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4 5 6

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON

(

MA IT LAND
OF LAURIESTON

a ]familu IbistocB

ANNIE S. SWAN

(MRS. BURNETT-RMITH)

author ok • sheila,' ' gates ov elen,' ' alderstdi,'
*oabu)wrie/ 'dobib chbyme,' bto. etc.

Then I beheld all the work of God : . . . though a wise man think to know
It, yet shall he not be able to find it.'-BcoLBS. viii. 17.

' Whosoever ahall not receive the kingdom of Ood as a little child, shall in no
wise enter therein.'— Luke xviii. 17.

TORONTO, CANADA

WILLIAM: BRIQGS

EDINBURGH and LONDON
OLirHANT, ANDERSON & FERUIER

METROPOLITAN
TORCMTO

CEMiRA.L
LIBRARY

Literature

Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ninety, by William Bricus,
Toronto, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa.

SEP 1 3 1977

THE MKMORY OF MY MOTHER.

'Her children arise up, and call her blessed.'

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

PART I.

CHAPTER L

' Her home lay in the ■hadow,
Mine lay in the sun.'

JFFIE, go out into the field, dear, and ask rather to
come in and speak to me.'

'Yes, mother.'

The little maid, in her pink cotton gown and
white pinafore, the pockets of v,-hich were filled with ripe
gooseherries, darted off with that readiness which indicates that
obedience is sweet.

The mother, with an open letter in her hand, followed the
child out to the door, and watched her speeding down the garden
path, between the rows of stately hollyhocks and the clumps of
gillyflower and sweetwilliam, her snatch of song borne back like
music on the gentle summer breeze. She was a tall, slender,
graceful woman, with a fair, sweet, refined face, and sweet eyes
which mirrored as sweet a soul. There was an air of ladyhood
about her, though she wore a white cooking-apron, and though
her well-shaped hands were neither white nor fine, A farmer's
wife, and the busy mistress of Laurieston, Margaret Maitland

I-

„ t

-III

1 .«

I MAlTLAiSl) OF LAUJilKSTOX.

ha.l rcmainfid truo to hor gontle rearing, and hft<l cnrriiul all tlio
r. lincnHmt of her earlier years into the rougher sphere of her
niiinied life. She was a woman in lier prime; und there were
n.t K'rcy haira among the soft, golden-brown tresscH, and scarcely
a liiK* on the smooth, fair face. Hcsr life had, indeed, been
singu'arly free from care, although there were, at times, faint
shado.vs on her sky, as there must be in all lives, else we would
forgtit 1 hat we have no continuing city here. She stood under
the lin'cl of the old-fashioned door, and a trailing ])ranch of
the o!d rose-tree rested on her shoulder, until one white bloom
touthed her cheek. She shaded her eyes with her hand a
moment, and looked away out upon the fair landscape, which
was spread like a perpetual feast ever before her door. The
house, an old-fashioned, rambling building, more like a small
mansion than a farm-house, stood upon a gentle slope facing the
sea, which shimmered and quivered beneath the celestial blue
of the sky, whose counterpart it seemed. Its bosom was dotted
with the brown sails of the fishing-boats and the white wings of
the yachts, while here and there a line of smoke told where the
merchant ships were traversing the highway of commerce from
shore to shore. The opposite coast, with its clustering towns
and low green hills, made a fair background for the picture, — as
sweet and restful a picture as eyes could wish to see. But
Margaret Maitland saw none of it that day, for her eyes were
dim with tears. Beyond the wide garden there was a breadth
of green pasture-land, where the cows were peacefully grazing,
whisking their tails lazily in the sun. Beyond it again was the
field of golden barley, among which the reapers were busy,
their happy voices mingling with the other sweet sounds of the
summer day.

It was a day when bird and bee and all living things should
rejoice, and yet Margaret Maitland's heart was heavy and sore.

' Poor Ellen,' she said to herself in a whisper ; and in the
midst of her deep pity another feeling arose, — a passionate thanks-
giving that she had not been called to bear a like cross with the
friend of her youth. They had scoffed at her marriage with
bluff Michael Maitland of Laurieston, and she herself, out of
the passion of a wayward heart, had rebelled at her guardians'

hI all tho
•0 of her
loro weru
I scfirot'Iy
loil, boon
lUfs, fuint
pve would
3(1 under
)ranch of
to bloom
' hand a
)o, which
lor. Tho
) a small
acing tho
itial blue
as dotted

wings of
vhcro the
erce from
ng towns
ture, — as
lee. But
yes were
I breadth
r grazing,

was the
jre busy,
is of the

;8 should
nd sore,
id in the
;e thanks-
with the
age with
f, out of
[uardians'

MAITLANI) OF LAUlilKSTOX. 9

choice of lior destiny; l)ut now, lliron^'h the wImIoui and ox-
p(a'ion(!o of years, kIio know thiit in choosing Miclmcl Maitlund
tluiy had chosen wisely and well. Liokiug buck upon that fur-
off stonuy time, when the liot heurt of youth hud been full (tf
restless robellion, Margaret Muitland thanked (!od that summer
day that she had not boon loft to choose her own lot in life.
Prof >ntly she saw hor husband vault tho low hedge soparating
tho harvest-field from tl»e pasture, and conu' striding towards
the house. He had left Kffie behind, — the bairns all loved the
stir of tho harvest-field. Before ho enterod tho garden, his
wife went back to the parlour and sat down by the open
window, from which she could seo tho tall, broad figure, in
shirt-sleeves and slouching straw hat, come uj) the bordoretl
garden path and across tho grassy lawn. A puri)osc-like man
was tho Laird of Laurioston, a yeonian who had inherited
strength of limb and will from a long line of yeoman forebears.

Maitland of Laurioston was an old name, and one much
respected in tho parish of Inveresk. Although the place was
their own, they assumed nothing ; and had no ambition to rank
above their neighbours in the adjoining farms, — a course of
action which made them both beloved and esteemed.

'Well, wife, what is't?' Laurioston asked, as he paused
before the open window whore his wife sat, and wiped tho
perspiration from his brow. Laurioston was aye with his work-
people, not disdaining to share their toil, though he was said to
1m! one of the richest men in tho country-side. He bidonged to
a race who had ever been close-handed, pn^ferring jubstantial
comfort to meretricious show. Tho furnishings of tho house of
Laurioston were very plain, though of the best and most sul>
stantial kind. Michael Maitland had boon reared in a hard
school, — indulgence of any kind had never formed a part of his
early training. The creed he had been taught bound him to
keep passion and emotion in curb, and to make duty and right
take precedence always before what might be pleasant or easy
in the way of life. A good man, and a just, who exacted from
others only the dues he himself rigorously paid ; but not
generous nor open-souled. A Christian man also, according to
his light ; but a man who lacked the broader .spirit of human

■pgp^

? ( 1 ' H

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

love and chcirity, and who had no qnaiter for the evil-doer or
the unconsciously erring. Those liarsher attributes of an other-
wise fine character were a perpetual grief to his wife, who was
one of Heaven's messengers,— a woman whose lips dropped
svveetness, and whose hands knew nothing but the gentlest
ministry of love. Michael Maitland loved his wife with a
strong, deep affection, which was part of his being. It would
have cost him no effort to die for her ; but to tell her of his
love, or even to give such evidences of it as are more dear than
words to a woman's heart, would have seemed to him both weak
and wrong. They had four children, and though the household
was on the whole a happy and united one, s shadow sometimes
crept chilly to Margaret Maitland's heart. The children were
growing up, and, seeing the lads beginning to chafe under tlieir
father's rigid rule, the gentle mother feared further trouble.
Maitland reared his children after the' pattern of his own
rearing, which had not accorded the child any right of choice,
but exacted implicit and silent obedience to parental rule. He
wondered, as ho stepped up to the window that afternoon, what
had vexed his wife's usual sweet composure. There was even
a touch of solicitude in his look as he repeated his question :
'Well, wife, what is't?'

' I have had a letter from Ellen Laurie, father,' she answered,
holding out to him the open sheet.

' Is that a' ? No' much to bring me frae the barley for,' he
answered rather grimly. Neverthel(\-^ he sat down on the
broad stone ledge of the window, and Ijcgan to read.

* Ellen Laurie's never been out o' a peck o' troubles since she
marriet that ill loon,' he grunted, before he had read many lines.

His wife never answered, but sat still, watching her husband's
face as he continued to read. Tliore was a certain anxiety in
that look.

•She's a wise woman, Maggie. I've aye said she was not
doin' vight by the bairns, keepin' them in sight o' their father's
misdoin'. I question if she may not suffer for it yet.'

' \Miat am I to say to her, then, Michael T

' She's no' blate, that's what I think, Maggie, askin' ithor folks
to tak' the responsibility of her bairns,' said the farmer blmitlv.

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

l-doer or

an other-

who was

dropped

gentlest

e with a

It would

er of his

dear than

)oth weak

household

sometimea

dren were

nder their

r trouble.

' his own

of choice,

rule. He

loon, what

e was even

; question :

s answered,

•ley for,' he
wn on the

^s since she

many lines.

r husband's

anxiety in

he was not
heir father's

t.'

i' ithor folks
nor bhniUv.

* But you see what she says, Michael. She has means left to
pay for their board and Bchooling,' said his wife, so eagerly that
iier fair cheek flushed. *I can understand just how she feels.
• It must be dreadful for her to know that their father's example
and companionship can do the children nothing but harm. She
only asks that we will take them in while they are attending
school in Edinburgh.*

' " While I live I will never leave him myself," ' said Michael
Maitland, slowly recurring to some of the written words which
had struck him. 'She's a 'aithful soul, Ellen Laurie, and
deserved a better nor Willie Laurie ; but she would na' be
guided. Eh, but women-folk are silly, silly, when it comes to
takin' a man.'

I His wife could scarcely smile, she was so tremulously anxious

to have the question settled. ' Well, am I to write, Michael,
\ and bid her send down the bairns ? '

^ ' If ye like to tak' the bother ; two more will no mak' muckle

steer. But though I say ay, 1 dinna go in wi't a'thegither,
Maggie. Thoy'll tak' after their ne'er-do-weel father in some
way, you may be sure ; an' if they turn out ill, we'll get the
blame o't. But if ye be willin' to tak' that on ye, I'll no say
nay. Ye were aye vera soft aboot Ellen Laurie.'

' She was like my sister in the old time, Michael,' said
Margaret Maitland with trembling lips. 'Thank you, my
man.' And, to Laurieston's no small amazement and great dis-
comfiture, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His colour
rose a little, and he hastily marched off down the garden path
again, while —

' When ye're writing to Mrs. Laurie, Maggie,* he cried over
his shoulder, ' ye can tell her that I think the best thing she
could do wad be to come back to Scotland wi' the bairns hersel',
and bide. Willie Laurie has never been anything but a wastrel
all his days, and never will be noo. He's ane o' the deil's
bairns ; an' there's nae savin' for a reprobate like him.*

' Oh, Michael Maitland, what a hopeless doctrine ! ' cried his
wife • but he was out of hearing. Then she sat down and
re-read the letter, with wet eyes and trembling mouth. It had
moved her soul to the depths. Well did she know that the

•\i\

■ 1

1 1

'/•

Mii

MAITLAND OF LAURTKSTON.

circumstances must have bflen extreme which warranted Ellen
Laurie sending her two children from her side. Mingling with
lier deep, strong compassion for the sorrow of the friend of her
youth, there swelled anew in Margaret Maitland's heart a
passionate thanksgiving that she had not been left to her own
guiding in the perilous days of youth. Looking back, she
lemembered the time when she would have given all the world
for Ellen Rankine's chance; when she would have followed
wild Will Laurie to earth's utmost end without a question.
She h!id lived to distinguish gold from glitter, and in that hour
of deep emotion she thanked God for her husband and her
home. She thanked Him, too, for the green grave in the
churchyard of Inveresk, where her two first-born slept. That
little mound was a link betwixt earth and heaven. When her
thoughts were composed a little, she sat down and wrote to
her friend a letter whose every word breathed of compassion
and undying love She promised to be a mother to the two
bairns when they should come to Laurieston, not knowing that
in that promise she laid up for her and hers a bitter and a
life-long sorrow.

She had finished her letter, and was brooding over it, when
the bairn Effie came dancing in from the harvest-field with her
pinafore full of poppies.

' Father sent me in, mother ; for they are near finished with
the field, and he says I'll get my legs cut oflf,* cried the child,
her bright eyes dancing with wonder and excitement. She
paused, silent a moment in the doorway, conscioup, in a dim,
childish way, that something was vexing * mother.'

'Come here, Effie.' Margaret Maitland drew her rosy-
cheeked, bright-eyed little daughter to her side, and with her
firm,; oft hand smoothed back the unruly black curls from her
brow. 'Mother has something to tell you, dearia. There is a
little sister coming to Effie, to live always at Laurieston.'

' A sister?' The child's eyes opened wider still with amazement.

'A little girl from England, Effie. Her name is Agnes Laurie;
but we will call her Nannie, I think, for a pet name. Her
brother is oming too ; his name is Willie. He will be more a
companion for John and Michael and Walter.'

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

ited Ellen
jling with
id of her
i heart a

her own
back, she
the world
i followed

question.

that hour
i and her
ive in the
spt. That
When her

1 wrote to
iompassion
the two
awing that
tter and a

jr it, when
i with her

[shed witli
the child,

lent. She
in a dim,

' Oh ! when are they coming, mother % *

*Soon, dear. Mother is writing about them just now. You
will be very kind to poor little Agnes, Effie, for she will be very
I sad at leaving her mother. How would Effie like to leave
mother 1 '

* I won't,' replied the child decidedly. ' I'll give Agnes my
new doll and the bonniest lamb, mother.'
1 'That's mother's little girl,* said Mrs. Maitlaud, with a kiss.

*' She loved to see and to foster an unselfish spirit in her children.
' Now nin and meet the boys, — they will be coming from the
station ; and tell Jeanie in the kitchen to boil the kettle
quickly.*

So Effie danced oflf, her head full of the * little girl ' who was
coming from far-away England to be a sister to her ; and her
mother still lingered over her writing, conscious of a curious
feeling of depression she found it impossible to shake off.

her rosy-
l with her
Is from her

There is a
ton.'

imaze merit,
ties Laurie;
ame. Her
1 be more a

CHAPTER IL

*We think and feel,
Aai feed upon the coming and the gone,
Ab much as on the now time.'

BELIEVE, Kaitrine, I could sit oot-by the day.
I wish ye wad bid Gracie carry oot a' my gear
under the big tree. It's the middle o' July, my
woman, — surely the east winds hae lost their ill
sting ? What d'ye think, eh 1 '

'I dinna think onything, Miss Leesbetli. If ye want oot,
wild horses will no' keep ye in,' Kaitrine replied, with extra-
ordinary acidity, beginning, nevertheless, to roll up her stocking
with the utmost despatch. Mistress and maid sat together in
the old-fashioned parlour of the hcmse of Hallcross on a sunny
July afternoon ; summer peace, the halo of summer glory, lay
upon the old garden, where the still air was laden with the
heavy scent of pinks and sweetwilliams and old - fashioned
roses, among which the bees reaped their harvest all day long.
It was a dreamy, slumbrous, old-world spot, the house of Hall-
cross, with its curious old gables and narrow windows, its
sloping terraces and luxurious flower-beds almost shut in by the
box hedges, which had grown out of all proportion. It was a
whim of Miss Leesbeth's not to have the box pruned j year in,
year out, it followed the bent of its own growing ; and if the
effect was a little odd, it was wildly picturesque and in keeping
with the whole appearance of the place, which belonged to a
bygone day, as did its mistress, whose garments were quaint
and curiously fashioned, though not unbecomirig to the gaunt
yet stately figure, and the sweet, withered old face. Mistress

MAlTLASf) OF LAURIESTON,

y the day.
a' my gear
o' July, my
)st their ill

want oot,
with extra-
tier stocking
I together in

I on a sunny
jr glory, lay
m with the
i - fashioned

II day long,
use of Hall-
vindows, its
ut in by the
L It was a
ed J year in,

; and if the
d in keeping
jlonged to a
were quaint
,0 the gaunt
je. Mistress

and maid were a curious pair, who, understanding and caring
for eacli othor, s(;ldom agreed on any given point. Kaitrine, or
Catherine, hail been Miss Lcesbeth's companion and waiting-
woman for thirty-two years; therefore the tie between them was
one of no ordinary kind. Miss Leesbeth Glover was a thorough
gentlewoman, and, in spite of a certain gruff outspokenness, was
winning in her ways. But Kaitrine was an awe • inspiring
vision, — a hard-visaged, melancholy, sour - looking woman, past
middle life; a woman of blunt, rude speech, and uncourteous
ways, yet hiding beneath that unlovely exterior a heart of gold.
Miss Leesbeth was an invalid, having been a sufferer from
rheumatic gout for nearly fifty years. I, had swollen and
twisted her slender hands out of ail shape, and taken from her
limbs nearly all their power. She could not walk, save a few
uncertain steps, supported on Kaitrine's strong, untiring arm.
She had been a great sufferer ; but, ii? spite of its seventy years,
her face had something of the bloom and softness of youth upon
it still, and her bright eyes had lost none of their keenness. It
was a lovely old face, — one which, once seen, would long be
remembered.

* Ye'd better gie's a* yer orders when ye're at it, ma'am,' said
Kaitrine, still with extraordinary acidity. * How many plaids
d'ye want, an* whatten chairs an' stools ! Just sit doon or
they're cairried oot, see, an' dinna fash yer thoomb. It's no'
the first time I've letten ye oot-by, is't ? '

* No, Kaitrine ; but I'm fain to be oot,' said the old lady
meekly, looking with all a child's eager excitement through the
half-open lattice to the smooth green lawn, all dotted with
battercup and daisy.

' Humph,' was Kaitrine's comment ; but she went with haste
out of the room, and nearly worried Gracie, the young kitchen-
maid, out of her wits. In a few minutes all was in readiness
under the chestnut-tree : the invalid chair, the f'ushions for
back and feet, the big cotton umbrella to shade from the sun,
and the little table, which " was Kaitrine's own thought. She
made up he: mind that her mistress should have her four-o'clock
cup of tea on the lawn for the first time that summer.

When the faithful waiting-woman had placed everything in

I'!

16 MA IT LA ND OF LA UHIESTOM.

order for the cuiufort of her iiii«trcss, Miss Lecsboth, leaning on
that strong willing am,, passed out with slow, trembling steps
into the warm golden flood made by the summer sun. Her lips
quivered and her eyes grew wet as she uplifted her face to the
peaceful summer sky ; and when they had placed her in her
reclining chair under the grateful green shade of the chestnut-
tree, she folded her hands and said, under her brcatli, * Bless
the Lord, my soul, and forget not all His benefits.' Then
turning to Kaitrinc, she laughed, a low, sweet, happy laugh,

and added,— . , . i , r^-j

' Eh, my woman, but this is a bonnie warld. Did ever ye
see a bonnier spot than this auld garden this summer day 1 '

' It's weel eneuch, ^liss Leesbeth, weel eneuch ; but noo that
ye are out, I hope yi"'ll gio Tammas Da'rymple a word for he'll
tak' nanc frac me. .list look at these walks : it's a perfect sin
to see the weeds ; an' he's far ower late wi' his geraniums an'
stocks: look at the puir jimpy things, wi' hardly a leaf on
them, when they should hae been in flower. Ho was countin'
on the east wind lestin', as I telt him, an' that ye wadna bo
oot. Sac I hope, ma'am, ye'll gie him a word. Nesty, thrawn
auld body, he'll no dae nac way but his ain. Wha's this noo,
comin' in by the gairden door ? Ane o' thae Tho'burns, I'll be
bound, — claverin', wanderin' craturs.'

* It's Mrs. ;Miohael, Kaitrine,' said Miss Leesbeth joyfully, as
her eye fell on the figure of the mistress of Laurieston. ' I'm
fu' gled to see her. . Go in and see that Gracie has her kettle
bilin', an' mak' the tea guid, my woman. It's no' every day
Mrs. Michael comes to Hallcross.'

' She wadna be here the day, I'm thinkin', if she didna want
something,' quoth Kaitrine ; ' there's trouble on her face the
day, or I'm mista'en. I suppose I may gang my gate now.'
Nevertheless, instead of disappearing into the house, Kaitrine
went down the terrace steps and along between the box hedges
to meet Mrs. Maitland.

' She's oot, ye see,' she said abruptly, pointing backwards to
the lawn. ' She's just like a bairn, she wf*s gettin' that
fractious. There's nae wind the day to hurt a flee, onyway.'
' Oh no ; it's as warm as possible, Kaitrine,' returned Mrs,

MAITLAND OF l.AUltlESTOy,

leaning on
bliug steps
Her lips
Face to the
her in her
e chcstnut-
[ith, * Bless
its.' Then
ippy laugh,

)id over ye
r (lay r
)ut noo that
rd for he'll
perfect sin
raniums an'
r a leaf on
i^as countin*
3 wadna be
!sty, thrawn
's this noo,
urns, I'll be

joyfully, as
iston. * I'm
s her kettle
)' every day

» didna want
her face the
jT gate now.'
ISO, Kaitrine
Q box hedges

)ack wards to
gettin' that
, onyway.'
^turned Mrs,

''5

Maitland, with a smile, quite conscious of the affectionate
anxiety underlying the prickly exterior. ' I have walked along
the river-side, but found the insects a little troublesome.'

'Ay, the heat brings thcni. A' weel at Laurieston?*

' All well, thank you. Aunt Luesbeth looks well from here.*

' Oo ay, she's weel encucli, — as thrawn as ever. I have my
ain to dae wi' her,' said Kaitrine grimly. *Jist gang ower;
I've something adae in the hoose. Ye'll can bide wi' her a
wee?'

Mrs. Maitland nodded, and made her way rapidly to the little
camping-ground under the chestnut-tree.

*Aunt Leesbeth, how you will enjoy being out this lovely
(lay ! ' she exclaimed, as she shook hands with the old lady, and
bent her sweet, tender eyes on the pathetic face. Aunt Leesbeth
was Margaret Maitland's only living relative, and had long stood
to her in the place of a mother.

* Ay, lassie; I was but sayin', wi' Daavit, "Bless the Lord,
(J my soul ! " Art v. ^' weel, an' Michael, an' tl ■» bairns % '

'All well, all well,' ^larguret Maitland answered a little
wearily ; and, drawing off her gloves, she took off her bonnet and
put her bare hands up to her temples as if to still their throbbing.

'Kaitrine thocht ye looked vexed, Maggie,' Miss Leesbeth
said softly, but with anxiety in both face and voice.

'Kaitrine is a perfect witch. Aunt Leesbeth. Yes, I am
vexed, I had a letter yesterday from Ellen.'

'Waur news than usual, Maggie] What new sorrow has
the puir tried soul gotten noo ? '

'Nothing new, Aunt Leesbeth. I brought the letter with
nie. I'll just read it to you, because I want your advice. I
would have come last night, but Michael wanted me to drive to
Tranent with him ; and this was the chuming-day, so it was
after dinner-time before I had a minute to myself.*

So saying, Mrs. Maitland unfolded the letter, and without
further remark read it to Miss Leesbeth, who listened in
perfect silence, though with an occasional mournful shake of
the head. It contained no complaint, and yet its pathos
touched the heart of Miss Leesbeth with a keenness which was
almost pain. Although Ellen Laurie was not kin to her, she

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON,

loved her almost as well as her own niece, for i\w two had been
like sisters in that bright youth-timo when tlic fair world was

all before them.

•Ellen's heart is heavy, an' justly so, about tho bairns,
^^laggie,' she said at length. ' What does ^fichael say 1 '

'Michael is willing. His heart is kind at bottom, Aunt
Lecsbeth, though you don't get on with him,' said Mrs. Mait-
lund, with a faint smile.

