'm sure mony a sweet pound-note 
 I've paid your faither ; an' I can tell ye it's no' ilka 
 ane could get the like o' Euphie Lyn for a wife.' 
 
 'Oh, I'll liferent ye o' the hoose,' said Bqb 
 cheerfully. 
 
 'Ay, but I maun hae't in black and white 
 afore the waddin'-day, ye ken. Faigs ! ance ye 
 hae her hard an' fast, I micht whussle on my 
 thoom.' 
 
 * Aweel, say Saturday next — the day after the 
 morn. I can go to Anst'er an' get the deed o' 
 liferent made oot.' / 
 
A Revelation. 1 1 7 
 
 While this paction was liein^' made dovvn-stairs, 
 Euphie stood holding her hand to her head and 
 staring at herself with a puzzled expression in 
 the looking-glass. She put up the other hand 
 to her temples, and as she opened her palm, a bit 
 of paper fluttered to the floor. 
 
 * Ah, that's it ! Oh, I conldna think what it 
 was ! ' she exclaimed, with infinite relief ; and 
 she picked up the paper and spread it out before 
 her, and sat down, looking at it gloatingly. ' I 
 couldna mind — oh, I couldna mind — what made 
 me greet ; but it's this. Andrae, Andrae^ my 
 love ! Oh, my love ! ' 
 
 She pressed her hands together and wrung 
 them silently, as she greedily perused the words, 
 gentle and manly and true as the writer him- 
 self — a very different missive indeed from that 
 she had read in the moor only a few hours ago. 
 
 When she had returned with the dried clothes 
 she found Mrs. Lyn prepared to go to Pittenweem, 
 and, since her desire was to be back before dark, 
 she was naturally annoyed at being kept so long. 
 
 ' Ye micht hae wushen' a hale washin' an 
 pu/en't cot the time ye've been bringin' in 
 ^hae '^a-ree duds frae the whuns,' she scolded. 
 'x>v, e an' mind the shop when I'm awa'.* 
 
 Eup' 3 minded the shop mechanically, as if 
 something had died within her, and nothing 
 that could possibly happen could matter 'any 
 more. She made up the fire afresh and swept 
 up the hearth, moving about with slow and 
 heavy footsteps. Then she folded the clothes 
 ready for the mangle, and, all being done, she 
 came into the shop and sat down, with her two 
 elbows upon the counter and her face between 
 
1 1 8 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 her hands, thinking of the long, interminable 
 years of a human life. It seemed as if she 
 would have to live ages on ages before she would 
 at last, weary and alone, reach the ordinary 
 period for retiring for ever from a world that 
 had lost its charm. She was sitting thus when 
 a customer entered, making a considerable 
 purchase for the victualling of a boat's crew. In 
 payment she handed Euphie a five-pound note. 
 
 ' Have ye nae sma'er change ? ' asked Euphie, 
 looking into the cash drawer, 
 
 ' 2^0' me. I wouldna have come the noo, only 
 for the sake o' gettin' the note changed. Oor 
 auld ane wants half-a-sovereign, an' ye ken if I 
 was to gie Mm that five-pound note, it's no' ten 
 shillin's would sair him. Will your mither no' 
 hae ony change by her ? ' 
 
 ' She's awa' to Pittenweem,' said Euphie ; 
 ' but,' she added, after some hesitation, ' I micht 
 see if the key's in her pooch.' 
 
 Euphie fumbled in the pocket of the dress 
 which Mrs. Lyn had laid off, and found the key 
 of the chest up- stairs, and the little tin box 
 inside, where she kept her money. 
 
 * I've got the key,' she said. ' Just wait a 
 meenit, an' I'll rin up an' see.' 
 
 She had never done this before, but this was 
 a near neighbour and a good customer, whom she 
 wished to oblige. 
 
 The chest opened easily enough, and so did 
 the tin box, and taking out two pound-notes 
 from the pile, she ran down-stairs and settled 
 with the customer, who departed. 
 
 Then Euphie took the five-pound note up-stairs, 
 and, opening the little box, took out the remaining 
 
A Revelation. 119 
 
 notes to place it with them, when her eye fell 
 on a paper, lying at the bottom, with 'Yours 
 ever faithfully, Andrew Craig,' written on the 
 folded edge. Without hesitation she took it out 
 and deposited the notes, knelt beside the open 
 chest and read it, knowing as by instinct that 
 here was something concerning herself. There 
 was little in it, but that little — ah, how much ! 
 
 ' My dear Euphie, — We have been so long 
 friends that I cannot go away without first seeing 
 you and having a crack with you for auld lang- 
 syne. It's very hard for me to believe all I hear, 
 but if it is your will to prefer another man to 
 me I must just bear it. But I say, God bless 
 you wherever you go, or whatever you do. I 
 send you the book-mark which my dear little 
 lass gave me long ago — it will make you think 
 of bygone days, and of the laddie that loved you, 
 and loves you now, though you have taken up 
 with another. I hope you will consent to meet 
 me along the Pittenweem braes — just once before 
 I go. I will say nothing to you which a third 
 person might not hear. 
 
 ' If you don't wish to write, just send me back 
 the book-mark, and I will know to meet you to- 
 morrow night at seven, east of the mineral water, 
 for the last time, Euphie. If you don't return 
 it, and I get no letter from you, I will know 
 you don't want to speak to me again ; but for all 
 that, dear Euphie, may God bless and keep you 
 is the prayer of — Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 'Andrew Craig.' 
 
 So this — this was the meaning of the returned 
 
1 20 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 book-mark and the awful letter ! Mrs, lyn — that 
 wicked Nannie Lyn whom she had called mother 
 so long — had not scrupled to open her letter and 
 take this out, leaving only the book-mark. And 
 now he was away, away on the wide ocean, 
 thinking her false and unworthy — she who had 
 been so true ! — ah, would he ever know how 
 true ! She kissed the letter, and put it carefully 
 in her bosom, close to her skin, and, locking both 
 boxes, came down-stairs and put the keys back 
 into Mrs. Lyn's pocket. But her head seemed to 
 be in a strange whirl, and when a child came into 
 the shop and asked for sweeties she gave her tea. 
 
 She was so happy, and yet so wretched. She 
 took out the paper from her bosom, and read it 
 again and again, till she seemed to forget every- 
 thing — where she was, who she was, or what 
 she was doing sitting in that chair, holding the 
 letter fast in her right hand. A soothing semi- 
 unconsciousness stole over her, a sort of mental 
 coma, in which she heard a voice speaking dimly 
 of something she did not try to comprehend. 
 She felt half awakened by a touch, and heard 
 some one saying something, and she had answered 
 Yes, yes, or No, no — she could not remember 
 what, her head felt so queer — until now, now ! 
 she had awakened from the strange torpor, and 
 there was the letter — the dear, dear letter, and 
 he was away, thinking her false ! Wky had Mrs. 
 Lyn done this ? To compel her to marry Bob 
 Syme ? Ah, then ! To bed, to bed now, and 
 to-morrow, to-morrow, up and away from them 
 all for ever. Where ? Anywhere, to earn her 
 living honestly and in peace. 
 
 ' Losh bless me, lassie,' said Mrs. Lyn, coming 
 
A Revelation. 12 1 
 
 up-stairs some half-hour late.r, ' are ye no' conihi' 
 doon a wee ? Come doon an' I'll mak' ye a cup 
 0' tea, you an' Bob. C'wa', like a leddy. I'm 
 just as high as Gilderoy to think ye've made it 
 up at last atween ye.' 
 
 * I'm in bed for the nicht ; I'm no* comin' 
 doon,' answered Euphie quietly. 
 
 * Eh, but ye can be a dour limmer when ye 
 like ! Ye micht be ceevil to the chap noo when 
 ye've gi'en him your consent.' 
 
 Euphie fell to wondering what the woman 
 could mean. She consent ! She make it up 
 with — that thing I They must be mad — and, 
 what was worse, she knew Mrs. Lyn was wicked. 
 To-morrow she would be away from them all 
 with the letter safe in her bosom. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BY THE EDGE OP THE CLIFF. 
 
 jf^[ RS. LYN could not understand the quiet, 
 settled look on Euphie's face next 
 morning. It irritated and troubled 
 her. Conscience, though overridden by the 
 ruling passion of greed, contrived occasionally to 
 make her uncomfortable, and she was uncomfort- 
 able now. From her earliest remembrance the 
 care of the pennies had been instilled into this 
 woman as the one grand lesson of life — to use 
 them sparingly, to give still more sparingly, and 
 above all things, to learn to 'lay by.' She had 
 profited by her training, for she not only laid 
 money by, but she kept it laid by ; and the 
 thousand pounds which she had received with 
 the infant Euphie was ' laid by ' in the bank to 
 this good day. Conscience had said, 'Educate 
 the child as her parent would have educated her ; ' 
 but Greed argued, ' Where was the use 1 She 
 would never need it — and — the parents were 
 dead ; and if she broke on that money there 
 would be no more coming to make it up. She 
 would use the interest — that is, part of it — only.' 
 Again and again conscience had protested ; and 
 when Jack Lyn was drowned, it once more put 
 
 122 
 
By the Edge of the Cliff. 123 
 
 in a strong plea for the child. ' Take her away, 
 or send her away where she will get a chance in 
 life,' said the inner voice ; but Nannie, even in 
 tlie midst of her grief for her husband, kept her 
 eye steadfast on that unbroken tliousand pounds. 
 It had become a sort of idol to her, a sacred thing, 
 the preservance of which grew to be a duty. It 
 was the consciousness of its possession which en- 
 abled her to lift her head above her neighbours, to 
 view herself with self-satisfied complacency, to de- 
 liver worldly-wise axioms with the air of an oracle. 
 
 With a low order of intellect, and a great deal 
 of animal shrewdness, it was to her what 
 principle, heroism, talent, is to the possessors of 
 such ; the consciousness of its possession lent 
 sapience to her speech, decision to her actions, 
 and serenity to her rather imperious countenance. 
 
 For a long time back that serenity had been 
 seriously disturbed ; for if Euphie married a 
 young fisherman — Andrew Craig, for instance — 
 and he, like Jack Lyn, were to be drowned, 
 what about the deposit then ? Lett a widow, 
 with helpless children, perhaps ! — what about 
 the thousand pounds then ? It was a risk that 
 must be avoided by fair means or foul; for, 
 whatever came of Euphie, that thousand pounds 
 must remain intact ; Mrs. Lyn's very life was 
 bound up in the preservation of it now. Her 
 plans for Euphie's worldly welfare had succeeded 
 so far ; their perfect success last night surprised 
 even herself. The disagreeable, disturbing con- 
 sciousness that she was doinr; wrong only stimu- 
 lated her perverse nature thj more to completely 
 accomplish her end. 
 
 Look, see, there's three pound,' she said, 
 
1 24 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 counting the money out upon the table at break- 
 fast ; ' ye'll gang awa' alang to Anst'er an' pay 
 that accoont for me. I was gaun last nicht, but 
 wi' you bidin' sae lang up amon' the whuns I 
 could only gang the length o' Pittenweem. 
 Come hame by the low road, and I'll set Bob 
 alang to meet ye i' the gloamin'.' 
 
 Euphie took the money without a word, and 
 placing it in the corner of her handkerchief, tied 
 it in a secure knot and put it in her pocket. 
 
 * Ye ken whaur to gang wi't % ' queried Mrs. 
 Lyn, resenting this still, lifeless behaviour. 
 
 *Yes, I ken,' said Euphie, and, rising, went 
 up-stairs. 
 
 * Eh, noo, isn't she a dour limmer % ' muttered 
 Mrs. Lyn to herself, beginning to feel more and 
 more uncomfortable. She always had gone and 
 paid her accounts herself, and this morning had 
 only given Euphie this commission in order, 
 first, to get her out of her sight with that pro- 
 voking calm face of hers ; and second, to give 
 Bob the opportunity to do a little love-making 
 in the home-coming. Notwithstanding all this, 
 an indefinable misgiving had begun to disturb 
 her — and oh, that this marriage were only well 
 over ! She would never take in hand to bring 
 up another child — not she ! — unless, indeed, it 
 brought another thousand pounds, as Euphie had 
 done. Ah yes, a bit money laid by was a fine 
 thing — ay, a fine thing. The thought of it was 
 as balm to her uneasy mind ; and conscience, most 
 unusually restive this morning, was once more laid. 
 
 When the work of the forenoon was all done 
 up, and the dinner over, Euphie came down 
 dressed for the road. 
 
By the Edge of the Cliff. 125 
 
 * Noo, ye'll be sure an' come by the low road, 
 for Bob's comin' that way to meet ye.' 
 
 Euphie made no reply, except to lift her eyes 
 to Mrs. Lyn's with a steady, regretful gaze. The 
 tears rose and filled them as she looked, and this 
 was all that was wanting to complete Mrs. Lyn's 
 exasperation. 
 
 ' What the mischief are ye greetin' at % ' she 
 broke out, as she followed her down the passage 
 to the door. ' My faigs ! ye'll get raair to greet 
 for yet, ye thrawn limmer. 'Deed, I pity the 
 man that gets ye. A dorty, discontented jaud ! 
 Peengin' an' grainin' for God knows what ! ' 
 
 Euphie turned on the doorstep, as if hesitating 
 to go. 
 
 * An' him wi' a' that property an' ' — she re- 
 sumed ; but Euphie wheeled round, and went out 
 along the street and turned the corner, Mrs. Lyn 
 watching her with an uneasy feeling of appre- 
 hension. Then she came in and sat down on a 
 stool in the shop, and with her hands clasped in 
 her lap, sat calculating mentally for a long time. 
 
 'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' she said aloud, as 
 if in answer to some inward expostulation. * I'll 
 tak' a hale year's interest, an' buy her a providin' 
 the like was never seen in this toon. Surely 
 that'll dae ! ' 
 
 Once again conscience was mollified. This 
 would not make up for a broken heart, but it 
 was a concession. Besides, Nannie reflected, it 
 would be well repaid in the saving of rent, when 
 Bob had liferented herself in the house. 
 
 She felt considerably more at ease as she rose 
 and shook down her apron preparatory to serving 
 a customer. 
 
126 Enphie Lyn. 
 
 Euphie had turned towards the house of 
 Thomas Mathers before she went on her way. 
 
 * My faither's no' in ; he's aff at the sea,' said 
 a little urchin at the door. 
 
 ' Well, tell your faither — be siire an' tell him 
 — that I came up to see him, will ye % ' 
 
 The urchin assented, and Euphie gave him a 
 penny, and, with a slight sob, walked away. 
 
 The sun was setting and the tide was low when 
 Bob Syme dropped in on his way to meet Euphie, 
 according to the hints received from Mrs. Lyn. 
 
 'I had ill gettin' oot the nicht,' he said. 
 ' There's a meetin' o' the Toon Cooncil, ye ken, 
 an' the elections are comin' on, an' I'm expeckin' 
 we'll be gey an thrang farther on i' the nicht.' 
 
 * Oo, weel, ye can come hamc the faster,' re- 
 sponded Mrs. Lyn pompously. ' It's lichtsome 
 to see ye thrivin' sae weel, Bob, my man. 
 Speak, — no' mony brides '11 hae the providin' 
 Euphie Lyn '11 hae. I've been an eident, carefu', 
 weel-dain' woman a' my days, an' Euphie '11 ken 
 the gude o't noo.' 
 
 'Ay,' said Bob, 'but ye needna povereese 
 yersel', ye ken. I'll hae plenty.' 
 
 ' Ay ; but, ye ken, a mither's heart, laddie — 
 a mither's heart ! What'll a mither no' dae for 
 her bairn ? ' And Mrs. Lyn pursed her mouth, 
 and raised her eyebrows, and drew in her breath 
 imprepsively, as she added, ' Ay, 'deed, ay.' 
 
 'A weel, I'm aff,' cried Bob gaily; and off 
 he set to meet Euphie. The sunset rays were 
 slanting low above the braes as Bob walked 
 gaily along on the green bank below — the bank 
 washed into curves, and scooped irregularly off 
 all along the edges by the sea. He was in high 
 
By the Edge of the Cliff. 127 
 
 spirits, for of all the many girls he had fancied 
 and made love to, there was none he had liked 
 so well as Eiiphie Lyn. He was quite in the 
 humour to settle down and become staid and re- 
 spectable now, for those last two love-affairs of 
 his had turned out rather troublesome — in fact, 
 one had cost him quite a sum of money to get 
 it hushed up and the father's anger appeased ; 
 as for the other, that wild, high-spirited girl, 
 whom he had so solemnly sworn to marry — some 
 time — he hoped she wouldn't turn up now before 
 he was safely married, after which he could snap 
 his fingers at her, seeing she had no letters to 
 prove any promise of marriage. But Euphie — 
 Euphie was the one for him now — she and no 
 other ; for she was as good as she was bonnie, 
 and he had never dared to be other than re- 
 spectful in her presence. Why, here he was 
 engaged to be married to her, and he had never 
 once summoned up courage to kiss her ! It 
 seemed so impossible, even to him who was such 
 an old Irnnd at sweethearting. 
 
 He had reached a great deep chasm under the 
 brae, which the sea had hollowed out between 
 two rocks, slanting up from the sands some 
 hundred feet below. He looked down with 
 something of a shudder, as he remembered an old 
 story of a man who had been thrown over there 
 by some enemy one dark night, and his poor 
 mangled body found stiff next day. He was so 
 engrossed by his calculations as to where he 
 would fall, how he would fall, — down headlong 
 to instant death, or tumbling somersaults and 
 alighting on the jagged rocks to the left, — that 
 he did not observe a slight form descending from 
 
128 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 the other side of the brae above, nor hear the 
 soft footfall on the grass behind him. He 
 started, and shrank instinctively back from the 
 brink as a small hand was laid upon his arm, 
 and a voice said quietly — " 
 
 ' So you did come to meet me ! ' 
 • » • • • • 
 
 It wore on to eight o'clock, and to nine o'clock, 
 and Mrs. Lyn stood on the doorstep in the light 
 of the moon, uncertain whether to be angry or 
 well-pleased at the way Euphie was staying. Of 
 course she was with Bob, and the longer she was 
 in his company the better ; indeed, it was quite 
 a relief to think she was taking to him after all, 
 and moonlight strolls, no doubt, were quite in 
 order now, but — she wished she was home. 
 The uneasy misgiving of the morning began to 
 grow into an undefined dread ; she could not 
 stay in the house, where the lamp was lit and a 
 cheerful fire burning. When customers came in 
 she served them, and followed them to the door 
 and stood there, shivering with the chilly night 
 air. She had at last turned to go in, determined 
 to compose herself and be sensible, when she saw 
 a crowd of men coming down the street, en- 
 closing a smaller group, who carried something 
 heavy in their arms. 
 
 'What is't?' she cried, seizing by the arm 
 one of the crowd as he passed the door. 
 
 ' It's Bob Syme, they say. They got him 
 lyin' doon at the boddom o' yon great hole atween 
 the rocks, alang the Pittenweem Road.' 
 
 Mrs. Lyn's hand dropped from the man's arm 
 as if paralysed. 
 
 * An' whaur's Euphie % ' she gasped. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 'TjOHREE days had passed, but the injured 
 y^ man liad not yet opened his lips to answer 
 ^^^^^ that question. For twelve hours he had 
 lain unconscious, and Avhen at last he came back 
 to the world of the living, the doctor had strictly 
 ordered that no questions should be asked his 
 patient until he had still further recovered, 
 especially now that recovery was but a question 
 of time and judicious care. All sorts of rumours 
 were afloat ; for Nannie Lyn, in her first dread, 
 had outspokenly told how Bob had gone to meet 
 Euphie. But where was Euphie ? That was the 
 first question ; the second followed naturally — 
 Why had she disappeared simultaneously with this 
 accident] The whole town talked of nothing 
 else. Andrew Craig's mother shook her head 
 and said, ' Least said, soonest mended,' but she 
 was glad now her son had sailed at the time he 
 did. Had it not been for the disappearance 
 of Euphie, it might have been considered an 
 accidental fall ; but now it transpired that a boy 
 coming home along the braes just before the 
 darkening saw a man and a woman standing 
 close by the clifF, and evidently quarrelling ; for 
 
1 30 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 he could hear tlie sound of tlieir angry voices in 
 the quietness, even where he stood a long way 
 ofif. He had turned to look, thinking they were 
 two drunk gangrels maybe, when the woman 
 suddenly pushed the man over the Irnae. He 
 was afraid, and ran home, and told his mother 
 what he had seen, and thus had the whole affair 
 been discovered. Then gradually it also leaked 
 out that Nannie Lyn had been forcing Euphie to 
 this marriage against her will. Thomas Mathers 
 had let out this much in his first horror at 
 hearing the news ; and now Nannie came in for 
 universal reprobation, marriage in old Inweerie 
 being looked upon as a sacred and solemn thing, 
 to be contracted only where there was mutual 
 love. Still, it was an awful thing for any one 
 to do, and the strangest thing of all was that 
 when Bob came to be declared convalescent he 
 would not open his lips on the subject. 
 
 'It was naebody's business but his ain,' he 
 snapped, even to the inquiries of the doctor; 
 and, strange to say, he manifested the most 
 intense and incomprehensible astonishment when 
 he heard that Euphie Lyn had never be 3n seen 
 or heard of since. He knitted his brows and 
 seemed lost in thought whenever the subject was 
 mentioned ; but he said nothing, not even to his 
 most intimate friends. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn had come down that night after the 
 men had carried him in, but she had never come 
 back. 
 
 She had not even made inquiries, which 
 deepened the mystery to outsiders; but this, 
 like many more mysteries, was clear enough to 
 the chief party concerned. 
 
Nemesis. 1 3 1 
 
 For Mrs. Lyn, after finding that nothing coukl 
 be got out of Boh in his present unconscious 
 state, had come homo, locked up the shop, and 
 run up-stairs for a warm shawl, determined to 
 go along the road and see if Euphie was not 
 coming on belated, or to find if perchance she 
 too had not fallen over the cliff. In nervous 
 haste she laid the candlestick upon the table, 
 but in doing so saw that Euphie had left the 
 handkerchief with the money still knotted in 
 it upon the mirror-stand. She snatched it up 
 angrily. There was a folded paper addressed to 
 Mrs. Lyn under it, and this she sat down and 
 opened with shaking fingers. 
 
 'I cannot call you mother any longer, and 
 I cannot stay here any longer. A woman came 
 in and wanted change, and I took your keys and 
 went up-stairs to get the change, and in the tin 
 box I got Andrew Craig's letter, and I did not 
 think it was stealing to take what belonged to 
 me. I am going away, never to come back. If 
 you had been my mother it would be a sin in me 
 to leave you, but I have found out that you are 
 not my mother, and that accounts for your hard- 
 ness and your cruel conduct to me. You have 
 no love for me, and don't care how I suffer, so 
 long as you can only get your own way. You 
 have broken my heart ; but I wish you well, and 
 I hope your conscience will let you sleep for the 
 Avay you have treated Andrew Craig and me. 
 I have not taken a penny of your money, although 
 I could have done it with a good conscience. I 
 have the money I made at the herring this 
 Lammas, that's all. Good-bye. T will try to 
 
132 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 think as kindly about you as I can, and God 
 will keep me. , Euphie Lyn.' 
 
 Now, when Mrs. Lyn read this letter, the 
 first thing she did was to run down-stairs in a 
 demented sort of way and lock the front-door on 
 the inside, bolt the back-door, and then crawl 
 up-stairs again, moaning — 
 
 ' Oh dear— a— dear ! What's this o't?— what's 
 thiso'tr 
 
 Nemesis, swift and sure-footed, was upon her ; 
 she was found out ! Not only in that low and 
 despicable trick played on Euphie and Andrew 
 Craig, with the deliberate purpose of extinguish- 
 ing the love between the two, but also in the 
 matter of Euphie's parentage ! ^ 
 
 She sat down on the chair and read the letter 
 over again, and then she took the candle and 
 ran into the next room, and unlocked the chest 
 and took out the tin box. Sure enough, the note 
 she had so dexterously abstracted from Andrew 
 Craig's letter, and hidden here under her money, 
 was gone ! But who — who — who could have 
 told Euphie about herself and the money ? Oh, 
 the money ! — with the interest alone used up 
 to this day — while the girl went with only the 
 clothes she herself had earned in doing the 
 housework. Who in all the wide world knew 
 of ihat but herself, now that Jack Lyn was 
 dead? Could he have mentioned it when in 
 his cups to any one % or could it be possible 
 she herself had talked in her sleep, and so 
 have let the cat out of the pock in that 
 way ? It was all a mystery^as great a mystery 
 as this finding of Bob Syme ! Could Euphie 
 
Nemesis. 133 
 
 have really met him, and, resenting his love- 
 making, have pushed him over ? She wouldn't 
 wonder ; for she could be dour when she liked, 
 just like her father the captain ! Xannie Lyn 
 paced up and down, and but and ben, wringing 
 her hanas and bemoaning herself; for now a 
 great dread had taken hold of her — what if 
 Euphie knew more than she herself did ? What 
 if she should yet send some one to demand an 
 account of her stewardship? She shook as if 
 with ague at the thought. W hat ! her thousand 
 pounds — that thousand pounds she had preserved 
 so carefully, not breaking upon it even for a 
 dress for the child, making one out of her own 
 old ones, rather ! What was to be done ? What 
 could be done ? 
 
 It was a very white and haggard face that 
 Nannie Lyn presented next morning when a rap 
 came to the door. 
 
 * I haena been in my bed a' nicht,' she ex- 
 plained, ' an' I'll no' open the shop the day. I'm 
 gaun awa' to see if I can get ony word o' 
 Euphie.' 
 
 * Me ! whaur could the lassie gang to ? ' ex- 
 claimed the sympathetic neighbour. 
 
 ' Gude kens ! Young folk nooadays are no' 
 as they were wont to be. They've nae nateral 
 - affection.' 
 
 It Was considered very right and proper for 
 Nannie Lyn to go in search of her daughter, but 
 people began to wonder when she did not return 
 within the fortnight. When she did arrive, the 
 astounding news circulated through the town 
 that she had only come back to pack up her 
 goods and household furniture, having no desire 
 
134 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 to stay longer in a town in which she had met 
 with such sorrow. Of Euphie she had heard 
 nothing, and when asked where she was going, 
 she had answered — 
 
 * To the North country, where I was hrought 
 up.' • 
 
 And to the North country, that wide and un- 
 defined place, went Mrs. Lyn accordingly ; for, 
 after having drawn her deposit out of the bank 
 in Edinburgh, she had spent the remainder of the 
 fortnight in looking about for a secluded ham- 
 let where no one who knew her in old Inweerie 
 was likely to find her out. In the dark of the 
 morning she went, for who could tell what might 
 happen next ? 
 
 ' An awfu' onearthly 'oor o' the mornin' that 
 to leave the toon,' remarked Saunders, as he 
 paced the pier-end with two or three others that 
 afternoon. ' Whaur's she awa' till ? ' 
 
 * The North country, I believe,' answered 
 Jamie Scott. 
 
 ' The North kin try ! Micht as weel say the 
 North Pole. If that lassie Euphie comes back 
 to the toon to speir aboot her mither, wha's gaun 
 to send her to the North kintry? The North 
 kintry's as big as Rooshy, an' as mony toons 
 in't.' 
 
 ' She cam' frae there- awa',' said Jamie, by way 
 of explanation, ' an' Euphie '11 readily ken a' 
 aboot her mither's folk an' whaur they bide.' 
 
 * She ga'e Bob his kail through the reek afore 
 she gaed, onyway,' laughed Saunders. 
 
 ' What d'ye mean, Saunders 1 ' asked Thomas 
 Mathers, pausing in his walk to look at the old 
 salt. 
 
Nemesis^ 135 
 
 ' Od, when she launde<| him ower the rock. 
 By faigs ! he got a bonnie smack.' 
 
 * An' d'ye railly think, Saunders, it was 
 Euphie Lyn did that ? ' queried Thomas, in 
 amazement. ' I aye ga'e ye credit for some sma' 
 judgment, but I'm beginnin' to doobt it noo.' 
 
 * Na, it was never Euphie Lyn,' said Jamie 
 Scott, with conviction. • 
 
 Saunders, from under his sou'-wester, looked 
 from Thomas to Jamie, and from Jamie to 
 Thomas, as if bewildered. 
 
 'But, gude-gosh, did that laddie no* say he 
 saw a woman shove him ower ? ' 
 
 * Ay, a woman ; but there's mair women in 
 the world than ane, Saunders, my man ; an' Bob, 
 I'm expeckin', had mair sweethearts than ane.' 
 
 ' Ay, 'deed, ay, Tammas — mair than ane or 
 twa either,' echoed Jamie Scott. 
 
 Saunders clapped his hand to his ear as though 
 struck by a marline-spike. 
 
 * I maun be growin' auld,' he muttered ; * the 
 like o' that never strack pie. Losh, min, I'm 
 glad ; for, ye ken, I aye a kind 0' likit yon bit 
 lassie.' . - « 
 
 * But I can tell ye something better than that, 
 Saunders,' said Thomas, tilting back his cap off 
 his forehead. * D'y<^ mind o' Tam Gowans 1 
 Little Tara, that ran awa' frae the schule a gude 
 wheen years syne ? ' 
 
 'Little Tam? Ay, fine that,' answered Saunders. 
 