«I have no fault to find wi' your man, Maggie lass, if yo arc
pleased ; yc took him wi' yer een open, my doo,' said the old
lady, with a sliglitly humorous smile. 'An' as to gettin' on,
I dinna live wi' him ; an' yo had aye a sweet temper. So he's
willin', is he, to let the bairns come to LauriestonT

* Quite. I wrote to Ellen last night.'

* Bidding her send the bairns ? '
•Yes.'

* An' what advice d'ye want, then, Maggie, when the thing's

a' settled?'

' I don't know. I have a foreboding ; perhaps it is the sense
of responsibility. I have four young souls in my charge
already, Aunt Lecsbeth, and I find them enough.'

•Ay, lassie, they are in your charge,' said Miss Leesbeth,
with a touch of bitterness ; ' an' blithe am I, and thankfu' to
the Lord, that tho Laurieston bairns hae sic a mother. If it s
the God o' their mother they learn to love an' serve in their
youth, 1 11 hae nae fears for them. If I were you, Maggie, I
wadna let the bairns come. Is the letter awa'1'

* Not yet ; but what is your objection 1 '

* It's a thankless job rearin' other folk's bairns, Maggie ; but
that's the maist selfish reason. Ye ken what their father is,
an' ye hae your ain to think o'. They micht learn ill frao
them.'

* I'd rather believe my bairns would do them good. Aunt
Leesbeth,' Mrs. Maitland answered, with motherly pride, which
pleased the old lady well. She spoke only to try her.

* Weel, weel ; it says muckle for you and Michael Maitland,
that ye are willin' to tak' the charge oot o' Ellen's hands. Eh,
lassie, ye hae a big heart. I mony a time wonder some folks

P\A

MAITLAM) OF LAUlUEl^TON.

len the thing's

(linna tak' example by ye. Dut it's no' in them, an' they canna
\\v\\) it. Maybe the Lord makes queer folk for His ain ends.
So the rent o' Hallcross is to pay the bairns' board? Sixty
pounds a year, — it's little eneuch.*

*It will not be spent, of that I m sure; Michael will lay
by the money for them, I know.'

' Maggie, ye hae made a man o' Michael Maitland, — he was
but a stano afore.'

* Oh, Aunt Leesbeth ! How dare you ?*

* Daur ! I daur say ony thing to you, Maggie ; an' what for
no' 1 Did I no' bring ye up, an' did ye no' marry Laurieston
again' my willl A man that believed in sic a God couldna
make any woman-body happy. But he hasna crushed ye yet.'

* Aunt Leesbeth, this is the one subject I will not discuss
with you,' said Mrs. Maitland sharply, and with a touch of
pride which her aunt loved to see in her, though she had
roused it. ' I am very well content with my man. I know
him, though you don't, and you never will, because you are
prejudiced against him.'

* Weel, weel, dinna think I dislike to see you stand up for
him, Maggie. There's nae accounting for some women, — they'll
do anything for a man. I'm best ofiP that's never been fashed.
When are the puir bairns comin', did ye say 1 '

'Soon ; at once, I suppose Ellen means. Aunt Leesbeth, I
don't think she'll live j I should like to see her again.'

* So wad I, puir Ellen. That's a pitif u' letter, Maggie ; but
there's a thing in't I dinna like. She's resigned to her sorrows,
but she speaks as if the Lord had sent them to her; when
a'body kent, ay, an' telt her, that if she took Will Laurie she
need look for naething else. Maggie, I hinna patience wi'
folk ; there's a kind that blame the deil, puir chiel', for a'thing,
an' a kind that blame Providence for a' the ill they bring on
themsel's. Eh, if I could preach, I wadna be feared to speak.
I'll no' say but that I'm sair vexed for Ellen ; but when a lassie,
wi' her een ojien, an' in the face o' sic tellins as she got, taks a
bad man, what can she expect 1 '

* She loved him, Aunt Leesbeth,' Margaret Maitland said, in
u low voice ; and, looking away from her aunt, she watched tho

il!

10 MAITFAND OF LAUllL ^OiV.

gloaming of tlie river uiitlcr tho willows beyond the old

garden.

•Or thocht she did. It pnBscs nic, lasnio, to ken how a
pure-minded true-hearted woiiiiui, such as lOllen Rankino was
twenty years ago, could boar Willie Laurie in hor company,
let alone love liim. It was a perfect infatuation. D'yo think
I'm ower hard, Maggie 1 '

• I don't know ; it is well not to judge, I think.'

•May be no'; but when I think o' Walter Maitland, in Leitb,
tied to that peengin' wife o' his, that ho marrit for spite,
though he wad hae laid down his life for Ellen, an' when
I think what a pair they wad hae made, I hinna patience
wi' folk.'

• But you are outside of it all, Aunt Leesbeth,' Mrs. Mait-
land said quietly. *It is easier to judge looking on than to
fight tho battle; not that I don't admit tho justice of what
you say. Walter ^laitland would have made Ellen happy ;
but I confess I find it better not to question too much into the
affairs of life.'

• Maybe, maybe,' said the old lady, feeling somewhat rebuked.
• Maybe I set myscl' up as a judge, puir silly cratur that I
am ; but of one thing I'm certain, Maggie : the Lord means
His creatures to be happy, an' gies them opportunities they
pass by. But we'll let that alone.*

• Yes,' said Margaret Maitland dreamily ; * I should like to
see her again.'

' So wad I, puir Ellen ; hers has been a weary weird.
Ye'U bring the bairns ower to see me when they come,
Maggie ? '

• Of course. I expect they will know you very well from
their mother's talk, and they'll be anxious to see her old
home. It is a sweet spot. When I come over, it looks to
me as if the past twenty years were a dream. It looks exactly
as it did when Ellen lived here with her mother.'

'Ay, puir lassie, she's been through the hards since then.
It's a mistake, Maggie, for a woman to think she can mak' a
guid man oot o' a bad by marryin' him. It is the man that
moulds the wife to his pattern.'

MA ITLA SD OF LA VHIESTON.

'yond the old

to ken how a

Rank i no wna

hor company,

ti. D'ye think

tiand, in Lcith,
irrit for spite,
lion, an' when
hinna patience

sth,* Mrs. Mail-
ing on than to
ustice of what ,
Ellen happy; ?
) much into the

lewhat rebuked.
y cratur that I
he Lord means
)ortunitie8 they r

\ should like to

i weary weird,
en they come,

very well from
to see her old
ver, it looks to
It looks exactly i

irds since then.

she can mak' a

is the man that

•Always, Aunt Leesbeth ? '

* "Well, no' in your case,' laughed Aunt Leesbeth. * When
are thae loon.4 o' yours comin' ower to eat my strawberries?
The birds are gettiu' the best half o' them.'

* I'll send them over to-night. Here's Kaitrine with the
t«Mi tray. Surely she is in a fine mood to-night 1 '

♦She likes you, Maggie. You should hear her say, "I've a
great re.spect for MistresH Michael."'

' Here's your tea,' said Kaitrine, marching forward with the
toil tiiiy. 'Jist look at her, — she's like a pleased wean,' she
added, with a comical glance at her mistress. 'Mercy me,
it's surely the affairs o' the nation ye'vo been discussin' 1 Ye've
been grectiu', ^frs. Michael; has she been gimin' at yel
Never heed her. Sit up, see. Miss Leesbeth, or I sort y(
pillie.s.'

* We've been discussing rather a serious mutter, Kaitrine,'
replied Mrs. Michael. 'What do you think of Mrs. Laurie's
two haiins coming to bide at Lauriestoni'

'To bide! What for?'

•To be educated and cared for.*

' I think weel o't — for the, bairns,' admitted Kaitrine. * It'll
maybe save them frae destruction : their fuitlier's an ill man, —
I kenna what way he brocht bairns into the world ava. An'
hoo's the puir cratur their mithcr, — aye liviu' yetl'

* Yes ; but I am afraid her health in very poor,' said Mrs.
Michael, with a sigh.

♦It couldna be onything else. Eh, the puir misguidet cratur,
that micht hae mated wi' tlu! best in the pairish,' said Kaitrine
gruffly, but with a ring of \v.i\\ regret in her voice. * Altho' I
wadna say't afore a man-body, it maks me sick to see the
silliness o' women. It gars nw^ to think shame whiles that I'm
a wummin mysid'. It's a pity the Lord didna gie women-folk
mair gumption when He was at it. 'i'hey hinna as muckle —
that is, some o' them — as look efter their puir silly sel's.'

: 1 ■ !

, .1

CHAPTER III.

•The dawn of liiinmn life doth green and verdant spring;
It doth little ween tlio Htrife the after yean will bring,'

fOME here, my son.'
'Yes, motlitT.'

* I want you to drive me up to the station to
meet futhcr and the bairns.'
' Oh, mother, I want to go down and see the Loretto match,'
said the lad, his bright face clouding a little.

* It will not be by when we come back, John. It is nearly
train-time now. Run and brush the dust off your boots and
your jacket, and put Annie Laurie in the phaeton.'

•Annie Laurie, mother? she'.s awful with laziness. She'll
never get to the station in tliat heat.'

' Oh yes, she will ; run, like a man, and I'll tell you why I
want Annie Laurie to pull us up.'

'All right; but father can't be bothered with her, she's
so slow.'

* Father will walk, likely. There is only room for four, at
any rate.'

Though disappointed of seeing the match start on the college
field, John Maitland never thought of rebelling, but went oil
whistling to put the harness on Annie Laurie's fat sides. The
Maitlands loved their mother intensely, and she had trained them
to a most beautiful obedience. She never spoke harshly or un-
gently to them, and yet each was eager to anticipate her desire
before it had found an utterance. The obedience they gave their
father was not less prompt, but it had awe, not unmingled with

not

MAlTLANn OF UUniESTOS*.

fpring }
bring.'

;lie station to

Dretto match,'

It is nearly
)ur boots and

siness. She'll

jU you why I

ith her, she's

n for four, at

on the college
but went oil
it sides. The
I trained them
barshly or un-
ate her desire
hey gave their
imingled with

fear, for its mainspring, — Michael Maitlnnd brooked no second
utterance of a wish ; his bairns as well as his work-people all knew
that his spoken word was law. When Mrs. Maitland stepped
out of the front door, and saw her tall manly son standing by
the pony's head, her heart thrilled with motherly pride.
Perhaps the first-born is over the dearest ; it is certain that
Margaret Maitland's life was bound i;p in her eldest son. lie
was, like other lads of his age, a trifle awkward and ungainly ;
his figure had all the slackness of boyhood, oven while it had
almost attained manhood's proportions. Ho had a good squnro
head, set not ungracefully on a sturdy neck ; and if his skin was
swarthy, it was in keeping with the dark brown hair, and fine
honest eyes, which had never yet feared to look the wholi'
world in the face. There was character in the face, decision
and manliness about the square brow and the well-set jaw, but
there was sweetness as well as strength in the mouth. The
mother hoped great things of her manly boy. I believe there
was no achievement or high height to which she did not believe
him capable of attaining. Wo live again in our children, and
in tlieir fair soil sow anew the seed which may not in our own
lives have come to the full ear. Margaret Maitland had
consecrated her boy's future, and was not in the meantime
troubling herself, only waiting, with a kind of exquisite satis-
faction, for the gradual unfolding of that bud of promise. As
yet the waiting had no shadow of anxiety or fear in it.

'John, I want to speak to you about Agnes ami Willie
Laurie,' she said, as the fat old pony carried them luniberingly
down the short avenue.

' What about them, mother 1 '

• I'm going to give you a charge over them.'

John looked rather perplexed, and gave Annie Laurie a
gentle whisk with the whip.

' You are grown so big, John, and you are so helpful, I am
going to trust you with something I would not speak about to
the others. Have you ever wondered that the Lauries should
come here ] *

' I did wonder awfully. It seemed strange. "Why, they are
not even any relation.'

MAtTLAND OF LAVRlESTON.

* Their mother was like my sister once, my son, and I feel
almost as if the bairns were kin to me. They have not a good
father, John, and their mother thinks it would be better for
them to be away."

' How not good ? * asked the lad, with intense interest.

* Not a good man. He has not the grace of Cod in his heart,
John, and he is not fit to have the upbringing of bairns or the
care of a wife,' said Mrs. Maitland ; and her colour Mse a little
in her fair cheek.

* I cannot tell you any more, my son. I have given you my
confidence, because T want you to be very good and kind to
Agnes and Willie. If they vex you, as they may sometimes,
remember that they have not had your advantages, and be very
gentle with them.'

' I'll try, mother.'

Margaret Maitland looked up at her tall son with a pleased
light in her eyps. She saw him straighten himself, and knew
that he was proud of the trust reposed in him.

* Of course I have not spoken to the others. They are too
young, and Watty, at least, too wild to understand. You are
diflerent, John ; you will be seventeen in October.'

* Yes, mother, I know.'

There was even a slight tremor in the lad's deep voice. It
was a very precious thing that his bonnie mother should make,
a confidant of him. From that day John Maitland seemed to
be more of a man than he had yet been.

* I suppose the little girl will be quite nice for Effie to play
with ? ' he said, after a bit.

* I don't know. I rather think, from what her mother has
told mo in her letters, that she is old for her years. She is just
Michael's age. They were both born in June, the time of the
roses.'

* She's fourteen, then ; no, fifteen. Why, mother, Michael's
fifteen ! '

* Yes ; the laddies are beginning to make their mother an old
woman. Take it easy, Annie Laurie, my woman, and remember
you are not so young as you were, like me.'

* She's a stupid old thing. She hears the train coming ; that's

MAJTLAND OF LArUlllSTOX.

2.^

and I feel
not a good
i better for

srest.

n his heart,
lirns or the
rose a little

^en you my

nd kind to

sometimes,

md be very

h a pleased
, and knew

hey are too
You are

p voice. It
liould makt^
I seemed to

Iflfie to [)lay

mother lius

She is just

time of the

sr, Michael's

other an old
d remember

ming ; that's

what's exciting her. We're just in time. I'll mind what you
said, mother.'

A look of love passed between mother and son, and Mrs.
jVraitland, steppir^ from the low phaeton, stood waiting by the
little white gate of the station.

[t was a busy station, though so small a place, Inveresk
being on the main line of the East Coast route from the South.

V>\\i the children had travelled by the West Coast route tci
Kdinburgh, where Michael ^laithind had gone to meet them.
They were the only passengcMs who stepped upon the platfoini ;
and when Mrs. Maitland saw her hufband assisting a tall,
womanly girl in a grey travelling cloak from the train, she gave
a start of surprise. For in that first look it seemed as if the
years rolled back, and the old days when Ellen Eankine and
she hail lii'eii bairns together were again with them.

' l-oiik at the little girl who is to play with Eflfie, John,' she
said, with a kind of quiet amusement ; 'she is as tall as you.'

IJcl'ore John could make any answer, the trio who had
stepped from the train came forward to the gate, — the boy,
l)oisterous and eager as was his wont, with his fair-skinned face
flushed, and his yellow hair hanging all round his big grey
eyes.

' That's Will Laurie's .son,' Margaret Maitland said in her
lieart, as she \w\([ out her hands to welcome the bairns, drawin<r
them both to her with that gesture of niothcrliness which was
like >uiishiue to the heart of Agnes. 8h(> had tried to study the
face of their new guardian during Ww short time she had been
with him ; but though he was (juite kind, he had given th^m no
cordial welcome, and his face had not been illumined by many
smiles.

'Is this the place? Is that your pony, Mr. ^Maitland?'
cried Willie, in his (juick, rather forward way. ' What a beast I
kSlie's far too fat.'

Mrs. Maitland let him go, but she kept the hand of Agnes
lirm in hers, and their eyes met in a long look, of questioning
first, then of absolute and satisfied trust.

'Come, dears. Are you to walk doAvn, father 1 Very well.
Just leave the trunks. Ceordie will bring up the little cart for

M AIT LAND OF LAUltlEiiTON.

them after tea. You knew them at once, didn't you, dear?
Isn't Willie like his father?'

'Ay is he,' answered Laurieston, a trifle dryly. 'And
there's Ellen Rankine as you and I kent her,' he said, pointing
to Agnes. '"Well, I'll away down. What possessed you to
bring Annie Laurie?'

' Where is Annie Laurie ? ' asked Agnes, with interest.
'The pony, my dear,' laughed Mrs. Maitland ; 'I brought
her because I thought she would seem like a friend to you.
Did mamma not tell you of her ? '
'No.'

* Come, then, and speak to John. This is my biggest son,
Agnes. We are going to call you Nannie. How will you like
your new name ? '

' I would like any name you gave me,* returned the girl, with
a peculiar pathetic uplifting of her eyes ; then she extended her
hand to John, who lifted his cap, and gave the slender fingers a
hearty, boyish pressure which told his welcome. The shyness
of youth of his age prevented him giving utterance to the kindly
feelings in his heart. In a few minutes they were comfortably
seated in the roomy phaeton, and Annie Laurie with a deep
groan trudged off.

' What does she groan for ? Are we hurting her ? ' asked
Agnes, in concern.

' Oh no,' laughed John ; ' it's her laziness. She's awful.
You'll soon get to know her tricks. Mother, slie gets far too
much to eat.'

' Why don't you ride her every day till slie gets thin ? * asked
Willie, with an assumption of knowledge which amused John
intensely.

' Because she belongs to mother,' he answered ; and Agnes
looked across at him with a peculiar sweetness. She liked to
hear him say 'mother' in that tender, reverent kind of way.
John was quite conscious of that sweet, serious approval, and it
made his heart glow, though he' dropi)ed his eyes rather shame-
facedly.

'See, Nannie, there is the son,' said Mrs. IMaitland, suddenly
laying her hand upon the girl's arm ; 'just a peep, and we won't

Itt
far

an(l

facd

MAITLAND OF LAVHlESTON.

dear 1

see it again till we get to Laurieston. Are you very fond of the
sea?'

'I think I am; I have never seen it right. Is that the
sea 1 Oh, how lovely ! " Her lips parted, her colour came and
went fitfully.

* It's only the Firth of Forth, Ag ; not of any importance
beside the Mersey,' said "Willie loftily. ' You should see the
ships in our river. We have six miles of docks,' he added,
looking at John.

' But that's at Liverpool, a great big city. This is the country,'
John answered quietly.

'Are we near Hallcross, Mrs. Maitlandl*

*We pass by the gate, dear. See, yonder is the spire of
Inveresk Church. You know it by name, don't you ?*

' Oh yes. Mamma did me some sketches from memory. I
recognise it quite well, though there are so many trees. How
pretty it is here ! '

* Very ; but we think it a little shut in. There is Hallcross,
Agnes, — that big ivy-covered house just within the high wall we
are coming to. Of course you know my aunt lives in it now ? '

* Yes — Miss Elizabeth Glover,' said Agnes quickly.

* She is not used to that long title ; we call her Aunt Leesbeth,'
said Mrs. Maitland. * She is very anxious to see you. She was
as much your mother's aunt as mine long ago.'

* It will be delightful to see her and Hallcross,* Agnes
answered, with almost emotional seriousness. * But how gloomy
it looks from here, — quite different from what I expected.'

' liGcause it is the back, and is in the shadow. The garden
lies in the sun all day long. But come, tell me about your
journey. Was it very pleasant % '

'Very comfortable, thank you. "Willie wearied a little, I think.'

' It is poky enough being boxed up in a little railway carriage,
I tell you,' said Willie promptly. I am glad to get here. Is it
far from your place 1 *

' No ; we shall be there presently. This is our turnip field ;
and look, there is the liouse.'

* Is it a farm 1 ' asked Willie, with a curious expression on his
face.

I I

MAITLAND OF LAURIESWN.

'Yes.'

' Dad said it was a gentleman's place,' retuined the lad care-
lessly. ' In England farmers are not gentlemen.'

•You may be mi'akon, my boy,' said Mrs Maitland gently.
* Just look how Annie Laurie knows the way.*

* Why do you call her Annie Laurie ? ' Agnes asked.

* Because she was given to me when I was a girl. She came
from Laurieston, Many a day have your mother and I ridden,
turn-about, on her back about the lanes, and even away over the
links yonder.'

' And where is Musselburgh, Mrs. Maitland ? Mamma told
me it was quite near.'

' So it is, only the trees hide it. You will soon know it all,
jiiy dear. See, yonder is Prestonpans pier, and the yellow
s.'inds at Aberlady.'

' It is all lovely. I have to go d jwn to Musselburgh and see
Dr. Moir soon, mamma said.'

* Yes, my love, I know ; \\a will talk over it all soon. Here
Ave are, and fatlitu" before us. There's Effie too. I suppose the
boys will be off to the match, John ? '

Annie Laurie walked up the avenue in a >'ery dignified way,
and stopped of her own accord before t!ie dooi. When the
young girl alighted, and stood for a moment looking on the
bonnie homolike place, and then away beyond the blue expanse
of the sbiniiig sea, she grew quite pale.

'How it shiks into my heart,* she said simply, and then
stooped to kiss Effie, who stood shyly before her, twisting her
l)inafore in her chubby fingers. There were only five years
Ijetween them, but, beside the tall woma.dy girl, Effie louked
even more childish than usual.

' Come up and I will show you your room. Willie is off to the
stable Avith John, I suppose. He will soon be friendly with
everybody. My dear, you look very tired,' said Margaret Mait-
land.

' I am not tired, thank you,' returned Agnes, as she followed
her kind hostess up the wide stone stair, which looked so cool
and clean, with ii- strip of bright matting up the centre.

* Effie and you will have this room, dear ; it is quite large

■3

I
j

MAITLAND OF LA UUIESTON.

She came

I ridden,

Y over the

mma told

low it all,
le yellow

^h and see

on. Here
ippose the

ificd way,
When the
ng on the
le expantie

and then
isting her
five years
!iie locked

8 off to the
sndly with
[aret Mait-

j followed
ed so cool
;re.
[uite large

enough for you both. And I hope you will be very happy with
us all. I am to be your Aunt Margaret, and I am sure I shall
love you very much. You arc so like your mother.'

* Aunt Margaret, mamma told me how lovely you were, but
she did not say half enough.'

' Oh, my lassie, hush.'

* It is true ; &nd mamma said, too, Aunt Margaret, that I was
to be very helpful and useful to you, because you were doing
what some kin would not.'

* Hush, lassie, hush.' The tears welled up hot and bright in
Margaret Maitland's eyes.

* I know it is true. I understand ,hings better than I did.
Mamma talked such a lot to me. You see, we had only each
other.'

* My bairn, it must have been very hard to part.*

*I don't think dying could be so hard, Aunt Margaret,'
returned the girl, and her very hands shook. Margaret Mait-
land did not like that firm, womanly self-control. It was too
strong for one so young. She put her motherly arm about the
slim shoulders, and drew tlie sweet pale face to her motherly
breast.

* I cannot fill that place, my Nannie; but I know I shall love
you. And you will be my big helpful daughter, won't you 1 '

* Oh, I will be, I will be ! ' In that earnest cry was hid the
first vow of Agnes Laurie's heart,

CHAPTER IV.

•You think your heart the bravest,
And you call your creed divine.'

HERE was very little work done in the house of
Laurieston on the Sabbath day. In Michael
Maitland's youth the day of rest had not been a
day of gladness, for the blin<ls were kept rigidly
drawn over the windows to exclude the sun, and the children
were not allowed out cf doors except to walk to and from the
church. In the case of his own children he was not disposed
to relax the stv.<rMnoss of that rigid observance, but their nu)ther
interposed. She Avould not consent to the house being darkened,
and she tried to sliow him that to look upon God's beautiful
world on the Sabbath day could be no sin. So the bairns were
allowed in the summer time to spend the long evening in the
•rarden. after the two services and the Sabbath school, Mrs.
Maitland thought that the observances of the day were too long
and trying for the young children, but her gentle hinting had
no effect.