 The whole of the men pacing on the pier 
 suddenly stopped, and gathered around to hear 
 the news. Tam ! didn't they all remember Tam 
 — and his breeks ! 
 
 ' Aweel, I was up at tiie manse this mornin', 
 
136 Eitphie Lyn. 
 
 an' the minister was lettin' me see a letter a' the 
 way frae Gibraltar. A letter frae Tarn.' 
 
 ♦FraeTam?' 
 
 'Frae Gibraltar r 
 
 * Tam Gowans ?' 
 
 ' Ay. An' he's sent this letter to the minister 
 speirin' aboot his mither, an' nae less than a 
 cheque for a hunder pound in't.' 
 
 ' Hech, heeh, min ! ' 
 
 'As true's I'm stannin' here. He's comin' 
 doon this afternune wi' the letter an' the siller.' 
 
 * Geordie Gowans an' his wife '11 be twa croose 
 folk the nicht, then. There's the minister noo.' 
 
 The fishermen looked up into the town and 
 saw the white-haired minister wending his way 
 by the aid of his staff towards Mrs. Gowans' 
 house. 
 
 ' But I haena tell't ye the best o't yet,' 
 resumed Thomas, with a sly smile at Saunders, 
 who seemed quite stupefied with the news. 
 ' Tam Gowans is now a lieutenant abuird the 
 Bellerophon. It seems he somehoo saved the 
 admiral's life at the risk o' his ain, an' got this 
 promotion. So he's noo Lieutenant Gowans of 
 the Bellei'ophon.^ 
 
 ' Hooray for Tam ! ' cried Jamie Scott, with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Slanders, overcome, sat down upon a pile of 
 boards, and with his palms upon his knees and 
 his elbows bent outwards, exclaimed softly, 
 * Hech, hech, min ! the Bella-ruffian ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 * OOR TAM ! ' 
 
 RS. GOWANS, in a tidy duffle petticoat, 
 shortgown, clean linen apron, and 
 white cap, three-frilled, was standing 
 in the floor mending a net when the minister 
 entered. 
 
 ' Eh, mercy, sir ! there's naebody dead belang- 
 in' to me, is there 1 ' she cried, her ruddy colour 
 paling somewhat. 
 
 ' Not at all, not at all,' said the minister, 
 with a reassuring smile. ' Surely your pastor 
 may call on you at times without being the 
 bearer of evil tidings 1 ' 
 
 ' Ay, that's true ; 'deed, ay. C'wa inower. 
 Me, I just think shame o' the hoose bein' in 
 siccan a mess, but ye ken the nets maun be 
 mended an' the wark dune.' 
 
 The minister sat down in the arm-chair and 
 looked around pleasantly. 
 
 * Well, I think your house is a perfect marvel 
 of order and cleanliness, Mrs. Gowans ; I wish 
 they were all like yours. As for the nets, I 
 must say I like to see you working at them.' 
 
 'Aweel, sir,' said Mrs. Gowans, flattered by 
 the minister's praise, which was deserved, 
 
 137 
 
138 ' Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ' tradesfolk, ye see, can hae their hooses a' the 
 time like a bendbox ; but the fisher-wark, again, 
 it's half in an' half oot the hoose, an' the women 
 have to work as hard's the men. But strangers 
 comin' aboot, an' kennin' naething o' oor ways, 
 dinna tak' that into consideration.' 
 
 ' That is quite true, Mrs. Gowans, quite true.' 
 
 * Me, sir,' she continued, encouraged by this 
 sympathy, and waxing eloquent, 'when I see 
 some o' thae dressed-up gentry creatur's gaun 
 through the toon, an' glowerin' at decent fisher 
 folk as they would glower at heathens or teegers 
 or ony kind o' wild beas', it just gars my bluid 
 boul. A curn ignorant swine ! I would like to 
 see ony o' them get up i' the mornin' an' tramp 
 aicht mile to Largo sands, an' howk bait, an' 
 back again as hard's ye can pelt, an' the bairns 
 left i' the bed to fend ony way they like till ye 
 come back. Ay, an' then swallow a bite an' a 
 cup o' tea, an' doon to bait five hunder huicks 
 afore ye can lay a finger on the hoose ; for, ye 
 ken, the line maun be baitit, come o' the hoose 
 'at likes. The lines an' the net's the bread, ye 
 ken, an' hard-won bread it is.' 
 
 ' Indeed it is, Mrs. Gowans,' said the patient 
 minister, acknowledging the justice of her 
 remarks. ' But, at the same time, the Lord is 
 good, and I am sure you do not forget to be 
 grateful to Him for the gifts of health and 
 strength with which you are endowed. I am 
 sure you think of God in the midst of your 
 arduous toil many a time. Do you not % ' 
 
 Mrs. Gowans took up a net-needle, and began 
 to fill it rapidly with twine. 
 
 ' Oo ay,' she said, elevating her eyebrows. 
 
* Oor Tarn / ' 139 
 
 * But, ye ken, folk canna be aye de-wellin' on 
 thae things. Folk that mak' their livin* that 
 way are different ; it's expeckit 0' them. But 
 we're no' heathens for a' that ; maybe we think 
 a hantle mair than we say. An' the Almichty 
 'at sees the heart needs naebody to explain to 
 Him hoo things is wi's a'.' 
 
 The minister looked into the fire, feeling very 
 tender over this shrewd, strong-willed woman. 
 He had taken a religious tack, intending to wear 
 round and bear down gradually upon the sore 
 subject of her missing son, but he found this 
 would not do. 
 
 He tacked again. 
 
 ' I suppose you feel lonely sometimes, George 
 and you, now that your family are married and 
 in homes of their own % ' 
 
 * Ay, 'deed, ay, very lonely,' she said, with a 
 heavy sigh ; ' but, ye ken, the young maun gang 
 their ain gate, as the auld did afore them.' 
 
 ' I should think you would feel the quiet in 
 the evenings as you sat alone?' pursued the 
 experienced man of silver hairs. 
 
 *Ay, mony a time. Nae farther gane than 
 last Sabbath nicht we were sittiu' here oor lane 
 the twa o's, wi' oor taes on the fender there, an' 
 it was cauld and coorse ootside, an' naebody cam' 
 in. An' I sat thinkin', an' he sat thinkin', — baith 
 o's glowerin' i' the fire, an' no' a soond but the 
 nock tickin'. Weel, when it was wearing late, 
 he looks up to me, and he says, says he — 
 
 ' " Eppie, would ye like to see a Frenchman ? " 
 
 ' " An' that I would, Geordie," says I. - 
 
 ' " A weel, Eppie," says he, " so would I. I 
 would gie something for the sicht o' a human 
 
140 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 face the noo — even though it was a French- 
 man's."' 
 
 ' Oh, but I hope you may yet live to see a 
 more welcome face than a Frenchman's,' said the 
 minister cheerfully, as he fumbled in his coat 
 pocket, and drew out a pair of gold spectacles from 
 their case and set them astride his nose, smiling 
 to himself at this lingering echo of Waterloo. 
 
 * I received a letter to-day which I thought 
 would interest you, so I thought I would come 
 down to read it to you ; ' and he drew from his 
 inside pocket a large blue envelope, and pawkily 
 began to clear his throat. But he got no further. 
 He could not dissemble before Mrs. Gowans' 
 shrewd eyes ; she looked at the letter, and then 
 at the old face beaming above it, and, with a 
 loud, wild shriek — 
 
 ' It's Tam — my Tam ! ' she fell across the nets. 
 
 Yes, the big, strong, hearty woman, who had 
 never quailed or given way all the years she had 
 gone about with the fox of regret gnawing at 
 her heart, but bravely concealed, now fainted for 
 very joy. When she recovered, the house was 
 filled with the neighbours, and the old minister 
 was wiping his spectacles. The neighbours 
 chaffed good-naturedly, and rallied her upon her 
 braw son, now a lieutenant in Her Majesty's 
 ship, no less. And a hundred pounds, too ! 
 My certie ! 
 
 But the passionate, self-willed woman would 
 listen to nothing about money, or promotion, or 
 honourable titles at such a moment ; there was 
 but one idea in her head, in her heart, on her 
 lips, as she rocked herself back and forth where 
 she sat. 
 
' Oor Tain!' 141 
 
 ' Tam, Tarn ! my little Tam ! Haud a' your 
 tongues, an' speak aboot naething but Tam ! ' 
 
 While the neighbours sat recalling what they 
 could remember of the childish exploits of 
 Lieutenant Gowans, another and very different 
 scene was being enacted in the house of the 
 convalescent Syme. There was not much doing 
 at this time of the day ; most of the boats were 
 at sea, and the fishermen on shore were busy 
 attending to their sea-gear. The old aunt who 
 kept house for Bob had seized the opportunity 
 to take a trip to Elie, leaving the house in apple- 
 pie order, with nothing for the convalescent to 
 do but pour out a dram and hold out his palm 
 for the price of it, to whoever might come in to 
 slake their thirst. 
 
 The excitement connected with the cliff affair 
 had simmered down, leaving the public each 
 with his or her own private opinion on the 
 subject of Bob's silence thereanent. 
 
 Bob was sitting quietly smoking by the fire 
 v.'hen a spruce young woman, sharp of eye and 
 visage, but clear-complexioned and rather good- 
 looking, suddenly stood before him and uttered 
 the one word — 
 
 * Well ! ' 
 
 Bob started from his chair with a muttered 
 curse, and looked towards the door; but the 
 young woman instantly shut it, turned the key 
 in the lock, and stood with her back against it. 
 
 ' Are you going to fulfil your promise to me 
 or not % ' she demanded, with steady eyes. 
 
 ' Hang the promise ! Nae thanks to you if 
 I'm no' a dead man the day,' was the sullen reply, 
 
 ' You may be a dead man yet before the day 
 
142 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 is out,' saiil the woman. 'It all depends on 
 whether you keep your promise.' 
 
 'Tak' care I dinna lay your feet fast,' he 
 muttered defiantly. 
 
 The woman laughed an ugly laugh 
 
 ' You lay my feet fast ! Are ye not convinced 
 yet that I am in earnest when I tell ye that 
 it's either marriage or death % Do you think I'll 
 live to be disgraced by a — a — thing like you ? 
 You promised when I should return your letters 
 you would marry me at once. I did so, like a 
 fool, and what did I get for it ? Nothing but 
 jeers and gibes, till my very reason left me, and 
 you know what came of that. This is your last 
 chance now, though ; either marry me this week, 
 or I die in such a way as will throw the blame 
 on you, and make you swing for it. There, 
 take your choice. It's a desperate woman ye've 
 to deal with, remember.' 
 
 There was resolution and firmness in every 
 feature of the woman's face — in her eyes that 
 gleamed like steel, in the tones of her voice, 
 clear, distinct, and determined. They carried 
 conviction to Bob for once ; the girl whom he 
 had pursued and flattered, and professed to love 
 and promised to marry, had suddenly developed 
 into a sharp-faced woman, made desperate by 
 threatened ruin, and determined that he should 
 share it, if ruin it must be. 
 
 Bob knocked the ashes out of his pipe medi- 
 tatively, and he became paler even than his ill- 
 ness had left him. 
 
 * I'm sure ye see I'm no' a fit man to marry 
 onybody the noo, Lizzie,' he said in a con- 
 ciliatory _^tone. 
 
' Oor Tarn !' 143 
 
 *Whyr 
 
 ' D'ye no' see I'm far frae weel yet ? I ' — 
 
 The woman stopped him with a gesture of 
 impatient scorn. 
 
 * Fudge ! The minister can come to the 
 house, and you are able enough to say " Yes." 
 That's all that's wanted. I don't care if I never 
 saw your face again, but you shall marry me 
 this week, or — Take your choice.' 
 
 ' An' haud a' the toon lauchin' at me for bein* 
 forced to marry a woman I didna want ? ' whined 
 ]iob. 
 
 'You'll be where you'll not hear what folks 
 say if you refuse. Who is going to tell that, 
 unless it be yourself? Do you thinlv / am going 
 to betray myself any more than you 1 Do you 
 think I want folk to know that I had to come 
 here and ask you to do me justice ? Anyhow, I 
 am your wife already by the old Scotch law, for 
 I have a letter of yours where you signed your- 
 self " husband " to me. I didn't return that one, 
 by good luck.' 
 
 Bob fidgeted in his chair, and some muttered 
 profanity escaped him. 
 
 ' You needn't swear, Bob ; you may as well 
 give in first as last,' laughed the woman some- 
 what hysterically. The strain was beginning 
 to tell on her, she appeared ready to break down ; 
 but Bob was too much absorbed weighing all 
 the pros and cons of the question, as he stared 
 into the ashes, to notice this. Euphie was gone, 
 but then she might come back. But if she did, 
 would she so much as look at him, now that this 
 Lizzie had appeared, determined to expose him 
 if he did not do her justice by marrying her? 
 
144 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 He had been fond of Lizzie before he fancied 
 Euphie, but he had never dreamed but that she 
 would go her own way once she fully realised 
 that she had been cast off — never dreamed but 
 that she could be bought off as that other one 
 had been. He was cornexcd, and he could see 
 no way out of the corner but the one way she 
 had indicated. Moreover, he had a profound 
 conviction, from his recent experience of her, 
 that she would carry out her threat if he did 
 not proniise once more by way of appeasing her. 
 ' Aweel, Lizzie, I fancy what maun be, maun 
 be. I'll marry ye, an' mak' an honest woman o' 
 ye. That's what ye want, isn't it 1 ' 
 
 * Thank ye — it's you that'll make yourself an 
 honest man,' was the bitter retort. 
 
 ' Aweel, then, ye'll hae to gang back to Edin- 
 burgh, an' when a' thing's ready I'll let ye ken, 
 an' ye can come ower an' be marrit. Ye ken the 
 cries maun be cried three Sabbaths i' the kirk.' 
 
 ' ^o, thank ye. Mister Syme. I came here 
 on an errand of life or death, and here I stay 
 till my errand is done. Do you think I'm as 
 simple a fool as I was when I mistook you for 
 a man? No. The cries can be cried out on 
 Sunday, and we'll be married on Monday 
 morning. This is Friday — and here I stay in 
 your house until I'm Mrs. Syme by law as well 
 as by right.' 
 
 'Aweel, hae't a' your ain way the noo; but 
 ance you're my wife, under my thoom, you go, 
 madam,' said Bob, with impotent rage. 
 
 * Very well — we'll see,' said the woman, with 
 a quiet smile. She was about to add something, 
 when the door was shaken angrily. 
 
'OorTam!' 145 
 
 * Wha the deevil has loekit tliis door — an' a' 
 the rest o' the lioose left to the mercy o' the 
 world 1 * muttered a voice without ; and the 
 strange young woman opened the door from 
 within. 
 
 * Gudesake ! ' It was Bob's aunt returned 
 from Elie, and her astonishment at this woman 
 closeted in the bar with Bob was visible in her 
 face. 
 
 ' This is a bonny ongaun in a decent hoose,' 
 she began ; but the visitor smiled so graciously 
 upon her that she felt mollified. 
 
 * It did look queer ; but, ye see, I'm Bob's wife. 
 We were privately married a while ago, but the 
 proper wedding's to be on Monday, cried on 
 Sabbath.' 
 
 The old woman's jaw fell, and she lo*"^ e'^ "*■ 
 Bob wildly. 
 
 ' Is that railly true, Bob % ' 
 
 ' I fancy sae,' replied the unwilHng bride- 
 groom, without looking up. 
 
 The old woman's lip quivered, and a tear rose 
 to her eye ; but Lizzie laid her hand upon her 
 shoulder hastily, and whispered, — 
 
 ' But that will make no difference to you. I 
 like you, and your place is at this fireside the 
 same as ever. I'll be glad to have a woman in 
 the house — a motherly woman like you.' 
 
 The two women went up-stairs and laid off 
 their things amicably. Only too glad that she 
 was not to be set about her business, the old 
 woman became reconciled, and on Monday Bob 
 became a Benedict, having caught a Tartar. 
 
 10 
 
CHAPTEK XVI. 
 
 BACK TO INWEERIE. 
 
 jT was five years after her departure e'er 
 Euphie again set foot on the old Fife 
 shore, conveyed thither by the boat from 
 Leith to Anstruther. As she walked up the pier 
 she looked around her, overcome by a feeling of 
 strangeness. How queer and little and life-in- 
 death-like the old stand-still place seemed to her 
 after sojourning in the great cities. It was the 
 common feeling of all who came back to the old 
 places after a lapse of time. And yet, as she 
 looked around, it was just the same as ever — the 
 same as it had been ever since she could remember. 
 
 The burn still spread itself out thinly under 
 the bridge, in an aimless sort of way drooling 
 musically round the churchyard wall to the sea. 
 Along the front street the same old loafers 
 lounged in the vicinity of the frequent licensed 
 grocery, every now and then disappearing into 
 the open doors of such, in search of the only 
 inspiration life now held for them. The stagna- 
 tion was depressing. There was some little stir 
 about the pier, where the steamer had come in, 
 but it subsided with the unloading of her, little 
 cargo, and all was still again. 
 
 146 
 
Back to Inweerie. 147 
 
 Around the back of the town there was a 
 chill air of conscious respectability, as if the 
 occupant of each house had shrunk back into it 
 and shut the door, after the manner of an in- 
 sulted snail, whose horns had touched something 
 — not respectable. A grim sense of silent 
 wrestling between poverty and the conservatism 
 of sham gentility was everywhere present, and 
 it was not invigorating. 
 
 Euphie longed for a sight of the hearty In- 
 weerie fisher folk, with their petticoats kilted, 
 their aprons tucked up at the side, their hair 
 a-blown, and their mutches askew with tlie 
 hustle and bustle of dipping the nets into the 
 hot bark tan, of shelling the mussels and bait- 
 ing the lines — too intent on the terribly practical 
 business of life to bestow a thought on the wor- 
 ship of this all-compelling god of the mediocre 
 — Kespectability. 
 
 "^he railway had not yet crawled this far alon-^ 
 tue coast, so Euphie walked west next morning 
 — setting out at the early hour of four, to the 
 landlord's surprise and outspoken suspicion. She 
 thought she would like to walk through the 
 old place before any one was up this temj^ting 
 summer morning. The green sward along the 
 low road to the west of Pittenweem was pied 
 with gowans ; the braes were studded with 
 violets and primroses ; the whins were budding, 
 the brackens putting forth their leaves; there 
 was the creak and whiz and whirr of insect life 
 in the grass, and the music of birds innumerable 
 in the air. The crows had left the fields, and 
 were strutting, intent on business, among the 
 rocks, picking up what flotsam or jetsam the 
 
148 ' Euphie Lyn. 
 
 last tide had washed up. Beyond tlie rocks, the 
 sea, flushed with the sun rising red over the rim 
 of the horizon, lay cradled in murmurous slumber 
 between the opposite shores. 
 
 Euphie stood still a moment or two to enjoy 
 the scene ; it was all so sweet, so familiar, so 
 refreshing, that she was fain to lift up her eyes 
 and give God thanks. Presently she caught sight 
 of a blue petticoat and little red tartan shawl 
 among the rocks, and, watching, she saw that it 
 was a woman with a creel in one hand and a 
 knife in the other, gathering limpets. 
 
 * At this hour of the morning ! ' exclaimed 
 Euphie to herself, 'I must go down and see 
 who it is.' 
 
 She scrambled down over the brae and over 
 the projecting ledges of rock until she reached 
 the sand, and, lifting her skirts, she stepped over 
 the pools and sprang from rock to rock as agilely 
 as when a girl at the old school. 
 
 * Gathering limpets % ' said Euphie to the 
 stooping figure, who had not heard her approach. 
 
 With a great start, the woman turned and 
 looked at her. 
 
 ' Mary Scott ! Is it really you, Mary ? ' cried 
 Euphie gladly. 
 
 'Ay,' said the woman, in surprise; 'but ye've 
 the better 0' me. Od — eh — gude grcatie ! — 
 you're no' Euphie Lyn, are ye ? ' 
 
 * I am indeed, Mary. How are you 1 ' 
 'Fine. I'm fine, thank ye. I just left the 
 
 bairns in their bed, an' cam' awa' east here 
 to see an' get twa-ree lempets to bait the 
 line.' 
 
 'Bairns, Mary! You're not married, surely?' 
 
Back to Inweerie. 149 
 
 *Ay, I am that,' said Mary, with a happy 
 laugh. ' I was marrit that year you gaed awa'. 
 I've three bairns 1100.' 
 
 ' Well, well, well ! Are you near through 
 with your limpets? I want to go home with 
 you, and see your bairns and your husband. 
 Who did you marry % ' 
 
 ' Jamie Gowans. D'ye mind o' Tarn Gowans, 
 that ran awa' when he was a laddie at the schule? 
 Aweel, a brother 0' his.' 
 
 'And you're happy, Mary?' asked Euphie, 
 with sudden wistfulness. 
 
 ' Ay, 'deed, ay. Jamie has his ain way, like 
 ither folk, but then I never thraw wi'm, an' he's 
 aye gude to me an' the bairns.' 
 
 Mary's creel was about full, and Euphie laid 
 hold of it to help her over the rocks ; but she 
 could scarcely lift it, it was so heavy. Mary 
 protested she could carry it better herself, and 
 hoisted it on her right side, resting the weight 
 on her hip. 
 
 ' Ye see, we're used to that,' she explained, as 
 she crookedly took her way up through the rocks. 
 ' Are ye come back to the toon, Euphie 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, for a visit. Will you let me stay wi vh 
 you, Mary 1 Have you room V 
 
 ' I daursay I could gie ye a bed weel eneucli,' 
 said Mary, scanning Euphie's mourning attire ; 
 'but,' she said, with an uneasy laugh, *ye 
 maunna fling ony o's ower the brae.' 
 
 * How — what do you mean, Mary ? ' queried 
 Euphie sharply ; for, in spite of the assumed 
 frankness, there was an indefinable chill in 
 Mary's manner that hurt her. 
 
 ' Go, weel, ye ken, it's nane 0' my business,' 
 
1 50 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * 
 answered Mary uneasily, 'but ye micht hae 
 
 killed Bob that nioht.' 
 
 ' Killed — Bob ! What are you speaking 
 about, Mary Scott f demanded Euphie, coming to 
 a full stop and facing the little woman sternly. 
 
 Mary looked at her in wonder. What had 
 come to Euphie Lyn to make her look so lady- 
 like, to make her ' speak English ' like that ? 
 She was so taken up, so surprised at the straight 
 figure, the quick flash in the eye, that she did 
 not answer, and was about to pass on with her 
 creel on her side ; but Euphie took hold of it 
 firmly, and Mary looked at her in some alarm. 
 
 'Look here, before we go another step, tell 
 me what you meen.' 
 
 Mary hesitated, and then said — 
 
 ' Od, did ye no' fling Bob Syme ower yonder, 
 ad nicht i' the darkenin' % He was carrit hame 
 for dead.' 
 
 Euphie stared at her wildly. 
 
 ' Woman, do you know what you are saying ? 
 You must be stark mad ! Lay down your creel, 
 and tell me all about this thing before I go mad 
 too.' 
 
 Mary had no choice. Euphie snatched the 
 basket and deposited it upon the sand, and then 
 and there Mary told her the whole story as she 
 had heard it. 
 
 * And does that rascal dare to say that I threw 
 him over the brae % Mary Scott, when I left 
 home that day after dinner, I went straight 
 along the high-road and on to St. Andrews. At 
 the time you say Bob Syme was thrown over 
 the cliff I was in St. Andrews, with the lady and 
 gentleman I have lived with ever since.' 
 
Back to Inweerie. 1 5 1 
 
 There was such conviction in Euphie's words 
 and look*s that Mafty at once believed her. 
 Moreover, this was no longer the Euphie Lyn 
 she had formerly known ; this was an educated, 
 superior woman ; her speech, her manner, her 
 naturalness, were invested with an impalpable 
 refinement which impressed Mary. 
 
 'Ye're in mournings, I see,' she said, with 
 evident curiosity. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Euphie sadly ; ' my best friends 
 are both dead — killed about a month ago in a 
 railway collision. I may well mourn.' 
 
 Mary uttered a shocked 'Eh, is that pos- 
 sible % ' and looked still more curious. 
 
 'Yes, I. have spent five happy .and instruct- 
 ive years since I left Inweerie, and it all came 
 about so strangely. Whoever may doubt of a 
 Divinity that shapes our ends, I don't — I 
 can't.' 
 
 Mary stared, thinking what fine ' English. ' 
 Euphie had learnt to speak since she had gone 
 away. 
 
 • 'As I tell you, I was in St. Andrews that 
 night. I had got within sight of the town, but 
 was tired and hungry, and sat down on a pile of 
 broken metal by the roadside to eat a biscuit 
 and rest a little. Before I knew where I was, 
 I fell sound asleep. I had had no sleep all 
 the previous night, and what with trouble of 
 mind and bodily fatigue, I suppose I had got 
 overcome. Anyway, the first thing I knew was 
 being wakened up by a gentleman shaking me 
 soundly, and when I opened my eyes there was 
 a carriage standing close by, and an old lady 
 in it, clasping and unclasping her hands quite 
 
152 . Euphie Lyu. 
 
 excitedly, and crying, " Ach, mine Marguerite ! 
 mine Marguerite ! " 
 
 'Of course I felt quite put out at being 
 caught asleep, and couldn't understand what the 
 old lady meant by calling mc " Marguerite," but 
 the gentleman explained* afterwards that she had 
 had a daughter who was dead, and that I bore 
 such a remarkable resemblance to her that 
 nothing would do but he must stop the carriage 
 and waken me up. She asked me where I was 
 going, and when I told her that I was looking 
 for a situation, she hired me then and there, and 
 drove me into St. Andrews to the furnished 
 lodgings they had hired. It 'was a great risk 
 I ran — I know that now, but I did not then ; 
 but God has been good to me, and I had fallen 
 among good and kind people. The lady and 
 gentleman were Dr. Hertzman and his mother, — 
 German-English people, I might call them, — and 
 he was travelling about in the interests of 
 science. 
 
 'Well, to make a long story short, I found 
 that the lady did not require my services in the 
 way I had supposed, — there was no work to do 
 in furnished lodgings, — but when I went with 
 her to France, a fortnight later, she hired both 
 French and English teachers for me, and she 
 herself taught me German and music. All this 
 under the pretence of making me a suitable 
 companion for her ! She insisted that I was the 
 living image of her dead daughter, the same 
 eyes, the same hair, and it seemed to be a com- 
 fort to her to have me with her. The doctor in- 
 dulged his mother in all her whims, and we lived 
 happily together. I told her my history, — part 
 
Back to Inweerie. 153 
 
 of it, at least, — and we were on the way to Edin- 
 burgh from London when the accident happened 
 which killed Dr. Hertzman instantaneously, and 
 injured Madame so that she only lingered a few 
 days. During that time I myself lay insen- 
 sible from my injuries, and when I awoke to 
 consciousness and to strength I was told that 
 Madame and her son were both dead. Strange 
 that she should meet her death on her way 
 to make inquiries concerning me of Xannie 
 Lyn! 
 
 'However, as soon as she knew she was 
 dying, she sent for a lawyer, and left me a very 
 comfortable little fortune, in the belief that 
 somehow I must be her granddaughter.' 
 
 ' Eh, the like o' that ! An' ye'll be real weel- 
 aff noo, then, Euphie? But, ye ken, Nannie 
 Lyn left the toon just after you did. Naebody 
 has ever heard tell o' her sin' syne.' 
 
 *Is that really so, Mary? Where can she 
 have gone % ' 
 
 ' To the North country, they say.' 
 
 Euphie mused a little, and then said sharply, 
 * Ah well ! But now let us get to Inweerie, so 
 that I can put my foot on this lie of Syme's. 
 Did anybody else believe that % Surely nobody 
 would write away such a story as that.' 
 
 ' I heard that Andrae Craig's mither wrote 
 awa' to him what was bein' said.' 
 
 Euphie's heart died within her, but she said 
 quietly — 
 
 'She will soon know better than that.' 
 
 ' Eh, but she's dead,' said Mary solemnly. 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, and then 
 Euphie queried painfully — 
 
1 54 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ' Mary, do you really believe I did that ] — that 
 I could possibly do a thing like that ? ' 
 
 ' No, no' noo, Euphie. But, ye ken, ye canna 
 blame us. Ye ran awa', an' was never seen 
 after that, an' Mrs. Lyn gaed awa', an' Bob 
 Syme, that was aye sae daft aboot ye, marrit 
 anither woman as sune as he was better, — ye 
 couldna blame us. He never just said it was 
 you, but he aye let on that way.' 
 
 'I'll make him tell the truth when I get 
 there,' said Euphie firmly, and together they 
 walked into the town. It was about half-past 
 five, and few people were up yet, only one or 
 two old fishermen were down on the pier-end 
 pacing; sea-gulls were perched on the masts 
 of the boats, and a few crows were pecking 
 about in the empty harbour. But Euphie saw 
 none of these ; all the beauty of the morning 
 had suddenly died out. Her heart was hot and 
 surging with indignation at the scurvy fellow 
 who had all these years darkened hei? name with 
 the shadow of an attempted crime. She had 
 been right, perfectly right, in her instinctive 
 repugnance to him, and this was the man Is^annie 
 Lyn had determined she should marry ! 
 