'You would have the bairns grow up heathens, Margaret,'
Laurieston said giindy, when she pleaded once that Effie might
lie spared the afternoon service at least. *So long as they bide
at Laurieston they shall observe the Lord's day, keep it as
they like when they are awa'.'

As was to be expected, the two young strangers from Liverpool
marvelled not a little at the solemnity of the Sabbath in Scotland.
Poor young things, they had hitherto seen but small reverence
paid to it by their own father, who had been wont to sleep half

M AIT LAND OF LAUUIESTON.

est,

he house of
In Michael
not been a
kept rigidly
the children
nd from the
not disposed
their mother
ng darkened,
id's beautiful
» bairns were
ening in the
chool, !Mrs.
vere too long
hinting had

s, Margaret,'

t Effie might

as they bide

, keep it as

om Liverpool

1 in Scotland.

all reverence

to sleep half

the day in the house, and spend the evening at his club. They
arrived at Laurieston on a Saturday, and next morning were
awakened early, breakfast being at half-pust S(!vcn. IJefore
breakfast the ' books' were brought in, and the two maids and
the ploughmen wi^re always assembled; and wlien the bairns had
all taken their seats, Mr. Maitland gave out the 103rd Psalm.
Agnes thought he intended to read it; great was her surprise
when Aunt Margaret presently began to sing. Then they all
joined in, — Laurieston's own deep bass, and John's rich tenor,
and the shrill, hearty notes of Wattie and Etiie. Agnes thought
she had never heard a more sweet and pleasant sound. The
window and the door were open for the groat heat, and she
could see out to the pleasant garden, where the sua lay in a
golden flood ; she could even see where it kissed the sparkling
wavelets on the shore. After the singing Laurieston read Jbwo
chapters from the Proverbs, and then, closing the book, knelt
down to pray. It was a prayer Agnes never forgot, — perhaps
because it was the first she had ever heard in the house of
Laurieston; or perhaps because of its after effects. She did
not close her eyes, but kept them fixed on the face of Michael
Maitland, wondering at its stern, unbending look. She had
been taught by her mother that prayer meant speaking to the
Lord as to a loving, tender Father, whose ear was ever open, as
the Bible has it ; but it seemed to her that her new guardian
regarded God as a mighty and harsh judge, whom it was
presumptuous for any creature to approach. There were some
passages in the prayer, likewise, upon which she long pondered,
for they were, to her, full of dark mystery. Thus did Michael
Maitland pray : —

•Almighty and ever to be revered Jehovah, we the poor
creatures of Thy providence, vile worms wlio do but cumber
the ground, seek to approach Thy fuotstool once more, filled
with wonder that we should be spared to see the light of
another Sabbath day. We know not why we are spared, and
not cut off in the midst of our fearful iniquities, which are so
many and so black that we dare not ask to be forgiven. "We
offer Thee our gratitude, if gratitude from creatures so vile can
be acceptable in Thy sight, for Thy ^oodftess to us, each, one,

Hilt

:■■ r

ill i!

■ t !

'• -. >

.. ;

[ i

(

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

and we huniWy implore a continuance of that gracious bounty
Ijoth for body and soul, if it be Thy will to grant it. But let
the body suffor, Lord, rather than the soul. If Thou seest
that we need scourging for the cleansing of our corrupt hearts,
scourge us, we beseech Thee, without stint. We would rejoice
in Thy chustisenient, because Thou hast said that Thou scourgest
every son whuni Thou reccivest. We render devout thanks to
Thee, great (Jud, for the mercies of the night, granted to us
and ours. Wu thank Thee that no member of it was called
away without warning, maybe to open his eyes in the place
where Thou canst not be gracious any more. We ask Thee
humbly to grant to the heads of this house wisdom to guide it,
and grace to set a righteous example before both young and old
within its walls. Lord, if it be Thy holy will, let none of
these young children before Thee be vessels of Thy eternal
wrath. Take them away from this world rather than that they
should become servants of the devil. If, in the unsearchable
mysteries of Thy providence, any one of these now before Thee
should become a castaway, teach us not to rebel, but to submit
to Thy will. Bless the two who have come to sojourn with us
awhile. Give them grace to fight the old man within, and let
them know how good it is to serve the Creator in the days of
their youth. Bless the men-servants and the maid-servants.
Let them be none the worse for their service in this house.
Help us all so to live that we shall not be able to cast stones at
each other at the great and awful day of the Lord. We ask
Thy blessing on the service of Thy holy house this day. Lot
there be no levity, no vain imaginings in the hearts of those
who attend upon the solemn ordinances of the sanctuary. Give
Thy servant the minister grace and unction to speak as a
dying man to dying men. Let him not trifle with his awful
responsibility. Again beseeching Thy pardoning grace for
each one, we humbly leave ourselves on Thee. All our
requests are in the name and for the sake of Thy Son.
Amen.'

It was with a strange sense of relief that Agnes rose from her
knees, and saw the yellow sunshine streaming in through tho
open door.

I
I

:>■
' .*

MA IT LAND OF LAUltlESTON.

cious bounty
it. But let
f Thou seest
rrupt hearts,
would rejoice
hou scourgest
»ut thanks to
granted to us
it was called
in the place
Nq ask Thee
m to guide it,
roung and old
I, let none of
' Thy eternal
han that they

unsearchable
vt before Thee
but to submit
journ with us
irithin, and let
in the days of
maid-servants,
in this house.

cast stones at
,ord. We ask
,his day. Lest
earts of thoso
ictuary. Give
,0 speak as a
irith his awful

ing grace for
lee. All our

of Thy Son.

s rose from her
n through the

'Now to breakfast, bairns,' said Mrs. ^^Taitland rhccrily.
Till, it is a bonnie morniiif^. TIki sun is like the Lord's smilo.'

' Whcesht, iiiothor,' said Micliaul Maitland reprovingly ; but
his wife smiled up into his face.

'It is, ^Michael dear. There is no irreverence in the
thought.'

After breakfast the bairns were, allowed out in the pleasant
garden for a while, and, as was their wont, gathered in a cluster
under the old thorn tree whicii stood in the middle of tlie
grassy lawn.

Willie Laurie had been rather amazed by the proceedings of
the morning, all so different from anything to which he had
been accustomed. Kc had not l)eeu long enough at Laurieston
to feel any restraint irksome ; but he was a wayward, self-willed
boy, and would not take kindly to the discipline maintained by
^Ir. Maitland.

'Do we drive to the churehl' he ask^d, as ho threw himself
down on the grass. ' Isn't that the spire away over there among
the trees '? It seems a long way.'

'It isn't far; and even if it were doubl^^- the distance, father
wouldn't let us drive. He does not think it right to drive or
ride on Sunday,' said Michael, looking up quietly from his book.
Michael had always a book. Ho was a student and a scholar
for love.

' Oh ! ' said Willie expressively, and sent a pebble rolling
down the slope. * What's the use of having horses, I say, if
you can't get the use of them ? What do you do with your-
selves all day ? '

'You'll soon see,' said Wattie, with a curious grin. 'At balf-
]iast ten we go away to church, and it's nearly one when wo get
back ; then we have some milk and bread, and go again from
two to half-past three ; then Sunday school, and we come
home to tea ; then at night father gives us a lesson, and if we
can't say our questions, we catch it.*

' P)Ut I won't do all that. I think I'll go down to the beach
and bathe in the afternoon ; it is so jolly warm,' said Willie
carelessly.

' I don't expect you'll get leave,' said John, with a kind of

HJlii

1 1

MA/TLAXn OF nAU/UFSTOX.

amused smile at the boy. 'Fallicr \vill want you to keep
Sunday as wo do.'

'IJut I won't do it. Who's going to sit in diunh nil day?
Come on round to the stahle, Wattic, and let's see the colt.'

So Wattie and he went off arm in arm. Watty neeiled little
to jjersuade him to hav(! a frolic of any kind. Sober John,
looking after Ihem, thought 'hat in all likelihood the two would
he in many a scrape together. When they were out of sight,
he looked ui) at the slemhu' white-robed figure of Agnes as it
leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. She had no
hat on, and her bright hair lay in waves on her pure broad
brow. Her deep eyes, fixed upon the sea, had a far-away lo(»k
in them. The lad, forgiitting his shyixss, looked at the swe(!t
fair face with intense interest. She was so fair, so sweet, so
dainty, so ditrorent in all ways from any girl ho had over
seen.

* A penny for your thoughts,' ho said suddenly ; and she gave
a little start, and the colour leaped in lu^r cheek.

'They were hardly worth it, perhajis.'

'Because they were about Jock,' said Miehai'l, looking up
with his rare slow smile.

• Oh no, they were not. I was only thinking how lovely it
is here, — and — and ' —

There was a little tremor in her voice, and, suddeidy stooping,
she slid down beside the lads on the grassy slope. She .sat just
between them, — John at the one side, with his back against tho
stone column of the old sun-dial, and his red cricket-cap jnished
far back on his shaggy brown hair ; and Michael, very licat and
tidy, iiis fair hair unruffled, and his cuffs showing white and stiff
below his sleeves. There was a great contrast bctwcsen th >. two,
though they were inseparable chums, — Michael, tho blue-eyed
and gentle, nice and even dainty in his appearance aiul manners,
though with nothing effeminate about him ; and John, big,
awkward, lumbering, never very tidy nor according avoU with
his clothes, yet with a suggestion of manliness and i)ower in all.
So they sat with the fair pale girl between them, that sweet
summer morning, with no f^i'eboding of the troubled, pain-
laden future to cast a shadow on their young hearts.

111
to

anl

toi

MAITLANI) OF LAUIlfESTON.

L»U to klM'p

ch nil (liiyl
h(! colt.'

H'CiIcmI littll!

iubiT .Tolin,
u two woiiM
nit of sij;lit,
Aj^Hcs as it

She hiul no
' pure liroivil
ar-ivway look
at the sweet

so sweet, so
ho had over

and she j,MVe

1, looking lip

low lovely it

enly stoopini;,
She sat just
ck against the
ct-cap pushed
very litat and
white and stilt'
tw(!en th '. two,
the blue-eyed
B and manners,
nd John, big,
ding well with
id power in all.
em, that sweet
troubled, pain-
irts.

' I was wondering whether the sea of glass in heaven would bo
lovelier tlian that,' said Agiu'S dreamily, after a moment's pause.

.John looked at her with a greater curi(jsity than before.
Michael turned round on his elbow too, and lifted his dreamy
blue eyes to her face. Tho young Maitlands, in spite of tlicsir
strict observance of the Sabbath day, were not used to hearing
sacred things spoken of in such a way. Not that Agnes spoko
irreverently ; it was because her tone and words were perfectly
tnatter-of-fact.

*Do you believe there's a real sea in heaven?' John asked, in
his slow, bashful way.

* Why, of course. ])o you know what mamma says? That
whatevctr we love to look at, or whatever is good and beautiful
on earth, we shall find in heaven. Mamma and I used to have
such long talks, — she knows everything.'

*Jiut how do you know you'll ever get there? asked John
bluntly ; and though Michael's eyes were on his books, he was
eager to hear her answer.

'Jesus has gone to prepare a place for us,' she answered quite
simi)ly ; and there was a long silence.

It was a curious subject for these three young people to
discuss, but it was one quite familiar to the mind of Agnes
Laurie. Her mother, who had found so little worth possess-
ing on earth, had dwelt, perhaps, more than others on tho rest
and the joys of the other world. Her young daughter had
almost from her infancy been her constant companion, and
later her close friend, to whom she spoke freely on all subjects
sav(5 one. But the girl's sim})le words sounded very extra-
ordinary in the ears of the two lads besido her.

'I wonder what father would say to that,' said ^Michael
nuisingly. ' He does not bclievo anybody can bo sure of going
to heaven. Didn't you hear him to-day about the castaways 1 '

' I thought I'd ask Aunt Margaret what it meant,' said Agnes j
and again that slow, puzzled look came into her eyes.

* You should ask him,' put in John dryly, and oven with a
touch of bitterness.

Discords were arising in the relationship lietwcen ^lichael
Maitland and his two elder sons. They were beginning to

MAITLASD OF LAUUIKSTO^.

think f')r tlioiiisdvcfl, nn-l tlioir fiitlicr'n crncd did not commond
its(!lf to them. Thcro wns flonicthing in tho constunt nicrcih'SH
al)iis(jmont of solf, in the i^inful apponls for mercy from tho
etcrn Jud^'mont of th»! rnsccn, against which their young souls
wore beginning to revolt. Michael Maitland, a good man, and ii
Christian according to his lights, hi«d all his life misrepresc-nted
God to his children. They feared 11 im as a harsh and terrlMo
Being, who delighted to punish the sinncir. Tho mercy and
the loving tenderness of an all-wiso Father had never been
presented to their minds. There were many (piestions on John
iMaitland'fi lips, Imt shyness kept him from asking them.
^licliael, however, shut his book, and, turning ovor on his buck,
fixed his big blue eyes full on the girl's face.

' 1 say, do you bclievo heaven is a real place, and all that 1
Would you like to goT

* Why, of course. It is a far better place than tlii.s,' answered
Agnes, with a mild, sweet surprise. ' Mamma often says this is
just like a waysido inn, where travellers stay for a little before
going on to tho journey's end.'

*I say, do you feel well enough?' a;ked John, with a kind of
rough .solicitude. He was not used to such talk, and feared it
meant that their new sister had not long to live. He could
not imagine anybody in liealth speaking about things in such a
way. In spite of some minor trials, the world was a lovely
world in the eyes of these two lads. Ihit life was all before
them. It is when wo come to look back that the light of the
eyes seems changed and dim.

Just then Mrs. iMuitland appeared at tho door, and called
Agnes in to the house.

' Queer, isn't she, Jock ? ' Michael said, when she was out of
hearing.

•^lay be; but I'll tell you what, — I wish everybody thought
like her ; things would be different,' said John ; and, picking
himself up, he sauiitiTcd away down the garden path.

Margaret ^Maitland watched her eldest son that day with a
tender and watchful interest, which had in it a touch of amuse-
ment. She saw that he was wholly taken up with Agues, and
that she was a complete revelation to him.

AfA I TLA NJ) OF LA Ulil ES 7 V X.

commond

morciloaa

from tho
juiif,' souls
man, and ii

iiid t(!iTil)lc
niiircy and
lovcr bdtMi
ns on Jolin
:ing tluMu.
(11 his back,

id all that!

a,' answered

says this is

little before

th a kind of
ind feared it
Ho coidd
cs in sueh i\
ms a lovely
a all before
iglit of the

and called

c was out of

lody thought
and, picking
h.

day with a
ich of amuse-
li Agues, and

* It'll do th(! laddit'fl good. It'll in!ik(( tlieni more tender with
women-folk. Shci'll lu'li» U> make men of them,' she said to
luTsolf.

At bed-time, looking out for a mouthful of fresh nir, sho
found John on the doorsti'it, and so had a wonl with him.

' Mother, this has been u nice Sunday,' lie suid imiu'tuousiy.

*I am glad to hear you say so, .John; somi-times you weary
a little on the Sahbatli, I tliinkl'

Sho raised her white, soft band, and sniootbcd back his hair
with a g(Ultle touch. Tlicse Ijtth^ caresses were seldom bestoweil
when their father wu.s by, and 1 .suppose the buirns couKl nut
but notice it.

'Jt is long sometinu's,* ho udmitted. •Mother, did you ever
see anybody like lu^r?'

• Like who, -Nannie r
» Yes.'

•In what way ]'

•Every way. Do you think .she'll livcl Slui'.s like an
angel.'

•Livol Oh ay! A very substantial angel,' returned the
mother, with a sweet, low laugh at iUv boy's coiiee it. 'I'm glad
you've taken to her, John. The l)oy will l)e a littlo trouble-
.some.'

'Restless little beggar,' was John's con>iuent. 'Ho and
Wattie will keep the place lively. Mother, do you know, some-
times I feel so queer 1 Thoughts see)*.i to tlooil upon me. I
think about the world, and the life we live, and sometimes
al)out the future, until I get uplifted. I wish I knew tho
meaning of it all.'

' My own son ! God guide him,' Margaret ^faitland said ;
and, leaning her soft hand on his tall shoulder, she looked deep
into his hon(^st eyes. It was one of those rare moments when

ry near (!ach other, — so near that all

mother and son came v(
the world beside seemed

to be shut out.

CHAPTER V.

'■('■!

•I have a heiirt to dare,
And si)irit thews to work my daring out.'

SHOULD like to take you over to Hallcross
to-nij^lit, Niiiinio, but I am too busy with my
preserves. I wonder where John is? '

'There lie is, Aunt Maggie, down in the
harvest-field.'

'And there is Efhe, as usual, among the gooseberries,' laughed
Mrs. Maitland, as she caught a glimpse of a white pinafore
bobbing up and down among the low gre(!n ])ushes at the other
side of the lawn. 'It is a wonder to mc that bairn is alive.
Effie dear, run down and tell John I want him,' she called
through the open window.

' ])Ut, Aunt Maggie, perhaps Uncle Michael wants Jolin in
theliel.ir

' Oh, 'deed no' ; he's not much use, Nannie ; besides, you liave
been working so hard all day, you want a little walk. You
are my willing, helpful lassie, and I will tell mamma that when
I write to her to-night.'

The girl's fair pale face flushed at the simple ]iraise.

'I am so glad to be of use. Aunt Maggie; I will try more
and more,' she said, with an earnestness which touched her
listener's heart.

* Don't be too anxious, dear ; you are so young yet. I want

you to be happy among my bairns, ^^y boys are big :v.d

rough, Nannie, but they would not hurt a fly ; 1 hope you will

take kindly to them.'

MAITLAND OF LAUlilESTON.

to TTallcross
isy with my

own in the

rrics,' laugliod
bite pinaforo
=i at the other
l)aii'n is alive.
11,' she called

ants John in

ides, you have
walk. You
ma that wlu-n

■aise.
will try more
touched her

yet. I want

are big :-'.d

hope you will

* Oh yes, I like them all very much. John is so kind, Aunt

Maggie.'

*Ay, he has a man's thoughtfulness, Nannie; John will
take care of you,' said the mother, with a pleased, proud smile.
' I am a little anxious aljout him just now, you know ; he has
just left school, and his father thinks he should not go back.
But the lad's heart is set on his books; he does not care a
button for the farm.'

* But if ho is to be Laird of Laurieston, as ^Michael told me,
he must like the farm,' said Agnes, with rather a perplexed
look.

'I am afraid, my dear, that it will make a little trouble
between him and his father. He will never make a farmer if
his soul is bent on study. My sympathies are with him and
his desires, for he has a fine intellect ; sometimes, between them,
I am sore divided and per[)lexed.'

Her expression was one of anxiety, and even of care. Mar-
garet Maitland felt that the bairn-time was wearing past, and
saw trouble ahead. As she said, her sympathies were wholly
with John in his desire after the intellectual life. On his
account she even fcdt, at times, a slight hartlncss against her
husband, who scouteil the very idea of giving John his own
way in this. ^lichael Maitland's idea was that no man need
wish for more than to write himself Maitland of Laurieston,
and was indignant at the idea of his son's preferring any other
position in life. There had not been, as yet, much serious talk
about it, — Laurieston, indeed, believed the matter settled ; but
the mother had quietly resolved that John's desire should not
be set aside without a strenuous elfoit on her part to obtain
it for him. She was biding a favourable opportunity to
broach the matter to her husband. Those busy days, when
every nerve and sinew were strained to ingather the precious
fruits of the earth, she was glad to let well alone. The
busiest and most harassing time of the year was not the
most opportune in which to thwart Michael Maitland in any
cherislKul scheni(\ In the pride and complacency of his
heart, he looked forwaiil and saw his three sons filling the
places in the world he had chosen for them : John, Laird of

!tll!

!!«

iiili'

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

Laurieston ; Micliael, a pillar and an ornament in the Church
of Scotland ; and Walter, a successful business man, probably
a partner in the shipping firm in Leith of which his only
brother was the head. He did not take into account that the
lads might rebel, nor did he remember that it is not permitted
human beings to be the arbiters of the destiny of others.

As his mother expected, John did not tarry long in the
harvest-field after Effie gave him the message. He had been
raking after the binders all the afternoon, and was quite
glad to be relieved, though his father, from the other end
of the field, did not look very well pleased when he saw him
lay down the rake. He came whistling up the garden with
Effie's small brown hand in his, — a stalwart, sun-browned,
goodly figure, on which the mother's eyes dwelt with unhidden
pride.

' Is it Annie Laurie you want, mother ? Don't you see lier
over on the oat stubble 1 Wat and Willie have got her yoked
to the horse-rake, and fine fun they're having.' Oil, Nannie,
what have you been doing to your hands?' he asked, pointing
to the girl's slender fingers, dyed purple with the blackbei-ry
juice,,

' I only hojie you have been as useful to father as Nannie
has been to me,' said Mrs. Maitland. ' I want you to wash
your face and put on anothor jacket, and take Nannie over to
Hallcross. Aunt Leesbeth will be sure to think we should
have been over sooner.'

* All right. She'.s an old brick, Aunt Leesbeth ! Nannie, I
bet you won't know a word she says.' •

* Nannie doesn't bet. Off you go ; and if she does not k(!ep
you too long, you can go up the river a bit. It is a pretty
walk.'

' Oh, that'll be sjjlendid ! We'll just shake hands and say
we're due elsewhere,' laughed John, as ho ran upstairs to his
room. A few minutes later Margaret Maitland watched the.
pair go out together by the garden gate, — Agnes looking very
slender and sweet in her plain white gown and broad sun-hat.
Her dresses, though very plain, were rather dainty for the
rough life on a farm ; but all the girl's ways were dainty,

i I

M At f LAND OP LAVRItlSTON.

the Church
an, probal>ly
ich his only
unt that the
3t permitted
bhers.

long in the
le had been
I -was quite
e other end
he saw him
garden Avith
sun-browned,
ith unhidden

I you see her
fot her yoked
Oh, Nannie,
ked, pointin,^
16 blackberry

ler as Nannie
you to wash
annie over to
k we should

1 ! Nannie, I

ihies not keep
t is a preUy

ands and say
pstairs to his

watched the
3 looking very
broad sun-hat.
ainty for the

were dainty,

Margaret Muitland was pleased to see, knowing she would be
a re tilling influence among her boys.

It was a fine mellow evening, the close of the first day in
August. The leafy trees had not yet taken on an autunmal
tint, and the wild flowers made masses of bloo' i on every
grassy bank. The air was very still and sweet, and laden with
the rich fragrant odours of the ripened grain. The two young
people walked on a little in sih nee, John feeling a trlHe
awkward and sljy, though his companion was quite self-
possessed.

' Wliy do we not say something T she asked suddenly, witli
a laugh, which was very sweet, and her whole face lit up as
she turned her mirthfid eyes on John's brown face. Although
her expression was apt to be too serious, there were depths of
happy humour in her nature. It was (piite a relief to John to
hear her laugh.

' I suppose, because we are rather stupid,* he answered.
* 6 ust wait a u-inute and you'll hear plenty of speaking. Aunt
Leesb h will ask you nine hundred and ninety-nine questioiis,
and Kaitrine — that's her dragon — will ask the thousandth.
Suppose we go down the lane and in by the garden door?
Then we'll walk all through the garden, — it's a rare old garden.'

' You lead on, I must follow,' Agnes answered merrily.

* (Jh, 1 say, though, it's locked ! What a nuisance ! No, I
won't be beat ; just you stand there and I'll open it for you in
ajiHey.'

And before Agnes could demur, John had scraml)led up the
apparently unscaleable wall and disajipeared, leaving \wv out-
side the little low door, which was overhung with the drooping
tendrils of the ivy. The next moment, however, she hoard
tlie bolts creak, and John's happy face looked out upon her
through the open door.

' Come in ; isn't it jolly ? The dragon won't know how we
got in. I like to horrify her,' he said ; ' she and I are at daggers-
drawn.'

' Who is the dragon ? '

' Aunt Loes])eth's maid, — an awful creature. Wait till you see
lier. She'll stand up in front of you like a drill-sergeant, and

E'i.

MAITLAND OF LAUHIKSTON.

inspect you. I believe she knew your mother. She'll say she
(lid, any way.'

Agnes laughed, and again John was struck by the sweetness

of the sound.

'I say, let's go in this funny little suinnior-house and sit. I
want to talk a bit. There's plenty of time fur Aunt Leesbetli
and the dragon.'

He swept aside the trailing branches of the honeysuckle which
overhung the quaint rustic arbour, and Agnes stepped in. The
bright clusters of the japonica and the yellow jessamine stars
mingled with the fragrant honeysu(;kle blooms, and relievinl the
dark masses of the leaves.

*I say, isn't this a nice old place ? ' asked John.

Agnes thought so. It was like a picture or a dream, the far-
spreading garden, with its sunny slopes and shadowy recesses,
and the old house, all rose-coloured and ivy-clad, making the
background to the picture. She fancied she could see her
mother;, in the early days of which she had so often spoken,
roaming about the grassy walks o: reading under the shady
trees.

*Is it like what you thought?' John asked, with a sympathetic
touch, as he saw she was moved.

* A little. How sweet it is ! I have never seen any place Uko
it. I think I like it better even than Laurieston.'

* I don't ; it is too shut in, that's what I think. Don't you
feel how close and warm it is in here. I like s]>ace and room to
move about in, and bracing air to breatlie. I think Laurieston
about perfect.'

Agnes looked at him a moment. If such was his opinion of
Laurieston, why did he wish to give it up 1

* I want to speak to you, Nannie. This is just the kind of
place to tell all kinds of stories in,' said John suddenly, and,
sitting forward in his corner, he looked not without earnestness
at the girl's fair tender face. 'ILis mother said anything to
you about — about me staying at homo, now ? '

' She was speaking about it to-day,' Agnes answered truthfully,
but said no more.

* Well, I can't do it. Laurieston is all well enough to live at,

flHp

tl
si

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

She'll say she
the sweetness

sc and sit. I
Lunt Leesheth

;ysuoklc \vliii;h
pped in. The
essaniine stars
1(1 relieved the

dream, the far-
dowy recesses,
id, making the
could sec her
I often sjioken,
ider the shady

h a sympathetic

lany place Hko
1.'

ik. Don't you

ace and room to

ink Laurieston

^ his opinion of

just the kind of

suddv^nly, and, |
lout earnestness
aid anything to

vered truthfully,

iiough to live at,

and a month in the fields is a splendid thing after a fellow's
been grinding hard, but I must go back to Edinburgh.'
'What to dor

• Study. If I don't get to the University, Agnes, I'll never
do any good. I hate the farm. How do you suppose a fellow
could remember to put in t.e right seeds, and attend to the
rotation of crops, and all that, if his mind is constantly filled
with other things ? '

'What things r

'Everything. I wish I could explain it to you, Agnes, but I
can't. Michael knows some of it, but not much. I can't speak
about it. I'll tell you what it's like, — a tumult in my mind, a
big, wild sea all waves and trouble. I want to understand life.
There's an awful lot of queer things in it, Nannie, — mysteries
I'd like to know about. I want to know more about religion,
too. It's not all like what we are tau^'ht. If there is no other
religion than father's, I'll tell you what I think, — that people
are better without it. It only makes him hard and stern.'

' Oh, hush, John,' said the girl, in a low voice, and put up her
gentle hand as if to keep back the quick impetuous torrent of
words.

' It's quite true. Michael thinks so too. But we'll inquire
for ourselves. Do you think, Nannie, that God ever intended
that some neople should be lost, no matter how they live, and
that some will be saved, in just the same way? And do you
believe that God is always angry with us. and suspicious of
everything we do? When I was a small boy, I used to be
terrified in the dark, thinking about God.'

Agnes shivered a little, and shook her head. She did not
know very well how to answer the lad, for, though she sympa-
thized with him to the full, and understood very well his meaning
she must be loyal to Uncle Michael.

' I want to know more about that, for one thing. Do you
know what I would like to be better than anything in the world,
Nannie ? '

'No; what?'

* A professor of philosophy.'
' What's philosophy ? '

^ \]

MAtTLANt) OP LAUPJESTOK.

ir ■:{

1
)

(

1 /^'

■i ■

1 '1'

i: ■

' I can hardly tell you niypolf, th'^nyh I think I know what it
moans. It teaches all about the causes and existence of things.
])o you ever wonder why we were born into this world, for

instance?'

'To do our duty, to make others happy, and be happy our-
selves if we can,' replied the young girl, with a half sigh. Just
then life was not bright, many things were weighing on her
heart. For some days her thoughts had been dwelling continu-
ally on her mother, away in distant London alone. Agnes knew
she Avas alone, though their father was with her. The instinct
of a great love had given the girl a glimpse into her mother's
inner sanctuary. She knew the heart-hunger, the weight of
care abiding constantly there.

* Perhaps some day, when you are a i)rofcssor, you will not
think then it is such a tine thing,' said the girl simply, not
dreaming that there was anything prophetic in her words.

' It's not likely, if father keeps in the same mind,' the lad
answered, with rather a bitter laugh. *If he insists that I shall
stay at home, and learn to sow and plough, and know the value
of cattle and horses, Nannie, I believe I'll run away.'

*No, not for Aunt iMaggie's sake,' Agnes said; and his face
softened at once.

* If mother were father, it would be different. She understands
everything,' he said quickly. 'But if you kntnv what it is to
want something just with all your might, you would under-
stand.'

'Do you think I have everything I want in the workH' she
asked, with a slight, sad smile, wliioh rebuked him at once.

' Oh no ; I know you are often vexed, and that it must be
horrid to be away here among strangers,' he said (]uickly. ' I'll
tell you what I think, though, Nannie : it is easier for women
and girls to be patient. They can bear things better than men,
because they're made that way. M(jther never gets angry,
neither do you.'

Agnes laughed at the boyish reasoning.

* You need not laugh ; it's quite true. Do you ever see
mother angry? All the lickings we ever got were from fathiM-,
and some rare ones I've had in my time. 1 might call the " wee

I know what it
itcnce of things,
this world, for

be happy our-
[lalf sigh. Just
eigliing on her
kveUing continu-
!. Agnes know
. The instinct
to her mother's

the weight of

»r, you will not

girl simply, not

ler words.

J mind,* the lad

usts that I shall

know the vahu'

way.'

id ; and his face

She understands
w whiit it is to
Li would untler-

the world 1 ' she
liim at once,
that it must be
1 (piickly. ' I'll
asier for women
better than men,
ivor gets angry,

you ever see
-ere from father,
'ht call the " wee

MMTLAND OF LAURIESTON.

room," the Inquisition or the Chamber of Horrors. But for all
that, I'd rather vex father than mother a thousand times.'
«Whyr

* Oh, just because — But I say, we'd better go up ; I
believe the dragon has spied us. Besides, I believe Aunt
Lecsboth goes to her bed about six or so.'

* So early ? ' asked Agnes, in surprise.

* Yes ; she's ill, you know, — an invalid ; but she's a jolly old
soul ; you'll be sure to like her. Well, shall we go up T

Agnes rose and walked by John's side up the quaint, narrow
walk between the high box hedges.

*It's like amaze. I never saw such a funny nice old garden,'
she said delightedly, for the whole place pleased her. John
liked to see her face light up with that pleased interest. She
was a new revelation to him, and he felt so much at home with
her that he could talk to her without restraint. To a lad of
John's years and disposition, that means a jrreat deal.

Gracie, the happy-faced, rosy maid-servant, answered John's
knock, and announced that Miss Leesbeth was in the dining-
room yet, waiting for Kaitrine to come back to put her to bed.
Once a month Kaitrine went to visit her kinsfolk at Cockenzie,
where she spent the whole afternoon. Miss Leesbeth was
lying on her sofa in the dining-room, a pretty picture in her
pink shawl and dainty lace cap, her white hands working slowly
and somewhat painfully with the knitting-needles.

' Eh, John, my man, I'm fain to see ye,' she cried heartily,
when she saw his fiice at the door, ' But wha's this fine young
lady 1 Na, na, never Ellen Rankine's bairn ! Is it really !
Come here, my lamb, an' let me look at ye ; I lo'ed your mithcr
wcel.*

The words and tone, the whole demeanour of the dear old
lady, went to the girl's sensitive heart ; she took a quick step
forward, and, dropping on one knee, kljsed the beautiful face
with such a natural and perfect grace as to completely storm
Aunt Leesbeth's heart.

' A braw lass, John, my man ; d'ye no' think sae ? So ye are
Ellen's bairn ? Eh me ! eh me ! To think the years should flee
sae fast! An' whaur's the laddie?'

■%».

ini

ill;;'

1 !

mis

.III ,

1 1

MA I TLA ND OF LAURIKSTON.

' He is like a colt, not easily oausht,' said A^'nos, sniilins. ' 1
have never seen him to-day. It is all so new and delightful
for him at the farm.'

« Ay, Laurieston's the place for bairns. An' hoo did ye leav."
yer mithcr, Agnes? I'll call ye Agnes to begin wi',— ye'lj get
nao Miss frao me.'

♦ Oh, I don't want it ; nobody calls me ISIiss. Mamma wa.s
not very strop.g when we left Liverpool,' Agnes answered, and
her fair face shadowed. * I was very anxious at leaving h(>r,
for papa says they must go to London to live, soon, and 1 fear
the worry and fatigue of the rcUiO^al will tire her very much.'

'Ay, ay,' said :Miss Lecsbeth, wondering at the (luiet,
womanly girl, who spoke with the precision and forethought of
. a much older woman.

' I say, Aunt Leesbcth, she is perfectly enchanted with Hall-
cross,' said John, with a twinkle in his eye. ' I could liardly get
her up from the summer-house. She had an eye to the straw-
berry-beds, too, but I restrained her on account of the dragon,'

* Just hear him ; don't mind him, though, ho is such a funny
boy,' said Agnes, with quaint, delightful simplicity.

•Ay, I hear him, but I ken him, lassie,' said Miss Lecsbetli,
looking upon them both with sunshiny eyes. 'Ye are gaun to
be great friends, 1 can see. An' what for should she no' like-
Hallcross ? It was her mother's tocher, an' it's a cosy biggin', too.'

'What '^,oes that raeanl' asked Agnes, in mild wonderment,
which made John laugh outright.

'You should hear father and her, Aunt Leesbcth. It's as
good as a play.'

' Yc arena ceevil to the lassie, John ; yo shoidd explain the
Scotch to her. A tocher, my dear, means a dowry. Hallcross '11
bo yoUi? dowry some day, when you marry — maybe John
there,' said the old lady, who loved a little joke ; ' an' a cosy
biggin' just means — what, John 1 — a desirable residence, eh ? '

' Well, I don't think it very desirable ; it's like a cage ; I feel
shut in here. I like a big, wide place to breathe in. I must
have room — room. Aunt Leesbeth, if I lived here, my long
arms swinging about would deal destruction to your old cheeny.'

4^8 lie spoke John gave himself a stretch, and the old lady

™

9^*^

OR, sniilirif];. *1
and (lelij,'litfiil

loo did ye leave
1 wi',— yo'll f,'('t

Mamma wan

< uiiswurod, and

iit loavinj; her,

oon, and 1 ft'i'.r

cr very nuicli.'

at the (juict,

forethought oi

inted with Hull
could liardly get
re to the straw-
of the dragon.'
is such a funny
;ity.

Miss Lccslietli,
Ye are gaun to
Ud she no' likf-
:osy higgin', too.'
Id wonderment,

icsheth. It's as

luld explain the
ry. Hallcross '11
— maybe John
oke ; * an' a cosy
esidence, eh?'
ce a cage ; I feel
the in. I must
I here, my long
your old cheeny.'
nd the old lady

MAITLAiM) OF LAURIESTON.

looked at him with delight. She adored him. Of all tne
Laurieston l)airns John was first and best in her eyes. It was
true, John would need elbow-room all his days; his nature was
oi)en, generous, and strong, and could abide nothing that was
mean, or narrow, or circun) scribed.

Just then a tall figure went by the window, and without
ceremony marched into the room, which was now enveloped in
the kindly shadows of the gloaming.

' Eh, doctor,' cried ^liss Leesbeth ; * come, man, I'm fain to
see ye. An' who, think ye, I hae here, Dauvit man, but Ellen
Rank ine's bairn?'

A look of interest sprang into the doctor's fine face, and he
took the girl'b dim hand in his close, kindly clasp, and bent his
speaking eyes on her face. ' So this is Ellen Rankine's daughter?'
he said. * Looking at her, we forget the passage of the years,
Miss Leesbeth. Did you ever see a more striking likeness?'

' Never. It's just Ellen hersel'.'

The doctor kept her hand in his, and Agnes loved the kindly
glance of his speaking eye.

'Ye'vc heard of Dr. Moir, Agnes?' quoth ]\Iiss Leesbeth.
'My certy, ye'll hao to behave yoursel', or he'll put ye in a
book'

' Wheesht, ISIiss Leesbeth. This is a Maitland ? ' laughed tlie
doctor, as he turned to John. ' These young folks soon grow
out of all remembrance, and Laurieston is such a healthy place
I never get a chance to renew my acquaintance. But ye were
the biggest o' my bairns, I mind. I hope you'll be a good son
to your mother.'

John blushed ; in spite of his manly height, he was as shy as
a school-girl.

'Weel, bairns, awa' hame or the doctor and me gets oor
crack,' said Miss Leesbeth. ' Ellen Rankine's lassie will no' be
a stranger to Hallcross, and she'll get a blithe welcome come
when she likes.' So with these kindly words Miss Liesbeth
dismissed them, and was then ready for a chat with her old
friend, who came regularly to see her, though his skill was now
of little avail.

* That's " Delta," Agnes,' said John, when they were outside ;

MAITLAND OF LAUlilRSrON,

( '

'his nanio is always in lilachirood. Havo you never scon
lllachu'Doil? I say, what a licatlionisli place Liverpool must he.
Mother will he tcllinj,' you some day soon a])out the jukmu ho
wrote on his little hoy who died, (.am Wappi/. She aye
greets when she reads it. Ihit yon must read his Mansic
Waurh ; only you would not understand a word of it* —

' Suppose you teach me ? It would be better tluin Inugliing at
me,' sug^Tsfed Agiu!S.

' Oh, so it would. That'll he fun. I say, I'm awfully glad
you've come to Lauricston ; I didn't think girls were half so
jolly, — yon see Ktfie's only a hairn.'

A pleased light fdled the girl's swe(;t eyes, but she answered
iu)thing. The day came when they could not s|)eak to each
other with such unvarnished candour. IJiit in the meantime
they found their new friendship a very satisfying and delightful
thing.

quie
had
dam:
M
said

h''i!

with

I'ly

iine

Ml
hri

uil

saw
that I
danu

■5^

I'Up
^I wa

'^ 'A

ansn

, 1

II novcr soon
•pool must !)('.
tlio pooiii ho
iij. She ayo
I his Mansie
)f it'—
in laughing at

■■/»,

%»L*/'^

^-=^-:^

I awfully gliul
wcru half so

she answorcd
speak to rach
tlici uicantinic
and (U'li^'htful

CHAPTER VI.

• Fair liuighK the morn, nnd soft tlie zepliyrs blow,
Wliili', proudly rising o'er the aiure realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessul goes:
Youth in the prow.'

HAT'S your foot, fathnr. Come here a minuto and
do this for me.' ^Frs. Maitland was on the top of
the house-steps, which were standing on the gravel
walk at the east gable of the house. It was a
quiet, sunny evening, after a forty-eight hours' storm, which
had left the Forth a tossing, troubhid sea, and done some
damage to the grain still lying out in the late ui)lands.

*I say, wife, where's the laddies? That's no' for you ava,'
said Michael ^laitland, v/hen ho saw his wife on her perch.

' The laddies are away with their rods up the Esk, and Agnes
with them. Just put up that high branch, and wait till I get
my shawl. We'll take a turn the length of tl ) stubble. It is
iine to feel the fresh wind, after being two days in the house.'

Michael Maitland was not long in fastening up the trailing
branch ; and when he stood a moment waiting for his wife, and
saw all the bare breadths of the stubble before him, and knew
that there were many others to whom the storm meant serious
damage, he felt; grateful to God for His mercy.

'A lot o' rain has fa'n, Maggie,' he said, when she joined him.
* Up aboot Fala and Temple, the stocks '11 be as black as craws.
I wadna farm up there though I got land for naething.'

* It's very thankless. We have many mercies, father,' she
answered softly, as her eyes wandered across the clear sky from

! I

MA IT LAM) OF LAUnil'.STO^.

i'llfi

whirli tho sun liad clm.s<'«l tlio cIoiuIh away to tlio fur liorizoii
dipping into tho wn. 'Tliorti's nothing' liuM.vin-,' ye, father, is
there? I want to speak to you about tho laddies— about John.'
'What about hiniT

* Michael goes to the University in a fortnij,'ht, father. Ye'll
let the. two go together? Tiiey've ncivcr been separated yet.'

Laurieston never spoke, but his wife! saw him set his lips. * I
thought that was sctthul, Marget. What ails John ut Laurie-
ston?'

•Nothing ails him at tho place, fathiir,— he likes tho place as
well as any in tho world ; but he'll never make a farmer, and I
believe that to thwart him in his heart's desiro will bo to sour
him, and niaybo to turn him from good to evil.'

'Its perfect nonsense, Maggie. What is't ho wants to be?
The only time I spoke till him about it, he seemed to mo to bo
as bamboozled as I was. If he could gic the tiling a name. If
he wants to be a doctor, or a writer, or to gang wi' Michael to
tho Hall, let him say. I think raysel' he's lazy, an' disna want
to bo nnder my e'o at hame.'

'That's not fair, father; there's not a lazy bone in John's
body,' said the mother r.ithcr hotly. 'I believe myself, that
if you let him go on with his studies now, he'll bo a professor
yet.'

' A professor I What o' ? *

' Something. He can't tell yet, father, exactly what branch
of study he may excel in. There are more professors than in
the law, or the kirk, or medicine.'

'Oh, may i)e,' was Eaurieston's dry answer. 'If you have
set your heart on it too, Maggie, I need nil speak.' lie did
not speak quite kindly, perhaps, and his wife's sensitive mouth
tiembled.

' It's for you to say, father; I can only advise,' she said, ii; a
low voice ; but ho answered never a word. -His eyes were
roaming over the wide fields which were his heritage, and would
be his son's after him. He was a little disappointed, for John
was a manly, sensible lad, and would make a goodly Laird of
Laurieston.

* I'll no gie my consent, M.^^yio, or X see what the mcaniu'

■1

smil

stea

whei

mail

his

j his
Join
proH
will

ho ]
' set
antic
to in
work
undo

MAirLA\l> or LAinUESTO^.

1(5 fur horizon
f ye, futlicr, is
—about John.'

, father. Yii'll
[)arut(Ml yet.'
ji't his lips. ' 1
ohn lit Laui'iiv

ccs tliii phico as
a farnior, and I
I will bo to sour

wants to bcl
nctl to mo to bu
ing a name. If
rr wi' Michael to
, an' disna want

bone in John's
ivo myself, that
'11 bo a professor

tly what branch
ufessors than in

, ' If you have

spoak.' He did

sensitive mouth

50,' she said, ii; a

•His eyes were

ritage, and would

winted, for John

goodly Laird of

diat the mcanin'

o't is. It do(!sna do to let bairns get their uin way, — they
maun be giiiiled. For inysel', I keiina what man can dt'sire
mair than to bide at Laiirit-ston a' his days, and ken he fills au
honoured and rcsponsibhi place in the warld. I think, too,
Mar'ct, that there's too much education nowadays ; it does
nae good that I can scse, but to mak' th«i young discontentiul ;
and what's mair serious than that, it gars them hae an unco
pryin' into things that should be handled rcvensntly and with
godly feiir. I lik<! not the way these young callants discuss
Sabbath-day exercises and alfairs. They forget to take the
shoes from off their fcict when they are upon holy ground. Ho
was a wise man that said, ** A little knowlndgo is a dangerous
thing."' It was a long speech for iMaitland to make, but ho
deeply felt what ho was saying.

' Young minds must open out and fiiul truth for themselves,'
his wife answered softly. *It is needless for us to try ai'd
keep them back. We can but pray for the Ijairns, Michael,
and leave them in the hand of the Lord.' ^laitland shook his
head.

' We hao ncod to pray, my woman, that they may be kept
frae presumptuous sin,' ho said rather gloomily ; but his wife
smiled uj) into his face, and he felt the sunshine of that smile
steal into his soul. There were times, though unconfessed,
when Michael Maitland envied the sunny faith which was the
mainspring of his wife's life. It is not too much to say that
his view of religion was more a cross than a comfort to him.

* 1 have a plan, father,' she said, slipping her hand through
his arm. ' I am determined, since this is my desire as v/ell as
John's, that his education shall not cost you anything. The
profits of my ship shall pay the extra college expenses, and I
will tell John it is only a loan from his mother.'

' It is not the money, Maggie j you ken that as well as mo,'
he replied shortly. He was grievously disappointed, having
set his heart on seeing John Laird of Laurieston. Ho had
anticipated having him at his right hand in the coming winter,
to initiate him into the business of the markets as well as the
work on the farm. Margaret Maitland knew all this, and
understood how hard it was for a man of his temperament to

I ,

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

I'll

i :i:f

I.H

Mis

lay by such a cheriphed sclieme. But she did think also
that it would ■ o him no harm to find tliat he could not always
have his heart's desire. They stood for a moment at the
gate opening from the stubble field into the pasture. After
tliat pause, Maitland spoke slowly and with emphasis : ♦ I'll
talk to John the niglit, Maggie; I'll lay my terms before

him.'

' You'll let me hear them first,' she said with quick anxiety.
* Ye'll not Vo too hard on the laddie, father ; he is a good son.'

'If he persists in his determination to go on with study,
there must be no d^a^\■ing back, I'll tell him ; and he must give
up his birthright.'

' AYhat do you mean, Michael?'

'I mean that there shall never be a half-hearted Laird of
Laurieston. The place shall not go to ruin while its maister is
pottering about colleges and books. I'll let John go to Edin-
burgh if he agrees to give up his right to the place. I'll make
Wattie the laird instead of sending him to Leith.'

* I don't think John will make any objection to that,' Mrs.
Maitland answered, almost with relief. ' Ye'll give the other
two a fair share of the money, though? If Wattie gets the
place, he'll be the best oflf.'

* Ay will he ; and if John gies up his birthright, I'll no' think
muckle o' him ; but they's the only terms I'll offer, and his
college expenses must come o^ !.is portion, Maggie. I cannii
keep him daein' naething at the expense o' the rest.'

Mrs. Maitland's lip quivered, and she turned her head
swiftly away. The point was practically gained ; but oh, how
little sympathy would John receive from his father for the next
few years at least ! She foresaw that his career would bo
watched, not with love and interest, but with jealous and
suspicious care. That was a hard moment for the mother, who
understood the nobler aspirations of the lad's soul.

* We maun go in, Maggie ; the ground is damp for your feet,'
her husband said presently, in a matter-of-fact voice, and utterly
unconscious that he had said anything to hurt her feelings.
She turned with him at once, but alluded no more to tho
subject of Avhich they had been speaking.

as h
tuy(

M AIT LAND OF LAUItlKSrON.