 As they turned a corner of the street they 
 were suddenly greeted by three little children in 
 their scanty shirts, wailing loudly, and calling, 
 ' Mither, mither ! ' at the top of their shrill 
 voices. 
 
 ' Eh, look at that ! ' cried Mary, waving her 
 fist threateningly at them. * I'll cut every ane 
 o' your heads aff. Ye're weel-aff, Euphie, that 
 has nae bairns. Look, see, when they wauken 
 up, an' me no' in the hoose, they just run oot as 
 
Back to Inweerie. 155 
 
 they were bom, greetin' for their niither, an' 
 skirlin' like to bring in the toon.' 
 
 For the life of her Euphie could not resist 
 laughing. She had been beginning to feel some- 
 what cool to Mary. The unthinking, incon- 
 siderate way in which she had all but charged 
 her with a crime had chilled the warmth of her 
 first greeting, and she had already repented her 
 desire to live with her while in Inweerie. Xow, 
 however, the sight of the children, the spare 
 little body of the mother, bent with the heavy 
 basket of bait she had to provide, the thought of 
 her having to get up and leave her infants to do 
 it, struck Euphie with compassion. 
 
 * Give me the basket, Mary,' she said, * and do 
 you take the baby up.' 
 
 *Me, I just think shame o' them. Come 
 here, ye little deillies, till I murder ye ; ' and, 
 stooping, Mary took up two .of the naked 
 cherubs, kissing them profusely, and with one 
 in each arm marched into the house. As 
 Euphie deposited the limpets at the door, a 
 dapper, smart-looking fellow in sailor's uniform 
 came swiftly up to the door, but seeing Euphie, 
 started, and drew back with a respectful salute. 
 
 * Who is that % ' asked Euphie, as she entered. 
 Mary looked out of the window at the trim 
 
 figure in the pea jacket, and answered, with 
 evident pride — 
 
 ' Oh, that's my gude-brither. He cam hame 
 the ither day. Ye mind o' Tam Gowans ? 
 That's Tarn.' 
 
CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 PIER-HEAD POLITICS. 
 
 was indeed Tam, home on furlough, 
 having in consideration of long and special 
 services been allowed a full year's absence 
 in 'order to recruit his health, which had not 
 been (juite so robust of late. 
 
 Mrs. Gowans, with her sleeves rolled up, and 
 a stout packsheet apron tied about her ample 
 waist, had been down on her knees, with her 
 back to the door, finishing off the usual Saturday 
 scrubbing, when she was suddenly blindfolded 
 from behind by two strong masculine palms 
 laid across her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Jamie, ye daft swine, g'wa ! ' she said 
 good-naturedly. 'Wiser-like ye were helpin' 
 your faither to pent the MornM Star. He's 
 awa' doon the harbour wi' the tar-pat an' 'oor 
 syne.' 
 
 There was no answer to this protest, nor did 
 the hands relax their clasp across her brow. 
 
 ' Tchck, tchck, Jamie ! G'wa' wi' your 
 capers,' she said, impotently trying to shake 
 herself free. ' Shure's death, I think shame o' 
 ye ! If ye were a young man, I would mak' 
 nae mervel, but you, wi' a wife an' three bairns, 
 
 156 
 
Pier-Head Politics. 1 5 7 
 
 gaun on like a perfect cuddy-ass. Jamie I I 
 tell ye, let go.' 
 
 Thoroughly angry and disgusted now, she was 
 trying to scramble to her feet, when a youngster 
 who stood by enjoying this pantomime sang out 
 shrilly — 
 
 ' It's no' Jamie ! ' 
 
 • No' Jamie ! Then wha is't ? ' 
 
 * It's — it's a gentleman wi' yellow buttons,' 
 said the youngster. 
 
 ' Guess,' said a baritone voice close to her ear. 
 
 Mrs. Gowans became suddenly still, and put 
 up her hands. They came in contact with a curly 
 beard and whiskers, a peaked cap, and a pair of 
 little gold earrings, and her fingers trembled and 
 shook. 
 
 ' It's no' you, my laddie, is't 1 That's surely 
 no' my little Tarn \ ' she murmured in a shaking 
 voice. 
 
 The hands released her, and she rose and 
 turned, and saw a good-looking, middle-sized 
 young man, bearded and whiskered, and arrayed 
 in a smart navy-blue suit and officer's cap. But 
 she could recognise nothing but the eyes, the 
 roguish blue eyes, that shone as they watched 
 her through a gathering film of tears. 
 
 'Mother!' 
 
 As she took a wild step towards him he threw 
 his arms about her, and, fast locked in his 
 embrace, the mother was compensated for all 
 the weary years of longing and sore regret. 
 
 The home-coming of Lieutenant Tom Gowans 
 was a red-letter day in the annals of the town. 
 It took him some time before he got acquainted 
 with all his brothers and sisters. His father sat 
 
158 . Euphie Lyn. 
 
 in the chair o])posite him at the fireside, and 
 smoked incessantly, looking at his son through 
 the reek. They all expected no end of yarns ; 
 but Tom was no spinner, and wlien asked how 
 he came to got on hoard a ship he declared he 
 could not remember, it was so long ago. But of 
 one thing he was certain, he had got there, and 
 intended to stay there. 
 
 The neighbours one and all came to see him 
 and claim old acquaintance. 
 
 Lieutenant Gowans felt it had been worth his 
 while to run away and stay away for years, for 
 the sake of getting such a hearty welcome home ; 
 but the discussion of his future gave him 
 mingled amusement and annoyance. 
 
 'The next thing, ye'll hae to get a wife, Tam,' 
 said a jolly, harum-scarum mother of many, 
 named Shoosie. 
 
 * A wife ! Whose wife ] ' queried Tom, with 
 assumed innocence. 
 
 ' Eh, ye blackgaird fine d'ye ken what I mean 
 — ye canna tak' yer nap aff me. But,' pursued 
 the monitor, with sudden, earnest solemnity, 
 'whatever ye dae, Tam, dinna marry a butter- 
 flee. A butterflee, min, is a' weel enough, but 
 what's the use o' a butterflee amon' a cum 
 bairns % ' 
 
 ' Him ! What are ye speakin' aboot ? Od, 
 ye ken, he'll hae to get a leddy, nae less,' said 
 anotlier, with sly sarcasm. 
 
 'Na, na, Tam, my man. You tak' a cat o' 
 your ain kind, an' she'll no' scart ye,' advised 
 another. 
 
 The gallant lieutenant, unaccustomed to be 
 thus discussed in his own presence, was beginning 
 
Pier- Head Politics. 1 5 9 
 
 to feel hot and uncomfortaitle, and in his help- 
 lessness glanced across the hearth at liis father. 
 Old Geordie, understandinfj the apjK-al in his 
 son's eye, winked at him knowingly, and Tom 
 hegan to feel less at the mercy of this high 
 running sea of banter. He felt as if he had 
 run up a signal of distress to his own mast-head 
 and been answered, 'All right, 1 will stay by 
 you.' lie plucked up courage instantly, and, 
 rising to his feet, said cheerily — 
 
 ' Well, ladies, to please you, I'll tack and 
 bear down on the pier-head. If I see any pretty 
 girl cruising about, I'll keep my weather-eye 
 upon her. Come along, father, you pilot me 
 down.' 
 
 Old Geordie, to hide the gratified smile of 
 fatherly pride which threatened to betray him, 
 wiped his mouth with his ample red handker- 
 chief, and, stuffing it into the crown of his 
 sou'-wester, followed his son outside. 
 
 The woman who had been advising Tani anent 
 matrimony slapped him heartily on the shoulder 
 as he passed out, bawling after him — 
 
 ' My faigs ! ye're a braw, wise-like chield. 
 I wuss I was a young cummer again ; ye wouldna 
 be lang single, my man.' 
 
 As soon as he was out of earshot, Lieutenant 
 Gowans let off a round of nautical oaths, which 
 refreshed him like a sneeze. His father swelled 
 with admiration and respect; it was the finest 
 swearing he had ever heard in all his life. 
 
 * I tell you, pilot, I can't stand these women's 
 tongues. I don't mind mother, but when a flying 
 Dutchman like that boards me I'd sooner be 
 scudding close-reefed before the biggest hurricane 
 
i6o Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 that ever blew. I can't get used to their lingo. 
 "Why don't they let a fellow alone % ' 
 . Old Geordie grinned sympathetically. 
 
 'Man, ye needna mind Shoosie,' he said. 
 * She's ane o' that kind that's either clockin' or 
 gaun wi' birds a' the time, an' she thinks you're 
 like hersel'. I never saw her yet but aye frae 
 the bellows to the fore-hammer, as hard as she 
 can lether. But there's waur folk than Shoosie 
 for a' that. She's a gude wife an' a gude 
 mither.' 
 
 The lieutenant rapped out one or two more 
 anathem..s on Shoosie and all her like, fairly per- 
 spiring as he thought of her and her matrimonial 
 advices. 
 
 On the pier-head stood old Saunders, with a 
 red striped nightcap on his head, and a pair of 
 easy slippers on his feet, attired in the usual 
 blue flannel suit, with a red kerchief tied about 
 his neck, setting ofl^ his white whiskers finely. 
 There were Thomas Mathers too, and several 
 others, sedately pacing to and fro, as if life on 
 the sea had instilled into them its restlessness. 
 
 Lieutenant Gowans had been down the day 
 before, and renewed his acquaintance with them 
 all, but he shook hands with Thomas Mathers 
 again to-day. He had had a long chat with him 
 the night before, much to their mutual satisfac- 
 tion ; for Thomas had in his youth been somewhat 
 of a wanderer too, and their talk about the 
 various Mediterranean ports had been interest- 
 ing to both. 
 
 Evidently some interesting discussion had been 
 interrupted by the arrival of Tom and his father ; 
 for the conversation, which had been animated. 
 
Pier- Head Politics. i6i 
 
 had suddenly stopped. Lieutenant Gowans, for 
 all he was a fellow-townsman, was as yet a 
 stranger to some — at least, the feeling of strange- 
 ness had not sufficiently worn off for familiarity. 
 Tom had wit keen enough to see this, and made 
 an effort to overcome it. 
 
 'What's the matter with your hand?' he 
 inquired of a man whose wrist was bound up in 
 cloth. 
 
 * Oo,' quoth old Saunders, ' he was shakin' 
 hands wi' Sir Aulexander, an' he shook it oof o' 
 joint.' 
 
 There was a burst of laughter at this sarcastic 
 sally, which made the lieutenant turn to Saunders 
 inquiringly. 
 
 ' Ye see,' continued the old salt slyly, ' Sir 
 Aulexander's gaun aboot lookin' for votes the 
 noo, an' I'm expeckin', by the time he gets 
 through, we'll a' be sittin' on the pier-end here, 
 ilka ane wi' his airm in a sling. He wantit to 
 shake hands wi' me, but I keepit my hand i' my 
 pooch, an' tell't him I had a healed thoomb.' 
 
 The lieutenant understood the raillery now; 
 and Thomas Mathers smiled grimly. 
 
 'Ay, min, it's wonderfu' what a sudden 
 affection the gentry develop for folk they diniia 
 care a brass farden for just aboot election-time.' 
 
 * Yes, I suppose so,' responded Tom, who had 
 been out the way of politics all his life. 
 
 'The last elections we were promised every- 
 thing. Oor member was gaun to dae wonder?. 
 He was gaun to get a new pier till's, so we could 
 get in here wi' safety in a coorse day, an' when 
 he got into Parliament that was the last we 
 heard o't.' 
 
 11 
 
1 62 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 'Oo'U build a pier oorsel's, an* that for the 
 Government ! ' said Jamie Scott, snapping his 
 fingers defiantly ; ' an' the fisherman that would 
 vote for laws to aloo a landlord to come doon 
 here an' collect teinds, — tak' every tenth fish ■\7e 
 catch, and forbid us to lift a saumon, though thiy 
 were swarmin' thick ayont the rocks there, on 
 penalty o' a fine, — the man that would vote for a 
 member pledged to uphaud Tory laws like thae 
 — weel, I wouldna let him sail in my boat. It's 
 no the man, it's his principles I look at.' 
 
 *Ay, that's it, Jamie,' said Thomas Mathers. 
 * Stick to the principles. A man's here the day 
 an' awa' the morn; but a principle that has 
 justice an' truth in't is eternal. An' the principle 
 I haud to is this, that the earth was made for 
 man, — no' ae man, or twa men, or three men, or 
 for ony limited number o' men, but for mankind^ 
 — for the human race, — an' I would like to ken 
 wha ga'e ony man the richt to come doon here 
 an' claim ony pairt o' my earnin's to put into his 
 ain private pooch. Man, the meanest beggar 
 that comes singin' through the toon for bawbees 
 is no' half as mean as the landlord that comes 
 claimin' every tenth fish frae a puir fisherman.' 
 
 'Aweel, sirse,' said Saunders, 'oo'U jist hae 
 to dae as oor forbears did i' the time o' the 
 watches — tdl^ the thing in your ain hand. Ye 
 ken lang-syne, when they were wutches, for every 
 wutch thatfwas fand the folk were taxed to pay 
 ten pound. An' the minister, he aye fand oot 
 the tither wutch an' the tither wutch, an' aye 
 there was the tither ten pound to pay. Ey 
 gosh, the folk got tired o' this wark, an' they 
 turned an' said they wouldna pay anither bawbee 
 
Pier-Head Politics. 163 
 
 for a' the wutches the de'il ever possessed. So 
 they made a law that for every wutch a minister 
 fand oot he should pay ten pound oot 0' his ain 
 pooch. That ended wutchcraf t, for sin' that gude 
 day there was never a wutch heard tell 0' on this 
 coast.' 
 
 A laugh and ripple of applause went round ; 
 and, thus encouraged, Saunders resumed, after 
 taking in a reef of his nightcap, whose tassel 
 during this recital went swinging back and forth 
 at a lively rate — 
 
 'An' what better are we noo? If it's no' 
 wutches, it's aye some ither thing oo've to pay for. 
 Oo pay for keepin' up roads for the gentry to 
 ride on, but de'il a road hae we for oorsel's. 
 We're taxed for this and for that, but when we 
 get doon on oor knees and petition for some o' 
 oor ain siller back again to improve oor harbour, 
 
 00 get nihil naething. You're just puir fishers ; 
 but, ye ken, they're the saut 0' the earth, an' 
 though they neither tile nor spin, Solomon in a' 
 his glory was never daickered up like them. 
 But, by gosh, I'll claw a whiter tap^ yet afore 
 
 1 vote for onybody that gies their countenance 
 to interdickin' honest folk that's willin' to pay 
 the leeshins to Government f rae catchin' saumon 
 oot 0' the sea. A bonny story ! ' 
 
 'Bob Syme's gaun to vote for Sir Aulexander,' 
 said a fisherman. ' 
 
 ' If that was a' the iU he did it would maitter 
 little,' said Thomas Mathers ; ' but I think it's 
 a black shame he should be alloo'd to pit sic a 
 disgrace upon an innocent woman.' 
 
 ' What's that % ' demanded Tom Gowans, turn- 
 ing round sharp. 
 
164 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * Garrin' folk believe that Euphie Lyn threw 
 him ovver the brae.' 
 
 ' Get out, Mathers ! ' 
 
 * It's a fact. She gaed to him an' insisted on 
 him clearin' her o' sic an imputation, but he 
 would neither say Ay nor No, just let her hing 
 i' the head o't' 
 
 * Look here ; you know I was away, and 
 didn't hear of the circumstances, though I have 
 heard something of the kind since I came home. 
 Tell me the whole thing, Mathers.' 
 
 The whole story was related to Tom ; and for 
 the first time, too, the fishermen now heard the 
 inner story of Euphie's persecution by Mrs. Lyn, 
 and what was the real cause of her flight. 
 
 ' Look here,' said Lieutenant Gowans. ' H'm, 
 let me see. To-night, at eight o'clock, I invite 
 you all to come to Syme's. I'll pay. Only, 
 don't one of you speak of this business ; just look 
 and listen, and you shall see our pretty private 
 theatrical performance.' 
 
 So saying, Lieutenant Gowans left the pier- 
 head and steered straight along the low road 
 to Pittenweem. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 TOM PLAYS HIS PART TO ADVANrAGiJ. 
 
 ^ T the hour appointed aii . ^ had been on 
 the pier-head swung along leisurely in the 
 direction of Bob Syme's shop. Bob him- 
 self, neat as a pin, was in unusually brisk spirits 
 as he saw the men come dropping in, and he 
 went into the back cellar and drew off an extra 
 flagon in anticipation of an extra demand. The 
 men did not at once ask for their whisky, but 
 sat down at the long table and stretched their 
 legs under it upon the sanded floor, and began 
 talking on the coming elections. 
 
 'Weel, what'U ye have?' said Mrs. Syme, 
 appearing in the doorway with an air of 
 authority. 
 
 ' Yersel', 'ooman — yersel',' quoth Saunders, 
 with clumsy wit. 
 
 'Bob '11 sair's,' said Jamie Scott, with quiet 
 dignity, immediately resuming his conversation 
 with Thomas Mathers. 
 
 Mrs. Syme flounced off in a high hufiF, the lace 
 strings of her fancy white mutch flying far 
 behind her. 
 
 'Better go in an' see what thae fishers want,' 
 she said, with a snap. 
 
 165 
 
1 66 Euphie Lyn, 
 
 ' Time enough,' said. Bob, emerging from the 
 back shop. 
 
 There were some footsteps in the passage, and, 
 turning, Mrs. Syme beheld a gentleman in full 
 naval uniform, with one or two medals on his 
 breast, and accompanied by a policeman, enter 
 the room where the fishermen sat. 
 
 ' Here, sir — here ! ' she exclaimed, darting out 
 upon them. ' Come into the best parlour ; thae's 
 just fishers sittin' there.' 
 
 * Oh, thank you, ma'am, this will do very well,' 
 remarked the lieutenant, with a sly wink to the 
 company. ' I don't mind rubbing clothes with 
 a fisherman once in a while.' 
 
 'But, dear me, it's far mair comfortable in 
 here — for the like o' you,' she said, with visible 
 deference and open admiration of the good-look- 
 ing lieutenant. 
 
 ' Mr. Syme within ? ' he inquired. 
 
 •"Yes, sir,' answered Bob, who appeared be- 
 hind his wife with his eyes full of interrogations. 
 
 'Bring in twa mutchkin o' yer be^t, Bob,' 
 shouted Saunders, with that levelling familiarity 
 which Mrs. Syme hotly resented. 
 
 ' And you'll come in and let us hear how the 
 elections are coming on, Mr. Symel' said the 
 lieutenant, with another wink at the company. 
 
 * Wi' the greatest o' pleasure, sir \ ' and, with 
 cheerful alacrity. Bob fetched the liquor and 
 glasses, while the policeman and the lieutenant 
 took seats at the table. 
 
 As soon as they were all seated, and had begun 
 to serve out the liquor. Lieutenant Gowans 
 turned the key in the lock and put it in his 
 pocket. Then he turned to the policeman. 
 
Tom Plays his Part to Advantage. 167 
 
 * Have you got the necessary documents ? * 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the policeman, a big heavy 
 man, who looked hard at Bob as he produced a 
 big blue envelope, with * On Her Majesty's 
 Service' printed conspicuously outside. Out of 
 this, the lieutenant with grave dignity drew a 
 sheet of paper, also blue and formidable-looking, 
 and with some printed letters along the top. 
 
 ' Now, then,' said the lieutenant in his most 
 impressive sea-baritone, 'Robert Syrae, tavern- 
 keeper of the town of Inweerie, Fifeshire, 
 Scotland, son of the late John Syme, you will 
 require to answer some questions here. Stand 
 up.' 
 
 ' What — what's the meanin' 0' this?' demanded 
 Bob, turning wan, and beginning to tremble. 
 
 ' You are here to answer questions, not to ask 
 them,' said the lieutenant curtly, and flashing 
 a wink at the policeman. The man put his 
 hand back into his coat-pockets and drew forth 
 a pair of handcuffs, which clinked ominously. 
 
 'Now, Robert Syme, first you will swear to 
 tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
 the truth, s'help you. Bob. Kiss tliat.^ 
 
 Mr. Syme, now visibly alarmed, took the 
 book which the lieutenant produced, and raised 
 it to his lips. 
 
 'Now, then, I am informed that you have 
 made an accusation against Miss Euphemia Lyn 
 of this town. This means banishment for life, 
 either for her or for you, unless the whole truth 
 and nothing but the truth be told. You, 
 Robert Syme, do declare before these witnesses,' 
 continued the lieutenant, writing rapidly, and 
 with impressive unction, 'that Miss Euphemia 
 
1 68 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 Lyn threw you over the diff? ' Here he paused 
 a moment to look at Boh, wlio stood staring at 
 him with wild apprehension. * Of course you 
 will have to prove all this in a Court of Justice, 
 for the lady is prepared to carry this to the 
 House of Lords if necessary ' — 
 
 ' Hech, hech, min ! By faigs, Bob, ye'll 
 better tak' care what ye say, my man/ in- 
 terrupted Saunders, fairly carried off his feet 
 by the excitement of the moment. 
 
 The lieutenant drew his hand across his mouth 
 slowly and strokiid his beard before resuming. 
 'You said that she threw you over the cliff 
 on'— 
 
 ' I never said sic a thing ! ' exclaimed Bob. 
 
 The pen dropped from the lieutenant's fingers, 
 and his arms fell limply by his side, as he bent 
 back in his chair and stared at Bob. 
 
 'Whatr he shouted. 
 
 'Xo, I never,' repeated Bob, gathering 
 courage. *An' what's mair, she didna.' 
 
 'Mr. Syme,' said Lieutenant Gowans, ^svith 
 judicial sternness, 'you will gain nothing by 
 stating what is not true. Take care ; you are 
 perjuring yourself, sir.' 
 
 ' I'm no' \ as shure's death I'm no' ! ' protested 
 Bob. ' I tell ye she didna. I never saw Euphie 
 Lyn that day ava.' 
 
 * A.h-h'm !-h'm !-h'm ! ' coughed the lieutenant, 
 clearing his throat with sonorous dignity. ' Ah, 
 policeman, you will do your duty.' 
 
 The policeman proceeded to adjust the hand- 
 cuffs on Bobj who was now pale as death, when 
 the lieutenant held up his hand. 
 
 ' Wait a little ; don't put him in irons for a 
 
Tom Plays his Part to Advantage. 169 
 
 jiffy yet ; he will have to sigu a paper first. 
 Just stand there on guard.' 
 
 ' Govey Dick ! ' exclaimed Saunders, * ye're 
 nahbit noo, my lad.' 
 
 The rest of the fishermen, resting' their elbows 
 on the table, turned and gazed at Bob with 
 excited interest. They had promised to be still 
 and look on, but they had not been prepared for 
 a scene like this. 
 
 ' I tell ye, sir, it wasna her ; it wasna Euphie 
 Lyn ava; it was some ither body,' reiterated 
 Bob, in mortal terror. 
 
 'But when the lady came to you, you per- 
 sisted that it icas her, did you not ? ' 
 
 ' No, I didna ; I never said a word — neither 
 Ay nor No.' 
 
 'Whyr 
 
 Bob did not answer. 
 
 * Speak up, you infernal coward, or I'll clap 
 you in irons, with bread and water for a week,' 
 barked the lieutenant, for a moment forgetting 
 himself in his righteous indignation. 
 
 'She kent hersel',' said Bob, in weak ex- 
 tenuation. * She kent she neither shoved me 
 ower, nor took my watch.' 
 
 'And will you swear before God and these 
 witnesses to that % ' 
 
 ' I will ; it's God's truth.' 
 
 ' Then who was it ? Do you know ? ' 
 
 * Ay, ower weel,' answered Bob resignedly. 
 'Then it will be necessary to put the whole 
 
 blamed thing in Avriting, with the name of the 
 person who really did it, and also took your 
 watch.' 
 
 In the most abject alarm Bob sank down upon 
 
/ 
 
 I/O Enphie Lyn. 
 
 his chair, and, glancing stealthily at the door, 
 whispered huskily — 
 
 ' Man, I wouldna get a dowg's life o't if I 
 tell't on her. She's a perfect daevil. I micht 
 as weel droon mysel' at ance.* 
 
 ' Let hira aff, let the puir wretch aff,' whispered 
 Thomas Mathers, reaching over to the back of 
 the lieutenant's chair. 
 
 Old Saunders, as if an idea had just struck him, 
 brought his hand down with a sounding slap 
 upon his thigh, exclaiming under his breath — . 
 
 ' By gosh ! ' 
 
 The rest of the men looked at one another and 
 at the policeman with sudden illumination, and 
 a feeling of pity for Bob began to grow on them. 
 The lieutenant forgot his assumed rcJZe, and 
 uttered a long low whistle. Presently, how- 
 ever, he drew himself up again, and with his 
 most judicial air said — 
 
 'Oh, well, if that's the way the land lies, 
 mum's the word. And I will not prosecute 
 any further if you will just, in the presence 
 of these witnesses, sign a paper to the effect 
 that you never saw Miss Euphemia Lyn on 
 that day; that she neither took your watch 
 nor pitched you over the rock ; and that you, on 
 the contrary, have the highest respect for the 
 young lady.' 
 
 ' She has the watch,' whispered Bob, pointing 
 over his shoulder with his thumb. ' I ga'e lier 
 the watch, thinkin' to pacify her ; that was what 
 garred her throw me ower.' 
 
 ' I doot she'll kaim your head for this,' said 
 Jamie Scott, speaking for the first time ; ' but 
 ye deserve naething better after you lettin' on a' 
 
Tom Plays his Part to Advantage. 171 
 
 the time that an innocent woman was a thief an' 
 tried to murder ye.' 
 
 The lieutenant was writing swiftly. When 
 on board his ship, Tom as a lad had spared no 
 pains to improve himself when he saw promotion 
 in the wind, and he had come to be quite a 
 clever penman. 
 
 ' Now, sign this,' said he peremptorily. 
 
 Bob looked at the paper suspiciously, and 
 began to scratch his head. 
 
 ' Very well,' said the lieutenant. ' Policeman, 
 you go and call in Mrs. Syme, and arrest her on 
 the complaint of her husband for the crime 
 of— 
 
 Bob laid hold of the policeman's arm abjectly. 
 
 * No, no j onything but that ! She would tak' 
 my sweet life if she thocht I tell't on her.' 
 
 ' Then what the deevil way dinna ye sign the 
 dockymint ? ' demanded the policeman brutally. 
 
 Bob made for the pen which the lieutenant 
 had thrown down, and wrote his name at the end 
 without so much as reading it. 
 
 '.Now, you all sign as witnesses.' 
 
 All signed with the exception of Saunders. 
 
 ' Na, na, ye'll no' catch me pittin' pen to paper; 
 but I'll bear witness — nae fears but I'll bear 
 witness. My tongue '11 no' be i' my pooch aboot 
 this for mony a gude day.' 
 
 The lieutenant unlocked the door, and, open- 
 ing it, called for Mrs. Syme. 
 
 'A bottle of your best wine, Mrs. Syme,* he 
 called, and as she entered with it he looked at 
 her, as they all did, with new interest. 
 
 ' Eh, hech, hech ! ' muttered Saunders. 
 
 * Now, we'll drink health and prosperity to the 
 
172 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 lady whose good niiuio has been restored here 
 to-day,' said Tom. 
 
 • Here's to ye, Tarn, an' to her too. There's 
 nae say in' whaur a blister may licht,' quoth 
 Jamie Scott. 
 
 The policeman drank his wine and slipped out. 
 
 ' Are — are you no' frae Cupar ? ' gasped Bol), 
 staring hard at the lieutenant, Avho had suddenly 
 dropped the official manner he l>ad assumed for 
 this practical joke. 
 
 * Cupar ? No. But I am Lieutenant Gowans 
 of the Bellerophon, and if you've got any quarrel 
 with me, just step out to the street, and these 
 gentlemen will see fair play done.' 
 
 ' Tarn Gowans ! ' exclaimed Bob, and there 
 was just the slightest intonation of contempt in 
 the tone, which did not escape the quick ear of 
 the lieutenant. 
 
 'Yes, Tam Gowans, you contemptible, 
 cowardly duffer ! And if you say one word out 
 of joint about this business, I'll have you up for 
 perjury. I'll teach you to slander a woman to 
 save your own skin. Tam Gowans ! Yes, Tam 
 ( TO wans has nothing to be ashamed of ; and take 
 care he doesn't mop the lee scuppers with you.' 
 
 The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Syme 
 entered, with her face ablaze and her arms 
 akimbo. 
 
 ' Got o' this ! March ! ' she said in a still, 
 concentrated voice, pointing her husband to the 
 door ; and Bob meekly rose and obeyed. 
 
 ' Noo, what's all this 1 ' she demanded, as soon 
 as he disappeared. 
 
 ' Is it necessary for you to know 1 ' asked the 
 lieutenant. 
 
Tom Plays his Part to Advantage. 173 
 
 'That's none o' your business. I want to 
 know wliat all this is about.' 
 
 * Very well, then, madam,' said the lieutenant 
 coolly, and he placed the paper Bob had just 
 signed upon the table, and told her to read it. 
 
 She had scarce got half through with it when 
 she clutched it suddenly ; but the watchful 
 lieutenant's iron grasp on her wrist soon made 
 her drop the document. 
 
 'No, you don't,' he said, putting it into his 
 pocket with one hand, while with calm strength 
 he held her off with the other. 
 
 The baffled woman, in a tearing rage, dashed 
 out of the room in pursuit of her husband ; and 
 the party left the house, Saunders declaring he 
 had never seen the like since Wombwell's 
 Menagerie. 
 
 'Hoo on earth did ye get the policeman?' 
 inquired Thomas Mathers, as Tom and he went 
 up the brae together. 
 
 The lieutenant laughed, and jingled some 
 change in his pocket. 
 
 ' Xothing easier,' he said. 
 
 'Aweel, laddie, for Euphie's sake I'm glad 
 ye've scotched that coward lee. I said at the 
 time there was something ahint a' that, an' noo 
 my suspicions are confinned. Will ye gang 
 wast to your brither's an' tell her hoo ye've 
 gotten the truth oot o'm at last, or will I gang ? 
 She maun be tell't at ance, for she's just breakin' 
 her heart ower the slander.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'll go,' said Lieutenant Tom hastily. 
 
 Thomas smiled sagely, and bade him good- 
 night. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 *A GOOD SMART WALK FROM HERE.' 
 
 ^HOMAS MATHERS had aptly dtrcribed 
 1^^ Euphie's state of mind when he said «ili' 
 was breaking her heart over the slander 
 which Syme had allowed to go on unchecked 
 all these years. For, while there were a few 
 who had scouted the idea of Euphie being guilty 
 either of the one crime or the other, the majority 
 found it easier to cake it for granted ; besides, it 
 was now remembered that Nannie Lyn had once 
 or twice referred to her daughter as a girl of 
 quick temper and stubborn will. And when 
 people speak that way o: their own, there must 
 be some good grounds for it, said the village 
 sages. Again, if she hadn't been guilty, why 
 did she run away, bringing pU that trouble on 
 Nannie Lyn, who herself had to leave the town, 
 unable to bear up under the disgrace ? 
 
 The story, indeed, had been in a fair way to 
 be forgotten, when Euphie, happily unconscious 
 of all that h"\ happened in her absence, 
 appeared in the tov/i and revived the whole 
 story. 
 
 Euphie, quick-witted and sensitive naturally, 
 and rendered still more so by five years of cul- 
 
 174 
 
'A Good Smart Walk from here^ 175 
 
 ture and intimacy with refined and intellectual 
 people, saw the doubt in their eyes as they 
 spoke to her, even when they most sedulously 
 sought to veil it under a flood of friendly 
 questions as to her welfare. She saw the dis- 
 trustful caution melt and disappear in her 
 presence as she talked to them ; for, in spite of 
 themselves, as they looked at her pale, expressive 
 face, framed in the rich coils of her flaxen hair, 
 at the wistful longing in her clear dark eyes, 
 at the finely -developed figure set off in the neat- 
 fitting black dress; above all, as they listened 
 to her gentle speech, making kindest inquiries 
 for all the old acquaintances, it seemed to them 
 monstrous that such a woman could do such a 
 thing. Some, indeed, came away from her 
 declaring they didn't believe it ; and if they did 
 or whether she did it or jqo — they liked her — 
 there ! 
 
 Euphie was grateful for their kindness, for the 
 way they strove to hide their distrust, but none 
 the less it wounded her almost to the death. 
 
 On the day after her arrival she had called on 
 Mr. Syme, and indignantly demanded an instant 
 retraction of the slander; but Bob, with his 
 sharp-visaged wife looking on, stood leaning his 
 back again'iit the counter, with his hands deep 
 in his trqiisers-pockets, refusing point-blank to 
 open his lips on the subject. In fact, he took a 
 certain grim delight in seeing the woman who 
 had slighted him, who had run away rather 
 than marry him, thus brouglit to sue to him for 
 the restoration of her good name. When he 
 saw her gentle, refined beauty, her self-possessed, 
 ladylike manner, and thought how she might 
 
176 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 have been his instead of this virago who held 
 him so mercilessly under her thumb, he felt glad 
 for once to be master of the situation where a 
 woman was concerned. 
 
 'I'll neither say Ay nor No,' was all the 
 answer she could get from him ; and, alas ! the 
 only ones who could have proved an alibi were 
 beyond all mortal strife. 
 
 'Will you not use your influence with your 
 husband to do me justice % ' she said, turning in 
 desperate appeal to his wife, who stood regarding 
 her with jealous curiosity. But the sharp face 
 only grew sharper, the suspicious wife shook her 
 head negatively, and, tossing it high, left the 
 room. 
 
 ' Do yoi: really mean to say that you will not 
 speak the truth, and clear me of this abominable 
 charge?' she demanded once more, her pale 
 face flushing with impotent rnger at the cool, 
 insolent lout standing before her. 
 
 ' I'll say naething,' he reiterated easily. 
 
 ' Then you are a cowardly, contemptible 
 wretch,' she burst out, forgetting herself as she 
 bitterly realised how a person actually beneath 
 contempt may yet have power to hurt and 
 injure. It had never before occurred to her that 
 though not every one is worthy to be a friend, 
 no one is too insignificant to be an enemy — that 
 poison is no less poison for its source being the 
 tongue of a reptile. 
 
 She passed out of the shop, feeling herself 
 baffled and defeated, her inner consciousness 
 availing her little in presence of Bob Syme's 
 silent innuendo. 
 
 She had gene home to Mary Scott's, and sent 
 
*A Good Smart Walk from here^ 177 
 
 for Thomas Mathers, to whom she poured out 
 her bitter complaint. It was in vain that both 
 he and Mary protested against taking the thing 
 to heart ; she would not be comforted or 
 appeased. Yet — what could be done % The only 
 friends who could have proved her innocence 
 were dead \ there was nothing for her but to 
 bear it. ' " 
 
 * But I will not leave the town until the truth 
 is found out somehow. I cannot rest under 
 the monstrous charge of being a thief and an 
 attempted murderer. I shall take a house, and 
 stay here in the town until I ferret this thing 
 out,' she declared. But she had not from that 
 day gone outside the door. 
 
 Tom Gowans, hearing that Euphie was staying 
 at his brother's house, had shyly avoided going 
 there ; nevertheless, he found himself thinking 
 frequently of the pleasant face he had seen that 
 early morning as lie passed his brother's door. 
 And the more he kept away, the^ore he wanted 
 to go ; but he could not conquer the shyness 
 that seemed to overcome him in the company 
 of women. He did not mind the rattling, easy- 
 going neighbours who frequented his mother's 
 house, but he felt here was another style of 
 woman altogether, and he had not forgotten ihe 
 calm, critical look with which she had 'taken 
 him in ' that morning. 
 
 Now, however, he had a message, a very 
 important message, to deliver to her — a message 
 which he felt he would like to present in person. 
 
 Mary Scott had given up to Euphie the little 
 room which was a sort of parlour and best bed- 
 room combined, and here the lieutenant was 
 
 12 
 
1 78 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 proudly ushered in and introduced to Euphie by 
 his sister-in-law. 
 
 * I've to gang doon to the shop, for bread an' 
 that, to fill Jamie's kit for the morn's mornin',' 
 she explained to them both ; * but ye can sit an' 
 crack there till I come back. The bairns are a' 
 i' their beds sleepin'.' 
 
 The lieutenant felt a slight embarrassment at 
 being left alone in the company of this quiet but 
 decidedly attractive young woman ; but she soon 
 put him at his ease by saying, with a smile — 
 
 ' Do you know. Lieutenant Gowans, I remem- 
 ber quite well your going away from home % I 
 can recall the feelin- of awe that crept over me 
 when 1 thought of you away, far away some- 
 where, without any home or father or mother. 
 Indeed, I am not sure but what I had a little 
 cry all to myself over that poor little boy.' 
 
 Tom laughed, and flicked a speck of dust off 
 his knees. 
 
 'That's one advantage of being a small 
 youngster. A woman would cry for a fellow 
 then; now a poor sinner has to rough it out 
 all by himself.' 
 
 Euphie suddenly began to wonder what hfd 
 brought the lieutenant here. 
 
 *I suppose you like to talk about school- 
 days ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, very much, very much. I remember 
 every one. And the old master, too, Avhat an 
 eciy-going old chap he was, to be sure ! And 
 how many are amissing ! — some in the churchyard 
 west by, some lying in the sea, others married, 
 witli families growing up about them ; it makes 
 a fellow feel old.' Tom was getting on bravely. 
 
'A Good Smart Walk from here! 179 
 
 He began to enjoy sitting opposite this old 
 schoolmate with the bright eyes and yellow hair. 
 ' Some have gone off, too, like you and me ; and, 
 on the whole, they've all turned out fairly well. 
 Not many black sheep among them — only one 
 or two that I know of.' 
 
 A sudden chill came over Euphie. She 
 wondered if he thought she was one of the few 
 black sheep. 
 
 ' You know — at least you will remember — 
 Bob Syme ? ' Tom remarked. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Euphie faintly. 
 
 ' What do you think of that fellow, now ? ' 
 
 Euphie turned white, but she answered, with 
 sudden sternness — 
 
 * I would rather not say. Lieutenant Go wans.' 
 
 ' What are you afraid of ? ' he retorted, making 
 a dash at the business on hand. ' You see, Miss 
 Euphemia, Thomas Mathers told me all about the 
 lies that fellow has been making all the town 
 believe, so I tackled him to-night, and here's 
 what I got out of him by a little bluff and 
 bluster. I made him believe I was some of Her 
 Majesty's lord high admiral? ome down to take 
 his sworn affidavy about the business.' 
 
 The lieutenant spread out before Euphie the 
 paper which they all had signed in the public- 
 house, and she read it with wondering eyes. 
 
 ' Lieutenant Gowans, how did you get him to 
 speak the truth % I pleaded almost on my knees 
 to him to clear me of this odious slander, and he 
 only sneered at me — refused to open his mouth.' 
 
 ' Oh, I had a great lark with him — scared him 
 out of his seven senses, and finally got him to 
 let the cat out of the bag. He told us more than 
 
i8o ' Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 you see in there. It was his wife who tipped 
 him over on his beam ends. He had given her 
 liis watch, but it seems it wasn't the watch but 
 himself she wanted, so in a rage she pitched him 
 overboard.' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' cried ICuphie, in unfeigned 
 horror. 'But why, then, did he marry her 
 after?' 
 
 The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders .''.nd 
 grinned. 
 
 'These are private concerns, I'm afraid,' he 
 answered. 
 
 Euphie read the document over again. Yes, 
 it WMS a complete and absolute denial of her 
 having any connection with the affair, ir any 
 shape or form whatever, and this he had 
 admitted in presence of all these men whose 
 names were signed under his own. A slight 
 flush dyod Euphie's cheek as she looked at Tom's 
 smiling face. 
 
 ' How i?liall I ever repay you for this, lieu- 
 tenant?' she said, and in spite of herself her 
 eyes filled and her lips trembled. ' You know it 
 was nothing to me in a way — I knew my own 
 innocence ; but it was so hard to think the folk 
 here should look on me with a kind of abhor- 
 rence. It — it has almost done for m?.' 
 
 She paused a moment to control herself, and 
 then she added — 
 
 'I shall never forget your kindness, — to a 
 stranger, too, — and it was so unexpected, so kind 
 of you to defend me like this.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, nonsense ! the best fun I've had 
 since I came home. I thought first ol giving 
 him a walloping with a rope's end, but I mightn't 
 
'A Good Smart Walk from here' i8i 
 
 liave walloped the truth out of him, you see ; 
 and as that was the main thing, I thought I'd 
 play this trick on him. It served the piu'pose 
 just as well, and as for punishment — poor devil, 
 he's punished enough with yon wife. She'll 
 comb his hair for him.' 
 
 The evening wore on blithely after that. It 
 w^as as if a great cloud had dispersed, and sun- 
 shine once more gladdened her world. Mary 
 came back and found them still talking, Eupliie 
 in such gay spirits that she must needs remark 
 on it. Mary's exclamations when she heard the 
 truth at last were a treat to hear. She suddenly 
 remembered that she had forgotten something in 
 the grocery, and she flew back on eager feet to 
 tell them the news. But they had already heard 
 it. Old Saunders had peregrinated high and 
 low, up and down, retailing Lieutenant Gowans' 
 trick, and how he had compelled Bob Syme to 
 confess, and now the revulsion of sympathy to 
 Euphie was o v^erwhelming. All next day the 
 neighbours from near and far came in to tender 
 their sympathy, and Euphie was happy. 
 
 ' But I must be up and away somewhere,' she 
 said to Tom, about a week after this. * There is 
 nothing for me to do here, and I cannot think 
 of living in idleness. I couldn't — I should go 
 mad without something to do.' 
 
 The lieutenant looked grave ; he was not 
 prepared for this. The happiest week he had 
 ever known in his life had been the last one, 
 Spent chiefly in her company. They had both 
 been away for a longer or shorter time, and 
 what more natural than that Lieutenant Gowans 
 should ask her to go over the old places of 
 
1 82 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 interest in the vicinity % What more natural than 
 that he should drop into his brother's house of 
 an evening ? or, when he had gone home for the 
 night, that he should sit smoking and gazing 
 into the fire long after the old folks had gone to 
 bed? 
 
 * Why can't you be content to stay here % ' 
 
 * I couldn't ; I would rust. I thought of 
 going to Leven, where I might hire a house, and 
 take a limited number of pupils in French and 
 German.' 
 
 ' Ah Leven ? — that's a good smart walk from 
 here,' said the lieutenant thoughtfully. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ALAS FOR TAM ! 
 
 ^T was an easy matter to rent and furnish a 
 house in a pleasant locality, to put a brass 
 plate on the door, thus — Miss Hertzman, 
 Teacher of French and German (Heilzman 
 being the name she had adopted in deference 
 to Madame Hertzman's dying wishes), but it 
 was another thing to get pupils. People who 
 were well-to-do were chary of sending their 
 children to a stranger who had only a sweet face 
 and ladylike manners to recommend her; but 
 Euphie could afford to wait. She wrote to her 
 old governess in Paris, and from her received a 
 certificate so laudatory of her accomplishments 
 that she at last succeeded in getting six pupils, 
 which was all she wanted. Before long, indeed, 
 she was besieged by others, anxious to profit by 
 such a capable teacher; but she kept to her limit. 
 
 Now, it so happened that about this time 
 Lieutenant Gowans, wearying of the monotony 
 of Inweerie, made the acquaintance of the chief 
 of the coastguarcsmen stationed at Leven, so 
 there was nothing extraordinary in his frequent 
 visits to that thriving town. Xor did it strike 
 Euphie as at all singular that, when lie came to 
 
 183 
 
184 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 see his friend the coastguardsman, he should 
 also drop in to chat a little with herself, bringing 
 with him the news, glad or sad, from Inweerie. 
 
 No week passed in which he did not come 
 twice at least, and as he walked all the way, and 
 was sometimes tired, it was but civility on the 
 part of the coastguardsman to offer him a bed ; 
 when, of course, he would show up again next 
 day. But the shrewd Mrs. Gowans saw that a 
 change had come over her ' Tam.' He was much 
 quieter, his step was slower, his rollicking moods 
 of fun and jest became fewer and fewer, he grew 
 more grave and reticent. 
 
 Even Euphie noticed how gentlemanly and 
 dignified the lieutenant was becoming, how very 
 much quieter than when first she knew him. 
 He had been at home four months now, and 
 Euphie, what with her gratitude for his manly 
 defence of her good name, and what with her 
 admiration for himself, had conceived a genuine 
 friendship for him. 
 
 They had begun to wax quite confidential 
 with each other — he telling her all his adventures, 
 his hopes, and ambitions ; she informing him of 
 her relations with Madame and her son. Dr. 
 Hertzman, and of the request that with the 
 legacy she should take their name. 
 
 ' I wish I had not known of that big legacy,' 
 said Tom suddenly. 
 
 ' Why ? ' Euphie asked, in surprise. 
 
 * Oh, I don't know,' said Tom. ' Money seems 
 always to separate people, somehow. I shall always 
 be thinking what a rich woman I am talking to 
 not to my old schoolfellow of Inweerie.' 
 
 ' What nonsense, lieutenant ! Friendship is 
 
A las for Tarn ! 185 
 
 friendship, and money or the lack of it has 
 nothing whatever to do with it/ protested 
 Euphie earnestly. 
 
 'Are you quite sure of that?' asked Tom, 
 looking hard at her. 
 
 * Quite sure, lieutenant,' she replied, returning 
 his inquiring gaze with clear, unembarrassed eyes. 
 
 There was a silence after this ; but presently 
 the lieutenant rose, and, walking over to the 
 window, looked out upon the sea. Between 
 him and the hazy opposite shore the ships sailed 
 up and down the Forth as is their wont, some 
 brown fishing-boats were making for the harbour 
 over the calm and shimmering blue, and alto- 
 gether the day was warm and fine. Still, such 
 days were common enough at this season, and 
 the scene he looked upon was not so unfamiliar 
 that he should contemplate it so intently. 
 
 Euphie was knitting a little fancy stocking 
 for Mary Scott's baby, and she too seemed 
 intently occupied with her own thoughts. After 
 a space, however, she spoke — thinking aloud, 
 more than anything else. 
 
 * No, I cannot help it ; but I am not a bit 
 changed in my nature — that is, from that after- 
 noon in which I ran off in desperation from 
 Inweerie.' 
 
 ' By the by — I was always going to ask you, 
 if it be a fair question — was it really from Syme 
 you ran away?' asked Tom, turning from the 
 window and resuming his chair opposite hers. 
 
 * Well, yes, chiefly that ; but I had also found 
 out that Nannie Lyn was not my mother ' — 
 
 * Not your mother ! ' exclaimed Tom. 
 
 ' No. I forgot ; of course you know nothing 
 
1 86 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 of all that, lieutenant. Well, I must tell you. 
 Surely you cannot think I could have left my 
 mother, no matter what her faults ? ' 
 
 ' I left mine,' grinned Tom. 
 
 'Ah, but you were a little thoughtless boy, 
 and a very independent and plucky one at your 
 age. But I was a grown-up young woman, 
 capable of consideration and thought, and — 
 But I will tell you all about it.' 
 
 Thereupon she repeated to him the story 
 Thomas Mathers had told her concerning her 
 parentage, to Tom's unbounded astonishment 
 and wonder. 
 
 ' Then you were more in my line, after all % ' 
 he said cheerfully. 
 
 'And when Mrs. Lyn insisted upon my 
 marrying yon creature, knowing all the time she 
 had no authority whatever, not being my mother, 
 well, I rebelled and left her.' 
 
 ' And jolly right you were, too,' assented 
 Tom warmly. 
 
 ' You think I did right, then, lieutenant 1' asked 
 Euphie, with an inner light kindling in her eyes. 
 
 * I say you pointed due north,' Tom responded, 
 without hesitation. 
 
 ' I wonder what you would say if you knew 
 the whole story % Mrs. Lyn did worse than 
 that, even. I could forgive her anxiety for me 
 to marry a man I hated, but not for coming in 
 between me and the man I loved.' 
 
 ' Eh ! — what's that % ' queried Tom, with an 
 unpleasant start. 
 
 ' Did you never hear, Tom — did none of them 
 ever mention me in connection witli Andrew 
 Craig?' 
 
A las for Tain I 187 
 
 * Oh, Andrew that went to Australia % Well, 
 now, I recall some bit of gossip about you and 
 he being lad and lass at school, but I understood 
 that was all over long before he went away.' 
 
 The lieutenant spoke in an easy, unconcerned 
 tone, but the expression of keen, pained interest 
 on his face he could not hide. 
 
 Fortunately, Euphie was not looking at him 
 at all ; her eyes were intent on the stocking she 
 was knitting. 
 
 ' You seemed to doubt my friendship a while 
 ago,' she said, with a })itif al, appealing smile. ' I 
 am going to prove how much I think of you, 
 and how highly I prize your friendship, by 
 confiding to you a hidden chapter of my heart's 
 history.' 
 
 ' Certainly, certainly,' said Tom irrelevantly. 
 
 ' Ever since I had been a little girl at school I 
 think I was as fond of him as a girl could be.' 
 
 ' Quite right and proper.' 
 
 ' And somehow, when we grew up, it was 
 always the same. You know the fashion, as it 
 always has been, how they walk up into the 
 country in the summer Sunday evenings ? 
 Andrew M'alked with no one but me, and I 
 walked with no one but him. Then Mrs. Lyn 
 took it into her head that I should marry Syme, 
 and he began to come to the house of evenings, 
 and how it all happened I know not yet, but a 
 coolness came between Andrew and me, and he 
 pretended to take up with Mary, your sister-in- 
 law ; but Mary assures me there was never 
 anything whatever between them. I think he 
 had heard of Syme, and was angry. Then, when 
 he had gone away, I found that ^Irs. Lyn had 
 
1 88 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 been at the bottom of it all ; and I found she 
 had kept back a letter he had sent asking me to 
 meet him. That cut the last tie between me 
 and Mrs. Lyn, and I ran away.' 
 
 * A-ahem ! ' Tom had intended to say some- 
 thing ; but he could not, — he had grown quite 
 white, — so he cleared his throat again, and said, 
 with an evident effort — 
 
 ' And how are things now % ' 
 
 ' Just as they were, lieutenant,' said Euphie, 
 suppressing a sigh, — 'just as they were. Kor 
 Avill they ever be altered for me. Pie went away 
 thinking me hard and untrue, thinking I had 
 been playing with his feelings all the time. He 
 wrote and told mo he would never see a face like 
 mine without thinking there was a false heart 
 behind it.' 
 
 ' Confound his impudence ! ' blurted Tom. 
 
 ' Hush, lieutenant ! You would have done the 
 same had you been treated as he had been by 
 Nannie Lyn. And, to cap the climax, his mother 
 before her death wrote and told him that I had 
 robbed and attempted to murder Bob Syme ! ' 
 
 Euphie turned to the lieutenant with a rueful 
 smile ; but he had leant his elbow on the table, 
 and his face was hidden by his hand, all but his 
 beard. 
 
 ' Is it not pitiful ? ' she continued. ' He at the 
 one end of the earth, and I at the other — two 
 people loving each other sincerely, and yet with 
 all this ocean of miserable misunderstanding 
 between us ! ' 
 
 ' I suppose, if he sent for you, you would go 
 yet ? ' he said lightly, as he straightened himself 
 up. * You ladies are queer mortals.' 
 
Alas for Tarn ! 189 
 
 * Yes, lieutenant. If Andrew Craig wanted 
 me, I Avould go to him — to the uttermost parts 
 of the earth — now.' 
 
 Tom uttered a short laugli, and started to his 
 feet. 
 
 * I must be going,' he said, looking at his watch. 
 ' Must you go so soon ? ' said Euphie, with 
 
 real regret. ' I'm afraid I have bored and tired 
 you with my old-fashioned personal affairs % ' 
 
 ' Xot at all, not at all,' protested Tom, with 
 a great semblance of gaiety and good spirits. 
 ' But the old lady at Inweerie will think I have 
 bolted again. Good-bye — Euphie ! ' 
 
 He stood on the threshold of the door holding 
 her hand as though he could not let go, gazing 
 into her eyes with the look of a wounded deer in 
 his own. Suddenly he raised her hand to his 
 lips, and turned away with a husky — 
 
 ' God bless you ! ' 
 
 In a few more minutes he was out of the town, 
 and was striding blindly on towards Inweerie, — 
 blindly, as by instinct, for the light had faded 
 from the day and the sunshine from the land 
 for aught he saw. The hope he had been 
 cherishing more than he knew — the sweet intoxi- 
 cation of human love in which he had been 
 revelling so joyously of late, under the influence 
 of which heart and soul and mind had been 
 expanding, the first love he had ever felt for 
 woman — had been suddenly and ruthlessly 
 crushed. From the Paradise he had been 
 dreaming of he had been suddenly brought back 
 to the stern and stale and commonplace facts of 
 life, and the experience was bitter — bitter. 
 
 ' I'll have to be off to-night, mother,' he said 
 
190 E tip hie Lyn. 
 
 next morning, as he pushed aside his breakfast 
 without tasting it. 
 
 ' Wliat ! awa' a'ready, Tarn ? I thocht ye was 
 to get a twermonth. Hae ye got your mairchin' 
 orders % ' 
 
 ' Yes, mother. I've got my marching orders 
 in double-quick style,' said Tom grindy. 
 
 ' Aweel, laddie,' sighed Mrs. Gowans, with 
 forced resignation, * I fancy what maun be, 
 maun be. I ocht to be thankfu' to God that let 
 ye come back weel an' in honour to me. But 
 ye'll aye write hame to your auld faither an' 
 mither, Tani ; for mony a sair greet I've grittin 
 aboot ye, laddie, an' mony a time an' sair I rued 
 being sae sharp wi' ye when ye was a bairn. 
 An', Tani, when ye get a wife, my man, ye'll no' 
 forget me a'thegither, will ye, my laddie ? ' 
 
 Tam threw his arms about her neck and kissed 
 the cheek that was weather-beaten and wrinkled, 
 and wet with tears of love find regret. 
 
 'Mother,' he said,- looking into ':he old eyes 
 that seemed to devour him with hungering love, 
 'I'll never marry any woman as long as you 
 and my father live. I'll write and send plenty 
 to keep you comfortable all your days ; so don't 
 bother about me. There, kiss me, mother.' 
 
 He kissed her again and again, and she was 
 comforted, for did ever mother have such a 
 loving son ! How was she to know that the 
 pain at her son's heart was more keen, more 
 bitter, more unappeasable than her own — the 
 pain of a love that could know no fruition. 
 Alas ! the mother - love, grateful and pleasant 
 though it was, could in nowise make up for the 
 lack of that other. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 FROM THE ANTIPODES, 
 
 woman of average intelligence could 
 possibly misinterpret tlie look in Tom 
 (rowans' eyes as he liatle good-bye to 
 Eupliie that day. It flashed upon her the truth 
 he had so successfully hidden hitherto, and with 
 her nerves thrilling with the sudden realisation 
 of it, with a vain and pitiful regret that it should 
 be so, she came in and sat down to think. 
 
 Euphie was not the kind of woman to find 
 a cruel pleasure in seeing a man suffer because 
 she had unhappily become? too dear to him. 
 What she felt now was only pain and regret, 
 and a dangerously tender pity for the man whose 
 love she could not return. She was also dis- 
 mayed and perplexed about their future relations. 
 He had been so good to her — championing and 
 defending her good name ; he was so unaffectedly 
 affable and kind ; they had begun to be such 
 confidential friends. Alas ! what was she to do, 
 if he were to keep coming and looking at her 
 like that 1 She felt she could not bear it ; for, 
 in spite of all his manly loveworthiness, he was 
 not Andrew Craig. And deep in her heart 
 there was ever the latent hope that somewhere, 
 
 191 
 
192 EjipJiie Lyn. 
 
 some day, sooner or later, tliey would meet 
 again, and then — Not once during all the 
 wanderinfjs of the past eventful years had she 
 ceased to regret him. It seemed, indeed, as if 
 in these early days the thought of him, and the 
 love of him, liad been a part of her being. 
 
 Meantime, when Tom came back next week, 
 how was she to hide from him the consciousness 
 that she knoAV him not only for a friend, but for 
 a lover? The thought worried and tormented 
 her for days ; Imt next week Tom did not come. 
 Instead, there came a letter with the London 
 post-mark on the outside, and on the inside these 
 brief sentences : — ■ 
 
 ' Dear Friend, — As you see by this, I am off. 
 I left the night after I saw you, so could not go 
 along to Leven. This is just to say good-bye, 
 and God for ever bless you. — Always and ever 
 your friend, T. Gowans, 
 
 ' Lieut. H.M.S. Belleroplwn.' 
 
 Perhaps it was M'omanly weakness, perhaps 
 regret for the loss of a friend when friends were 
 so few, perhaps some touch of self-pity for her 
 own lone situation — hard to tell what it was 
 touched her so ; but Euphie went out from her 
 class and took a lonely cry to herself over this 
 note. 
 
 And it must be confessed that for a consider- 
 able time after this the days seemed long, 
 intoleraV;, ^ong, and she would very gladly have 
 seen Tom, with his winsome, debonair manner, 
 once more coming up the street. It was August 
 now, and the corn was ripening to the harvest, 
 
From the Antipodes. 193 
 
 and she reflected how the herring drave would 
 soon be in full swing in old Inweerie, with the 
 boats coming in deep sunk to the gunwales with 
 their silvery freight in the grey dawn of the 
 autumn morning. She smiled ruefully as she 
 remembered with what girlish energy of hope 
 and joy and inspiration of love she had gone to 
 work for the herring-curers that year, thinking 
 to earn something of her own wherewith to go 
 housekeeping with Andrew at the end of the 
 drave. And now — ah me ! ah me ! And yet, 
 in a way, it might be for the best ; for her mind 
 had been developed, her education by travel 
 and otherwise had fitted her to enjoy the 
 highest and best of life, and, for aught she 
 knew, it might be the same with Andrew Craig. 
 Certainly, with a wider experience, such an 
 earnest mind as his must have expanded, and of 
 necessity taken broader views of life. She had 
 grown lenient to Nannie Lyn, recognising in her 
 acts the workings of a small and narrow mind 
 seeking to gratify its own petty ambitions, heed- 
 less of a species of suffering she could not 
 imagine. What, after all, had Xannie done more 
 than is being done every daj^ among people hold- 
 ing their heads much higher in society — every- 
 where, indeed, where principle is lost in the 
 love of money 1 As the winter wore on, she often 
 found herself wondering where the hard-visaged, 
 black-browed woman could have hid herself in 
 that distant North country — wondering why she 
 had left Inweerie at all. 
 