1 think also
Id not always
ment at the
isture, Aftor
nphasis : ' I'll
terms before

luick anxiety.
3 a good son.'
n with study,
i he must give

arted Laird of
3 its maister is
\^Xi go to Edin-
acc.

I'll malii

1 to that,' Mrs.
f»ive the other
^''attie gets the

it, 111 no' think
1 offer, and his
aggie. I ciinuii
rest.'

rned her head
d ; but oh, how
her for the next
;areer would be
ith jealous and
the mother, who

)Ul.

fip for your feet,'
roice, and utterly
art her feelings,
no more to tho

There was a little room next the parlour, in which Mr.
Maitland wrote his letters and saw people wlio called on
l)usiness. Into this place John was summoned when ho
returned from his fishing. They were all in great glee, for
the water had been in fine condition, and their basket was full
(if bonnie speckled trout. John was a keen fisher; indeed,
ho was enthusiastic and earn.?st in (ivery i)ursuit he took in
liar.d. It was not unconimoa for Maitland to speak with the
individual members of his family alone. Many a case of
discipline had been tried in the ' wee room,' as the office was
called ; but John was now too old for the corporal punish-
ment with which Laurieston had rigidly visited every mis-
demeanour in the bairns. On that subject alone had bitter
words passed between Laurieston and his wife. She rebelled
utterly when the rod was used, esp(!cially for trivial faults, and
opeidy .^liowed her sympathy ivitli the bairns. To stand by
and see them thrashed with that merciless grimness character-
; istic of the stern jjarent, Avho acted up to his idea of parental
rule, was more than she could bear. There was no fear in John
' Maitland. Many a good thrashing lie liad received at his
' fathcir's hands, without a murnmr, too, even sometimes when
* lie felt the punishment too great for the crime, whicli was
,5 usually only some breach of good behaviour, or some act of
I boyish thoughtlessness.

He entered tho ' wee room ' with serene composure, not being
conscious of any recent transgression.
' I'm here, fathor ; what is it ? '

* Shut the door, see, and stand there,' said Laurieston grimly,
as he turned his chair round from his desk. ' J want to speak
to ye, my lad, upon a serious matter.'

' Yes, father.'

* Your mother has been speaking to me, John, and it seems
— it seems that ye hae nae desire to fill your father's shoes ;
that is, to be Laird of Laurieston.'

John's face flushed all over. His father saw the eager light
flashing in his eye, and felt that the boy's heart was stirred,
I * I'd rather go to the University than be a farmer, father,' he
answered quietly.

{•II

ill

M AIT LAND OF LAUIilESTON.

Iff !.'

' Ay, so she says,' Maitland rejilicd liryly. * Well, if you
maun go, ye maun, I suppose ; so I'll lay doon my terms to ye,
my man, and then it's for you to say whether or no'.'

John nodded. He was to. Mitensely interested — too
agitated, indeed — to trust his voice.

'I am not a rich man, John, though the Almighty has blessed
seedtime and harvest to me, and I have not now cares about
money; but I canna afford to pay doid)L college expenses,
especially when, fts ye have no definite aim, it's no' to be kent
when yours Avill end. If you insist on gaun, John, ye maun
gie up your birthright to Wattie, an' the place will go to him.
What money I hae will be justly divided when I need it nae
mair. But your college fees and your keep must be kept
account o' and taen aff your portir>u, in fairness to the rest. It's
different wi' Michael. I hae aye intended him for the kirk,
an' we planned accordingly. D'ye understand me, my man ? '

' Yes, quite well. I don't care what the terms are ; and Wat
will make a splendid laird,* John answered, without a moment's
hesitation.

* Very well,' said his father, in the same dry tone ; ' mind,
ye'll hae to stand on your ain legs, an' when your portion's a'
spent, like the prodigal's, ye ncedna look to mo for mair. Ye'll
hae to mak' a kirk or a mill o' the thing, whatever it be that
ye are gaun to follow efter.'

* I'm not afraid, father ; I'll be able to work for my bread,'
said the lad proudly ; and he drevr himself up, and looked his
father straight in the face with that fearless eye of his, which
had never known what it was to flinch in shame.

It seemed to Maitland, as he lookcel, that John had grown
into a giant all at once. He liked that fine bold carriage,
and the fearless, manly determination set on every feature of
his face. Though he did not approve the lad's choice, he
believed he would succeed, and even felt a certain pride that
his son, even in his youth, should be able to assert himself and
set such a bold front to the untried world he was about to
challenge. No word of encouragement, however, passed his
grave lips. John only saw the immoveable countenance which
so successfully veiled the inner man.

^::

maitLa nd op la ijiitKsroM. 55

* Vera weel, my man ; yo liae made your choice, an' ye'U abide
by the consequences. That'll dae ; yo can gang an' gather them
a' in, for it's on the chap o' nine, and time the books were on
the table.'

When the two came out of the * wee room,' Mrs. Maitland
looked anxiously from one to the other ; but the look on John's
fiicc was enough, — she saw that he was so relieved and glad to
have tiie main obstacle removed from his path, that he took no
thought of any other. So it was settled. An involuntary sigh
stole to the mother's lips; and in the prayer her thoughts
wandered from the form of her husband's petition, for her own
heart was praying with an earnestness which had a touch of
passion in it, that God woukl guide her two sons and open up
for them an honourable and useful career. Margaret Maitland
desired nothing more for her children than that they should be
useful with that highest form of usefulness which is a beneat
to human kind. It is a time of deep anxiety, even of brooding
care, for a conscientious parent, when the time comes for the
children of the home to seek and establish a way of life for
themselves. Margaret Maitland felt it keenly ; so also did her
husband, though in a different way. There was no opportunity
for a word with John, for Laurieston presently ordered them
all to bed. By and by, however, she stole up to the room the
lads shared together, and was not surprised to find John sitting
at *jhe window with his head on his hand, while Michael was
fast asleep, with his fair, delicate-looking face lying on his
hand. She kissed the sleeping boy as she passed by the bed to
John's side.

* Not in bed yet, John 1' she said softly, and her hand touched
his shaggy head with that sweet touch like unto which there is
no other on earth, — the touch of a mother's hand.

* No ; I couldn't sleep. Oh, mother, to think I'm to go ! '
The lad's voice was husky, for it had been a matter almost of
life or death to him.

' I'm glad. Father has been quite fair about it. He has the
rest to consider, you know,' the mother said quickly. These
very words indicated a doubt in her own mind ; but John, in
his new-found joy, did not notice it

Y-

i -i

■11

MAtTLAND OP LAUltlESTON.

'I'll work hard, mother. I won't idle or waste a moment
Father will see I'm made of good stuff,' he said, eagerly lifting
his young face, ardent with youth's inspiration and liope, to the
kind eyes bent upon him in love.

'My laddie, do I not know? You have ever boon an
example to the rest. I look to you to be so still.'

'I'll try, mother, I'll try,' was the earnest answer. It was a
solemn moment for the thoughtful lad; he felt, with a curious
stirring of the heart, what mighty possibilities life held, and
Vfhat a kingdom it was he was going forth to conquer.

The field.a of knowledge were all before him, and he was
eager to be at work upon them, — to prol)e into the very heart of
things, — to solve, if possible, the mysteries, and find the key to
the problems of life, not knowing yet what the search would
cost

■v I

ill i\

CHAPTER VII.

g<Vi~

'.^^f'i

^/^

*Bear through sorrow, wron?, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth.'

TINT MAGGIE, there's two ladies coming up the
avenue.'

' Ladies ! Oh ay, that's the two Miss Thor-
burns; I've told you about them, my dear, —
good, true, useful gentlewomen, who will be fine friends
for you. I've been wondering what's come over them.
They've aye come about Laurieston, and their mother before
thom. Ring the bell, my dear, and tell Katie to set the kettle
on the hob. We'll keep the ladies to tea, if they'll bide.'

It was tlie month of October now, and the bairns were all off
to school again, leaving Laurieston a quiet house indeed. At
home, Agnes was pursuing her studies quietly, with the help
of her aunt. Mrs. Maitland had received an exceptional edu-
cation for her station and years, and was indeed a cultivated,
accomplished woman. It was as much a pleasure to her as a
profit to Agnes to revive her old studies. Thus the helpful
girl was always at work, and Mrs. Maitland found her com-
panionship very precious. It seemed to her, indeed, at times,
tiiat the old Jays had come back, when Ellen and she had
been sisters in heart if not in name. It was about thre^ o'clock
that afternoon when the 'two Miss Thorburns/ as every oo'ly
called them, stopped at the door of Laurieston.

They were maiden ladies, the sole survivors of one of the
oldest Musselburgh families; lively, inteKigent, cultivated
women, whose society was sought by all, though their critical

1 I

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■: \

« 'f :
It'f ("
,1' : t

r 1

f'T'

»?

(

MAfTLANI) OF LAUniESTOM.

tongues were ratlior fonrod by some. They wore very out-
spoken concern inj,' their neighbours ; but as tlieni was no malice,
and a great deal of originality in their remarks, they made no
enemies. They lived alone in a curious roomy cottage near the
sea, and in which they were completely and comically tyrannized
over by their domestic, Nancy Kilgour, a serving-woman of the

old school.

* She keeps us in our l)it,' Miss Jean would say, with a sigh,
sometimes ; ' we can't keep her in hers. Ikit how could we d(j
without her 1 '

' I like this place, Grace,' said Miss Thorburn, while they
stood on the doorstep waiting admission ; 'how beautifully it is
kept. Mrs. Maitland's doing, of course, — Lauiieston himself
hf s no taste. Wliat a man ! Let us thank the Lord, Grace,
that we've no men-folk to bother us.'

' Hold your peace, Jean ; don't be speaking about men before
the servant. Here she's coming. Well, Katie, is Mrs. Mait-
land at home 1 '

' Yes, ma'am ; please come in ; ' and at that moment Mrs.
Maitland herself came out of the parlour to give them a
welcome.

' Come away ; where have yoii been all these weeks 1 We've
missed you at Laurieston. Has Nancy been worse than usuaH'
There was a merry tAvinkle in ^frs. Maitland's eye as she asked
the question ; and Miss Thorburn shook her parasol at her as
she stepped across the hall.

' Too bad, Mrs. Maitland, too bad. I've made up my mind
to give Nancy her ler.ve ; but Grace hasn't, and until we agree
we must just submit.'

' Nancy'll may be give you your leave, — eh, Miss Gracio ?'

* That's about it, Mrs. Maitland,' assented the younger lady.
'Nancy's bark's v/orse than her bite. But we've been away
north since we came home from London. — Oh, is this Miss
Laurie ? '

Agnes came forward somewhat shyly, but was put at her ease
by the grace and heartiness of the IMisses Thorburns' greeting.
• How do you do ? Let me sit down beside you and speak to
you,' said Miss Jean, who was the livelier of the two. * My

MAJTLAND OF LAUPJESTON.

sister says I'm an awful talker, — that she thinks shame of me in
other people's houses ; but never mind her, my dear. I've seen
you in church, and you are so like an ohl miniature of your
mother, which our mother left us among hor treasures. I shall
<,'ive it to you if you would like it, dear. How do you like
living in Scotland 1 Isn't Mrs. Maitland sweet ? — the loveliest
woman I ever saw, or want to see. Oh, go on speaking, you
two,' she saiu, with a merry laugh, across tlie room ; ' tell Mrs.
Maitland Nancy's latest, Gracie, and let me speak to Miss
Laurie in peace.'

* In peace I ' said Miss Grace ; ' how can there be any peace
where you are, Jane Thorburn 1 I don't suppose Mrs. Mait-
land is dying to hear Nancy's latest. She has only turned me
out of my bedroom because she thinks it would make a more
convenient spare room. "VVe found that done when we came
back from Braemar.'

Mrs. Maitland laughed ; and while continuing the talk with
Miss Grace, she was pleased to observe how animated and bright
Agnes grew under the genial influence of Miss Thorburn's
happy talk. She was so good-natured, so interested, so full of
fun and nonsense, that it was impossible to resist her.

* I'll tell you what. Miss Laurie ; you must come and see us
soon. Spend a long day, whenever Nancy gives permission,
and we'll give you the pedigree of every person in Musselburgh.
We are a very interesting study from a social point of view.
"We have thirty-five different degrees of society, and the lines
are so finely drawn, that it is a fearful experience if the member
of one degree should be obliged to recognise the other.'

Agnes laughed, though looking slightly puzzled.

* And where do you stand » ' she asked, with a kind of
quaint shrewdness which highly amused Miss Thorburn.

* That's a problem. Do you hear that, Gracie ? Miss Laurie
wants to know where we stand in Musselburgh society. It
requires careful study. I'll p(>re over it at my leisure, and let
you know tlie result the Z rst time you call. I say, Mrs. Mait-
land, did I tell you that our Aunt Sophia, our mother's only
sister, is so ill that she can't geo better 1 If it were not so far
away, we ought to go and see her, for she is the only relative

1* I

;Hii

. "I I i

■uiSJi

1^ \\\

h: V:

i n

lif

; II

'I)

i;: I'd

m.i

■1

MAITLAND OF LAVRIKSTON.

we have. Slie has had such a sad life, and has always been so
far away, that we have been of no use to her.' There wini;
tears in Miss Thorbiirn's bright eyes, evidence that underneath
the gay exterior there lay a warm and feeling heart.

•I am sorry to hear that, lassie. Yes, Ireland is a far
journey for two women-folk to take, unless for desperation's
sake. Though I never saw your mother's sister Sophia, very
sure am I that she has graces to Ijear whiitover may betide her
in this world,' replied Mrs. JVIaitlund sympathetically.

' Oh yes ; she is one of the few. It seems to me, Mrs. Mait-
land,' said Miss Thorburn energetically, ' that the good suffer
most. There is a good deal in this life to mystify one. I say
to Grace Thorburn sometimes, it would be better to be like
brute beasts, without the power to think or reason.'

' Wheesht, Miss Jean,' said Mrs. Maitland, in gentle reproof.

'Miss Laurie is looking at me with big round eyes,' said Miss
Thorburn. * ^ly dear, I like to speak out what 1 think, and I
mean what I say. We have had our own share of trouble,
Cirace and me ; but it is not of that I complain. I'm quite
Avilling to take my turn with the rest. What do you think of
human sufl'ering, and the way it is meted out in this life 1 '

* There is a great deal of it, I think,' Agnes answered some-
what painfully ; ' but there is a great deal of happiness too.'

'That's my lassie. Hold up the sunny side,' quoth Afrs.
Maitland heartily. ' We are getting into a doleful talk. Tell
us something funny about your London trip.'

* Oh, it was all funny ; perfectly comical throughout,' laughed
Miss Thorburn. ' We took apartments, you know, out at
Kensington, with two ladies who were perfect treats. Decayed
gentlewomen they called themselves, and the conditions of
their life were certainly in an advanced state of decay. They
made a living by letting apartments, preferring to live in a big
house than a small one. They seemed frightfully poor, and
their dress, — oh, Jean Thorburn, tell Mrs. Maitland about the
maroon curtains ! '

* It is a shame to laugh at the poor ladies, Mrs. Maitland ;
but really, they did dress in an extraordinary fashion. The
elder lady used to get herself up for dinner in an old strip of

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

faded green maroon curtain, gathered round her like a shawl,
and she had a whole hand-hoxful of ilowors in her head-dress.
The younger one atFected a classic style of raiment, and her
skirts were decidedly skimpy. Poor things ! "\Vo were sorry
for them, for they were quite ladies, and had a very slight
idea of housekeeping. They were quite at the mercy of their
domestics. Grace and I did ,)ur hest to give them some
instruction. They were very kind to us, and, in spite of their
eccentricities, we were (juite sorry to part with them.'

'It is a fearful thing to be a reduced gentlewoman, Miss
Laurie,' put in Miss Thorburn ; ' I hope I may die before I
ever come to it. So you like Scotland, of course ? It's your
mother's coui.'.ry, besides being the best land in the world.'

' Yes, that is true,' smiled Agnes, and the sweetness of her
expression won Miss Thorburn's heart completely.

' And John is away to the University too, we were hearing ? '
she said, darting otf at another tangent.

* What is he going to be, Mrs. Maitland?'

' He hardly knows yet, I fancy,' returned Mrs. Maitland.
' Make out the tea, Nannie, my dear. My new daughter is a
great help to me, my dears.'

* So wo see,' said ^fiss Jean appreciatively, as she watched
the graceful figure of Agnes moving across to the tray.

' Her mother has lent her to us for a year only,' continued
Mrs. Maitland. ' I grudge to think more than a fourth of the
time has slipped away already.'

'How is ^Irs. Laurie in health?' asked Miss Thorburn. 'We
would have called when we were in London had we known vshe
was there. Mamma and she were very friendly ; that would
have been sufficient introduction.'

'She is not very strong, — perhaps not strong enough to see
even old friends,' ^[rs. Maitland answered guardedly ; and Miss
Jean, watching the girl at her graceful task, saw her slender
liaiuls tremble as they touched the cups. Just then a shadow
passed hastily by the parloiir window, and Laurieston himself
came striding into the room, with a hasty nod to the ladies.
He asked his wife to come and speak to him for a moment.
She was gone quite ten minutes, and the ladies were on their

I, f'. i

'M'

MAirnAND OF LAuniF.sro:^.

»l-i.,'

!l'l'^^'

ilf

feet to go when slio returned to tho room. Slic lookocl norvous
iiiid iigitiitcd, uiul bade tlicni a liunied gnod-liyo, proiiii.sing to
briiif,' or si'iid Agnes to the cottage at a very early day.

' I like those ladies, Aunt Maggie, llow pleasant and kind
they aro ! I just like to look and listen to them.'

'They are good girla and true friends, Nannie,' returned Mrs.
Afaitland, beginning to gather uj; the cujis witli a nervous hasto
not eonnnon to lier.

' Let ni(! do that, Aunt i\raggie. Go and lie down. You
have not had your rcist this afternoon.'

' Never mind me. i)\i, my lassie ! ' Greatly to the girl's
amazement, she found herself suddenly gathered close to the
warm-beating motherly breast. She began to trembb.', appre-
hending evil, — she could not tell why.

* What is it. Auntie 1 Mamma 1 '

* Yes, my darling. It is well witli her, for God has taken
her to Himself.'

A sharp sudden cry broke from the girl's pale lips; then sho
became very still. ]\Irs. Maitland led her to the sofa, still
keeping her arm closely round her. So they sat a long time in
silence.

*I have been expecting it, Nannie !^^amma has always
written very freely to me,' Mrs. Maitland said at length. * IJut
I think, if you will look back and remember her letters to you,
she was trying to prepare you.'

' I know ; I did not hope she would ever get well. It is not
that, Aunt Maggie ; — but oh, I ought never to have left her !
Just think, she lias had nobody with her to nurse her all these
weary weeks. It has weighed upon me. Aunt Maggie, till
sometimes I could not bear it.'

Mrs. ]\[aitland knew it well. She had seen the perpetual
shadow in the large serious eyes, and had guessed its meaning.

'My love, you could not help it. You had to obey mamma
when she thought it best to send you away,* she replied
soothingly. ' We need not dwell upon that now. In her dear
letters to me, mamma told me what an unspeakable comfort and
joy it was to her to know you were with me. Not that she
did not miss her dear children, Nannie ; but she felt that she

MA IT LAND OF LAURIKSWN.

c;j

was not ablo to give tliein tlio euro they ncoilcd, and it com-
fDitt'd lior to know that you wcro at homo hero. Tlunk of
that, and of tho ro-iinion by and by, rather than the pain the
Hi'paration has given ; and though she is witliin the veil, lier
spirit will often visit us hero, not only because lier darlings are
liero, but l)ecauHe she loved this place.'

Tho girl's sobbing ceased. Margaret Maitland's lips did
indeed drop sweetness into that soro young heart.

'Will wo not need to go upl Does papa say nothing about
iti* she asked presently.

'No J tho telegram says a letter will follow. It will be hero
to-morrow. Wo must just wait ; but I do not think, njy dear,
that it would be necessary or wise for you to go.*

' Not even to look upon her face again 1 '

' Why, Agnes, that would be a very slight satisfaction, and
would only grieve you. She is not there now, but in the
Father's House. It is a terrible grief to let our loved ones go,
Nannie ; but the time soon comes when wo would not wish
them back. I have two little girlies in heaven, and I can bless
Ciod now that they are safe from the storms of life. Think of
mamma's gain. You know how she regarded death, — you have
told me of it so often, — the gate of life.'

' Yes, yes ; but oh. Aunt Maggie, the emptiness to those who
are left outside the gate, ovon for a little while ! *

t I

I -i

!:.!

' Michael, what do you think of that letter?* Mrs. Maitland
put the question to her husband in the wee room next morning,
after he had read tho brief conmiunication with which William
Laurie had favoured them. It contained no superfluous matter,
— tho briefest mention of his wife's death, and an expression of
the hope that Mrs. Maitland, for old time's sake, would see her
way to keep the children in tho meantime, as his way of life
was very uncertain.

'It's like Will Laurie, Maggie,' Maitland answered, as he.
put down tho letter. ' liut what d'ye say % '

'For Ellen's sake I would keep the bairns, Michael,' sho
answered at onco.

' Weel, it's a question if we dinna get them to keep a'thc-

( : . ■: ' '

m; !!

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'1 ',

MA IT LAN I) OF LAUIilKSTON.

githor. X like tlio livssio, M.tygio, — sho's a willin', hclpfu' cratur ;
tlio lad will \(w tho trouhlo, — he's a thrawn, Aviltl loon; but if
he's to bide, I'll keep a ticht liaud on him.'

* I have never been able to learn wliat Will's occupation is,
father; he was trained to no trade or business]*

*No; that was auld Davie Laurie's mistake. Had he
apprenticed Will, ho micht ha' been a weel-to-do plumber in
Fisherrow yet, instead o' the wastrel ho is,' said Laurieston
severely. 'It's nao guid trade he's after, you may be sure; if he
niaks a livin' ava, it'll bo by easy means, whether they bo richt
or wrang. I doot he maks his money afF bettin' an' such like.'

'The bairns are better here, then,' said Margaret Maitland,
with a sigh.

*Ay,' said Laurieston dryly; 'there'll bo mair chance for
their souls' salvation. If ye dinna mind tho bother, let the
bairns bide.*

Margaret Maitland did not mind the bother, so the })airn.s
stayed ; and she gave to them, out of her own motherly fulness,
the same loving care which blessed her own.

And in that full and busy home time sped with wings which
knew no weariness, till the day came when Margaret Afaitland
knew that her bairns were bairns no longer, but men and
women, for whom life had a purpose and a message. Then,
indeed, her gravest motherly anxiety was awakened, never to
rest again.

noble face, <;

CirAPTKll VIII.

'I asked myself wh;it t\m ),'rcat God ini^'ht be

That fuHliiuucd me.'

ft,

N" the sonicwliiit (liiijiy sitting-room of a studpnts*
hulginj,' in Ivlinlmrgh, two young men were sitting
togetlu'i' in tilt! shadowy grey twilight of a February
afternoon. The fire had burned to ashes in the
grato unheeded, for they were in earnest talk, and the faces
of both wore an expression of deep interest. On the face of
the man walking restlessly up and down the narrow floor
there was more than interest, — there was anxiety and even
care, He Avas a jjowerfully-built fcdlow, (]uito young, though
tlicre was great iirnnicss in the setting of his square jaw, and
fearless determination expressed in the well-marked mouth, and
Hashing in the earnest grey eye. Not a handsome youth,
perhaps, in the accepted sense of the term; but there was a
fine mtmliness in his whole bearing, a suggestion of strengtli and
will whieh was very striking. A hard student, evidently, if
deep -set eyes and well-lined brows are any gauge, and a
student who would be no superficial sipper at the fount of
knowledge.