 Such thoughts would flit across Euphie's mind, 
 like cloud shadows over the hills, as she sat alone 
 after her class had gone home for the day ; and 
 
 13 
 
194 Euphie Lyn, 
 
 meanwhile spring wore on, with gusts of wind, 
 and warm rains, and joyous bursts of sunshine ; 
 and ere long, summer, with music of birds, was 
 in the land, — Nature working everywhere her 
 miracles of loveliest colour, until the very ditches 
 bloomed into beauty and fragrance. 
 
 But with the passing seasons Euphie's health 
 began to droop ; not even the visits to old In- 
 weerie could keep up her spirits for long vX a 
 time. For, with all her financial comfort, she felt 
 the lack of kith and kin of her own, and she 
 could not but see that the presents for the 
 children which she invariably brought had not 
 a little to do with the welcome she got from 
 Mary Scott. 
 
 She was glad when the end of June came, 
 so that she could i)ack up and go away some- 
 where — to the North country, perhaps, to hunt 
 up Nannie Lyn, and bring her home to live 
 with her. 
 
 Her spirits rose somewhat with the excitement 
 of packing ; the little servant girl whom she 
 kept had been let off for a holiday to attend a 
 picnic, and toward the end of the afternoon she 
 had finished all she had to do, and was ready to 
 start in the morning. 
 
 She sat down by the window to rest a while, 
 feeling desperately weary of life, and desperately 
 ill-pleased with herself for being so weary. For 
 had she not been wonderfully provided for, 
 everything considered? What an ungrateful, 
 discontented wretch she was, to be sure ! How 
 many nice, agreeable friends she had made 
 through the medium of her little school here ! 
 How happy and grateful she ought to be ! But 
 
From the Antipodes. 195 
 
 she wasn't — very far from it, indeed. Surely she 
 had been born to dissatisfaction with life ! 
 
 Her gloomy thought" were interrupted by a 
 rap of the knocker, and t > listlessly went to 
 the door. It was a one-armed man, in a white 
 hat. 
 
 'Does Miss Hertzman live here? You are 
 Miss Hertzman % ' 
 
 ' I am.' And then the man and the woman 
 stood staring at each other across the vanished 
 years. She, seeing a grave, handsome man, 
 comely of countenance, heavily bearded, in light 
 tweeds, with a Panama hat that shaded his eyes, 
 and, alas ! one arm gone from below the elbow ; 
 he, looking at a pale, sweet, worn face, still 
 framed in the abundant flaxen hair, much thinner 
 and older and more refined than he rememT)ered 
 her, but still — Euphie ! 
 
 Recognition dawned in her eyes ; she grew 
 pale as death, and swayed as if about to fall. 
 She did not faint, however ; it was only a passing 
 touch of vertigo, and presently she stood up 
 straight and looked at him again. 
 
 'J[s it really you, Andrew]' she breathed, 
 with her hand extended. ' I would never have 
 known you.' 
 
 ' No 1 ' he said cheerily. * I knew you at 
 once.' 
 
 She shut the door, and led the way into the 
 parlour, and they both sat down. 
 
 The silence that followed was becoming 
 embarrassing ; each felt, somehow, a stranger to 
 the other — felt the change time had wrought on 
 each. For this quiet-mannered, refined woman 
 was not the bright, lively, happy Euphie Lyn 
 
196 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 Andrew had loved over seven years ago ; nor 
 could Kupliie see in this grave and tlioughtful 
 man, witli the great heard and shortened arm, 
 the ruddy, clean-shaven hoy wliose image she 
 had cherished all tliese years. The sense of 
 strangeness was strong upon hoth, hut there 
 was no chill of disappointment in it ; it was 
 improvement, not deterioration. 
 
 ' Did you come from Inwceric to-day % ' asked 
 Eupliie, trying to speak unconcernedly. 
 
 ' Xo ; I came straight from London to Edin- 
 hurgh, and on to Leven here,' he replied. 
 
 ' Oh ! Then you must want some tea. Just 
 excuse me a moment,' 
 
 She glided swiftly out of the room, and ran 
 into the kitchen to stir the fire and lift on the 
 kettle, and then she was fain to sit down into a 
 chair, her limbs were trembling so. 
 
 Ah ! He had come — at last — and looking so 
 grave and handsome ! Was that really her old 
 boy lover, Andrew Craig? Far more dangerous 
 to her peace of mind, far more a man after her 
 own heart now, than even in these bygone years. 
 Here, she felt, was a man of quick intelligence, 
 and with a mind of his own. She had noted 
 that, as soon as he had doffed his Panama hat. 
 He had also come to her first. Oh, what had 
 he come for 1 But the question suddenly struck 
 her : — how had ho known to come here ? And 
 she under a different name, too? He said he 
 had not been to Inweerie — where, then, had he 
 been to get information about her ? Who could 
 have told him ? It puzzled her as she bustled 
 about and spread a tray with such good things as 
 she had in the house ; however, it didn't matter, 
 
From tJie Antipodes. 197 
 
 he was here again, lie luid lost an arm, poor 
 fellow — but how ? 
 
 8he was pvimed full of interrogations as she 
 entered the room again with the tea. Andrew 
 was standing at the window, looking out over 
 the Forth, when she opened the door, and he 
 turned to her with a smile. 
 
 ' It does me good to see them shooting 
 their lines over yonder again,' he said ; and 
 Eu[)hie recognised the old mellow tone of his 
 voice. 
 
 ' Yes ; I never feel far ixowi home when I can 
 see a brown lug-sail on the water,' she responded. 
 ' Now, come and have some tea.' 
 
 ' This looks as if I were welcome,' he said, 
 looking at her. 
 
 ' Welcome ! You must surely know that any 
 one from Inweerie is welcome here.' 
 
 The smile left his eyes, but he murmured, * 1 
 suppose so.' 
 
 She filled a cup of tea and passed it to him, 
 and also helped him to bread and butter, noting 
 with a pang of pity that he had but his right 
 hand to use. Andrew kept stirring his tea, but 
 tasting nothing. 
 
 ' You have come home to stay, have you 1 * 
 
 * I don't know yet ; it depends.' 
 
 ' Well, you couldn't have chosen a better time,' 
 she said. 'It is so much more pleasant now 
 than if you had come in winter.' 
 
 * Oh, the season of the year would have made 
 no difference. I came away whenever you sent 
 for me.' 
 
 Euphie laid down the cup which she had 
 raised to her lips, and stared at him. 
 
198 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 'As soon as I was told j'ou wanted me, I 
 came,' he added. 
 
 He kept stirring his tea gravely as he spoke, 
 not once looking at her ; but Euphie had risen 
 and was confronting him with flashing eyes. 
 Evidently she was controlling herself with an 
 effort. 
 
 ' You will excuse me, ^Ir. Craig, if I tell you 
 vou are mistaken. You have made a terrible 
 
 c. 
 
 mistake if you think I sent for you.' 
 
 Andrew pushed back his cup and rose too, 
 pale as death. 
 
 ' A mistake ! Did you not send a message 
 that you wished to see me % ' he demanded, with 
 sudden sternness. 
 
 * I ! You must be mad ! Oh, oh ! ' she cried ; 
 and, unable longer to control her overstrained 
 feelings, she covered her face with her hands 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 When she again looked up, Andrew Craig, 
 with his back to the opposite wall, was regarding 
 her in stern wonder and doubt. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Mr. Craig ; I have not 
 been so strong recently, and it has been such a 
 surprise your coming — and you thinking I could 
 possibly so far forget myself as to say I wanted 
 you.' 
 
 ' Then you really don't want me ? ' 
 
 ' I sent no message, I. assure you. Whoever 
 wrote you such an absurd statement ? ' 
 
 ' No one wrote to me. Tom Gowans, an old 
 schoolfellow of ours — of mine, I mean — came to 
 the warehouse where I was book-keeper, and told 
 me that you wanted me.' 
 
 ' Tom Gowans % ' gasped Euphie. 
 
From the Antipodes. 199 
 
 'Tom Gowans — and I was fool enough to 
 believe him.' 
 
 Euphie was thunderstruck ; but the shock 
 brought her to herself, and to her mindfulness 
 of her duty as a hostess. 
 
 ' Sit down,' she said, resuming her own chair ; 
 but Andrew bowed stiffly, and, thanking her, 
 said he would stand the few minutes he had 
 now to stay. 
 
 So Tom Gowans had shipped himself off to 
 Melbourne to bring back to her the man she had 
 confessed she still loved ? How like Tom it was ! 
 — especially in the way of accomplishing his 
 end — on the principle that the end justified the 
 means. 
 
 * I am very, very sorry,' said Euphie sincerely. 
 * Lieutenant Gowans knowing that — that — well, 
 you know, things are long remembered here, and 
 he had taken it into his head ' — 
 
 ' He told me that you told him, and you must 
 have said something to him. How otherwise 
 could he have known that my letter was opened 
 and kept back from you by Xannie Lyn % ' 
 
 ' Well,' said Euphie faintly, ' of course I did 
 tell him about that, but to say that I — that I ' — 
 
 ' That vou wanted me was a lie — eh ? Well, 
 then, Euphie, I am sorry to have intruded where 
 I was not wanted. You need not tell any of the 
 Inweerie folks that you have seen me. Do me 
 that favour, at least. I shall go back with the 
 ship I came on.' 
 
 His words were clear and incisive, and cut her 
 sharply, as he slipped his one hand into his vest 
 and pulled out his watch. 
 
 He took up his hat and prepared to go ; but 
 
200 EnpJiie Lyn. 
 
 she rose up from lier chair and motioned him 
 back. 
 
 * No, no, not yet. You must take something 
 back before you go,' she said desperately, and, 
 opening an escritoire which stood in a corner, she, 
 with shaking hands, pulled out some letters from 
 a private draAver. As she did so, something fell 
 to the floor. 
 
 ' Allow me,' he said, and, stooping, picked up 
 the old book-mark. 
 
 'Oh, it is not that — not that — it is this.^ 
 And she picked out the letter he had written in 
 his rage and sent to her. He looked at it, and a 
 red flush rose to his face as she watched him. 
 
 * I must ask you to forgive this,' he said. * I 
 was furiously angry and insulted by that horrible 
 valentine you sent me, and ' — 
 
 * I send you a valentine ! Now, pray, what 
 next ? ' 
 
 'Euphie,' he exclaimed, as if a light had 
 suddenly dawned on him, ' we are no longer rash 
 youngsters, as in those dear old days. But that 
 there has been some devilry at work here is 
 as clear as daylight. I got an abominable low 
 caricature in answer to the note I sent with the 
 book-mark, and in my anger over it I wrote that 
 back to you.' Euphie clasped her hands together 
 tightly. 
 
 ' God forgive you, Nannie Lyn, wherever you 
 are,' she murmured. ' But how could you believe 
 that I could do that — when ' — 
 
 ' Well, I shall not go back to Australia with- 
 out making you understand one thing, Euphie. 
 I have loved you all along, in spite of everything 
 — in spite of myself, indeed. I shall love no 
 
From the Antipodes. 201 
 
 other woman while I live. There, it can't be 
 helped, I suppose.' 
 
 He tore up Uie odious letter into fragments, 
 and crushed them in his hand. 
 
 ' This ' — he resumed, holding up the book- 
 mark ; but here he suddenly stopped and laid it 
 down before her. 
 
 Her face flushed crimson. She took it up, and 
 after a moment's hesitation, held it out to him 
 again, with appealing eyes. 
 
 When the little girl came home from the 
 picnic, she came slipping noiselessly along the 
 carpeted hall to the parlour to tell her mistress 
 she had got home. But when she got to the 
 door and was about to knock, she found it open, 
 and profound silence within. The mistress, 
 surely, was out, or up-stairs. She stepped inside, 
 but darted back like a guilty thing. For there 
 was the mistress standing over near the window, 
 with a gentleman's arm about her waist and 
 her arms about his neck, holding each other 
 fast — as though they could never let go again — 
 and all the time saying never a word ! 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ANOTHER VISITOR FROM THE ANTIPODES. 
 
 ^HAT'S all very well, my dear, but I 
 couldn't afford to lose my self-respect by 
 sponging upon my wife, no matter if she 
 was twice as well off,' said Andrew Craig to 
 Euphie, about a week after their quiet marriage. 
 ' I have letters of recommendation here from the 
 firm which employed me in Melbourne, and if 
 you wouldn't mind going to Edinburgh to live, 
 I think I can get a book-keeper's position there. 
 I have a letter to my employer's brother, and 
 another to his cousin. You know, my wife, 
 though I am a poor man, I feel like retaining 
 my independence. And then I should rust 
 doing nothing. It is impossible, so don't speak 
 of such a thing ; I must work.' 
 
 He was arguing against Euphie's proposition 
 that they should go into the country and together 
 live quietly on her money ; for Andrew had come 
 home almost as poor as when he had gone away, 
 though through no fault of his. 
 
 He had gone straight to the diggings when he 
 first went out, and had met with more than usual 
 success. The ' luck ' seemed to be with him, 
 much to the envy of some less fortunate and less 
 
 202 
 
Another Visitor ft'oni the Antipodes. 203 
 
 scrupulous diggers, whose cupidity was aroused 
 by Andrew's good fortune. They were a motley 
 crowd at the diggings ; of all kindreds and tongues, 
 and Andrew began to see that if he was to save 
 h'j gold he must get off to Melbourne with it as 
 soon as possible. He had already hidden it in 
 an improvised leather belt, which he wore about 
 his body while he slept. All his plans were laid ; 
 he was to leave on the morrow for Melbourne, 
 glad to get away from the living hell which the 
 place had become to him. For hours he lay 
 awake, kept from sleep by some subtle presenti- 
 ment of coming evil. A hushed movement in the 
 tent made him start up ; he felt the belt at his 
 waist grappled, and being cut by a sharp knife. 
 
 He tried to cry out, but powerful hands held 
 him down and gagged him. ^None the less, he 
 fought hard for his gold. He struck out wildly, 
 but his left arm was seized as in a vice, wrenched 
 and twisted till he fainted with the pain. When 
 he came to, his gold was gone ; nor, though he 
 made an alarm, could any trace of the robbers be 
 found. The bone of his arm was crushed so badly 
 that he had to be carried into Melbourne to the 
 infirmary, where it was amputated at the elbow. 
 
 The loss of it well-nigh broke Andrew's heart ; 
 he was young, and with a strong love of comeli- 
 ness, and the idea of going through life maimed 
 in this fashion was intolerable. But after a 
 little he got over it somewhat, and then the 
 question presented itself. How was he to earn 
 his living now ? Hard work was impossible ; 
 he must get something which could be done 
 with one hand only. The doctor, who had 
 heard his story, asked him if he knew anything 
 
204 EtipJue Lyn. 
 
 of book-keeping. Andrew shook his head and 
 answered 'No.' But after he had left the 
 hospital the idea took root in his mind. 
 
 He had always been the head boy in the school 
 at arithmetic, he wrote a fair round hand, why 
 could he not learn book-keeping 1 
 
 Fortunately, he still possessed a small nugget 
 of gold, which he had left out, wrapped in a 
 piece of paper, and carried in his coat pocket. 
 This the robbers at the diggings had not cared 
 to search, and besides, some more humane and 
 sympathetic companions, pitying his misfortune, 
 had insisted on his acceptance of a few morsels 
 of their own pile, which he could dispose of 
 when he got to Melbourne. 
 
 With this he had sufficient to keep him for a 
 year or so, and, as he said, setting * a stout heart 
 to a stey brae,' he entered as a pupil in a small 
 business college in a quiet part of the town, and 
 there learnt how to begin life over again. 
 
 The fees were high, very high, but then every- 
 thing else was at an extravagant rate in these 
 days of digging for gold. 
 
 So quickly did Andrew learn, so thoroughly 
 did he master the art of book-keeping, and such 
 a talent for arithmetic did he show, that in six 
 months he was asked to become the teacher's 
 assistant, at a fair salary. He taught for a year, 
 but at the end of it accepted a situation as book- 
 keeper in a large warehouse, which had beei\ 
 offered him through the influence of some friends. 
 Here he continued, until one day the arrival of 
 Lieutenant Gowans broke in upon the even 
 tenor of his life, when he threw up the situation, 
 found a substitute, and came over to Euphie 
 
Another Visitor from the Anti^wdes. 205 
 
 Lyn, whom Tom Gowans, with the most noble 
 and self-effacing intentions, had represented as 
 requiring his presence in Leven as soon as a 
 keel could carry him thither. 
 
 Euphie found it easy to forgive Tom the grim 
 humour of the trick he had played on Andrew. 
 It was his way of doing things ; and when she 
 considered the personal secret he had uncon- 
 sciously betrayed when last she saw him, she 
 began to understand the nobility underlying it 
 all, and felt very tender toward him. 
 
 Andrew listened with great surprise when his 
 wife explained to him that she had enough to 
 keep both in comfort. Tom had certainly told 
 him how Euphie had been left a little, and was 
 turning her knowledge of the languages she had 
 learned into account by keeping a 'sort of 
 school,' as he called it, but he seemed astounded 
 when he learned the whole amount that had 
 been willed to her. 
 
 To reconcile himself to the idea of living with- 
 out work, however, was a simple impossibility to 
 Andrew Craig, and, finding him not to be moved 
 from his resolution, Euphie consented to go to 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 *But first we must go to Inweerie,' she said; and 
 one fine day the rumour went eddying through 
 the town that Andrew Craig was back, minus an 
 arm, but with a wife — and who but Euphie Lyn ! 
 As they passed down the familiar street, nodding 
 and saluting all whom they met, the women came 
 to the doors and looked after them, with arms 
 akimbo, and faces full of kindly interest. 
 
 ' Me ! I thocht Tam Gowans was coortin' 
 her? They say she has bawbees.' 
 
2o6 E up hie Lyit. 
 
 ' Aweel, they're a wise-like couple; but I wonder 
 hoc he lost his airm ? The folk are awfu* rough 
 in. thae ootlandish places like Austreelyie.' 
 
 And so on went the comments ; for the wives 
 of Inweerie did not sneak in behind lace curtains 
 to peep at strangers passing, but honestly came 
 out to make a personal inspection in the open 
 air, commenting audibly thereon in the hearing 
 of all whom it might concern. 
 
 After a day and a night spent in the dear old 
 place, renewing old friendships, and hearing of 
 all that had transpired in his absence, Andrew 
 left his wife with Mary Scott, while he pro- 
 ceeded to attend to his own personal business in 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 'Me, Euphie, ye could liae knockit me doon 
 wi' a feather when I saw you an' Andrae come 
 in,' said Mary, as they sat talking, when the 
 children had all gone to sle(jp. * I canna mind 
 wha it was said it, I'm sure, but it was aboot 
 twa year syne, somebody frae Anst'er had gotten 
 a letter, and spoke aboot Andrae Craig bein' 
 marrit.' 
 
 Euphie laughed musically. 
 
 ' He's married now, at all events, hard and 
 fast,' she said, with a happy smile ; for a great 
 deal of the buoyant joyousness of her nature had 
 returned to her with her new-found happiness. 
 
 Mary laughed too at the idea of such a thing. 
 
 * I declare, Euphie, ye're no' safe to turn ower 
 a word ye hear. Look what they said aboot you 
 an' Bob Syme ; an' then they tuk it i' their 
 heads that Tarn Gowans was after ye, an' you 
 keepin' up the correspondence wi' Andrae a' the 
 time ! ' 
 
Another Visitor from the Antipodes. 207 
 
 Euphie merely smiled again. She did not en- 
 lighten Mary as to the cause of Andrew's sudden 
 reappearance on the scene ; there was no neces- 
 sity for it. 
 
 * Bless my heart, lassie ! is this you ? An' ye're 
 Mrs. Craig now — eh?' said Thomas Mathers, 
 stepping in. ' See how broken ships can come to 
 land ! I'm just new in frae the sea, an' couldna 
 tak' atf my sea-boots till I cam' to see ye. An' 
 hoo's Andrae ^ ' 
 
 ' Oh, splendid. He's off to Edinburgh. We 
 are going to live there, you see. He was up at 
 the house, but you weren't in, of course.' 
 
 ' Eh, lassie, hoo things come aboot ! An' did 
 ye ever find oot Nannie Lyn 1 ' 
 
 ' No — I wish I could.' 
 
 Suddenly Thomas broke into a short laugh. 
 
 ' I mind aboot twa year syne there was a 
 rumour got up that Andrew was marrit, but I 
 just lauched at it. I kent better than that — eh, 
 Euphie, my lass?' 
 
 As he said this he gave her a fatherly pat on 
 the shoulder with his red, weather-beaten hand, 
 and smiled into her face significantly. 
 
 Euphie returned his smile, and responded — 
 
 * Yes, Thomas ; you were about the only one 
 who did know everything. You have got your 
 poems published, I hear.' 
 
 *Ay, my lass,' said Thomas, thrusting his 
 hand inside his vest and "drawing out a modest 
 volume in paper cover ; ' an' here's a copy for 
 yersel' to keep for the sake o' auld Inweerie.' 
 
 * No, but for the sake of yourself, Thomas. 
 And you'll come to Edinburgh and stay a few 
 days with us when the boats are laid up ? ' 
 
2o8 Euphic Lyn. 
 
 ' I will that. I enjoy a day in Aiild Reekie 
 mair than onything. Woman, when I get up 
 on yon miickle Castle rock an' look doon, it's no' 
 your Edinhurgh I see, but a great erood o' folk 
 rinnin' hurry-scurry, breathless an' pecliin', after 
 that stoury, forfouchten duel' comin' gallopin' 
 up the street wi' news frae Flodden field. Or I 
 see the Covenanters wi' firm stap an' set faces 
 marchin' up the High Street to sign the solemn 
 League an' Covenant, throwin' up a solid sea- 
 dyke again' the high tide o' Romish slavery an' 
 priestcraft settin' in. Ah, lassie, there was a 
 strong backbane in auld Scotland in thae days, 
 an' it's braw an' easy for us at this distance, 
 livin' in the peace an' freedom thae siccar auld 
 billies coft for us, to turn roond an' ca' them 
 narrow-minded bigots. Let me tell ye, it's been 
 a very gude thing for us that they were just sic 
 narrow-minded bigots — men that saw naething 
 afore them but their duty, and did it. A silver- 
 mounted cane winna pry open an aim door, it 
 needs a narrow-minded, onbendable crawbar for 
 that ; an gude be thankit, they pried open a door 
 o' freedom for us that'll never be steekit in this 
 world again. But I maun awa' hame to my tea. 
 I left Peggie roastin' a bufifed herrin' when I 
 cam' oot. There's naething I like better for a 
 bit relish than a gude buffed herrin'.' 
 
 Thomas departed; and in a couple of days 
 Andrew returned, and they went back to Leven 
 to pack up. He had been successful in securing 
 a situation ; his letter of introduction had been 
 of much service to him, and his countenance 
 had done the rest. 
 
 They found a pretty little cottage out at Morn- 
 
AtwtJier Visitor from the Antipodes 209 
 
 inj^'side, and tlioro Andrew and luipliic at last 
 fairly. lu'^'an life toLiethcr. 
 
 To each it seci. d tt)0 f,'reat lu4)j)in('.s.s to last, 
 for each found in ihe other that syinpathy and 
 friendship) which is the tvue hond of niarriaf,'e ; 
 and after all tiie misunderstanding.,' of the past, 
 it was so delicious to be ahle to love without a 
 shadow between them. 
 
 Every morning at eight Andrew left the house, 
 and every afternoon about half-])ast live ho 
 returned to the rest of his home and to Euphie, 
 who invariably came down a little way to meet 
 him. 
 
 It was a sunny morning in April, and Euphie 
 was busy about the house singing an old ballad, as 
 slie moved about dusting and arranging the })retty 
 little knick-knacks in the fairy drawing-room, 
 which she had furnished with exijuisite taste. 
 
 A ring at the bell caused her to dotl" her dust- 
 ing-cap, and she put off her apron and went to 
 the door. 
 
 A sharp-nosed, bright-eyed little woman, with 
 a little boy at her feet and a baby girl in her 
 arms, stood staring at her keenly. 
 
 ' Is this where Andrew Craig lives ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Mr. Craig lives here,' replied Euphie, 
 with some dignity. 
 
 ' I mean Andrew Craig from Melbourne, in 
 Australia. I want no mistake about it,' said 
 the woman, with resentful dilation of her thin 
 nostrils. 
 
 'Yes, it is the same Mr. Craig from Mel- 
 bourne.' 
 
 'Then I must see him at once. I am his 
 
 wife.' 
 
 14 
 
CIIAITKK XXIII, 
 
 To TIIK NOKTII COUNTWY. 
 
 STiTLS wife!' cxclainuMl i'liphic, witli an 
 (IlU. iiliriipt liui^'li. 'His wife! AVniiiun, 
 yon mnst l)e mad ! ' 
 
 'Am I?' snaiiped the woman, licr eyes spark- 
 ling -witli anger. ' I'll very soon show yon 
 whether 1 am mad or not;' and she, nnbidden, 
 walked inside, leading her little hoy hy the 
 hand, while Knphie, half stnpefied, followed 
 her in. 
 
 ' He Seems to have done pretty well at the 
 diggings t(» he ihle to set np like this,' said the 
 woman, sitting down on a parlour chair, and 
 lowering her hahy down upon her knee. 
 
 The mention of the diggings sent a cold chill 
 through Eui)hie, and sinuiltaneously there 
 flashed on her the re].)ort that 3Iary Scott and 
 Thomas Mathers had heard of Andrew being 
 married in Australia. But — go away ! the idea 
 of such a thing ; 
 
 She looked at the woman with growing an- 
 noyance, and, unable to bear her assumption of 
 proprietorship, said sharply — 
 
 'Are you aware that you are talking to Mrs. 
 Craig — Andrew Craig's wife 1 ' 
 
 210 
 
To the North Country. 2 1 1 
 
 * No, luii'ain ; it's Mrs. Craig tliiit's talking 
 to you. I'm liis lawful uiarri«!(l wife, married in 
 Melhourne four years ago. lIi; luft me and went 
 to the diggings, and never sent me a scraj)e of 
 a j)en to say whether Ik; was dead or alive fr(jm 
 that day to this. I heard that he had got rohlted 
 of the gold he got, and had his arm hroken into 
 the hargain ' — 
 
 ' Stop ! ' eried Euphie in an awful voiee, as 
 she held up her hand. ' Where is your proof of 
 any such marriage; ? ' 
 
 'Proof! Oh, 1 have proof enough. I wasn't 
 such a greenhorn as to come all this way after a 
 runaway hushand without my marriage certifi- 
 cate to prove the truth of what I say. The man 
 who could run awi " and desert his lawful wife; 
 and children is just the man to deny them if he 
 dare. Let him deny that, if he can.' 
 
 The woman as she spok(! rummaged in the 
 bosom of her dress, and drew forth a paper from 
 the inner folds of a pocket-hook ; Euphie, still as 
 a statue, looking stonily on. 
 
 ' IJo you think he will dare to deny that, or 
 the registration signed by his own hand of this 
 hoy's birth in the registry over there 1 Kead 
 'lat.' 
 
 Euphie did not touch the paper the woman 
 spread out and held up to her, but lier eyes 
 eagerly scanned the words Avhich seemed to 
 wither and dry u}) her soul within her. There 
 was the damning proof, in a fair round hand, on 
 an official form, certifying that Andrew Craig, 
 bachelor, and Anne Matthews, spinster, were 
 this day married by the Kcv, jNIr. Frazer, of the 
 Presbyterian Church, etc., all of which was 
 
212 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 duly signed by witnesses, whose names Eiiphie 
 did not care to look at. She had seen enough. 
 The expression in Euphie's face seemed to touch 
 the woman, it was so still and cold. Dark rings 
 had gathered about her eyes, her lips tightened 
 and drew back at the corners, her eyes grew dull 
 and staring ; she herself felt as if something had 
 suddenly died within her. 
 
 * I'm very sorry for you if he's deceived you, 
 and led you to think he was a single man, but 
 — there are his children.' 
 
 Euphie again put up her hand. 
 
 ' Let me think — excuse me — you are quite 
 right — I thank you — but I want time to think.' 
 
 She pressed both hands to her temples and 
 stared hard at the carpet, as if to draw some 
 meaning of all this from it, when the woman 
 rose and lifted the baby into her arms. 
 
 ' I'm very sorry for you, ma'am ; but, you see, 
 he's my lawful husband, and he's got to acknow- 
 ledge these children. I'll go away just now, and 
 come back when he's in.' 
 
 The movement and the words brought Euphie 
 back to her senses again. She grasped the 
 woman firmly and pushed her down upon the 
 chair she had risen from. 
 
 * No, it is I who must go. You stay here — 
 your place is here, in his house ; you must be 
 here when he comes home this afternoon.' 
 
 She spoke in a cool, incisive voice, devoid of 
 feeling of any kind, only conscious of a clear, 
 decisive sense of what she had to do. 
 