The other occupant of the room, lying full length on the
shabby horse-hair sofa, with his arms folded behind his head,
was altogether of a different style. lie also was tall, but
slenderly, even sparely built, and having a slight stoop in his
shoulders, whieh, with the delicacy of his feature's, seemed to
speak of inferior physical strength. He had a fine, even a
noble face, exquisitely chiselled, every feature without a flaw :

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON,

the mouth nervously curved and with great sweetness of expres-
sion, the forehead high and smooth and white, with masses of
wavy black hair carelessly pushed back from it, while beneath
well-marked brows the eyes shone out like lamps, — liquid,
lovely eyes, capable of a tliousand varying lights and sparks.
He was several years older than his companion ; but they wore
close, dear friends, more deeply attached to each other, indeed,
than many brothers. There had been a silence between them
for a little time, following upon a heated discussion of a question
in which both were deeply interested. The younger continued
his restless walking, Avith his eyes on the ground, the older
watching him through half-closed eyes with a curious mixture
of affectionate interest and a touch of deep compassion.

' You are just wher 3 I was two or three years ago, John,'
he said ; but for a time John took no notice of the remark.

'Then why won't you help me, Phil,' he said at length,
almost savagely. ' I've got to that standpoint where one must
make a clear distinction between the knowable and the unknow-
able. I must have an indisputable point of view of some kind.
Why won't you discuss the probabilities Avith mo 1 '

' Perhaps we've discussed them too much already, John,'
returned the other, not without a touch of sadness. ' Thougli I
entertain certain ideas, and have accepted certain convictions as
final, I am not bound to try and convert you to them.'

'If you believed them to be justifiable and right, you would
see it to be your duty to convert me,' John Maitland said, still
angrily.

' I will willingly undermine no man's faith, John Maitland,'
the elder man said. ' I have fought my own battle, and you
must fight yours, my man, as I aid, unaided.'

' A fine friend you are, Phil,' John said, with bitterness ; * if
I didn't know you so wellj I'd call you a selfish prig.'

Philip Ejbertson smiled slightly, and looked through the
dingy window away across to the misty belt of t^e Firth, where
it lay in the sol ^x liglit of the dying day.

He was thinking, not of his friend, but of his friend's mother,
— that saintly-faced woman who seemed to him the embodiment
of a perfect womanhood. For her sake he had made his vow,

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

that no word or direction of his should be an aid to John
Miiitland in his striving after truth. Poor John, of the earnest
li(!art and seeking soul, his student-days had brought him, with
ill! their rich satisfactions, many bitter hours ! Failing to find
strength and comfort in the religion his father had set before
him in his youth, he had set out in solemn earnest to find the
truth for himself, — a tedious, struggling seeking, which found
liim day after day in an agony of doubt and unrest. The
wisdom of the Schools confused and irritated him, each philo-
sopher so calmly setting forth as final a view of things earthly
and eternal which he could not accept. Perhaps he had not
been fortunate in his friend 1 A strong, faithful heart, whose
conviction was unalterably built upon revelation and redemp-
tion, might have guided the tossing soul early to peace and
comfort 1 But John had a long battle to fight, a struggle of
which even these painful hours of student-life were but as the
smoke of the battle from afar.

* It seems to me, Phil,' began John, in his quick, earnest way,
* that men are subdued by fear. It is fear of the consequences
that makes men religious. I'll tell ye what it is, man : I've
talked to dozens of the fellows we both know, and not one of
tliem can give a reason for the faith that is in them. The most
of them are terrified to study any views but those which will
strengthen their own. What's the use of a faith which can't
hold its own, and confute any false doctrine pitted against
it 1 If it can't tower tabove all other faiths, like Saul among
the people, it's a cowardly thing, and I won't have it. "What-
ever I believe, I'll be honest with it.'

Robertson rose from the sofa. His face was flushed, his eyes
shone. He was in full sympathy with his friend, and could
have grasped him by the hand, and told him so in heartiest
words.

' You will come out into the clear light by and by, as every
honest soul does,* he said, so quietly that any listener might
have thought him indifferent. ' Isn't it about time Michael
turned up 1 It will be dark before you get out to Laurieston if
he is much longer.*

* Upon my word, you are a cool beggar, Phil,* said John, with

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

a slight laugh ; * a man lays bare his soul before you, and you
turn him off with the veriest commonplaces. "VVliat on earth
do you mean 1 You are v c so indifferent about other tilings.'

' That's Michael's foot,' Kobertson answered signilir;mtly ;
and truly at that moment the door-handle turned, and ^Michael
marched in.

* "A din), religious light," in all conscience,' he cried gaily. * I
say, Jock, do you know it's after five ? Phil, I think you'd better
take him as a permanent boarder. He only sleeps at our rooms.'
Robertson laughed.

' "We needn't have a light if you are just going. I don't mind
if I walk a bit with you. Fine outside, isn't it ? '

* Glorious ; there's a touch of spring in the air which makes
one's blood leap. Won't you come out with us, — you know
they're always glad to see you ? Ain't they, Jock ? '

' Yes ; but Phil and I are not agreeing to-night,' John said,
reaching over the table for his hat,

* !Never mind, —

" You'll take the high road,
And we'll take the low road.
And we'll be at Laurieston afore ye,"

sang Michael. 'Come on, Phil; never mind a bag, — ^mother
can give you everything.'

' Not to-night, thank you, Mike. How are you going, — by
Portobello?'

•Not likely; it's a hideous road through those sewage
meadows,' said John gruffly. 'Let's take the 'bus out to
Newington, and then have a decent walk when we're at it.'

' Why take the 'bus at all 1 ' queried Michael, in mild wonder.
' Anything the matter with your legs, Jock 1 '

' Nothing ; you leave me alone, will you 1 ' was 4,ho irritable
reply. Michael whistled, elevated his eyebrows, and discreetly
retired to wait for his brother in the street.

* There's no use snapping poor Mike's head oft because you
happen to be out of sorts,' suggested Phil.

' What do you know about it 1 ' John said rudely. ' I know
I'm a bear, Phil ; but this sort of thing can't go on.'

*It won't;— you'll be out into the light by and by, perhaps

MAITLAND OF LAVlilKSTON.

sooner than you think,' said Robertson cheerily ; and, gripping his
friend's hand fast in his, he looked him straight in the eyes.
' Man, can't you see how I feel for you, how entirely my heart
is with you ; but I can't help you. After my own battle I
swore I would have no hand in unsettling any man's faith, — you
must find your own conviction, and abide by it. I tell you,
John, nothing less will satisfy you, or any honest soul like you,
besides' — He stopped then, and turned aside. Long after,
John Maitland pondered on that interjection. It implied so
much.

But Michael was calling to them again from the foot of the
stair, so there was nothing more said.

Michael and Robertson monoplized the conversation as they
climbed the steep incline from the north side of the town, and
quickly approached Princes Street, John walking on in front with
his eyes on the ground, and his arms swinging in pace with his
long legs, which could cover the ground with such rapidity and
ease.

Philip Robertson, although considerably older than the Mait-
lands, was intimate with both. John, however, was his special
friend. Their meeting had been accidental, for Robertson had
long graduated in the Arts, and had also obtained a Science
degree. He was a botanist of tare skill, and was then assisting
the professor of botany in his class lectures.

He was a man about thirty, of varied accomplishments and
marked ability, although they said he dipped in too many
sciences to be proficient in one. He was well known in Edin-
burgh University circles, although no one had any definite
knowledge of his circumstances or antecedents. He did not
appear to possess ample means, but supported himself by coach-
ing dilatory students for the Art and Science examinations. If
he had relatives, he never spoke of them, even to John Maitland,
who was his intimate friend. He was a curious, reserved indi-
vidual with strangers, and yet the charm of his personality was
very great. Although made welcome to many social circles, he
did not visit much, except in quarters of the city which are
not considered the most select. He was well known and greatly
beloved among the poor, who had proved him an abiding friend

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That upper circle which was willing to admit him within its
charmed boundary-line, heard of his good deed, and spoke of him
as being eccentric, and as entertaining curious views about the
relationship of man to man irrespective of station and wealth.
They knew nothing of his work or of the motive which prompted
it. Philip Robertson spoke of these to very few. Michael did
not understand him very well, but got on amicably with him, as
Michael did and must get on with even the churlish, because of
his own extraordihary sweetness of disposition. Nobody iiad
ever seen Michael Maitlan*^ ohe younger angry. Jolin sometimes
called him, with bantering affection, ' an Israelite without guile.'

' I wish you'd stop a moment, Phil,' said Michael, stopping a
moment when they reached the level of George Street. He took
his breath quickly, and his colour was heightened. Robertson
paused immediately, and looked at the fair, Hushed, womanish
face with undisguised anxiety.

' I say, Mike, you'll need to be careful. That climb is too
much for you.'

' Oh no ; it's your long legs ! Just look at John ! He'll be at
Laurieston an hour before me,' said IMichael laughingly, though
still panting a little. * You might como out. Mother likes you,
and all the rest are glad when you come.'

' All ? ' asked Robertson, with a short laugh.

' Ay, even Effie,' answered Michael slyly ; ' though she teases
you so unmercifully.'

* I can't possibly go out ■si'ith you ; but if I can get my work
forward, I'll may be walk out tomorrow and stay till Sunday.'

* Do. I say, Phil, isn't John awfully down just now ? What's
bothering him, do you know 1 '

* I know partially, but I question if I cm tell you,' answered
Robertson truthfully. ' Has he never spoken to you about it ? '

* Never ; and I see it's bothering mother and Nannie. They
think there never was such another as John, you know.'

* I see that ', perhaps he'll tell you soon. Well, if I'm to come
out to-morrow, I think I'd better go back to my work. The
papers a coach has to go over are a dreary business, Mike, I can
tell you. Just you come on quietly, and I'll catch up Jol t, a id
tell him.'

M AIT LAM) OF LAUillESTOlf.

It was a kindly impulse which made Rohertson stride on for
a quiet word with John. Before Michael came up he had time
to tell him to go leisurely up the ascents for Michael's sake.
Michael had never been very robust ; so John, while attending
to his friend's request, was not unduly alarmed by it. With a
promise to meet on the morrow at a certain trystlng-place midway
l)etwecn Edinburgh and Inveresk, the friends parted -ud the two
brothers walked slowly and in silence up the steep North Bridge
and out towards Newington.

' I say, John, isn't Phil a splendid fellow ? ' asked Michael, at
length tireu of the silence. ' It's such a pity, I think, he holds
such strange views.'

* What do you know about his views ? ' asked John, in that
quick, irritable fashion which had grown on him of late. ' He
doesn't air them on his sleeve, as a rule.'

* No ; but I have an inkling of his ideas on theological
questions. He gives philosophy the first place.'

* What do you mean by philosophy in that sense, then ? '

* I mean that he places philosophy in the place of religion :
he believes in " good conduct " as the end and aim of life. A
poor enough end and aim for a man like Robertson, or for any
man.'

' How do you know 1 I believe he has got the right set of it.
Compare him witli so many canting hypocrites — you knoAV them
as well as I — who talk religion and live the opposite. You
know Phil's life, — what a largo, generous, unselfish thing it is. 1
lell you these contrasts shako a man's faith, if ho has any. I'm
tempted to throw the whole thing overboard, Mike, and try life
minus superstition, for it seems to me that in these days people
— the host minds, at least — regard revealed religion as a super-
stition.'

John Maitland spoke with a volicmence which showed how
>1r >>1^ ho felt every word he uttered. ^liohael was silent a
U) )Uient, looking away over the rich brown furrows of the
ijloughed field, in which the patient teams were busy at vork.
He was not greatly surprised or even horrified. He had sus-
pected sometiiing like this. It is impossible for a man to be
constantly mixing with the frc , outspoken, and varied elements

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MAITL^ND OF LAURIESTON.

of student-life, and not become familiar with almost every phase
of thought concerning things human and divine. It is an ordeal,
in some cases a crisis, in many young lives. Michael himself
had liad his doubts, though they had never reached such a vital
crisis. He was by nature more trustful than his brother, and
could accept as truth even what he could not fully comprehend.
lie was blesssed in the heritage of faith his mother had tran.s-
mitted to him. He was deeply and aifectionately conccirned for
John, and walked on in silence by his side, pondering what
manner of reply he should make to Lis passionate and sweeping
assertions.

CHAPTER IX.

' Here
There Is nor ground, nor light enough to live.*

T was a fine mild afternoon, the close of one of those
days of heavenly promise we have sometimes in
the early year, when the earth begins to waken
from its long sleep, and to quicken with newness of
life. There were no leaves yet, but the catkins were downy on
the willows, and the greenness lent by fresh young blades was
on every grassy bank ; also the snowdrops were nodding whitely
on their delicate stems, and in sheltered nooks the primroses
showing early buds among their cool green leaves. The sky
was as tender as a woman's smile, dappled with soft grey
clouds, fringed with red and gold where the early sun had set ;
the whole air was filled with the breathings of spring, an
instinctive gladness of promise by v/hich human hearts could
not but be influenced. Michael Maitland lifted his face to the
sunset sky, and took a long, deep breath. There was reverence
in his eyes as they dwelt a moment on that eternal firmament,
and he raised his hat from his head, while John looked at him
wonderingiy.

* You and Robertson would serenely blot from my future,
heaven and the life to come,' Michael said quietly; 'but in
the face of these things,' he added, with a wide sweep of his
hand, * I defy you to do it. Why, man, what would life in
this world be worth without the hope of immortality 1 The
things of time appear poor enough when a man sets them
against our eternal interests.'

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MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

* Now, that is jiu *he n iw view theologians take of it,
retorted John, eager f r : , i , ent, * The religion of philosophy '
— for it is a religion, li'' . ■'' sh it denies the First Cause as a
Being to be blindly woi uppet' drives men noble incentiv(3S
to live worthy and useful lives. Lo )k at Robertson, as I said
before : he has a reverence for, and devotion to, everything
virtuous and excellent, simply because it is virtuous and
excellent. The old religion is full of selfishness : it is a
demoralizing system of re^/ard and punishment, and docs not
teach men to love good or seek truth for its own sake, —
because it is a priceless possession for the soul.'

Robertson's arguments Michael knew these to be, and he
lifted his mild eyes to his bj other's dark, eager face, with a
kind of wondering sadness.

' You think Robertson a profoundly hai)py man, then ? ' he
asked quietly.

' He has a calm, serene mind, built upon a firm conviction.
I would give ten years of my life for his peace,' Avas the
vehement reply. ' I tell you, Mike, I envy him.'

* And when he dies, then I suppose ho will be content to go
down to the ground like the beasts that perish t '

*I don't know that. That is just where the unknowable
line is drawn. He does not deny the possibility of a future
state ; he only holds that we have nothing to do with it here,
and that our aim and end should be to spend our days in
devotion to truth, and in seeking to do good to our fellow-
men.'

' And where do these holy desires come from 1 '

'They are the fruits of the philosophy in which he believes.'

* It is a blind creed, John, and will no more satisfy his soul or
yours, or the soul of any man, than a stone will satisfy a hungry
child,' Michael made answer. 'There is a God -implanted
craving in every human being, which nothing but belief in
God will satisfy. We need a faith, just as the flowers need
the showers of spring to make them live. Don't tell me that
Robertson is satisfied, that he is entirely ha[ii»y with his new-
found philosophy. He will not lay bare his inmost heart even
to you,. Whether is it a nobler thing to walk by faith here.

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

grasp

it,' John admitted ; * but

followi"5^ the example the Lord has left US', and having the
sure hope that there will be a continuation of life or a new-
one begun after death, or to walk blindly on till, at death,
you find yourself before a blank stone-wall which shuts out
liopel I know which I prefer.'

' Ay, so do I, if I could
that is wh(;ro the honest thinker comes to a standstill. I have
r(!ad the liible, never man more earnestly, and I have been
touched by the story of the Crucifixion. It was a noble deed,
humanly speaking ; but not so noble for a Divine Being who
prophesied and fore-ordained all, as we have been taught
yonder,' he added, with a wave of his hand toward the eastern
sea. • There are men — I believe Robertson is one — who would
sacrifice themselves for others, even though they could not see
any immediate good to result from it.'

'You do not understand what you are talking of, John,*
said Michael quietly ; * some day you will look at it in another
light — the light of a now revelation.'

'I don't think so. That is just how the Church puts us off
with vague generalities.'

' The love of Christ is not a vague generality,* Michael said,
with flushing face, for these were sacred things to him, and he
seldom spoke of them. * I wish I could tell you what it is to
me, John. There was a time when I had my doubts also,
though I never went so far as you. It was father's teaching
which troubled me. I hate to say it, but it is the narrowness
of the creed he has accepted which brings odium on the Gospel.
I have been enabled, by searching and prayer, to see it in a
wider and fuller sense. I believe Christ died to save every
man without limitation or distinction, and if ever I am spared
to enter a pulpit, I will preach that doctrine and no other.
John, did you ever pray to be guided ? '

' Never. I vowed I would think the matter out, and fight
honestly for myself. I'll tell you what, Michael : every Sunday
when I am at home, that prayer we have to hear makes me
writhe, — it is not praying, it's grovelling in the dirt. I won't
do it, and I don't believe any man, even our own father, is
sincere in such frightful abasement. If there is a God, do

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MAITLANI) or LAVniESTOH.

you believe Ho made creatines so low ? I tell you I'm heart-
sick of the whole business, and I'll liavo it out with my father
one of these days ; and then hci'll turn me out of the house,
like a Christian ! '

'You are unjust. Like so many carpers, John, you blame
the wliole system because of the narrowness of some of its
votaries. Our motlier is a Christian. What do you think of
her religion ?' John ^raitland's bosom heaved : that was a very
precious, very tender spot.

'Our mother is an angel, and would bo, Michael, though
she had no religion at all; her womanhoi^d is the divinest
thing on earth.'

'AmKAgncs?' pursued Michael mercilessly. 'She has had
a great deal to bear, and you know how she bears it. You
also know what her religion is. She does not hesitate to speak
of her faith, which is her life. Take away her hope, John,
and what would be left to lier 1 '

' I grant that it is useful to her,' John answered ; * she is
not very self-reliant. It is her nature to attach herself strongly
both to persons and creeds, and to lean upon them. If she
had a wider view presented to her mind, she would grasp it, I
believe, and find e(iual support in it.'

Michael's face grew white in tlie deepening night, and he
turned upo" his l)roth(!r, roused for a minute out of his habitual
gentleness of self-control. 'John ^Maitland, if you dare to
unhinge her mind — if you dare — may God forgive you, for I
never will.'

' Don't be afraid, Mike,' John answered, with a kind of curious
sadness ; ' I have not found such al)ouniling happiness myself
that I should be eager to impart it to others. I'll let women
alone. If they can find all they need in their religion, I shall
not seek to unsettle their convictions.'

' You have admitted your own weakness, John,' said Michael
shrewdly; 'true philosophy teaches that it is imperative on
the seeker after truth to impart it as he best can to liis
fellows. Look at a man who first sees the truth as it is in
Christ. He finds his complete hap[)iness in telling others of
his treasure. Without that burning desire, Jolin, the ministry

jVA ITI.A Nt) OF LA UHJESTON.

cvon of tlin al)lost will 1)0 utterly barren. TIhj heart nnist yo
hand in hand with the intellect.*

«Jt is a curious thin<:f, Mike, how many of our ablest men
have thrown aside Christianity as an old superstition. It has
not liecn able to stand the searchinf,' test of reason.*

* Ifas it not 1 How many creeds ami dogmas and philosophies
have had tlnnr day and passed into nothingness since the revcda-
tion of the Gospel was given to man ? After all these wenturics,
the IJiblo still stands as firm and unassailable as of ynro ; its
teaching is still the best we can got, even for the conduct of
human ailairs. As lu the able men, much study has made thom
mad. This height of analysis to which modern thought has
reached, causes men to doubt the very fact of their own being.

John smiled. * How hot you are, Mike ; it is not often we
have an argument. I must set you and Phil on some night,
and I'll listen and judge between you. I say, we're nearly
home. How the time Hies when one is intereslod ! Are you
tired r

* No, not at all. After all, John, there's no place like home,
is there ? In spite of some drawbacks, Laurieston is a dear old
place, isn't it 1 '

' Yes, it is ; it's a picturesque old town this, ]\Iike. I always
think the river just from here looks fine, especically in a fine
glamoury liglit like this, which hides all its ugliness.'

They stood for a moment on the old Roman bridge which
spans the Esk at the entrance to the old town of Musselburgh,
and looked down towards the sea. The tide was full, and the
wind, blowing in freshly from the shore, had a delicious salt
flavour, which seemed to them the very elixir of life. The sky
had grown clearer with the night, and the stars were peeping
out, while a shy light from a young February moon made a
mystic halo on the red roofs and spires of the town. They
crossed over the river presently, and, skirting the avenue at the
railway station, turned up the lane towards the kirkyard, their
nearest way home. That God's acre on the hill was a peaceful,
picturesque spot. It was approached by a long flight of shallow
steps, worn into hollows by the feet of many worshippers and
many mourners ; and among the scattered graves the grey old

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

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church kept watch, looking tlown Rproncly upon i\w tAvo^y town
on tho c(lg(^ of tho 8ca. The; lads tliil Dot speak much an they
dinibod tho .stcpH, slowly for Michari'H sakt;, and they passnl
silently throui^h the city of tho dead out into the familiar rond
which led them homo. Home was still a dear word to thcM
two, and they were glad, as each Friday night came round, Id
seek its rest and peace. Hearts l)eat faster anil (^yes grew
hrighter at their coming, for this student sons of tho liouso of
Laurieston were both greatly beloved.

They began to talk again of lu)mo aiFaira as thoy lu-arod the
gate. Some one wateliing there heard their voices long before
they camo in sight. They found the gate wide open, and
•motlier' standing by it with a shawl about her dear head, and
the sweet mother-smile of welcome in eyes and lips.

' My laddies, come away. I wearied and ran out. How are
you b(jth to-night 1 '

* Fine, mother ; splendid. How are you 1 ' thoy answered back
in chorus; and John, with his usual fontlness, had his arms
round her in a moment, and his face close to hers. There was
no doubt about it, — John was his mother's son. Tlio love
between tliem was exquisite in its sweetness and strength.

She often stole out to meet them. Sometimes the week
seemed long, especially if they did not write. It was seldom,
indeed, that John missed ; but of late there was a restraint in
these letters, ay, and in his demeanour, which his mother was
(juick to note. She needed no telling that John was troubled
about something, nor Agnes either. There were two women
who loved John Maitland better than anything on earth. In a
sense Mrs. Maitland h»ved all her children equally well. She
made no outward difference in her treatment of any one of
them, but John liad been the idol of her young mother heart,
and was now the son of her hopes and prayers ; also, perhaps,
though unacknowledged, of her deepest motherly care. She
had no fear for Michael, the sunny-hearted and true, tho best
boy that had ever lived, and who would do good in the sphere
which he loved with his Avhole soul, though it had been chosen
for him ; but John, of the questioning, searching mind, — of tho
big, honest, earnest heart, — of the quick impulse and hasty

MAITLANl) OF LAURlESTONf

ju(l},'in(>nt, who could brook nothing narrow or moan or
ijfiiiiMc, nothing wliich would not hear tho full glare of light, —
li(! it was who lay ncurcHt to her heart, and f<jr whoso guiding
licr own prayers were constant. Perhaps the (irst-born is always
more to a woman *.han tln^ rest of her children, because it is tho
lirst child who nsveals to her at onco tho agony and tho high
ji»y of motherhood. Mieliael, with his keen, sensitive intuition,
knew well tiiat John was the mother's favourite ; but he felt no
])iing, though she entered the house loaning on his arm. Dear
Michael, in that unselfish soul there was tho swoetnoss of a
divine lovo.

'And how's everybody V J(jhn asked, throwing off tho incubus
which lay upon him. 'All the human beings first, then the ox
and the ass, and the motherly hen with hor chl "ks 1 Oh, is Will
home to-night 1'

'Not yet,' Mrs. ^[aitland answered quickly. *He will como
l)y tho late train. I tell him ho is too lazy. He might walk
with you.'

' Catch him ! Will will never walk if he can ride,' John
answered, with a laugh.

' IluUoa, ElFie ! '

They were within tho door now, and under the hall-lamp
stood a slight, plump, rosy-checked young creature, in whoso
dancing brown eyes the sw(H't dews of maidenhood were fresh.
Effie liad shot up into yo\n ; womanhood all at once, without
any period of awkward girlhood between. Her figure was well
formed and graceful, and she had all the airs of young ladyhood
which has the desire to make itself attractive. Effie always
wore tho very daintiest of gowns, the most bewitching of
ribbons and laces, and her rich black hair was always braided
in the newest style. Without being vain, she was attentive to
her attractive appearance, and thought no shame to admit that
gowns and bonnets and dainty shoes and perfect gloves were
very interesting items in her sight. She was a healthy, happy
lassie, with a warm heart, a quick, impulsive temper, and a
high, independent spirit ; a great favourite with the boys,
though at times self-willed enough to cause her mother some
slight anxiety.

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

Midhacl, EiHe adored. She was rather afraid of John, who,
especially of late, had grown so solemn and reserved ; and with
"Walter she was constantly bickering, he teased her so unmerci-
fully. But Michael was always the same, — gentle, kind, and
true, never laughing at her, but always ready to help her in
every possible way. As yet Michael was Effie's hero and her
ideal among mankind.

* Oh, boys, you are late ! and Agnes' dainty morsel for supper
may turn out stale, flat, and unprofitable. What have you
brought me, Mike ? '

* A needy divinity student c;"',n't bring bonnie lassies a fairing
every week-end,' laughed Michael ; nevertheless, a tiny paper
parcel quickly changed hands, with many a nod behind mother' 3
back. She was occupied with John, scanning his face with
those searching mother-eyes of hers, which ho somehow did
not, just then, care to meet. The dining-room door opened
immediately, and Wattie appeared, his brown face full of interest
over his brothers' home-coming. Wattie was turning out a great
comfort at Laurieston, and giving fair promise of becoming a
prime agriculturist. In appearance he differed greatly from his
two brothers. He was as tall as John ; and though so nmch
younger, his figure had attained both stature and strength, and
ho was like to bo a goodly Laird of Laurieston.

'Hulloa, Wat!' John said, and looking beyond him into
the warm, well-lit room as if seeking something else.

His mother followed that glance, and her eyes shone. She
knew what it meant. She had seen it too often, now, to mis-
take it. Though she was his mother, there was no bitterness in
the knowledge that, while John loved Laurieston and all it
contained, there was one face there dearer to him than all tho
rest.

CHAPTEE X.

'Oh, they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.'

ICHAEL MAITLAND the elder, liearing all the
commotion, rose from his arm-chair too, and shook
hands with both his sons. The years wliich had
made so great a change upon the young folks, had
dealt but gently with the old. Tliere was little perceptible
difference in Maitland, — a greyer tinge, perhaps, in beard and
hair, a line or two more on the strong face, a slight rounding
of the shoulders ; that was all. A hale, hearty, powerful
man yet, was the Laird of Laurieston, as like living as any
of his sons.

' Weel, lads, ye've a fine night for your walk,* he said ; * ye
arc later than usual.'

' It was all Jock's blame, father,* cried Michael. * Here,
when it was time to go, had not I to take a pilgrimage down to
Robertson's rooms and hunt him up '? They were sitting there,
discussing goodness knows what, just as if there was no eight-
mile walk to be taken in time for supper. Where's Nannie 1 '

'You needn't ask,' laughed Effie ; 'she's concocting some
fearful and wonderful dauity for your delectation. All non-
sense, I tell her. Begin with men-folk where you mean to
end with them. If you spoil their stomachs for plain food in
their youth, pity their old age, and yours. Don't shake your
head ; father, isn't it true 'I '

It was a study to see Effie and her father together. She
took liberties with him which none of the boys would have

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

dared to take. She talked to him, and at him, Avith a sweet
daring which was Avholly irresistible ; and Laurieston, far from
being angered by it, just looked at her with a softness in his
eye which nothing else could bring there. Effie's influence
over her father was a source of the most complete satisfaction
to her mother. She would smile quietly, sometimes, at the
ease with which Effie could coax and wheedle him. He could
refuse her nothing. She was the very apple of his eye.

John went back to the hall table to bring the newspaper to
his father, and while he was there the kitchen door opened, and
Agnes came out. He had pulled the dining-room door after
him, so there was no one to witness their meeting. He turned
to her eagerly, and his honest eyes betrayed all his heart as
they dwelt upon her sweet face.

' Nannie, I thought you'd rever come ! ' he caid. Perhaps
it was the stooping over the fire which had brought the rich
glow to her face. She gave him her hand, but her eyes did
not meet his. That stolen moment was dangerously sweet, and
each knew it.

' It is you who are late,' Agnes said at length. ' Is "Willie
with you ] Shall I tell Katie, I wonder, to bring in the
supper 1'

' Will isn't,' John said, but made no motion to return to the
dining-room. He was looking her all over, — hungrily, passion-
ately, as a man looks at his dearest treasure ; and she, woman-
like, feeling the intensity of his gaze, thrilled under it, and
longed to fly. Agnes was a woman now, — a gracious, self-
reliant, beautiful woman, — one of those whose ministry on
earth is to bless every human being and everything which her
sweet influence touches. A woman of few words, but of
boundless deeds ; but not one whose life was colourless, nor
wliose individuality was sunk in that of others. She had her
own opinions, which she could strongly express in season ; her
own ways of working, which, though mobtrusive, were unmis-
takeably felt,- -a woman of quiet though almost limitless influ-
ence. Her ^;lace at Laurieston nobody else could fill. She
was the elder daughter still, upon whom Margaret Maitland
leaned with an intensity of wbioli she herself had no idea. It

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

was Aj^nes who now kept the domestic wheels smoothly work-
ing, in her loving, helpful way. She had somewhat set Mrs.
Maitland aside. It is a beautiful thing, I think, to see the
house-mother, who has borne the burden and heat of the day,
resting at eventide, secure in the helpful love of the children
whose lives she has blessed. It is an unspeakable sorrow, which
has always a peculiar sting, when the . 'her, having fought
the battle, has to lay down her armour just when the heat of
the conflict is over, — when the children, for whom she has
spent the best of her strength, are only beginning to realize
the precious ministry, and to be a recompense to her. The
!Maitlands were spared that keen sorrow j and their mother w is
very content to be so set aside, while the young and willing
hands did the work which had been hers.

* Why does Willie never come with you, I wonder % ' Agnes
said ; and there was anxiety both in her voice and look when
she spoke.

' lie likes better to ride than to walk,' John answered lightly.
* And perhaps Uncle Walter kept him later than usual in the
office : they are very brisk in the shipping line this spring.
Don't you bother your head about Will, Agnes. He'Ll be all
right.'

Agnes smiled in response to these hearty, sympathetic words.
Her face, apt to be sad and even severe in repose, was made
lovely by that smile. It had the power to send the blood
coursing through John's veins. He had not long awakened to
the meaning of these strange thrills, which only the sound of
her voice — even the mere sense of her presence — could give.
He knew now that he loved her as a man loves but once ; but
he was in no haste, having nothing to offer her. He had not
even troubled himself yet to wonder whether she had any love
to give in return. Meantime it was enough for him to be. near
her, to watch the changing lights which often made sunshine in
her reposeful face, to liear her sweet, clear voice, to be con-
scious of her dear presence, — which to him was the sunshine of
Laurieston.

Perhaps these s'udent-days, in spite of some cares, were the
happiest the house of J^aurieston would ever know. They wefe

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON,

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drawing near an end. Both the lads hoped to graduate in Arts
at Easter ; then they must go their separate ways. Even now
there were some upheavings of the storms which were to shake
the lives of these young people. At times the heart of Agnes
Laurie was filled with a vague uneasiness of unrest. These
sweet days of peace and homely joys could not last for ever, she
knew. Her experience of life had already told her that these
times of golden ease are ever but the preparation for the search-
ing discipline of trial.

But the serene, unquestioning faith her mother had left her
as a sacred legacy, was her mainstay. Clinging to it, xignes
Laurie could not be much shaken by the storm of life. Under
pretence of giving Katie her order, Agnes went back to the
kitchen. "Why could she not entei he room with John?
Perhaps, dear heart, she feared her eyes, too, might betray her.
She came in by and by to greet Michael, and there was no
embarrassment in her manner with him. To Michael, Agnes
felt a sister indeed ; and he — but wc shall loaT-n hereafter.

'And how goes the study this week ^i ; .■ ' Mrs. Maitland
asked, as they drew to their pL.res at th- rvM -

* Oh, famously ! Mike will be a long way ahead of me,
mother. He'll get all the honours.'

* Don't believe him, mother. You know to beware of Jock
when he cries down himself. Effie, guess who's coming to-
morrow?' he added, turning teasingly to his sister.'

' Oh, that solemn-faced creature John adores,' Effie answered
lightly. • What do you see in him, for any sake 1 '

' Don't you think him a handsome fellow, now, Effie 1 ' John
asked.

* Ti a- dsoiP.M ! Not at all. Do you, Nannie % '

' YeSj, very handsome,' Agnes answered ; ' he has a very
clever, s^,l' iking face. Don't you think so, Aunt Maggie?'

"^es , bit I x!3ver faei very sure of him: he seems to be
iihvuyt' sceiiig so deep iTito one,' Mrs. Maitland answered,

'Is rhflt Mr. Robertson ye are talking of?' asked Laurieston.
* He mi} be clever an' a' as he likes, but he is not a companion
for yc, Livi;. I wad rather jre didna encourage him to come
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MAITLAND OF LAUItlESTON.

' Why, father, you used to think no end of Phil ! ' said
John hotly.

'He has a fine way, I dinna deny; but Mr. Semple, the
minister of Newgordon, was telling me in the market on
Wednesday that he's no soond.'

* Not sound ! On what point ? ' asked Michael, with interest,
' On religious questions. He gangs till nae kirk, and naehody

kens what he believes. I wish ye wad tak' up wi' godly young
men, lads, for these are times o' sair temptation.'

' Phil is a thousand times better than any godly younsr man
I know, father,' John made answer stoutly. * I don't care what
he believes, so long as I knew what he is as a man. I tell you
thore's few like him, and I'd tell Mr. Semple that if T saw
liim.'

' John dear ! ' It was Mrs. Maitland who spoke. She saw
the darkening of her husband's brows, and felt thwi ' un's
tone and manner were not entirely respectful.

It was a consuming grief to her that there was so very little
sympathy between the father and his eldest son. Each seemed
to show the harsher side to the other, and so misjudged each
other entirely. John's eyes fell under that gently-rebuking
gaze. Maitland took a deep draught of his colfee, and then
looked straight at his son :

*Yer manners haveua improved under him, I'm thinkiug,
lad,' he said dryly ; and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

' I beg pardon if I spoke rudely, father,' John said, breaking
the awkward pause by his clear, honest voice. ' I can't help
feeling mad when 1 hear a man like Robertson so misjudged.
If you only knew the good he does in Edinburgh, — doesn't he,
Michael 1 He lives in the poorest way, just to help others. I
could point out ever so many struggling fellows who owe their
success to him. He coaches hours for nothing ; and goes down
to the Cowgate among the poor wretches there, trying to do
them good.'

* But why has he given up all kirk ordinances ^ ' asked
Laurieston frigidly. * May be he thinks himsel' a hantle better
than the Lord's ordained servants 1 *

Michael looked warningly at John, remembering his threat to

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AfA ITLA ND OF LA URIESTON.

have it out with his father. This was not the time nor the
place; he hoped Jolm would see the fitness of things. But
John, impulsive and eager on all subjects to which he gave his
thought, would have plunged into hot argument then and there,
had not the entrance of Willie Laurie made a timely inter-
ruption. Willie Laurie was now nineteen, and manly for his
years. He was a handsome young fellow ; a trifle foppish in
dress and ways, and a little inclined to put on the airs of a
town-bred youth. He had taken Wat's place in the shipowner's
office at Leith, but was giving scanty satisfaction to Mr. Walter
Maitland. He was very smart and clever, but fond of company
and easily led awp-y. He boarded during the week, however, in
Mr. Walter Maitland's house at Seafield, where the discipline
enforced was of ihe strictest. The shipowner .iad no children,
and his wife was au invalid, who required a great deal of
attention. She only fcuflfered Willie Laurie in the house, and
her husband had to see that he gave as little trouble as possible.
In spite of t(hese conditions, however, Willie Laurie managed
to enjoy life in Leith, oud also to get a great deal of latitude
which would not be approved of either at Seafield or Laurieston.
He had a fine tongue, an innocent, winning smile, and careless
ease of manner which carried him safely over many a piece of
stony ground. He came laughing into the room that night,
nodding to everybody in the most matter-of-fact way, thougi
he knew very ^vli ho, wm too late, and that he might have
been home two hoiuM ago even if he had walked along the
shore from Sealield aftor the office closed. There was a certain
anxiety in the eyes of Agr.'s as sh<? rose to greet him ; he was
her constant care. Sometimes he had exhibited a selfish and
masterful spirit, whicii reminded her too much of her iather.
It was the 'U-ead of her life lest Willie should grow like him
in disposj'.ion, as he was like him in body. Often Maitland
would saj to his wife that Will Laurie was in their midst yet,
his son so exactly resembled him. And Margaret Maitland
would sigh, and hopo in her heart that the resemblance might
go no furthe.v ^\iQ.n face and figure.

Effie eiat very demurely at the table as Willie took his place.
He gave her r.^- special greeting except a glance from his blue

"A-Kii^t

MAITLANl) OF LAUJl/JuSTON.

oyes, which mij^ht mean n grwit doal, or notliing ivt all. It was
well Margaret Maitlancl did not notice it ; she had no misgivings
as yet concerning her young daughter and her lovers.

'I'm famishing,' Willie said, as ho drew in his ehair. 'Did
you iellow3 walk? I came on the 8.15. Oh, I say. Aunt
Ma^fie, one of Kamsey's clerks was in the compartment willi
me with another fellow going to Tranent. They were speaking
about Hallcross, — I don't fancy they knew me. Old Ramsey
has been up making a new will for the old lady.'

]\frs. Maitland looked, as she felt, surprised. Though Miss
Lecsbeth liad been very feeble all winter, none of them appri--
hended any immediate danger, and she had never spoken of
making a will or of winding-up her affairs in any way.

' If it is true, Willie, the young man ought not to have been
speaking of it in a railway carriage,' she answered quietly.

* Oh, he did not say anything about the contents of the will,
— merely mentioned the fact. Has she much to leave, Aunt
Maggie 1 ' Willie Laurie's cool assurance in most matters was
so striking as to be almost comical. He seemed utterly un-
conscious at any time of asking unbcicoming questions.

'It's information Will wants, mothci-,' said Jolin grimly.

*I can't give it,' answered Mrs. Maitland. 'I know very
little of my Aunt's affairs.' Margaret Maitland had all her life
taken the trouble to answer the (juestions jnit to her by the
young peo[)Ie in her care ; many wonden^d, when the bairns
were young, that she would take so much trouble with them.

'The old huly is i)retty close, I guess,' said Willie carelesslj^.
'Just look how she bought Hallcross fn)m dad, without letting
on to anybody. She has the place to leave, anyway, — a decent
bit for anybody.'

Agnes looked distressed ; the tone of her brother's remarks,
she knew, was offensive to all present.

'Is Uncle Walter busy just now with the North Sea ships'?'
asked Michael, stepping into the awkward breach with his kind
and ready tact.

' Oh, frightfully ; we sent off three steamers to the Baltic
Sea this week. It's an early season ; fancy, the ice broken up
already,' returned Willie readily. ' Precious little skating

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MAtTLAXD OF LAURIESTON.

we've had this winter. There's been none since Christmas
week.'

'How is Aunt Maitlanil to-day T asked Effie, opening her
h'ps xuc tlie first time since Willie came in,

' Oil, so so,' he answered, with a curious elevati<in of the
nyehrows ; 'her nerves w^re upset by that Avind-storm on
Tuesday, and since then— -mum's the word.'

*My man, ye'd better sj/cak wi' mair respect o' yer maister'a
wife,' said Laurieston sternly ; he had listened with ill-repressed
anger to the lad's flippant ta?k for the last few minutes.

' He's my guv., but not m} master,' said Willie boldly ; ' I'm
a gentleman's son, sir.'

Mrs. Maitland, who had been keenly watching the yoimg
man since his entrance, troubled at the flushed face, bright eye,
and somewhat braggart bearing, was convinced in a moment
that some outside stimulant had given him unusual courage.
It was his won^. to be very quiet and respectful in the ])resence
of the Laird.

'I think, bairns, if ye are a' done, we had better rise,' she
said, rising herself, (piite hastily for her. It was a timely
movement, for a few more M'ords might have raised the storm.

Agnes was thankful to escapes It Avas no surprise to see her
brotlier thus, but only the coulirmation of a fear which pursued
her day and night.

but bairns, a

CHAPTER XL

•She dill but look upon him, and his blood
Blushed deeper, even from liis inmost heart.'

SAY, wife, do you think it'll be true Miss Leesbetli's
been makin* a new will?' Laurieston asked, after
the bairns were all upstairs.

* It'll be true enough, likely, Michael. I must
say I think she's acted queerly all through about the place ;
she never even told me what she paid Will Laurie for it. I
was very ill-pleased at the selling of it, I can tell you. Hallcross
belongs by right to Nannie, — it was her mother's portion. I
would like to know what he has done with the money, dear ;
we've seen little of it.'

' No, and we'll see less, wife. I question if we are daein'
richt to fulfil his duties,' said Laurieston grimly. * Will Laurie,
according to the Scriptures, is worse than an infidel, because he
hasna provided for his ain household. Not that I'm grumblin',
Maggie ; the lassie is worth her meat an' mair, though I'll no'
say as muckle for the laddie. I could wish him awa' noo, for
I likena the looks that pass between him an' Effie.*

Mrs. ^laitland laughed ; that did not at all concern her as
yet. * Oh, Michael, dinna meet trouble half - way ; they are
but bairns, an' there's nothing between them but bairnly
nonsense.'

' That may be ; but Effie is sevente'- n, Maggie, an' the lad is
just the age his father was when he began to rin first between
Hallcross and Fisherrow,' replied I-auriestou significantly. 'I'm
thinkin' ye wadna wish for our Eflie a wifehood like Ellen's ? '

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♦The Lord forbul, fiitlier,' was tlio furveiit reply; 'I'd liefer
860 her in tho kirkyard.'

'So would I,' said Laurieston, with a ^\w\^ bunitli. *I iiiaiiii
see if "Walter canna get a berth for Willie at Hamburg or
Rotterdam, wi' some o' his agents there. It wad do liim good,
any way, to bo sent awa* for a while. What d'ye honestly think
o' the laddie, Maggie 1 '

'Oh, father, I don't know. He is a pleasant lad, and gives
little trouble, but there's a want of stability about him. When
he is lato, as ho was to-night, I um always anxious and con-
cerned ; now our laddies might stay out all night without
giving me a bit of concern in that way. There are few sons
like John and Michael, father.'

'They are steady, very steady, and Michael's a vory fine
chap. Maggie, I do not think this college lore is to do muckle
for John, except teach him presumption. I'm gaun to sound
him one o' these days. I doot he's entert^l in at tho wide gate
that leads to destruction ; and that Robertson, in spite o' his
likeable ways, is not a good companion for him. Mr. Seraplo
telt me on Wednesday that he's an Agnostic ; and when I bid
him explain, I find that that lang-nebbit word jist means that
ho believes in naething, no' even in the very Alniichty that
made him. Mr. Semple telt me a' the folk that ca' themsel's
by that queer name dinna deny tho Bible an' a' the sacred
things, — they only say they dinna ken ; but the line is ower
finely drawn for me.'

' Michael, I know not what Philip Robertson's beliefs are ; but
I feel sure that one who lives so noble a life, beautified by such
self-denial, cannot be very far from the kingdom,' said Margaret
Maitland dreamily. She. had a large heart and a sympathetic
soul, filled with sweet tolerance for all creeds.

' Take care, Maggie ; charity is good in its way, but a sin
when extended to the wiles o' the devil,' said Laurieston, in
quick, harsh tones. *A man who says, ho does not know
whether there is a God or no' cannot be near tho kingdom, and
never will be, — except the kingdom of darkness. I tell you, I
will not have that young man coming here.'

'Is it Effie again you are feared for?' asked the mother,

MAirr.ANn of lauhiksto.v.

with a tender, owoct smile. *1 aeo ho thinks the bairn very
fair.'

« I will hao nno man lookin' at my b^iirn unless he bo
rif,'hteou9 and God-fearinj,',' Laurieston said, with a grimness
to which the fatherly anxiety and caro gave a touch of
exfiuisitt! patlios.

'Thon you'll need to shut her up in a box, my man,' said
Mrs. Maitland, with nn anniHcd suiik'. *Tlit! Imirn will choose
her ain man, father. We cannot choose for her, but only pray
that she may be guided. Come ! it's time wo were in bed ; it's
after eleven. These laddies turn the house tapsalteerie when
they come home.*

There was no need now for Mrs. Maitland to come
downstairs until l)reakfast was ready. Very sonn after Agnes
came to Laurieston, she took tliis duty from Aunt Maggie's
shoulders. By six o'clock, summer and winter, sho was down-
stairs, superintending the affairs of the house, and seeing that
the maids had the dairy-work forward. By half-past seven
breakfast was on the table, daintily si)read, summer and winter ;
the old-fashioned silver-chased flower-stand had its morsel of
bright bloom, freshly culled, for Agnes loved all these little
niceties so dear to the heart of a relined and tast<^'nl woman.
Her own dress was always neat and becoming; he. aprons,
though of housewifely size and shape, redeemed from ugliness
by a piece of coarse washing lace. Prim, even old-maidish
in her ways, she had imparted some of her own individuality
and precision to the house of Laurieston Everything went on
like clockwork ; and in her quiet way Agnes completely managed
the maids, and made them subservient to her will

Effie, who, it must be confessed, was rather more ornamental
than useful in the house, would run gaily down, five minutes
before the breakfast-bell rang, all rosy and smiling, compliment
Agnes on her housewifely accomplishments, and beg to be
forgiven for being so lazy. Agnes would smile back at her,
glad, nay thankful, to think that she was of some use, and that
she could do a little to acknowledge the debt she owed to these
kind friends.

"When Agnea came down, a few minutes after six, that

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MAITLAND OF LAURTESTON,

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Saturday morning, she found the front door open, and knew
some of the boys must be out.

She stejjped out into the cool, still, grey morning, and took
a long, deep breath of the fresh spring air. The day had
scarcely dawned, tliougli the east was red and golden M'ith the
glow of the coming daybreak. At the foot of the brcwn slopes
of the ploughed fields the sea lay like a silvery tide, with the
hush of the morning on its motioidess breast. The sky over-
head was breaking into dappled ligiit as the night-clouds slowly
rolled away. Agnes lifted up her eyes, and her heart also,
in a morning thanksgiving to the Giver of good. As she stood
enjoying the delicious coolness, loth to leave it, a firm step trod
the gravel, and presently John appeared, lifting his cap, with a
pleasant smile of greeting.

* Are you up already, Nannie ? It's only six o'clock,' ho
exclaimed, in surprise.

* I rise at six every morning,' she answered lightly. * It is
my business to see that breakfast is ready in time.'

* And what does Effie do to help you % '

* She eats it,' Agnes laughed back, for her heart was as liglit
as air. * Isn't this a lovely morning I Spring is everywhere.'