 'Come in here to the bedroom and take off 
 your things,' she said, leading the way into the 
 pretty little bedroom she had taken such wifely 
 
To the North Country. 2 1 3 
 
 pride in. ' Here is the wardrobe. I will empty 
 it immediately.' 
 
 With rapid movements she took her dresses 
 one hy one off the hooks and laid them upon a 
 chair, and then she mutely emptied the drawers, 
 and finally handed the woman the key. 
 
 'But, dear bless me!' protested the deserted 
 wife, * there's no hurry. I really feel it must 
 be hard on you — and ' — Here the sharp little 
 woman laid her baby upon the bed and burst out 
 crying and sobbing. 
 
 A sense of what this other woman was suffer- 
 ing struck her keenly — it seemed so hard that 
 she should be the cause of it ; but what could 
 she do ? 
 
 * Andrew Craig is a bad, wicked man to come 
 and deceive a woman like you,' she began ; but 
 Euphie silently threw her dresses over her 
 arm, and, taking her wedding bonnet and some 
 knick-knacks in her hands, prepared to leave the 
 room. 
 
 * Whenever you are ready, I shall show you 
 where everything is,' she said in a still voice, 
 and went into the kitchen. 
 
 The large travelling - trunk which Madame 
 Hertzman had bought for her, and which had 
 gone with her everywhere, stood in a lumber- 
 room off the kitchen, and she drew it out and 
 threw open the lid. As she looked into it she 
 seemed to forget what she had brought it out 
 for, and again she held her temples hard with 
 both hands. 
 
 Ah yes, she remembered now ! She was going 
 away for ever — for ever — for ever ! 
 
 The kitchen table was standing in its place 
 
214 Eitphie Lyn. 
 
 white and spotless, and Euphie spread the drosses 
 out upon it, and folded them with precise neat- 
 ness, and laid them into the trunk. Once or 
 twice Andrew Craig's face, grave and gentle, 
 looking love into hers, rose up before her 
 imagination, but she put it resolutely behind her, 
 and went on grimly with her packing. Every 
 vestige of her personal belongings — her work- 
 basket, with its thimble and scissors, and the 
 half-finished smoking-cap she had been making 
 for him — everything that could remind him 
 closely of her she took away. All else — the 
 complete furnishing of the house, furnished with 
 her own money — she left behind ; and when she 
 had filled the trunk and a valise to overflowing, 
 she went into the bedroom again. The woman 
 was sobbing softly, having taken the boy up in 
 her lap ; the baby had gone to sleep in the bed. 
 
 ' Better come and have some tea,' said Euphie 
 quietly. 
 
 ' I thank you ; I couldn't eat or drink. What's 
 the use of my coming, after all? If he had 
 cared for me he would never have left me, and 
 what's the use of a man if he doesn't care for you % 
 I wish I had stayed, and never come after him.' 
 
 ' But I am glad you did. It would have been 
 a terrible thing if you hadn't,' said Euphie, with 
 chill politeness. * Come into the kitchen, and. 
 I will show you where you can get everything. 
 Your husband will be home at half-past five ; he 
 likes his dinner then.' 
 
 There was some suppressed, compelling force 
 in Euphie's speech which made the woman get 
 up and follow her. She had expected a fearful 
 scene when she came to claim her husband, and 
 
To the North Country. 2 1 5 
 
 had braced herself up for it, but this passive 
 acquiescence in the situation baffled her. At 
 the first look she had been angrily jealous of 
 Euphie's blithe beauty ; the dark eyes and rare 
 flaxen hair and pleasant countenance made her 
 heart sink within her. She felt that her husband 
 would never look at her after marrying such a 
 woman. But Euphie's silent suffering, the mute 
 agony, the immediate renuncic'.tnin of what she 
 had considered her rights, completely disarmed 
 the angry woman ; it was all so different from 
 what she had anticipated, she felt ashamed of 
 having, without merciful forewarning, sprung 
 such a mine under her feet. 
 
 ' You will find everything in fair order,' said 
 Euphie. * Ah, here is the butcher's boy for the 
 order. What would you like to order for 
 dinner % ' 
 
 ' Dinner ! Is it dinner you think of at a time 
 like this % ' 
 
 Euphie stepped outside. 
 
 'Send up two pounds of steak,' she said to 
 the boy, who stood in the open doorway ; ' and 
 when you go past the livery stable, will you 
 please tell them to send up a hack in about 
 lialf an hour or so?' 
 
 ' The boy^ will bring the meat as usual,' she 
 announced, re-entering the kitchen. ' And now 
 I will leave you here to make yourself acquainted 
 with the house, while 1 go and write a letter.' 
 
 The woman began to look scared ; this still, 
 business-like way of taking such a serious, 
 emotional matter frighteneel her, sharp and 
 snappy though she was. 
 
 ' You'll surely not go away and leave me in 
 
2 1 6 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 a strange house until he comes % ' she said, with 
 new timidity. 
 
 ' It is your own liouse— your husband's house ; 
 your place is here. There should be no third 
 party to your meeting.' 
 
 * He'll kill nie ! ' exclaimed the woman, with 
 a gesture of despair. 
 
 Euphie started, spurred to some show of feel- 
 ing by the woman's utter dejection. 
 
 * Kill you ! Who will kill you ? ' 
 
 * Craig — Andrew Craig. Oh, he has a dread- 
 ful temper when he's roused.' 
 
 Once more the vision of Andrew, with his 
 grave, kindly eyes and thoughtful smile, rose up 
 before Euphie, and once more she put it behind 
 her. This woman was sharp-tongued and pro- 
 voking — perhaps she had provoked him to anger, 
 and he had enough manly fire in him to resist 
 womanish nagging. 
 
 * Don't say anything to anger him, be as for- 
 bearing as you can,' she said, and left the woman 
 to her own thoughts. She had not once looked 
 at the little boy. She would not allow her eyes 
 to fall upon this woman's son who called Andrew 
 Craig father, and it grated on her ear to hear 
 his childish voice in the house. 
 
 Euphie had bought Andrew, among other 
 things, a handsome writing-desk as a special 
 marriage present, and now she sat down to indite 
 a last note to him. With the act of communi- 
 cating with him, a wild, irresistible wave of 
 tenderness and regret swampec her resolution 
 for a moment or two ; but she struggled against 
 it and overcame it, and steeled her heart against 
 him. She would not allow herself to think of 
 
To tJie North Country. 217 
 
 him in connection with her at all ; she tried to 
 laugh at the completeness of her disillusion, and 
 she took a sort of grim, puritanic })leasure in 
 showing how liberally she could heap coals of 
 fire upon his head. 
 
 First, she stated the fact of his wife's arrival. 
 Second, as in duty bound, she now abdicated in 
 favour of his wife, the writer being no wife at 
 all. Third, she left everything within the house 
 to him, his wife, and children, taking with her 
 only her personal wardrobe and sundry souvenirs 
 of Madame Hertzman. Fourth, there was also 
 a sum of money in the secret drawer of this 
 desk, which she left as a present to the children. 
 Fifth, he was earnestly implored to d.o liis duty 
 as a man to those who w^ere legally as well 
 as naturally his own, antl to rest assured that 
 their lives would never be disturbed by the 
 presence of — Euphie Lyn Hertzman. 
 
 This precise document she enclosed in an 
 envelope, but did not seal it. 
 
 ' Will you please give this to your husband 
 when he conies homer she said, entering the 
 kitchen fully attired for travelling. 
 
 ' Oh, for God's sake, don't go till he comes 
 home ! He'll be so mad to think I've traced 
 him all the way here,' pleaded the v;oman ; but 
 Euphie quietly pointed to a hack turning the 
 corner of the street. 
 
 * Good-bye. There is the cal).' 
 
 The bell rang furiously, and Euphie opened 
 the door, and pointed to her travelling - trunk 
 and valise. 
 
 'There's no address on 'em,' observed the 
 smart cabby. 
 
2i8 Etiphie Lyn, 
 
 ' Oh, I forgot. Never mmd, take them as 
 they are.' 
 
 She followed him out, taking the heavy valise 
 in her own hand, in order to shut the door of 
 Andrew Craig's house upon herself the sooner. 
 
 * Where to ? ' asked cabby, gathering up the 
 reins. 
 
 Where to % ' she echoed, with a vacant stare. 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 'Well, missus,' said cabby patronisingly, 'I 
 can drive you 'most anywhere, but I'm Ijlowed 
 if I can drive you to nowhere.' 
 
 * Ah — let me see — to Banff ! ' exclaimed 
 Euphie, with evident relief. 
 
 ' But, ma'am, this here's a city cab, and Banff 
 is some couple o' hundred miles north, you see. 
 That's too long a fare for a city hack.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. To the station — the 
 AVaverley Station.' 
 
 * Here's a runnny go ! ' muttered cabby, and 
 drove rapidly off. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE pedlar's information 
 
 "MT was a * rummy go ' indeed, for it had never 
 jjf once struck Euphie where she could go ; the 
 one overmastering idea, shutting out all 
 others, was to get away — away from sight and 
 sound of Andrew Craig and his Australian wife. 
 But when compelled to face the question of "where, 
 her thoughts instinctively reverted to Xannie 
 Lyn, and Banff was the first name that occurred 
 to her as being in that vague 'North country.' 
 
 She went into the booking-office at the 
 Waverley Station and got her trunks labelled 
 with that calm, mechanical method which some 
 natures assume when conscious of a terrible 
 calamity having overtaken them, feeling the 
 necessity of putting it from them for the time 
 being, knowing they dare not think of it if they 
 are to exist. Euphie comprehended it all — the 
 degradation of her position, the desolation of her 
 life, the future ; but she must get away now, 
 away to the North country where Xannie Lyn 
 came from ; she must preserve her senses till she 
 got there and settled down in some haven of 
 refuge ; she might then look her trouble in the 
 face and grapple with it. AVlien by force of will 
 
 219 
 
220 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 and determination one resists the physical pain of 
 a sudden blow, setting the teeth hard, and refus- 
 ing to give way to the sickening thrill of the 
 nerves that calls attention to the wound, it is 
 astonishing how the keen edge of agony can be 
 dulled. Euphie felt this as she was borne along 
 in the train to Banff; she knew the trouble was 
 there, overshadov/ing and pressing in upon her 
 with cruel force, but she would not give in to it. 
 It must wait ; by and by she would lie prostrate 
 under it, she knew that — but not yet — not yet. 
 No one riding in the compartment with her could 
 have guessed that the sweet-voiced, courteous 
 woman, who spoke tenderly to the little fretting 
 babe upon the knee of the woman opposite, was 
 like a wounded animal in search of a seclusion in 
 which to suffer undisturbed. 
 
 Not even when she had landed, and had settled 
 herself in a respectable lodging, did she allow 
 herself to think of it. Once or twice it had 
 surged up in spite of her, and it had been more 
 than she could bear and live. It was as if she 
 had tasted with her lips some bitter draught 
 which she must needs drink, and, shrinking, she 
 put the cup away from her. 
 
 But when it became necessary to unpack the 
 household gods she had brought away with her, 
 the floodgates of her sorrow burst forth at the 
 sight of them, and at last she had it out. For 
 days she lay in bed unable to eat or drink ; but 
 when at length she rose, a faded image of her 
 former self, it was with a new interest in life, 
 and with the consciousness of a new duty await- 
 ing her. She must not grieve for what was past, 
 she must not give way to vain regrets, the 
 
The Pedlar's Information. 221 
 
 future must now be made as favourable and 
 pleasant as possible ; this was now her impera- 
 tive duty. 
 
 In the meantime she wo aid try to find out 
 Nannie Lyn. She had heard Banff mentioned 
 as the vicinity which she had originally come 
 from, and her first road, when she went out, was 
 to the office of the most widely-circulated local 
 paper, offering a few pounds' reward for such 
 information as would lead to the discovery of 
 Mrs. Lyn, whom she described as an elderly 
 woman, tall, dark, and of sallow complexion, 
 with sunken eyes set somewhat close together. 
 
 But a month passed without any word of 
 Xannie, and at last Euphie ceased advertising, 
 thinking she must surely not be alive. 
 
 She was beginning to feel uncomfortable in 
 her lodgings. The landlady, with insatiable 
 inquisitiveness, had skirmished around the out- 
 skirts of civility and good manners, trying to 
 make out what manner of flaxen-haired woman 
 this was who acknowledged to being neither 
 maid, wife, nor widow. At length, noting certain 
 symptoms peculiar to wifehood, she boldly de- 
 manded to know who and what Euphie was. 
 
 *Do yon want more money?' asked Euphie, 
 with calm recognition of the woman's meaning. 
 
 'No; it's no' money, it's decency I want. 
 I'm a decent woman mysel', and I keep nana 
 but decent folk aboot me.' 
 
 'What makes you think I am not decent?' 
 queried Euphie, a slow flush creeping up her thin 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' Weel, for ae thing ye've nae man, an' nae 
 veesible means o' livin' that I can see, an' ye 
 
222 EupJiie Lyn. 
 
 canna l)ut sav that thiiif's are bcj-'innin' to look 
 
 serious.' 
 
 'Very well; here is your money 1 owe you,- 
 and suliicient to pay for a few days more. I will 
 leav(! at the end of the we(;k.' 
 
 Euphie locked the door on the inside when 
 the landlady departed grundding about 'strange 
 folk,' and, unable to repress a low moan, she 
 threw herself upon the bed. It was the first 
 imputation of shame she had ever known in all 
 her life, and the cruelty and injustice of human 
 prejudice and human laws, which attach hazy 
 stigmas to the innocent, struck her keenly. For 
 the first time she realised what it was to be a 
 woman alone in the world — a woman desiring to 
 keej) her own counsel and her own private alfairs 
 to herself. It had not before occurred to her 
 that she was now liable to be the l)utt of the 
 veriest wretch who could show a marriage certifi- 
 cate. She had one too, but it was a lie — had 
 always been a lie, and she would not use it now, 
 not even in her own defence. She began to 
 dread the thought of meeting even Nannie Lyn, 
 should she ever turn up ; for how could she 
 explain to herl Would she not s.ay, 'As she 
 had made her bed, so she must lie on it,' and 
 refuse to have anything to do with her % 
 
 Perhai)s, after all, it was as well Nannie and 
 she should never meet, for a taunt like this she 
 could not bear. In spite of her resolution to do 
 her duty and bear up, she felt miserable and 
 discouraged at the thought of looking about 
 further for lodgings. Landladies, as a rule, were 
 experienced and sharp-eyed, and Euphie "unfor- 
 tunately was good-looking, with a history too 
 
Th' Pedlar s Information. 223 
 
 plainly written in her faco. She had inter- 
 viewed three ditfiM-ent individiiaLs with 'furnished 
 rooms to let,' and each had inquired if herhushand 
 was with her, 
 
 ' Oh, then you are a widow % ' 
 
 When Kuphie shook her head and a^'ain said 
 'No,' the landlady shut her lii)s with a virtuous 
 snaj), and sniffed sulphur, and said 'she did not 
 care to let her rooms to women.' 
 
 She found the agents who rented cottages 
 quite as superlatively prone to think the worst. 
 First they asked her name, and when she 
 hesitated, they became flippant and offensively 
 familiar. Kuphie would not say ' ^Irs. Craig ' — 
 she was too truthful to take a title which she 
 thought she had now no right to ; and when she 
 said ' Miss Hertzman,' they looked at her with a 
 tolerant smile, and coughed slightly. 
 
 'Of course I shall i)ay you the rent in 
 advance,' she said desperately. 
 
 Of course — of course — they had no doubt, 
 but they would prefer to lease the house to 
 some married couple — who had — ah — sufficient 
 hypothec. 
 
 Euphie, with a disagreeable sense of covert 
 insult clinging to her, turned away, wondering 
 to herself what on earth was liyi)othec. 
 
 Fortunately, she found a pedlar waiting for 
 her when she came home with listless step from 
 this last house-hunting expedition. He came to 
 inform her of the whereabouts of ^Irs. Lyn, and 
 to claim his reward. He was a man who had 
 hawked his small wares — pins and needles, 
 threads, cheap laces, handkerchiefs, and other 
 saleable etceteras — around the countryside for 
 
224 Enpliie Lyii. 
 
 years, lie knew ^Frs. Lyn well — n (iiipor, lonely 
 ■\vomjin living,' in a remote hamlet s»»me ten miles 
 north of IJanil' — a woman who suspected every- 
 l)0(ly, lived with her door locked, openin*; it 
 only when any one knock<'d, and always ])ewail- 
 ing her extreme poverty, and the light she had 
 to live. She lived hy knitting stockings. 
 
 Something like a thrill of joy shot throiigh 
 Euphie as she listened to the pedlar. P'ven 
 Nannie Lyn was preferahle to the hard and 
 sinister experiences of the past few days ; and 
 then what joy to think of rescuing Nannie from 
 poverty, and making her comfortahle in her old 
 age ! She was only too glad to pay the rewanl 
 she had offered ; and as soon as she had copied 
 in her note-book an accurate description of the 
 place and the location of the house, she feverishly 
 began to pack up and be off. 
 
 There was little difficulty in finding the house 
 in that small North-country village. She did 
 not even need to inquire the way to it. The 
 pedlar's description led lu^r straight to the door 
 of a little whitewashed cottage, with a thatched 
 roof and a quaint little attic window set in the 
 centre close to the eaves. 
 
 Euphie knocked thrice before any answer 
 came, but she heard movement within, and 
 waited. 
 
 * Wha's that chappin' ? ' called a voice which 
 she instantly recognised as Nannie Lyn's, only 
 harsher and sharper than of yore, and with a 
 new note of querulousness. 
 
 * It's Euphie. Open the door, Mrs. Lyn,' said 
 Euphie gently. 
 
 A suppressed cry of dismay w^as the only 
 
TJic Pi'dliirs Informatiou. 225 
 
 answer, and in a little while she, knocked aj,'ain. 
 After an interval she heard a fnnibling and 
 drawing of holts, and then the door opened 
 cautiously, and a thin, emaciated face, sallow 
 and unwashed, with d(!ep-set, unfriendly eyes, 
 scanned her suspiciously. 
 
 * What are you afraid of % Why don't you 
 let me in % ' said Ku[)hie, inwardly shocked to 
 see the change in the tough, hard-grained woman 
 she had lied from years ago. 
 
 ' AVhat d'ye want ? ' (queried Mrs. Lyn, open- 
 ing tlie door with a shaking hand, grudgingly. 
 
 Euphie silently step})ed into the house, and 
 Nannie bolted the door and followed her. 
 
 * I've nae way for onybody liere,' she said. 
 'I've fecht enough to get my ain bite, far less 
 ony ither body's.' 
 
 She uttered these words with a sort of whine 
 which was new to Euphie, and which grated on 
 her as insincere. But the change which had 
 taken place in the woman ! She looked a living 
 skeleton, gaunt and wrinkled, her high cheek- 
 bones standing prominently out, wearing the 
 same wincey dress of dark grey with black 
 velvet bands about the skirt that Euphie re- 
 membered, but now hanging about her figure 
 limp and loose, and patched everywhere. The 
 old black net cap which covered her grizzleil 
 hair was of a nondescrijjt tone, between a brown 
 and a grey, with the wear and dust of years 
 plainly visible upon it. The house was fairly 
 tidy, however, and she herself did not look 
 unclean ; nevertheless, there was a sad and 
 visible deterioration. Euphie surveyed her long 
 
 and pityingly. 
 
 15 
 
226 EupJiie Lyn. 
 
 * You have surely been ill, have you % ' she 
 said, sitting down without being bidden. 
 
 'Ay. I'm no' weel ava, an' I've hard wark 
 gettin' a livin'. I've nae way for naebody but 
 niysel'. I've naething but what I mak' wi' a 
 loop o' a stockin'. I've naething — no' a bawbee.' 
 
 Again that disagreeable whine disturbed 
 Eujihie, but she answered gently — 
 
 *Sit down — why do you stand? I haven't 
 come to ask anything from you, Mrs. Lyn. I 
 knew you were ill-off when I came, but I have 
 enough to keep us Ijoth comfortable. You 
 needn't knit stockings any more for people. All 
 I want is to live with you and make you com- 
 fortable. Here is something to begin with.' 
 
 She took out her purse, and taking out a 
 pound -note, she held it out to the hungry- 
 looking woman. 
 
 ' Eh, but that'll no' gae far to keep twa folk,' 
 she said, taking the note nevertheless ; * an' ye'll 
 no' be carin' to live as I dae. A drap tea an' a 
 bit bannock is a' my debosh, an' ye'll no' care 
 for that % ' 
 
 * No, Mrs. Lyn. I must have good food, and 
 so must you. You look as if you had been 
 starved to death almost. However, you won't 
 need to want for anything so long as I have it. 
 I have plenty of money.' 
 
 ' Y'e — ye look like a leddy,' said Nannie, 
 surveying her with wonder, *an' ye speak 
 English. Whaur hae ye been ? ' 
 
 Euphie was quite prepared for interrogations. 
 
 * Look here, Mrs. Lyn ; you are not my 
 mother, but I am ready to be a good daughter 
 to you, and I will promise to ask no questions. 
 
The Pediat^s Information. 227 
 
 Let all Ijygones be bygones. I will make you 
 very comfortable, and pay you well for the use 
 of your room there — all I want from you in 
 return is, to ask no questions on your side. 
 You understand ? ' 
 
 'Yes, mem,' said Nannie, unconsciously 
 answering as to a superior ; for Eupliie at that 
 moment looked at her with an expression of face, 
 and spoke in a tone of voice, which recalled her 
 mother in London years ago. 
 
 ' No, don't say that, J^Irs. Lyn. The people 
 here can think I am your daughter come home 
 to you.' 
 
 * Eh, but they canna do that. I tauld them I 
 was a lane widow woman — an' it was the truth 
 I said.' 
 
 'Then I can be a lodger, that'll do. Now, 
 let me see your room, and we'll get settled down. 
 My luggage will be sent up from the station.' 
 ' An' you'll need naething aff me — railly % ' 
 'Nothing — nothing but a kind word, if you 
 have such a thing to spare,' said Euphie, with a 
 kind of grim ruefulness. 
 
 The rcom was well enough furnished for a 
 small house ; there was even on the floor the 
 old carpet she remembered in Inweerie, but the 
 place smelt damp and nasty. 
 
 ' We must get on a big fire here,' said Euphie, 
 sniffing the damp. 
 
 * Coals is dear — awfu' dear,' whined Mrs. Lyn. 
 
 ' I'll buy the coals,' returned Euphie. ' And 
 
 now, if you'll make a cup of tea while I am 
 
 away, I'll go to the station and order up my 
 
 trunks.' 
 
 Mrs. Lyn bolted the door securely after 
 
228 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 Euphie, but instead of getting on the kettle she 
 began to run back and forth between the two 
 apartments like a thing distracted. At last she 
 took a stout table-knife from a drawer, and going 
 back into the room, she lifted a small map 
 mounted on a roller, which hung suspended upon 
 the wall, evidently to conceal some blemish in 
 the wall. A piece of paper was pasted under 
 it, and this she scraped off, and began to scoop 
 out some loose bits of stone and plaster which 
 it covered. The stones and plaster rattled down 
 upon the floor as she excitedly tore with her 
 fingers and dug with the knife at the aperture 
 she was making ; her eyes gleamed, the perspira- 
 tion stood like beads upon her wrinkled visage, 
 but she never halted until the knife struck hard 
 upon some metallic substance. For a moment 
 she paused to wipe the perspiration from her 
 face, and then with some difficulty she drew 
 forth an old japanned tin box — the same box in 
 which Euphie discovered Andrew Craig's letter 
 that fateful afternoon in old Inweerie. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 DIED FOR LOVE OF MONEY. 
 
 'HEN Euphie returned from the station, 
 expecting and longing for a cup of 
 refreshing tea after her journey, she 
 was surprised to find Mrs. Lyn panting and 
 exhausted, as if with some extra heavy toil, wet 
 mortar clinging to her hands in spite of the 
 rough wipe they had evidently received. She 
 also noticed on her apron, too, near the hem, two 
 or three spots of mortar, but it only caused a 
 passing sensation of wonder. 
 
 The fire had not bee^ touched, nor was the 
 kettle even put on. Euphie sank into a chair 
 with a weary sigh. There was no welcome for 
 her anywhere except in Inweerie, and there she 
 could set foot nevermore. She had been a full 
 half hour and more away, and she did expect 
 that Nannie Lyn, in common civility, would 
 have had a cup of tea ready for her. She did not 
 know, nor could she have dreamed, that Nannie 
 had been out nearly as far as herself in pursuit of 
 mortar from some masons who were building in 
 the rear of the town, and'that since her return she 
 had managed, with shaking hands and glittering 
 eyes, to do quite a tidy bit of mason-work. 
 
 229 
 
230 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * Where do you keep the water ? ' she inquired, 
 quietly taking the kettle in her hand and lifting 
 the lid. 
 
 ' Oh, I'll get the water,' said Mrs. Lyn, taking 
 the kettle, and again the lime still clinging to 
 the old and skeleton hand made Euphie wonder 
 what she had been doing. 
 
 Mrs. Lyn placed the kettle on the fire, mutter- 
 ing something about not expecting her back so 
 soon, and went into a little closet and washed 
 her hands. 
 
 ' I think I'll lay off my things now, and get a 
 fire lit in that room,' Euphie remarked. 
 
 ' But there's only that backitfu' o' coals,' pro- 
 tested Nannie, returning to the whine. 
 
 * There's a ton of coals coming in an hour or 
 so,' returned Euphie, with some impatience; and, 
 lifting up the ' backit ' in her arms, she went into 
 the * ben-end,' and with some shavings and sticks, 
 which jSTannie grudgingly supplied her with, lit 
 the fire, and sat down to watch it burn up. 
 
 It was somewhat of a trial to her, this room, 
 furnished to the door with the old familiar chairs 
 and tables, and carpet, and damask table-cover, 
 from Inweerie. A renewed sense of desolation, 
 an intolerable yearning for Andrew Craig, — not 
 that man with the Australian wife, but the 
 ruddy young fisher whom she had always loved, 
 and loved still, — brought tears to her eyes and 
 a growing pain to her heart. Everything in this 
 room reminded her so of these happy old days, 
 and presently her eyes, wandering about, fell 
 upon a spot on the carpet from which white dust 
 and lime had been hastily swept up, leaving a 
 dull mark behind. Upon this dull mark lay one 
 
Died for L ove — of Money. 2 3 1 
 
 or two slight drops of wet mortar, and over 
 these Euphie found herself wondering vaguely. 
 What could Mrs. Lyn have been plastering in 
 this room, and while she was away at the station, 
 too % The walls were all whitewashed, there 
 was no sign of recent repairs anywhere, and yet 
 here were these spots of perfectly fresh mortar 
 right below that map of Scotland which used to 
 hang in her room in Inweerie. 
 
 The cups and saucers were clinking now in 
 the other room, and she rose to wash her hands 
 before tea. The dear old map ! many and many 
 a time she had conned it over, and now she 
 stepped across to look at it. There was the 
 least trace of mortar on the face of it — the mark 
 of a wet finger — still damp. Euphie raised the 
 map and looked behind it, and saw that about 
 a foot square of the wall had been newly 
 plastered up. 
 
 ' Your tea's ready,' called Nannie. 
 
 Euphie dropped the map and went into the 
 kitchen, wondering why Mrs. Lyn should have 
 chosen such a time to repair that hole in the wall. 
 
 Nannie's hands were clean enough now, and 
 she had also put on a fresh apron. 
 
 It was a poor and scanty meal, the scantiest 
 Euphie had ever tasted; but she said nothing, 
 inwardly resolving to make a decided change 
 here on the morrow. 
 
 'Now, you might let me have blankets and 
 sheets, Mrs. Lyn, and I can hang them up to 
 air before my fire — eh ? ' said Euphie, with an 
 assumed air of cheerfulness ; for Nannie Lyn sat 
 opposite her, saying little, and apparently deeply 
 occupied with her own thoughts. 
 
232 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 'You see, when I get fairly settled down, I 
 won't give you any trouble for a good while at 
 least. And we ought to live very comfortable 
 here, you and I together. Don't you think so ] ' 
 
 * Oo ay, 00 ay,' answered Nannie grudgingly. 
 'I have the material for a nice dark dress, 
 
 which I bought for myself, here,' said Euphie. 
 *I shall make it up for you. You and I can 
 make it up, or shall we get a dressmaker to 
 doitr 
 
 ' She would chairge mair than the price o' the 
 claith,' quoth Nannie. 
 
 * But I'll pay for it, you know.' 
 'Aweel,' was the thankless assent. 
 
 The coals Euphie had ordered had been driven 
 up to the door, and while Mrs. Lyn showed the 
 man where to drive them around by the back of 
 the house, she took a mute survey of the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 * Might be a worse place,' she commented. 
 
 * It is snug and quaint, and, after all, a good open 
 fireplace is not a bad kind of ventilator, if it 
 isn't particularly scientific. Ah, well, it is at 
 least a haven \ only Mrs. Lyn has changed so 
 much for the worse. Is it change, or growth of 
 greed, or what is it, I wonder ? ' 
 
 At her elbow was a small red curtain, about 
 eighteen inches deep, gathered at the top in a 
 string, and tacked to the wall close to the jamb 
 of the fireplace. 
 
 'What a funny little curtain,' she mused, and, 
 lifting it, behold, it was draped over an old- 
 fashioned bole in the wall. In it were some 
 rags, and a saucer with shoeblacking and a brush. 
 
 * Delightfully quaint and handy ! What a nice 
 
Died for Love — of Money. 233 
 
 spot for ])Ooks, now, for some rural stiulent of an 
 evening.' 
 
 She '-vas about to drop the Httle curtain when 
 her eye caught the point of a sharp little trowel 
 sticking out. She took it up, and saw that the 
 mortar was quite damp around the handle, and, 
 putting it back, she again vaguely wondered 
 why Mrs. Lyn had taken to plastering the holes 
 just then. Perhaps, of course, to make the 
 place tidy. That must be it, i/O have no ugly 
 holes about, now that she had come to occupy 
 the room. And the poor old body had been 
 hurrying to get the thing done while she was 
 away -, nothing more natural, only that wild, 
 suspicious look of hers made everything she did 
 so noticeable. 
 
 The room was warm and dry, and the bed- 
 clothes were well aired, but Euphie did not 
 retire early. She knew from past experience 
 that it was of no use going to bed only to toss 
 and tumble, with all the chequered incidents of 
 her recent life passing in vivid array before her. 
 She sat up and read far into the night — long 
 after Nannie Lyn had gone to bed, and when 
 thoroughly tired out she lay down and slept. 
 
 It was the greyest of grey dawn when she 
 opened her eyes, awakened by a fitful scraping 
 sound, which she vainly tried to account for. 
 
 The noise — if noise it could be called — was 
 faint, but in the perfect stillness she could hear 
 it quite distinctly. She could hear a slow soft 
 scraping, and then an almost inaudible clink, as 
 of sharp substances in contact; and again the 
 brushing, scraping sound continued. Could it 
 be rats ? She sprang up in bed at the thought. 
 
234 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 for she had an unreasoning horror of the sharp- 
 toothed vermin. The noise stopped a moment ; 
 she could detect a low, muffled cough, a faint 
 clink, and then the sandy grating resumed. She 
 could stand the vague fear no longer ; whatever 
 it was, * bird or devil — thing of evil,' she must 
 see its form, and, slipping swiftly out of bed, she 
 thrust a match into the 'still warm embers of the 
 smouldering coal and lit her candle. All was 
 still in the room ; nor sight nor sound of rats 
 was there. Her ear caught the sound of a 
 muffled cough. Good gracious ! could it be 
 Nannie Lyn up at this hour — only three o'clock 
 by her watch % Perhaps — could she be ill % The 
 thought sent her hurriedly into the kitchen, the 
 light of her candle nigh extinguished by the 
 draught. 
 
 ' Are you awake, Mrs. Lyn ? ' she called, 
 holding the candle high over her head. 
 
 There was no answer; but, to her horror, a 
 figure, gaunt and terror-stricken, that of Nannie 
 Lyn, with a trowel in her hand, sprang up from 
 her knees by the cold fireside, her face awful to 
 see. The features, as she looked, grew horribly 
 contorted out of all Imman shape. The eyes 
 stared at her wildly, and, with a cry of fright, 
 Euphie fled to the door, wrenched back the 
 bolts, and, throwing it wide, ran down the street 
 and wakened the nearest neighbour. 
 
 They were quiet labouring people, and in 
 great alarm and anxiety hurried in with Euphie, 
 who had tried to give them a hasty account of 
 what she had seen. 
 
 ' I feel sure she has gone mad — stark mad,' 
 she said, trembling and shaking in every 
 
Died for Love — of Money. 235 
 
 limb. 'I knew such a change in her when I 
 came.' 
 
 But Mrs. Lyn was not mad, — though, indeed, 
 she had for years back been a hopeless money- 
 maniac, — this was but the snapping of the long 
 tension of money-madness — the end of it all — 
 death ! 
 
 Death in life, for she lay there an inert 
 thing, a breathing skeleton, stricken down by a 
 fatal paralysis. The distorted features had all 
 but returned to their normal state ; the eyes 
 were closed, the trowel lay by her side, and the 
 hole she had so neatly built up was finished and 
 plastered over. 
 
 Why on earth had she been doing this in the 
 dim grey hour of the dawning % 
 
 Mad — stark mad — surely, for she had just 
 plastered up another hole here in the room that 
 very afternoon. 
 
 They lifted her into the bed, and while the 
 man went for a doctor, Euphie took the woman 
 into her room and showed her the new plaster 
 behind the map. She also exi)laired her own 
 presence here, saying that Mrs. /. vras her 
 foster-mother, and that she lipd only that day 
 come to stay with her, and make her comfortable 
 for the rest of her days. Both women came to 
 the conclusion that Mrs. Lyn's mind had been 
 failing, and that she had merely wished to fill 
 up the hole in the early hours of the morning in 
 order not to be seen at it during the day. 
 
 * An' maybe to save a mason's wages,' suggested 
 the man, who had returned, saying that the 
 doctor would be down in a few moments. 
 
 But when the doctor did come, it was oidy to 
 
236 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 ehake his head, and say that death was but a 
 matter of a few days' time. He liad seen 
 paralytic strokes like this come on after a long 
 strain, or a sudden shock of some ki. d, or it 
 might he hereditary. Did they know nything 
 of her people ? 
 
 ' No,' said Euphie, shaking her head sadly. 
 
 The doctor looked at her with respectful hut 
 inquiring eyes, musing as he looked. 
 
 After a few days' painful watching it was all 
 over, and Nannie Lyn, not without some natural 
 tears shed over her coffin, was laid with all the 
 honours of respectability where 'they have no 
 share in all that's done beneath the circuit of 
 the sun.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Lyn had the house taken for the year, 1 
 presume ? ' said P]uphie to the landlord, when he 
 called a few days after the funeral. ' I am her 
 foster-daughter, as perhaps you may have heard, 
 so I shall i)ay you the rent until ^lartinmas, and 
 keep the house till then.' 
 
 The landlord was only too glad to get his rent 
 so easy ; besides, he was a fatherly kind of man, 
 and liked the look of this fair woman, so very 
 different from poor Nannie's dark and for- 
 bidding face. The neighbour whom she had 
 roused that night was a gentle, sensible little 
 woman, whom Euphie felt she could made a 
 friend of. 
 
 She had a daughter, a nice lively girl of about 
 fifteen, and she confided to Euphie how it would 
 be necessary for her to look for service at the 
 May term, which was almost here now. 
 
 * Would you object to her staying with me 
 till Martinmas or so ? ' inquired Euphie. * She 
 
Died for Love — of Mo)iey. 237 
 
 is such a bright, intelligent girl, and would he 
 such company for me in the house.' 
 
 *I suppose your husband will be coming]' 
 said the woman timidly. Euphie was a good 
 woman, any one could see that, but — her daughter 
 was young and innocent, and — 
 
 Euphie could not stand the thought of being 
 lowered in the estimation of these good, worthy 
 people, who had come in and stood by her in all 
 this trial. Had she not honestly married — on 
 her part, at least \ 
 
 ' jVIy husband won't send for nie for some 
 months yet ; when he does, I will go. Meantime, 
 if you will let Annie come and stay with me, 
 well and good ; if not, I must get some one else. 
 Mrs. Craig is my name.' 
 
 Annie came to her that night, the decision to 
 let her go being hastened by the very substantial 
 remuneration which Euphie had bestowed on the 
 parents for their neighbourly help, 
 
 Euphie made some considerable changes in 
 the interior of the house, and by these also her 
 neighbour profited. The house was too crowded 
 with furniture, and several superfluous things 
 were sent in next door. Then Euphie must 
 have the whole of the walls whitewashed and 
 tinted, and above all, she must have these ugly 
 small stones and lime dug out of that quaint 
 little bole by the fireplace. She should sit there 
 and read of evenings, and there should her books 
 and the daily newspaper be ever at hand. 
 
 * Now, Annie, you hold this old basket under 
 while I dig out this stuff. Luckily, the mortar 
 has been sandv and brittle : see, it will come out 
 quite easily.' 
 
23«S Enphic Lyn. 
 
 Aniiie licfld tlio l)askot, and Eupliio, with 
 hamnicr and cliisc;!, soon filled it. 
 
 'Xow, you carry that out, round to the back 
 of the house Ijcj'ond the <,'arden, and I will loosen 
 the rest while you go.' 
 
 Annie went, carrying the little basket between 
 her hands carefully, and Euphie continued the 
 excavation. Suchlenly her hammer shot back 
 into a hole, and she drew forward a lot of 
 rubljish, and looked in. The light shone upon 
 the old tin liox. 
 
 ' Vriiuu on earth ! — good gracious ! ' she ex- 
 claimed, and drew forth the familiar and fateful 
 l)0x, and IjIcw the dust off the lid. It was 
 locked, and the key left in it ; and Euphie, 
 feeling that here was something which Mrs. 
 Lyn had strongly wished to keej) secn^t, took it 
 into the room and put it into her trunk. 
 
 Annie was Ijusy at the bole when she came 
 l)ack. 
 
 '1 think that would be a hue houdie-hole for 
 onything,' laughed the light-hearted girl. 
 
 ' Yes, I think it would indeed, Annie. Do 
 you think you could manage the rest of it your- 
 self now ? ' 
 
 'Yes, oh yes, I can do that easy,' was the 
 willing response ; and, burning with impatient 
 curiosity, Euphie retired to the room to examine 
 the contents of the box. 
 
CIIAPTKU XXYI. 
 
 LATE-LEARNED WliSDoM. 
 
 O^ 
 
 mMTIK key turned in the lock as if it Imd been 
 YjS recently oiled, and, raising- the lid, Kni)hic 
 beheld another hox. smaller, but of the 
 same make and pattern, and ornamented, with 
 the same grotesc^ue .lapaneso dragons. She lifted 
 it out and tried to open it, hut it w^ locked 
 hard and fast. Now, what coi:ld 
 Lyn have hid so car<,'fully in tW:-. ;-.ealeu .,..x s 
 And where could she have kept the key of it ? 
 
 For days after this, Eui)hie searched every 
 nook and cranny she could think of in the hope 
 of finding the little key, till, despairing of its 
 recovery, she put the hox away within the other 
 again, unable to conquer her disinclination to 
 l.'reak it up. Perhaps she might find a key at 
 some time that would fit it, p(;rhaps the relations 
 she had advertised for in the IJanfF papers might 
 open it for themselves when they turned up. 
 
 But weeks passed, and months, without 
 answer to the inquiries for the relatives of 
 Nannie Lyn, and Euphie retained possession of 
 the furniture of the house, together with some 
 thirty odd pounds which she discovered hidden 
 away in the locker of Kannie's chest. This she 
 
 239 
 
240 Eiiphie Lyn. 
 
 deposited in the bank to accumulate interest for 
 any heirs to Mrs. Lyn who might turn up later 
 on, wondering why the old woman could have 
 lived so miserably, literally starving herself, with 
 plenty at hand to buy comfort. It was not in 
 Eupliie to comprehend Nannie's strange nature, 
 warped and twisted and turned from its natural 
 intention by an overmastering passion for the 
 possession of money — not to use and enjoy and 
 give, but to have and to hold — gloating over its 
 possession till heart and soul shrivelled and 
 shrank within the compass of this one idea, till 
 the thread of life itself snapped with the long 
 tension of its preservation. 
 
 Yes, Nannie had been always an incompre- 
 hensible woman ; but Euphie was glad to put 
 the disagreeable memory as far from her as she 
 could, for other and stronger considerations 
 began to crowd upon her. 
 
 The long summer and autumn had passed, and 
 December, bleak and stormy, blew white drift 
 across the fields when Euphie's babe was born. 
 
 ' A fine bairn, a bonnie bairn, a laddie,' was 
 the kindly neighbour's comment on the new 
 arrival ; bat Euphie turned her face to the wall 
 and wept to think of the joy this might have 
 been. 
 
 Nevertheless, her heart yearned over the child, 
 and warmed to him none the less for the daily 
 growing resemblance he bore to Andrew Craiij. 
 She felt she owed him double love and double 
 duty, nor would she allow herself to fret or 
 grieve lest he should be wronged by it. Her 
 heart, her life, was as full now as it ever could 
 be, and already she had begun to plan a journey 
 
Late-learned Wisdom. 241 
 
 to some foreign land — to America, or elsewhere — 
 to some spot where the child could be brought 
 up away from the possible knowledge of his 
 father. 
 
 She had taken the house again from Martin- 
 mas ; and the child, whom she had named 
 William Hertzman, in memory of Dr. Wilhelm, 
 was seven months old when she went by train 
 into Aberdeen one day in July, taking Annie 
 with her. She had resolutely set her foot upon 
 her trouble, had risen above it, and with her boy 
 to occupy her thoughts, was in better health than 
 she had been since she left Edinburgh. 
 
 'I will leave you here with the baby,' she 
 said to Annie in the waiting-room at the station. 
 * I want to make some purchases, and he will be 
 too heavy for us to carry even between us all the 
 way. Besides, I may have to climb some long 
 stairs, so you can rest here and take care of him 
 till I come back.' 
 
 She was meditating the possibility of getting 
 a ship sailing from Aberdeen to New York in 
 which to take out a passage, and for that pur- 
 pose was walking along in the direction of a 
 shipping office, when, at a street corner a familiar 
 voice called out — 
 
 * Gude bless me, lassie ! ' Turning, she be- 
 held Thomas Mathers, in his ordinary sea-going 
 garb. 
 
 Her first instinctive impulse was to flee, but 
 she stood limp and helpless while Thomas ad- 
 vanced and held out his hand. 
 
 ' Whaever would hae thocht o' rinnin' up 
 again' you here, Euphie ] ' he said cheerily ; but, 
 noting her white face and embarrassed manner, 
 
 16 
 
242 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 he added kindly, * C'wa doon the street here a 
 bit; there's a restaurant there whaur we can 
 fjanjj in and hae a crack.' 
 
 She went with him without a word, nor did 
 either speak until they were shown into an 
 enclosed compartment of the restaurant, where 
 they sat down and looked at each other. 
 
 'And how have you been this long time, 
 Thomas % Are there any good shots going just 
 now? Are you doing well yourself?' began 
 Euphie, pouring out questions with feverish 
 haste. 
 
 ' No' sae bad ava, thank God for His mercies. 
 They've been some splendid shots this last fort- 
 night, an' of coorse there'll be a great ootcry 
 aboot the great hauls o' siller thae wastrel fishers 
 get, an' them aye in poverty. Jock Tamson, there, 
 got fifty pound to his ain deal last week, the 
 first he's gotten this six month, an' ye ken last 
 year he lost a' his nets, an' the new anes are a' 
 to pay for. I'm thinkin' by the time he pays for 
 his nets an' his bow-tows, an' the bark, an' 
 mak's up for keepin' six o' a family a' winter, an' 
 naethin' comin' in, his fifty pound '11 no' see the 
 end o' the week.' 
 
 ' That's the truth, Thomas. When fisher-folk 
 get, all the countryside are agape over a hundred- 
 pound shot, but there is no consideration for the 
 long weeks and months, and sometimes years, of 
 little or no success, which mortgages it all before 
 it comes,' said Euphie sympathetically. 
 
 'But, my lassie, what aboot yoursel'?' in- 
 quired Thomas, with significance. 
 
 'I see you know all about it, Thomas,' she 
 answered, bracing up for the inevitable inter- 
 
Late-learned Wisdoin. 243 
 
 view ; ' but, please, don't say a word about any- 
 thing connected with liim. I have struggled 
 hard, and got over it, and I don't want to 
 open a half-healed wound. Tell me just about 
 yourself, Thomas, and all the folk of Inweerie.' 
 
 Thomas stared at her and ran his finsers 
 through his hair. Then he leant his folded arms 
 upon the table and looked long and earnestly 
 into her face. His own was bronzed and weather- 
 beaten ; his auburn hair was back from his broad 
 white brow ; his fair beard showed white here 
 and there against the red kerchief tied about 
 his neck inside his blue sleeve waistcoat, and he 
 looked very much older than when she had seen 
 him last. But his blue eyes shone upon her, and 
 a tear glimmered in them as he looked. 
 
 *Euphie, my lass,' he said at length, 'ye've 
 made an awfu' mistak'. I'm thinkin' ye've broken 
 baith your ain heart an' Andrae Craig's too.' 
 
 'Thomas, I won't listen to that name,' she 
 said, with angry firmness. * If you want me to 
 speak to you at all, you must respect my 
 feelings.' 
 
 ' Feelin's ! Eh, lassie, gang awa' straucht 
 hame to Andrae Craig an' beg his pardon on 
 your bended knees for your cruelty in dooti^* sic 
 a man.' 
 
 Euphie looked at him, and a sudden flash of 
 intelligence lit up her face. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Thomas ; I see you don't 
 know the truth. I left Andrew Craig in Edin- 
 burgh with the wife he married in Melbourne. 
 He deceived me, Thomas.' 
 
 *A' a mistak', my dear,' returned Tliomop 
 calmly, — 'a' a mistak'. It wasna your man; 
 
244 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 it was anither Andrae Craig a'thegither that 
 woman was after. She sailed awa' back on the 
 ship she cam' on.' 
 
 Euphie started up with a wild gesture, and 
 seized Thomas by both shoulders, 
 
 * Thomas Mathers, what are you saying % ' 
 
 * I'm sayin' it was a terrible mistak', an' ower 
 rash o' ye — though, mind ye, as I said to Andrae 
 when he tell't me, 1 could quite understand it. 
 But he canna — he's an altered man, Euphie, I 
 maun tell ye that.' Thomas's earnestness carried 
 conviction to her. 
 
 Her arms slipped from his shoulders, and fell 
 upon the table like dead things, and she bowed 
 her head upon them in silence. 
 
 Thomas, as he watched her, whisked one and 
 another tear from his eyes before he laid his 
 hands upon her again. 
 
 ' Ay, my lass, it was a pity — a sair pity ; be 
 thankfu' ye're spared to mak' amends. It would 
 hae been terrible if death had ta'en that consola- 
 tion frae ye.' 
 
 'Thomas,' she said, lifting her haggard, wild 
 face, — ' Thomas, tell me all about it. I — I am 
 stunned — I cannot take it in. That woman told 
 me he had been at the diggings, and had been 
 robbed, and his arm hurt — exactly the same. 
 Oh, Thomas, Thomas ! what have I done ? * 
 
 'Ah, weel, I suppose ye were driven daft at 
 the thocht o't ; but what I wonder at was hoo 
 ye could believe sic a thing o' Mm. Did ye no' 
 consider hoo perfectly impossible it was for a 
 man o' that kind to play the villain? What's 
 the gude o' love if there's no' perfect faith an' 
 confidence as weel ? ' • • , 
 
Late-learned Wisdom. 245 
 
 Eupliie groaned, and rocked herself to and fro 
 in her repentance and self-abasement. Thomas 
 was right, she ought to have trusted as well as 
 loved. 
 
 * Tell me what happened, Thomas. What did he 
 say % What did he do ? Why did he never seek 
 after me when he saw I had been so mistaken ? ' 
 
 ' What ? Ye little ken Andrae if ye think he 
 would seek after a woman that had sae little 
 faith in him as that. I couldna blame him, 
 though I tried hard to mak' him think mair 
 plousibly. It seems he cam' liame as usual, and 
 the first thing he wondered what way ye werena 
 doon the street to meet him.' 
 
 * Oh, oh ! ' moaned the repentant woman. 
 
 * An' when he opened the door there was a bit 
 laddie rampagin' up an' doon the hall, an' he con- 
 cluded that Mary Scott an' her bairns had come 
 to see ye. But when he gaed in an' saw the 
 strange woman, he glowered at her an' she at 
 him, an' he says, " Where's my wife % " 
 
 ' " I'm here waitin' for my husband," says the 
 woman ; and Andrae lookit, an' began to think 
 he had pappit into the wrung hoose. But there 
 was everything a' richt, an' in a state o' wonder- 
 ment he gaed awa' ben the hoose lookin' for ye ; 
 but, of coorse, nae wife o' his was there. 
 
 ' " Has Mrs. Craig gone out ? " he speired at 
 the woman, comin' ben again. 
 
 '"Mrs. Craig — I'm Mrs. Craig," says the 
 woman ; and, of coorse, Andrae couldna think 
 what the woman could mean, till she says, 
 " What's your name, sir % " 
 
 * " Craig is my name," says he. " But where is 
 my wife \ And who are you ? " ' ' * 
 
246 Etipliie Ly7i. 
 
 ' "Is your name Andrae Craig 1" she says. 
 
 ' " It is," says Andrae ; and the woman lookit 
 as if he had sliot her. 
 
 ' " But you are not my husband ! " she cried 
 oot. 
 
 ' "An' I should think not/' Andrae says, with 
 a haugh ; an' the woman she bursts oot a-greetin', 
 sayin' hoo she had made a terrible mistak' 
 somehoo, an' tells him the hale story. 
 
 '"I knew the man you mean." says he; "he 
 is at the diggings yet for anything I know, and 
 he did get his arm hurt, but he didn't lose it as 
 I lost mine — the two stories mu?t have got mixed 
 up. But how did»you follow mie here ? " » 
 
 ' Weel, then, she tell't him hoo a sailor she met 
 in her sister's had said hoo an Andrae Craig 
 had gane hame on their ship, an' that he had 
 mentioned that he was gaun straucht to Leven.' 
 
 Euphie here covered her face with her hands 
 and moaned aloud, remembering that happy 
 home-coming. 
 
 'And then,' continued Thomas, 'she ferreted 
 oot hoo you had come to Edinburgh, and got 
 your address through the Post Office, and there 
 was the whole thing clear. But it was some 
 letter you left that finished Andrae ; he said it 
 strack him like a death-blow to see ye hadna the 
 slightest doubt that he was capable 0' sic a 
 villany, so he just lockit up the hoose, wi' 
 everything just as ye left it, an' took lodgin's in 
 Edinburgh near his wark. He cam' back the 
 next day for his claes, but he's never set fit in 
 the hoose frae that day to this.' 
 
 'Thomas, what am I to do?' cried Euphie, 
 looking at him -with piteous appeal. 
 
Late-learned Wisdom. 247 
 
 * Do % There's nae choice in the maitter. Gang 
 to Edinburgh the very first train. There's ane 
 leaves here in aboot an hoor. As for me, I maun 
 awa' doon to the boat. We ran in at Law Point 
 here to see if we could get a better price for oor 
 herrin' than farther doon, but little did I expeck 
 to fa' in wi' you. I'm glad an' thankfu' that I 
 did, though ; an' I advise ye just to set aff, for 
 ye canna pit things richt a meenit ower sune. 
 Life is ower short for hesitation at its finger- 
 posts.' 
 
 While he spoke, Euphie sat wringing her 
 hands in vain regret. 
 
 ' Give me his address, Thomas. I'll take vour 
 advice and go. He cannot say worse to me than 
 I deserve. As you say, I ought to have trusted 
 him.' 
 
 Thomas gave her the address. 
 
 ' Noo, my lass, awa' ye go, and God gae wi' 
 ye. An' tak' ye a word frae an auld freend. 
 When ance ye hae love, see ye cherish it. In 
 some natures it's just slain wi' a stroke like this ; 
 in ithers, again, it languishes lang an' is hard to 
 kill, in spite 0' thae cruel speeches an' cuttin' 
 sarcasms that folk tak' sic a deevilish delight in 
 stabbin' their dearest wi'. But wi' every stab 
 love bleeds an' grows weaker, an' then the very 
 ane that's killed it thinks he's sair wranged 
 because it's gane for ever. Eh, lassie, mony a 
 time I think we're just like a wheen bairns in this 
 world, play in' wi' edge tools, an' greetin' when 
 we cut oorsel's ; an' just when we've lived lang 
 enough to learn hoo to value life's blessin's, Death 
 chaps at the door, an' awa* we maun go, an' alas 
 for a' oor late-learned wisdom ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 'could he still love her?' 
 
 PLEASANT, benevolent -faced woman 
 opened the door of Andrew's lodgings 
 to Euphie. 
 
 'Mr. Craig lodges here, I believe?' said 
 Euphie. 
 
 ' He does that,' responded the landlady, with 
 a heartiness that said much for her opinion of 
 her lodger. 
 
 * Is he in now 1 ' 
 
 ' Xo ; but I expect him in every minute. It's 
 no' often he gangs oot after tea.' 
 
 ' Then I would like to go in and wait, if you 
 have no objections. I — I am his wife.' 
 
 ' His wife ! I never kent he had ane,' said 
 the woman in astonishment ; but she opened 
 the door wide and let Euphie pass in, evidently 
 favourably impressed with her appearance and 
 that of the child. 
 
 ' This is his room, and that's his bedroom aflf 
 o't there, so ye can just sit doon an' mak' yersel' 
 comfortable till he comes,' the woman said 
 genially ; and Euphie, with a strange feeling of 
 curiosity and dread, looked round upon her hus- 
 band's abiding-place. The landlady went out 
 
 248 
 
' Could he still love her ? ' 249 
 
 and shut tlie door, and Euphu; burst into a fit 
 of weeping. To think that she should have 
 driven him out from their own pretty home with 
 her unwifely distrust ! To tliink he had scorned 
 to Hve in the house she had furnished so com- 
 fortably, and left to him with such magnanimity ! 
 Thomas Mathers' words sounded in her ears as 
 she thought of it all. Oh, what if his love was 
 dead ? What if he lived with her in the future 
 for the child's sake and for duty only % Would 
 it not be just what she deserved? Yes, ah yes ! 
 — but how could she endure it ? 
 
 The baby began to fret, and, loosening his 
 outer wraps, she fed him from her breast, and he 
 fell sound asleep in her lap. 
 
 'Better just lay it down u])on the bed in 
 here,' said the landlady, who entered, Ijringing 
 the evening paper. 
 
 Euphie followed her into the bedroom and 
 laid the sleeping child upon the bed, and the 
 landlady brought in a shawl, and after covering 
 him up retired again. 
 
 The paper lay untouched upon the table, 
 although a staring announcement of something 
 startling was visible from where she sat. AVhat 
 was happening for good or evil in the world was 
 nothing to her until this one great question was 
 answered, ' Could he still love her ? ' 
 
 She became nervous and fidgety as the minutes 
 passed, and when more than once the front-door 
 opened and shut again, she put her hand upon 
 her heart and gasped as in mortal sickness. 
 
 At length she heard the landlady say, — 
 
 • There's a lady waiting for you, Mr. Craig.' 
 
 ' A lady ! ' she heard him answer in surprise ; 
 
250 Euphie Lyu. 
 
 and the next moment Andrew opened the door 
 and shut it behind him. 
 
 He started and grew white as death as he 
 recognised her, and slie rose, trembling but lie 
 only strode forward and threw himselwnto the 
 easy-chair, and shaded his eyes with his hand. 
 
 Euphie too sat down, unable to stand up. 8he 
 glanced across the hearth at him, and her heart 
 melted within her as she noted how changed he 
 was, how thin his hands, how sunken his cheek. 
 And she had done this — she who loved him ! 
 
 ' Andrew ! — oh, my husband, forgive me ! ' she 
 cried out, dropping on her knees at his feet, un- 
 able to bear this terril)le silence any longer. 
 
 He looked at her stonily, and turned his head 
 slightly away from her, resting his elbow upon 
 the chair-arm and his chin in his palm. 
 
 ' Andrew, speak to me — I did not know — I 
 did not stop to think — oh ' — 
 
 She stopped short in her pleading, for he again 
 turned, looking into her eyes with stony re- 
 proach, and it struck her dumb. Yes, love was 
 dead ! She had killed the faithful love of years 
 with her base mistrust ! What remained now 
 worth living for ? Oh, if he would but speak to 
 her ! 
 
 She leant back from him, and hid her face in her 
 hands, unable to bear his steadfast gaze. He sat 
 watching her in silence, a smouldering fire kind- 
 ling in his eyes, the stern regard softening slowly, 
 a smile of tenderness dawning on his features. 
 
 He put forth his hand to draw her towards him, 
 when a plaintive cry made him pause ; and 
 Euphie, starting up, darted into the bedroom. 
 Andrew rose hastily and took a step forward 
 
' Could lie still love her f 251 
 
 and stood stockstill, tlie colour flashing into liis 
 face as though lie had been a girl of fourteen. 
 
 For Kuphie emerged from the bedroom, 
 holding in her arms a dark-eyed, curly-haired 
 cherub, dimpled and rosy with sleep, and im- 
 ploringly held it up to him. 
 
 'Love liiiii if you cannot forgive me!' she 
 cried ; but Andrew, with a muttled cry, caught 
 them both to his breast and held them there. 
 
 * Xay, forgive me, my wife,' he said, and he 
 could say no more. 
 
 About a fortnight after this, when Euphie had 
 left the North country and returned to her own 
 house in Edinburgh, Andrew sat at the fireside 
 reading and gently rocking the cradle with his 
 foot. 
 
 ' See, Andrew,' said Euphie, entering the 
 apartment with the japanned tin box in her 
 hand, 'here is the box I told you about last 
 night — the box I surprised Mrs. Lyn building 
 into the wall that awful morning.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' responded Andrew, taking it from her 
 hand and examining it with interest. 
 
 ' Look, I can open this one, but for this other 
 inside there is no key, nor could I find one for 
 it anywhere in the house.' 
 
 *But, my darling, don't you see that the one 
 key fits both locks ? The box is smaller, but the 
 lock is the same size. There, you see ! ' 
 
 * Well, how simple ! and I rummaged every- 
 where, high and low, to find a key for that 
 box, and all the time ' — 
 
 Andrew had raised the lid, revealing a little 
 packet neatly tied about with a narrow blue 
 ribbon. 
 
252 Euphie Lyn. 
 
 * Andrew, it feels like sacrilege. These must 
 have Ijeeii Mrs. Lyn's ohl love-letters she was 
 hiding away, for fear any one should read them.' 
 
 Andrew shook his head, and smiled with 
 amused toleration. 
 
 * I cannot credit you with being a great judge 
 of character, wifie mine,* he remarked, undoing 
 the ribbon. ' Nannie Lyn was hardly the kind 
 of woman to hoard up love-letters. Had it been 
 you — but here goes ! ' 
 
 lie unrolled the outside paper, and a packet 
 of bank-notes was revealed. 
 
 ' Good gracious, Andrew ! ' 
 
 'Very pretty love-letters, are they not?' he 
 quizzed, as he spread them out — bank-notes all ! 
 
 * A thousand pounds ! ' gasjted Euphie, when 
 he had counted them. 
 
 'A thousand pounds!' echoed Andrew, with 
 business-like gravity. 
 
 ' And this was what she was hiding and hoard- 
 ing ail the time ! 77iW was what she sacrificed 
 comfort and health and life for ! What shall we 
 do with them, dear ? ' 
 
 ' Put them in the fire, of course.' 
 
 * The fire ! Andrew, are you out of your 
 senses % A thousand pounds of good money ! ' 
 
 ' A thousand pounds ! — all waste paper, my 
 wife. See, it is eight- years since that bank 
 failed — its affairs were all wound up long ago. 
 It must have failed — let me see — just after 
 Nannie went into that North-country seclusion. 
 If she had used the money even then, the notes 
 might have been cashed ; as it is, they are only 
 fit for the fire.' 
 
 * A thousand pounds ! ' murmured Euphie, 
 
' Could he still love her f 253 
 
 looking <lreamily ut the paper, whose value had 
 died away from it. 
 
 ' And here is something else — a letter, I think,* 
 said Andrew, carefully picking out with his 
 pencil what seemed to be a mere lining to the 
 bottom of the box. It was part of a letter, faded, 
 and so worn at the creases that it threatened to 
 fall asunder. The top and bottom of it was torn 
 away. Evidently Nannie had lessened it in order 
 to fold it up as a neat and compact lining for the 
 bottom of the box, fitting it to the size. 
 
 The writing was dim, but Andrew managed to 
 decipher it, being written in a large, bold hand. 
 
 * This cheque for one thousand pounds you can 
 cash at the bank already named. Let the child 
 want for nothing which money can buy, and I 
 will see you and make arrangements for the future 
 when I return from India. I give you this large 
 sura at once as a guarantee of how you will be paid. 
 I have called her Euphemie Marguerite Hertz- 
 man — Euphemie after my mother, and Marguerite 
 I lertzman after her own mother. I know you Avill 
 be good to the child, and as you deal by her may 
 God so deal with you. About that room ' — 
 
 Hero the letter was torn, and Andrew looked 
 up to find Eui)hie's eyes large with tears. He 
 laid down the paper and drew her down upon his 
 knee and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 ' Do you know, my dear, this does not surprise 
 me a bit? After you told me, over in Leven 
 yonder, about Madame Hertzman and the strange 
 fancy she took to you, I had always an idea that 
 you were the daughter of her lost Marguerite. I 
 said nothing about what I thought then ; but did it 
 never strike you yourself that it might be so ? ' 
 
254 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 ' Never — I never dreamed of such a thing.' 
 
 * Ah, well, dear, never mind. The past is past, 
 but the present is ours to mould a future on as 
 far as we may. There, look at that little rascal ! 
 Wide-awake, I declare, and grinning consumedly 
 with these solitary four teeth of his ! * 
 
 This same wakerife rascal had grown to be 
 a little lad in all the elation of first trousers 
 when Thomas Mathers stepped in one evening 
 from Inweerie to pay them a visit. Thomas did 
 not seem well, and there was a pathetic look of 
 weariness in his eyes — a weariness less of the 
 body than of the soul. The sensitive poetic 
 nature, with its lifelong hunger for sympathy 
 and congenial friendship unappeased, with the 
 shadow of the wolf never lifting from his door- 
 step, had at last grown weary of the ignoble 
 struggle for mere existence. He had begun to 
 think of the long release as a thing sweet and 
 desirable ; he found a pensive pleasure in dream- 
 ing of a higher, fairer, fuller life than earth had 
 ever afibrded him. 
 
 Both Andrew and Euphie noted the change, 
 and a vague pang of regret smote them, and 
 made their welcome more warm and their speech 
 more tender. 
 
 * Thought you had forsaken us altogether, 
 Tammas,' said Andrew ; and Euphie, with kindly 
 fuss, shook up the cushions in the easy-chair to 
 make them soft for him. 
 
 * Eh, lassie, I've rowed on the thafts ower 
 lang to think o' saft seats,' quoth Thomas, 
 sitting restfully down nevertheless, and, with a 
 jaunty defiance of care, quoting from one of his 
 own poems — 
 
* Could he still love her ?' 255 
 
 'When dreepin' an' weary I come frae the sea, 
 Wi' little reward for my toil, 
 I'm cheered wi' the wee things that climb on my knee, 
 An' the smirk 0' my cheery wife's smile. 
 
 'My frugal meal past, an' my dry suit put on, 
 Then doon to my books an' my lore ; 
 My dwelling, though humble, I'll barter wi' nane, 
 An' I'll sing "while I tug at the oar.'" 
 
 Something in his manner brought a lump into 
 Euphie's throat as she smiled down upon him. 
 There was a book sticking out of the side-pocket 
 of his pea jacket, and she playfully tapped it 
 with her finger. 
 
 * Whai liave you been reading on the way up 
 to Edinburgh ? ' 
 
 ' Oo, no' niuckle. That's just an auld transla- 
 tion o' Yirgil I bocht at a second-hand book- 
 shop as I cam' daundcrin' doon tlie street. My, 
 what a singer he was ! Man, Andrae, I aye 
 keep tliinkin' an' wonderin' if thae imperishable 
 speerits '11 keep on soarin' an' singin' in the next 
 warld as they did in this, an' if a puir humble 
 worshipper o' theirs micht maybe touch the hem 
 o' their celestial garments. Wha kens 1 ' 
 
 'It's my opinion they will,' said Andrew 
 cheerfully ; ' but there's plenty time to think o' 
 that for mony a lang year yet, Tamnias.' 
 
 Thomas shook his head mournfully. 
 
 ' Na, Andrae. The sun's wearin' low i' the 
 wast, an' I ken the shadows lengthenin' mair 
 an' mair every day. The sense o' failure hings 
 lieavy an' grows on me the aulder I get. My 
 dreams are a' bv ; I feel life has been ower 
 nmckle for me, though I've tried to do my best, 
 an' aye made inclination subject to duty. But 
 
256 Etiphie Lyn. 
 
 this life's no' a', an', thank the Lord, " the day's 
 aye fair in the Land o' the Leal.'" 
 
 * Tammas, Tammas ! ' cried Euphie, in 
 vehement protest, as she drew in the table and 
 laid the cloth, ' I'll not listen if you sit and 
 speak of yourself like that. Tell us all the news 
 about Inweerie. How's Jamie Scoit and Jenny ? 
 And Mary — how is she 1 ' 
 
 Euphie piled on the questions, one after the 
 other, in hot haste — anything to dispel the feel- 
 ing of sadness which hovered over them, in spite 
 of their joy at seeing him again. 
 
 * Oh, they're a' weel, an' the men folk a' ta'en 
 up plannin' the grand new harbour. It'll cost 
 them seventeen thoosan' pound, an' Government 
 '11 no' gie them a bawbee to help ; but, faith ! 
 they'll build it theirsel's, an' kind thanks to nae- 
 body. Ye'll no' liae heard aboot Tam Gowans? ' 
 
 ' ^o. What about him ? ' said both, with 
 lively interest. 
 
 ' It seems he's sent word that he got anither 
 promotion, an' had marrit some captain's young 
 widow — a leddy wi' plenty siller.' 
 
 ' Well done Tom ! ' said Andrew heartily \ 
 but Euphie pondered as she set the tea, and the 
 flicker of the fire danced ruddily on her cheek. 
 Tom had been a sore spot on her conscience, and 
 it relieved her to think he had not been incon- 
 solable. 
 
 They were very happy these three old friends 
 that evening, the last they ever spent together, 
 for when the poet returned to Inweerie it was 
 to go home to God. 
 
rxD jy?^S0 
 
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 " The Gates of Eden : " 
 
 A Story of Endeavour. 
 By ANNIE S. SWAN. 
 
 New Edition. 
 With Portrait of the Ai 
 
 '• The subject of Miss Swan's ' Gates of Eden ' is one 
 which demands, and receives from her hand, a skilful 
 treatment. John Bethune rears his motherless boys in 
 accordance with a preconceived plan. The elder is to be 
 a minister, the younger is to follow the plough. Circum- 
 stances seem to favour his scheme ; for the future minister 
 has, it appears, the advantage in appearance, in manners, 
 and in ability. But the real truth is different. The depth 
 of character and the best mental gifts really belong to the 
 latter. How the young man, conscious of his power, yet 
 stedfastly walks along the appointed path till he is free to 
 choose, and how, once free, he enters on his own way and 
 overcomes all its difficulties, is very well told in these 
 pages. We have not often seen a better portraiture than 
 is that of the two brothers. Miss Swan is too skilful to 
 make the weaker of the two a mere foil to the stronger. 
 He, too, with all his faults, has virtues of his own, and 
 the reader is glad to see them reaching their true develop- 
 ment before the story is finished. The episode of the 
 recovery of Willie Lorraine, a repentant prodigal, is full 
 of pathos ; as is also the love-story of Mary Campbell. 
 The 'Gates of Eden' is a worthy successor to the 
 author's ' Aldersyde.' " — Spectator. 
 
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 ''Briar and Palm : " 
 
 A Study of Circumstance and Influence. 
 By Annie S. Swan, 
 
 Author of " Aldersyde," " Carlowrie," " Gates of Eden," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 "Is as charming a tale as this talented writer has 
 produced. It paints with quiet force and occasional 
 touches of fine pathos the career of a young doctor, Denis 
 Tlolgate, a character in whom the author arouses a deep 
 interest by the skill with which she has traced his growth 
 through work and sufifering to gentleness and nobility of 
 nature. " — Scotsman, 
 
 "Furnishes another proof that the author of 'Aldersyde' 
 and * Carlowrie ' is as much at home among English folk, 
 both of the Southern Counties and of Lancashire, as she 
 is among the people of Scotland.''' — Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 " Some of the chapters indicate a larger outlook on life, 
 and also a more intense dramatic energy." — Daily Mail. 
 
 " We find Miss Swan quite as much at home in the 
 Metropolis, and among the people of the Lancashire 
 seaboard, as in her native Lothians. . . . She has 
 evidently been working hard, and enlarging her know- 
 ledge of the treasures of literature, as well as of places 
 and people." — Greenock Telegraph. 
 
 ''Take it all in all, the authoress shows a wonderful 
 versatility and perfection in the art of telling a story 
 pleasantly and well." — Pen and Pencil. 
 
 "A lovely tale, honestly worth its weight in gold." — 
 Sheffield Independent. 
 
 " The book is instinct with that fine feeling and tender 
 idealism which gives Miss Swan's work the stamp of 
 uniqueness. " — Evening News. 
 
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Crown 4to, Cloth Extra, with 150 Illustrations, 
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 ^'Edinburgh, 
 Past and P resent!' 
 
 By J. B. Gillies. 
 
 With Notes of the County, Historical, 
 
 Descriptive, and Scientific 
 
 By Rev. James S. Mill, Flora Masson, and 
 
 Dr. Geikie. 
 
 " Mr. J. B. Gillies, if we mistake not, is a writer who 
 already has attained a large share of popularity by his 
 descriptions of storied scenes in the Modern Athens. 
 Under this impression we may, perhaps, congratulate the 
 ' Benjie ' of old upon the handsome appearance of 
 * Edinburgh, Past and Present.' Throughout the two 
 hundred and sixty pages will be found a large number of 
 illustrations, very beautifully executed, and adding no 
 inconsiderable interest to the spirited text." — The 
 Publishers' Circular. 
 
 " The book cannot be too highly praised." — The Inver- 
 ness Courier. 
 
 " Everything in and about the Old Town of Edinburgh 
 is interesting, and that interest is very much enhanced in 
 the present work by the numerous and well-executed 
 woodcuts which adorn its pages. The author has earned 
 the thanks of his contemporaries by the able manner in 
 which he has woven into his work the most salient points 
 of Edinburgh history. Its style and typography are of 
 that high order which we might expect from a firm of 
 publishers of such repute." — IVcstem Antiquary. 
 
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 Aldersyde. By Annie S. Swan, Author of 
 
 "The Gates of Eden," "Briar and Palm," 
 
 " St. Veda's," &c. 
 At Any Cost. By Edward Garrett, Author 
 
 of '• By Still Waters," " Equal to the Occasion," 
 
 &c. 
 Carlowrie. By Annie S. Swan, Author of 
 
 " Sheila," " Maitland of Laurieston," &c. 
 
 The Lily of Lammennoor. By James Dodds. 
 Preston Tower. By Jessie M. E. Saxijy, 
 
 Author of " Ben Hanson," " Kate and Jean," 
 
 "Vita Vinctis,"&c. 
 The Lpjrd's Secret. By Jane H. Jamieson, 
 
 Author of " Sir John's Ward," &c. 
 Glenairlie. By Robina F. Hardy, Author of 
 
 "Jock Halliday," "Katie," "Tibby's Tryst," &c. 
 Matthew Dale, Farmer. By Mrs. Sanders. 
 Bits from Blinkbonny. By John Strathesk, 
 
 Author of " Bits about America," " Andrew 
 
 Gillon," " Little Bluebird," &c. 
 
 More Bits from Blinkbonny. By Joiiv 
 Strathesk, Author of 'Bits from Blink- 
 bonny," &c. 
 
 Seventy Times Seven. By Adeline Ser- 
 geant, Author of " The Luck of the House," 
 " Jacobi's Wife," " No Saint," &c. 
 
 Among the Heather. By A. C. Hertford, 
 Author of " Love Conquers All." 
 
 Tibby's Tryst. By Robina F. Hardy, Author of 
 "Glenairlie," " Kilgarvie," "Jock Halliday," &c. 
 
 The Luck of the House. By Adeline 
 
 Sergeant. 
 The Ayres of Studleigh. By Annie S. Swan. 
 The SandcliJa' Mystery. By Scott Graham, 
 
 Author of "The Golden Milestone." 
 Tib. By George Douglas. 
 
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New Edition, Extra Crown Svo, Cloth Extra, 
 
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 ''Seventy Tmies Seven: 
 
 A Novel. 
 By ADELINE Sergeant, 
 
 Author of " Jacobi's Wife," &c., &c. 
 
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 " Miss Sergeant is one of our rising noveli:sts. It is not 
 many years since she first Agreed recognition of her powers 
 as a novelist ; and with every succeeding production she 
 appears to improve. In 'Jacobi's Wife' this talented 
 lady reached high-water mark, but the novel now before 
 us is a distinct advance on any of her previous perform- 
 ances. Her characters are natural and individual. In 
 each a separate distinct interest is aroused. Yet they fit 
 into each other so completely as to make an artistic 
 whole. The story is the old one of love." — Aberdeen 
 Journal. 
 
 " Miss Sergeant's latest story will be eagerly read by 
 her many admirers all over Great Britain. Never, 
 perhaps, has her wonderful skill in depicting the lights 
 and shades of human nature been more strikingly shown 
 than in the character of Magdalen Lingard." — Sheffield 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
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 ''Noel Chetwynd' s Fall!' 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. Needell, 
 
 Author of " Lucia, IIu{jh, and Another ;" "The Story 
 of Philip Methuen," &c. 
 
 " Written with great dramatic power." — Pen and Pencil. 
 
 " From first to last there is no page that needs skipping, 
 and, taken as a whole, it is one of the pleasantest and 
 most sympathetic ' Society Tales ' that have yet been 
 published." — Literary World. 
 
 "Admirably told. The authoress is evidently one 
 accustomed to move in the best circles, and whose skilful 
 gauging of the characters. of those she encounters is both 
 accurate and destitute of anything like spite or malice." — 
 Society Herald. 
 
 " The characters in the story are finely conceived and 
 well handled, and the descriptive powers of the writer are 
 patent to all readers." — Sheffield Telegraph. 
 
 •'We are fascinated by her acute perception of 
 character, her subtle delineation of mind-working, em- 
 bodied in a singularly rich vocabulary and melodious 
 style." — Newcastle Coiirant. 
 
 "Her characters are firmly and effectively drawn, the 
 two women — the Duchess and the young girl Eleanor — 
 being especially attractive figures." — Scotsman. 
 
 *' It is the besetting sin of some authors to introduce so 
 many persons that their readers get confused with per- 
 sonalities. Mrs. Needell chooses the more excellent way 
 of concentrating attention on less than half-a-dozen in- 
 dividuals. The result in this instance is, that Noel 
 Chetwynd, Felix Kynaston, Eleanor Dalzell, the Duchess 
 of Ilillshire, and Mrs. Kynaston are all exceptionally 
 interesting." — Figaro. 
 
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 ''One False Step:'' 
 
 A Novel. 
 By Andrew^ Stewart. 
 
 ** li is not often that we meet with a nobler or more 
 truly exemplary character than that of Alice Leigh, the 
 heroine of this admirably told story. This is a work 
 which is as precious as it is interesting, and causes us to 
 hope that the clever author may see his way at no distant 
 date to give further works of a similar nature from his 
 gifted pen." — Society Herald. 
 
 " One of the most interesting works of fiction that has 
 seen the light for some time." — Kelso Chronicle. 
 
 " Healthy and bracing as the Edinburgh air, it is also 
 as free from sentimentalism as the Scotch character." — 
 Presbyterian World, Halifax, Nova Scotia. 
 
 "An admirably contrived and cleverly written novel." 
 — Kilmarnock Standard. 
 
 " The story proves the author a master of the art of 
 holding the interest of his readers." — Pen and Pencil. 
 
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 ''Sir Johns Ward; 
 
 or. 
 The Heiress of Gladdiswoode : " 
 
 A Quiet Chronicle of Country Life. 
 By Jane H. Jamieson, 
 
 Author of " The Laird's Secret." 
 
 *• Instinct with the fascination of romance. Miss 
 Jamieson has a rippling and attractive style, to which .she 
 adds a keen knowledge of homely Scottish life, and a 
 jioclic appreciaiion of the beauties of her native land." — 
 Diitidce Courier. 
 
 "A wlujlesonie, breezy book, redolent of country life in 
 the Scotch Lowlands." — Liverpool Post. 
 
 " Enriches the great and ever increasing store of 
 Scottish fiction." — N. E. Daily Gazette. 
 
 *' Written with a simplicity and pathos altogether 
 delightful, and the reader only regrets it is so short." — 
 Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 " Delightful and realistic glimpses of Scottish village 
 life and country society." — Liverpool Courier. 
 
 " ' Sir John's Ward ' introduces us to a number of 
 ])leasant people with whom we soon get upon such gocjd 
 terms that when the final page is turned we part from 
 them with regret." — Graphic. 
 
 " Pure as the sparkling rill of water issuing from its 
 rocky bed in the hillside — healthy as the breezes that 
 blow over the mountain ranges of Caledonia — and brac- 
 ing as the fust clear frosts of the coming winter." — Leeds 
 I'itnes. 
 
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Extra Crown 8vo, Cloth Extra, with rrontisi)iccc 
 by RoBKKT M'GkKGOR, R.S.A., Price 5s. 
 
 "SA Veda's; 
 
 or. 
 
 The Pearl of Orr's Haven y 
 
 By Annie S. Swan. 
 
 " The power of the writer is clearly evidenced in the 
 skill with which she composes new situations and new 
 ideas. Undouhtedly Miss Swan possesses considerahle 
 power in creating novel and dramatic situations, and, 
 moreover, in representing them holh vividly and p<nver- 
 fully. In all her works she api)ears to po: scss a skilhil 
 grasp and treatment of her subject, and the diction is 
 rcmarkaljle alike for its power and grace. Her knowledge 
 of peo|ile and things must he both large and comjtri;- 
 hcnsive. Her sentences read both musically and sym- 
 pathetically, and they serve to bring before the mind of 
 the reader a living reality of the scenes and events which 
 she attempts to portray." — Society Herald. 
 
 "A very well written and altogether charming story." 
 — Whitehall Review. 
 
 " A charming story of Scottish life and character, and 
 of absorbing interest from first to last." — Liverpool Post. 
 
 "The authoress will never want readers while she can 
 give them sucli books as ' St. Veda's.' " — Quiz. 
 
 " One of the most romantic stories which Miss Swan 
 lias written, and we think, too, one of her best. She can 
 always be ])athctic, and sometimes strikes a note of great 
 beauty and dei)lh. The old skipper, in particular, is a 
 study of a line old fisherman that would do credit to any 
 writer, and the two old ladies are nearly as good." — 
 Spectator. 
 
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WORKS 
 
 BY 
 
 JESSIE M. E. SAXBY. 
 
 Preston Tower; or, Will He no' come 
 Back Again ? Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 3s. 6d. ; 
 without Illustrations, Cloth, 2s. 6d. ; Paper 
 Boards, 2s. 
 
 "There is abundance of incident woven together into 
 a well contrived plot, and there is powerfully drawn 
 character in this story, which is sure to interest, and can 
 hardly be read without some advantage." — Spectator. 
 
 Ben Hanson : A Story of George Watson's 
 College. Small Crov/n 8vo, Illustrated, Cloth 
 Extra, IS. 6d. 
 
 " Tenderly and pathetically told, and, without ever 
 sinking to the ' goody-goody ' level, embodies wholesome 
 lessons for young readers." — Scots jnan. 
 
 Life to those that are Bound : Vita 
 Vinctis. By RoBiNA F. Hardy, Annie S. 
 Swan, and Jessie M. E. Saxby. Crown 8vo, 
 Cloth Elegant, is. 6d. ; Paper Covers, is. 
 
 Kate and Jean : The History of Two 
 
 Young and Independent Spinsters, narrated by 
 their Landlady. Crown 8vo, Cloth Extra, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Milestones, and other Stories. Small Crown 
 8vo, Illustrated, Cloth, Price, is. 
 
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Crown 8vo, Price 2S. 6d., Illustrated ; 
 Cheap Edition, Paper Covers, is.; Cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 ''By Still Waters r 
 
 A Story for Quiet Hours. 
 By Edward Garrett. 
 
 New and Cheaper Edition. 
 
 " We like this ' Story for Quiet Hours ' very much 
 better than we have liked any of Mr. Garrett's recent 
 tales ; he has shaken himself free from the leaven of 
 Puritanism, and is at his best — always pleasant and 
 readable, sometimes giving utterance to a really fine and 
 graceful thought, and showing plenty of dry humour." — 
 The Graphic. 
 
 "We have read many books by Edward Garrett, but 
 none that has pleased us so well as this. It has more than 
 pleased, it has charmed us. All through it runs a golden 
 thread of spiritual wisdom that makes you linger as you 
 read. The best character, drawn with great care, is 
 Sarah Russell. We have all of us, we hope, met such 
 good, kind, wise women, who seem to be sent into the 
 world to put things straight and lift everybody to a higher 
 plane of existence." — The Nonccnformist. 
 
 " It possesses merits of a very sterling order. The book 
 is a good one in every sense of the word. The author sets 
 a high aim before him, and he achieves it. In Tibbie 
 there is a grim humour closely allied to pathos underlying 
 her queer epigrammatic sayings." — Morning Tost. 
 
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Crown 8vo, Cloth Extra, Illustrated, Price 3s. 6d.; 
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 ''Matthew Dale, Farmer T 
 
 By Mrs. Sanders, 
 
 Author of *' Happy with Eitlicr." 
 Second Edition. 
 
 ** Told in an easy, pleasant style ; its incidents are 
 generally well chosen and probable, and the characters 
 are all well drawn. A very few touches suffice to outline 
 each, and the shading given by conversation and action is 
 in each case consistent and sufficient. ... It has the 
 merit of being unstrained and unscnsational in its 
 incidents, and thoroughly healthy in iont.'"— St. James' 
 Gazette. 
 
 " The interest of the story in general, though entirely 
 domestic, is exceedingly varied. ... A very considerable 
 dash of true Scotch humour." — The Globe. 
 
 "Another Scottish rural romance: the personages arc 
 in a humble line of life ; and they are drawn by a lady, 
 who, as is very evident, thoroughly understands her 
 country folk." — The Times. 
 
 " There is nothing in the story that might not have 
 happened, and yet nothing that was not worth the telling." 
 — The Graphic. 
 
 "'Matthew Dale' is thoroughly enjoyable; the plot 
 is evolved with great care, and. the style is remarkal»ly 
 good. Ann Forbes's troubles with the household affairs 
 of the employer whom she has admired from girlhood, 
 with his treacherous sister, and his drunken nephew, are 
 as genuine as anything we have seen in fiction for a long 
 time." — Spectator. 
 
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 Paper Boards, 2s. 
 
 ** Glenazrlie ; 
 
 or. 
 The Last of the GrcBjnes." 
 
 By ROBiNA F. Hardy, 
 
 Author of "Jock Ilalliday," &c. 
 
 With Six Original Illustrations by Tom Scott. 
 
 "The talc is one of life and character in a Highland 
 glen ; it has a rather complicated but well managed plot, 
 contains some shrewd and eirective studies of different 
 types of Scottish chu,racter, and is imbued with an 
 emphatic but truthful local colour. Written with con- 
 siderable narrative and descriptive power, and having an 
 enjoyable flavour of humour, with here nnd there a touch 
 of real pathos, the book is a wholesome and readable 
 story. " — Scotsman. 
 
 " Brightly written, and docs not flag. The author is 
 well up in the Scotch dialect, and gives some good 
 portraits of Scotch character, whicii tends mainly to 
 crossgrainedness and perversity." — Literary World. 
 
 " Done in Miss 1 lardy's happiest, freshest, and quaintest 
 style, is a scene in the Highland parish kirk of Glenairlie, 
 on the harvest thank'^giving Sabbath. Everything in this 
 sketch is brougtit out with the hand of an artist — old Dr. 
 Cargill, and his sermon on Ruth ; the creaking pulpit 
 stair, and the pagoda-like sounding board, with a gilt 
 pine-applf ''n the top; and the square family pews, 
 adorned with green baize and brass nails ; and the old 
 crones in front of the pulpit in rusty black, and Bibles 
 wrapped in clean white handkerchiefs, with sprigs cf 
 thyme or southernwood ; and * Betty ' coming in lj.tc 
 and bustling, and provoking an angry scowl from the 
 laird for letting the folding-leaf of the seat fall wilh a 
 crash ; and the close of the service, when there was a ctir 
 in th'j elders' pew, and each seii;«_d his wooden implement 
 for the ' lifting of the offering.' The whole is admirable." 
 — Perthsh ire Constitutional. 
 
 " Rich, racy, Scotch humour." — Presbyterian. 
 
 '• A book, which contains such characters as Miss Leslie, 
 Betty, and tlie impracticable 'oldest inhabitant' — a.fersona 
 riula only — can need no recommendation." — Acadetny. 
 
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Small 4to, Pictorial Paper Boards, Beautifully 
 Illustrated, Price is. ; Cheap Edition, 6d. 
 
 ''Within a Mile 
 d Edinburgh Totcn!' 
 
 By RoBiNA F. Hardy, 
 
 Author of "Jock Ilalliday." 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 " A delightfully written and illustrated story, . . . 
 exceedingly interesting, and has high literary merit.'' — 
 Scotsman. 
 
 "Will rank an:o.igst the best of Robina F. Hardy's 
 works." — Daily Review. 
 
 "A fresh, breezy story. ... A very charming picture 
 of Scotch ways." — Yorkshire Post. 
 
 "One of the brightest and liveliest, and mosi hum or some 
 stories which the author of 'Jcck Ilalliday' has yet 
 thrown off. . . . Some very clever artist hands have lent 
 their aid, and so made the book doubly attractive." — 
 Pert hs It ire Constitutional. 
 
 '* Prettily got up, . . . nicely illustrated, pleasant 
 reading. . . . Scenes and characters well drawn and 
 described, true to nature and ordinary life." — The Queen. 
 
 " An Edinburgh suburban idyl ; . . . the plot is of the 
 simplest, a mere outline, but the picture is perfect. . . . 
 The best of Miss Hardy's books, viewed from the artistic 
 standpoint. . . . The volume, a small 4to, suitable for the 
 drawing-room table, is richly illustrated with a title-page 
 and frontispiece by Mr. J. Denovan Adam, and also with 
 "11-page v':.v/s of Liberton Tower, Duddingstcn Loch, 
 ' ilmert^n, Liberton Road, Craigmillar Castle, &c." — 
 Christian Leader. 
 
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