'It's glorious ! Just look down to the sea : that ugly old beach
is transmogrified into a silver strand. I say, couldn't you
come for a stroll down to the sea? "We could be back by eight.*

'And what about the breakfast ? '

' Aren't there two women in the kitchen ? Let them do it ;
or go and pull Effie out of her bed, the lazy monkey, — she
spends all her time curling her hair.'

* Oh no ! hardly so bad. Effie does a good deal in a day.
I'll go and ask Katie to be responsible for breakfast to-day.
She'll do it, for she's a good girl. What fun to go for a walk
before anybody else is up ! '

To John it was something more than fun. Agnes was not
many minutes in the house. She came running out presently,
with her jacket on, and wearing a grey tweed cap, which was
very becoming to her face.

' Isn't the air fresh and nice 1 ' she asked, as she stepped across
the threshold to John's side.

.„ .1

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

' Yes, but its cool. Don't you want something on your neck 1
he asked kindly ; * and you've no gloves 1 '

' Oh, gloves ! I never wear them if I can help it. They
seem to confine one so. I wish the fashion would change.'

She stretched out her bare hands as she spoke, with one of
those quick gestures peculiar to her. They were ^ear, busy,
womanly hands, not so white and fine as Effie's, but perhaps
of more use in the world. John thought of that as he looked
at them, but did not say so. There were many sweet unspoken
thoughts between these two. The eyes of Agnes were full of a
serene and happy light ; there was a quiet cheerfulness in her
whole demeanour, as she walked by John's side that spring
morning. She felt at home with him ; there was a deep satis-
faction to her in the very knowledge that he was in the house.
She had never sought to analyse these feelings, nor was she
conscious that love had found an abiding-place in her heart.
They walked on in silence, John looking at the slender figure
in grey at his side, thinking how graceful and dignified it was,
and how sweet the outline of the fair, delicately-tinted face
under the tweed cap. There was a kind of stateliness about
her; she was a woman who would be in the prime of her
beauty when Effie's more childish charms had begun to fade.
She was not vain, nor even conscious that she was so fair. No
one had ever told her so yet ; she had a distant way with her
which repelled any compliments or flattering speeches, such as
were the wine of life to Effie. Many thought this reserve of
manner pride. Outside of their own circle Agnes Laurie was
not very popular.

Although they walked in silence, there was no embarrassment
between them. They had known each other so long, their
friendship was so perfect and so unexacting, that the presence
of each was sufficient for the other. They turned presently
into a little narrow lane running between two stone walls, — a
church road through the fields, called the Double Dykes. The
dykes, however, were not high enough to confine the view :
they could see away through the trees about Pinkie Burn right
down to the sea.

* Pid you hear what Willie said last night about Hallcross,

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

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Johnl' Agnes asked, breaking the silence, in a somewhat
grave, troubled voice.

John thought he had never heard a sweeter voice in the
world than hers ; and she had never lost the soft English accent,
though "Willie had entirely lost his.

* Yes, I heard. Don't let it trouble you, Agnes. Are you
sorry the old place should pass away from the Lauries ? '

* Yes ; it would have grieved mamma,' she said quietly ; * and
then I have always thought that there was Hallcross for Willie,
if he should need it.'

' And not for you 1 *

* I hardly know,' she answered, with a slight smile j * I seem
to feel that Willie may need it. I am very sorry papa has sold
it. The — the money will soon go.' She uttered the last words
with a slight hesitation, yet with relief. John felt her con-
fidence sweet. He knew she was speaking about what she
deeply felt.

* I am so glad I have you to speak to this morning, John,'
she said simply, and turning upon him grave, sweet, trustful
eyes. * I cannot always speak out to Aunt Maggie, dearly as I
love her. I think if papa does not write to me, I must write to
him to ask if some of the money is not to be invested for us.
I don't want it for myself, but — but payments ought to be
made regularly to Uncle Michael.*

John saw the colour rise a little in her cheek ; but he could
think of nothing to say just then, at least nothing bearing on
the point.

* What about that 1 ' he said abruptly. * How long is it
since you heard from your father, Agnes *? '

* Not since last year ; and I know Uncle Michael has never
heard either. Sometimes, John, I feel that unless there is a
more definite understanding come to, I cannot stay.'

* Cannot stay ! What do you mean 1 Would you leave
Laurieston ? '

' I have no claim upon it. Look how long Uncle and Aunt
Maitland have kept us. Aunt Maggie will never tell me just
how much money papa has sent. I must know. Lately, I
suppose because I have grown older, I see the injustice of it all,

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

Look at Willie. He only earns enough to buy his clothes, and
I have been afraid to ask who pays his board. Uncle Michael,
I suppose ; but it can't go on.

* Agnes, has anybody been speaking to you about this, — any
meddling outsider, for instance 1 '

' No ; I know these things better than anybody can tel me.*

* Perhaps you are tired of us, then ? *

' Perhaps I am.' She turned her head away, but he saw the
proud sweet mouth tremble. The impulse came upon John
Maitland to tell her then and there of his love. Never had
she seemed so unspeakably dear to him as then.

* And though they have allowed us so long to call them Uncle
and Aunt, you know they are not, and we have not even a
shadow of claim upon them.'

* I'm glad we're not cousins, any way,' John said, with blunt
candour, which made Agnes laugh even in her grave perplexity.

' You are complimentary ; but I don't mind in the least what
you say. Of course I know quite well I am a little use in the
house ; but I sometimes think, John, that even that is a
doubtful good. It might be better for Effie if I were away, —
she would learn to be more self-reliant. You understand me,
I know. You know I love Effie as if she were my own
sister.'

* I know what you mean ; but what would mother — to say
nothing of the rest of us — do without you?'

'I believe Aunt Maggie would miss me,' Agnes admitted,
and her face grew radiant with love for the dear woman who
had filled her mother's place. * I believe I am talking a great
deal of nonsense. I don't think I could leave Laurieston and
live.'

John bit his lips again and kept silent, though he found it
hard. When had man better opportunity to speak of his hope 1
But John was loyal ; he would not utter a word, he told him-
self, or seek to bind her in any way until he had something
worthy to lay at her feet. Although no human being knew it,
John Maitland had long made up his mind that he would have
Agnes Laurie to wife, or none.

' It is such a relief to get all these vexing things off one'e

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

mind,' she said presently, more cheerfully. ' What should we
do, I wonder, in this world without friends 1 Things one must
bear alone and unspoken must be awful' She uttered these
words earnestly enough, a^^plying them to the thought of the
moment, without dreaming that they might bo prophetic.

* It is a comfort to know that we have one Friend at least to
whom we can carry even unspoken sorrows,' she added, with
that peculiar sunshiny look which always came upon her face
in moments of spiritual uplifting. John looked at her curiously,
with a keenness of interest which was almost painful ; but she
was not conscious of it. He remembered Michael's warning,
but thought that it would require more than his arguments to
shake that sublime and unquestioning faith.

' There is not a creature on the links,' said Agnes presently,
as they emerged upon the public road. *It is a pity Mr.
Robertson had not been here this morning with his clubs.
You and he would have had the golf course all to yourselves.'

'He'll be out before dinner; so we'll have a round in the
afternoon,' returned John absently. * This is the best time of
the day for a stroll, — down here, at least. We must come
again, Agnes.'

*I should like to. How peaceful it is!' Agnes answered,
feasting her eyes on the green breadth of the links and the
silvery tide beyond. * Shall we make a morning call on the
Thorburnsl Miss Grace's propriety would be shocked. I
believe sho. would not think it proper for us to be down hero at
this time in the morning.*

' I don't think she would call it outrageous ; but we'd better
leave her to her peaceful slumbers,' answered John. * It's a
very high tide this morning. I like the look of it. It's a
picture, Nannie. Don't you think so 1 '

*I do. Let us wait here just a minute or so, and not speak.'
She sat down on the low wooden railing separating the links
from the beach; and John stood by her, looking sometimes at
her and sometimes away across the gleaming Firth, which was
beginning to glitter in the first beams of the sun and to feel
the si rings of the morning wind. A few fishing boats were
putting out to sea, their brown sails filling lazily with the wind,

111

MA IT LAND OF LAUlilESTON.

The calm and peace of the wliole scene was indescribably

soothing.

'What arc you thinking, Agues?' John asked at length,
somewhat awe-stricken by the rapt expression of his com-
panion's face.

* I cannot tell you, John,' she; said, with a sudden start ; ' 1
think I was nearer heaven than earth. I felt almost as if
mamma were standing by my side.'

She had entirely forgotten him then, though his heart was
throbbing for her ; his eyes tilled with the love his lips dared
not utter. But, when he did not speak, she turned her head
slowly and looked up at him ; then her colour sprang up, and
she said, quite hurriedly for her, who was so serene and un-
ruffled always in deed and word, —

' Let us go home. Surely we have stayed too long ? *

John said nothing just then, and on the way home they tried
to talk of common things in a common way ; but each knew
that the veil had been drawn aside, and the sanctuary of the
heart revealed, — for weal or woe, who could tell %

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CHAPTER Xir.

*I feel these years
Have done sad ottico for me.*

Iji'FIE, as dainty as a rosebud, met tltem at the garden
gate with gay banter, which Agnes, in lior strange,
new-found maidenly confusion, found hard to b(!ar.
* Ten minutes past eiglit, you truants, and fntlu^r
has had his porridge; and I say, Nannie, there's a mcssiige
from Hallcross. Aunt Leesbeth wants you over just this very
minute. Did you ever know such a ridiculous old wotium 1 '
Between Effie ,and Miss Leesbeth there was small sympathy ;
Agnes was the favourite at Hallcross.

* I hope she is not worse,' Agnes said quickly, glad of some-
thing to divert her attention, and that of others, from herself.

* Oh, very likely ; but I don't know. Mother got the message,'
answered Effie flippantly.

' Oh, John, you sly old fellow, to entice Nannie away. Did
you make it all up last night 1 '

' No; it was purely accidental,' John assured her, with so much
unnecessary vehemence that Effie laughed Wiorrily, and repeated
after him, with provoking mimicry, ' Purely accidental ! '

Agnes hurried on before them, and met Mrs. Maitland just
within the hall door. ' Good-morning, Aunt Maggie. Any-
thing wrong at Hallcross, that !Miss Leesbeth has sent for nu; 1 '

* I think she feels not so well, perhaps ; but we arc too much
used to Aunt Lecsbcth's vagaries to be alarmed, my dear.
Come in and have a good breakfast before you go. I'm sure
you need it after your long walk,' returned Mrs. Maitland ; and

MAITLAND OF LA URTESTON.

Agnfts was so perfectly conscious of the scrutiny of her aunt's
eyos that her face flusliod again> and she ran upstairs to her own
room and shut the door, and someliow in a moment found
herself in tears. And why tears, dear heart 1 for the knowledge
which had come to her that spring morning by the sea, the
knowledge that she was the dearest to one true honest manly
heart, could bring nothing to her but the deepest happiness
earth can give. But she dared not linger to brood over the
sweetness in her heart. Each moment made capital for Effie,
tlie incorrigible, to turn to her own account. So, with a
hurried dip of hands and face in cold spring water, she ran
down and entered the dining-room her own composed, cheerful
self. John was glad to see her so serene ; it gave him courage
to 'sit upon' Effie, ns that young lady forcibly expressed it;
and so it came to pass that not for many months had there been
such a noisy, hearty, happy menl as that breakfast at Laurie-
ston. Maitland sat longer than his wont ; and though ho did
not speak much, his wife loved to see the soft light in his
eye, and the pleasant curve about his grave, stern mouth, as ho
listened to the bairns' happy chatter. They remembered after,
that he had not once reproved them, and had even, at some un-
usually brilliant sally of Effie's, burst out into a loud, deep laugh
which made them stare, and then join in with all their might
and main.

'Aren't they a happy crew, father?' Mrs. Maitland asked, as
she went with him to the door.

*Thcy are that, Maggie. I hope they arena owor licht in
their behaviour ; but the're young — they're young.'

She saw that his heart was in sympathy with their harmless
mirth, though the conscience he had lashed intc merciless and
unrelenting sharpness was pricking him too.

' Oh, Michael, my man ; God made all young things to rejoice.
Just look at the lambs and the calves, and the very kitten there
on the green chasing its tail for pure nonsense. I believe He
listened to the bairns' happy nonsense this morning with as much
joy as we did,' she said, laying her hand on his arm with that
dear touch which would enforce her words.

' It's a pleasant doctrine, Maggie ; but a' the ways o' the 111

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

Ano are pleasant and to be giiarfled against. I wish I saw the
bairns awaukin' to a sense o' their terrible responsibilities, an' to
the burden o' black guilt that rests upon their souls. I caiuia
laugh an' bo merry, Maggie, when I think they'll maybe a' Ijo
castaways.'

Margarcl; Maitland shivered and turned away. There were
times when her husband's spoken words repelled her, and made
her even feel that she could not love him.

As she crossed the hall she saw through the half-open dining-
room door a picture which brought a faint smile to her lips. The
bairns were grouped about the fire, Michael in his father's easy-
chair, and Effio on his knee, with her arm round his neck and
her red cheek against his. Agnes kneeling on the hearthrug,
looking up at John, who stood leaning against the mantelslielf,
Avith his hands in his pockets and n. pleasant smile on his lips.
Willie and Wat had their heads together over a farm journal
containing some woodcuts of famous hunting horses. Yes, it
was a picture, a picture glorified by the love which had been
fostered and perfected by that happy home-life. Castaways!
these happy, innocent bairns, whose thoughts were as pure as the
rays of the morning sun ! * God forbid ! ' said Margaret Mait-
land in her heart ; ' God forbid.'

* I say, mother, is there any need for Nannie to fly over to
Hallcross this very minute 1 ' cried Effie over Michael's shoulder,
as she heard her mother's foot at the door.

* I think she had better go in a little, dear ; she need not stay
long.'

* It's a shame, just when wo were planning a real jolly day,'
cried Effie ; * a long walk, mother, along the sea road to Prcston-
pans, up by Preston Tower, and home by Fawsidc.'

* A good walk, bairn. But when does Mr. Robertson come ? '
Mrs. Maitland asked, looking at John.

' He was to start at nine. It's time Mike and I were off to
meet him. Will you give us an early dinner, mother, so that
we need not hurry home to tea 1 '

* Yes, my son, — twelve o'clock ; well, if that's to be the way
of it, up you get, Effie, and clear away the breakfast things, and
then help Katie with the beds. Agnes, dear, I think you had

the shuttiu

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M AIT LAND OF LAt7nrp:ST0X.

101

better go over to Ilallcrosa now, so aa to bo bnck before dinner.
Willie, what are you to bo after this morning 1 '

• Oh, I'll go round the fields with Wat, Aunt Maggie ; I'm
never in want of occupation,' answered Willio readily. So the
bairns scattered, and Agnes made hasto over to Hallcross. The
big gate was always locked, and, rather than wait for Gracie to
open it, she ran down the lane to the door in tho garden wall, a
key of which she had in her pockot. There wore green young
shoots already all over Hallcross garden, and at tho roots of tho
b(tx hedges tho snowdrops grew thick and white, with hero and
there a yellow bud, telling where the early primroses were
awaking to life. It was in fine, trim order, not a weed on tho
smooth walks ; and the lawn had a greenness on it which amazed
Agnes, for the frost had not long gone. There wore even some
yellow stars on the jessamine climbing about the dining-room
window, giving ground for Miss Leosboth's boast, that she had
bloom at Hallcross all the year round. Agnes peered in at tho
low window as she passed by, but tho room was empty, and there
was no fire in the grate. Tho door stood wide open, and Agnes,
without knocking, softly opened the glass door and stole into the
dim, silent house. It was more still than usual, she thought,
that February day. She hung her hat on tho stand, laid down
iier wrap and gloves, and went directly up the narrow, winding,
old-fashioned stair. Miss Leesbeth's well-preserved carpet was
so thickly padded that oven a hea .y foot gave forth no sound.
The light footfall of Agnes did not break the stillness at all, and
she was glad, before she reached the drawing-room landing, to hear
tho shutting of a door, and Kaitrine's stops coming along the
narrow corridor from Miss Leesbeth's room.

' Oh, yo've come 1 ' said that worthy, in a loud whisper. 'She's
waur, though she's up, — tho thrawn body. I believe she'll no'
even lie still to dee.'

Kaitrine spoke with oven more than her usual gruflfness ; but
Agnes saw that her eyes wore wot with tears, wrung from a sore,
silent heart.

' Oh, I am so sorry. Do you think her much worse, Kaitrine 1 '
It was pretty to hear Agnes' soft tongue utter the quaint Scotch
names, — nobody could pronounce thom like her.

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M AIT LAND OF LAUlilKSTON.

Kaitrine nodded. ' Ay, bHo's far throuj,'h ; but slus'll no' let
nil' Bcnd ngiiin for Dr. Moir. She duiuiMl liiia to coimi Itiuk
u fortnicht syne. I'm ^dad yo've eonie. She's ayo Hitierin' fur
y(!. Try an' ^jot her to bo reasonable. She's j^'ane clean bcyoiit
nie.'

Aj,'nes nodded and passed on. Opening softly the door of
Miss L(H!slM'th'8 room, she stole in and over to the old lady's siilo
before she was aware of her approach. Although very wtak
and spent, she had insisted on being lifted from her hvA ami
placed on the couch, which stood in the warm corner of the larj^'i^
and pleasant room. She was lying still, with lier eyes shut,
absolutely exhausted, indeed, with the exertion of rising from
her bed. Seeing this, Agnes sat <lown quietly by the lire, and,
folding her hands, looked at the pale, worn, placid facie of tho
old woman, who was so evidently nearing tho confines of tin!
other worM.

A curious stillness seemed to pervade the room, and it so ini-
pressed Agnes that she felt afraid almost to breathe. On the
dressing-table Miss Leesbeth's big gold watch ticked loud!},
and occasionally a cinder fell upon the hearth ; Agnes fancied
she coiild even hear her own heart boat. Presently, and without
stining. Miss Leesbeth oyiened her bright, restless eyes, and fixed
them directly on the girl's faccf. 'Oh, yo are there? I never
heard yo come in ; I suppose I was sleepin'. IIoo are they a' at
Laurieston the day ? '

' All well. Aunt Leesbetli.' Agnes rose and took a seat on tho
end of the invalid's couch.

* That's weel. I took a fancy to hae yo ower tho day. Can
yo bide a' day ? '

* If you want me, Aunt Leesbeth.*

' If I didna, I wadna ask ye. Aro tho laddies a* ooti'
' Yes,* Agnes answered ; and, try as she would, she could not
keep back the tell-tale flush from her cheek. Miss Lciesbdh
noted it instantly ; there was very little, indeed, escaped her
keen vision.

* I've a heap o' things to speak aboot the day, Agnes Laurie,
so ye needna be in a hurry. Ye saw Kaitrino doon the stair.
What did she say aboot me?*

MAIThAM) OP LAtm/rSTON.

108

•Poor Kftitrino I sho scorned very voxiul liko.'

* Vexed I Humph, no' lier ! Nhu'll hue uui in my grave,
thrawiii' wi' ino. She's been ow(!r lung lieie, Agues. She's a
guid friend, but un ill niuister. Shu wad ki^cp nie in my bed
for ever. I'll no' bo lung iu my bed or unywlusro else, I'm
thiiikin'. I've been mukin' my wull ower again, Agnes; ye
kt'U we are bidden set oor hoose in order 1 '

Agn(!a did not uuswer. Sho reully loved Aunt Lcesboth, and
she could nut in u mumont command her feelings sulhciently to
Hpeuk.

'I've made my wull, Agnes; and it's a just wull, I've left
my means to them that'll need tliem maist. I see what'a in yer
heart, l)airn. Eh, yo've a fell love for this auld place ! Ihit
I'll no' tell yo wha'a to got it. It's ano that'll mak' guid use o't,
an' hae a respec' for the bits o' sticks iu't for the sake o' them
tliul's awa'.*

* Oh, Aunt Leosboth, you may got bettor yet. Let mo go for
the doctor to-day. Kaitrino says ho has not been hero for a
fortnight'

* No, I'll no' let yo gang for the doctor,' said Miss Leesboth
quite snappishly. * Dauvit Moir may bo thinks ho kens a'thing
biicauso his sangs mak' folk's very hearts sair ; but he'll no' keep
1110 in my bed wluiii I want to got up. Eh, lassie, liao ye seen
his verses on puir woo Casa Wappy 1 They'll live, Agnes, after
the doctor lies iu Inveresk. Ho said them ower to me, an' I
was greotin'. I mind nane o' it but four linos ; but I believe
they're the best :

" Thero chance and change are not ; the soul
QuiifTs blisB as from a sea,
And years througli endless ages roll,
From sin and sorrow free."

If that be a true picture o' tlio land we're gaun to, we micht
a' bo fain to seo't. Ay, an' the laddies aro a' oot ? How are
the students gottiu' on ? '

'Very well, I think. Aunt Leesbeth. Michael is sure to get
honours, John says.'

* An' what aboot Jock liissol' 1 I hope he'll dao weel, puir
lad, for his aiu sake, an' to set him up in his faithor's eon. He's

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

the flower o' the Laurieston flock, that's wliat I think, tliouf^h
his faither thinks him the black shcfrj,' said tlie old lady, with
delightful energy; then, with a sudden twinkle in her IjiuYjlit
eye, she turned swiftly to Agnes : ' D'ye no' think sae 1 Ye'U
no' cast oot wi' me, my lassie, aboot that.'

Agnes drooped her head, blushing as red as a rose in Juno.
Then Aunt Leesbeth stretched out her kind old hand, and
patted the girl's fingers with a caress which told that her heart
was fresh and green, though she had left her own bright youtli
so far behind.

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CHAPTER Xni.

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'Ob, I'm fain to be at rest,
In tbe kingdom o' the blest I'

GNES got a piece of work from Miss Leesbeth's
basket, and sat by the old lady's side all forenoon.
They did not talk much, for Miss Lecsbeth was
evidently exhausted. She lay for the most part

with her eyes shut, — so motionless that more than once the girl

paused in her work and looked at her fearfully.

• Dinna fash yoursel', my lamb,' Miss Leesbeth said gently,
opening her eyes once and meeting the girl's anxious gaze ; ' I'm
aye leevin'. Eh, lassie, but ye are like your mither ! When I
see you, wi' your gowden head bent down like that, 1 just think
I see Ellen Rankine afore me. But ye hae mair spunk. Nae man
will trample on you, Agnes Laurie ; I ken that. What's that
Kaitrine abooti She's ta'en the huff, I believe, because I like
your company better than hers. She's a guid cratur, Aggie ;
but eh, she makes a noise in a room ! Her very goon, sweepin'
the flure an* the chair-legs, pits me aside mysel'. Whaur did
you learn to be sae genty ? *

'Mamma used to say that a woman's presence should be
silently felt. Aunt Leesbeth. She taught me to move quietly,
and do everything without noise.'

* It's a priceless gift, Aggie, as ye'll may bo learn some day
when ye have to bide in your bed. If ye wad like me to see
the doctor again, you can rin doon Newbiggin' and bid him
come up. Its near twelve, isn't it 1 '

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*Yes, Aunt Lcesbeth. I'll just run at once, though I had
only a shawl aboot me to come over from LEurieston.'

'A bonnie face sets a'thing, an' naebody ever thinks what
ye have on, my bairn. I tell Effie, if she thocht less aboot her
claes, folk wad think mair o' her. Slie's a perfect peacock ! '

* jSo, no. It is natural for Effie to like bright, pretty things ;
she is so bright and pretty herself,' said Agnes loyally. ' If tlie
doctor isn't in, then, I'll leave a message for him to come when-
ever he returns.' Miss Leesbeth nodded, and Agnes stole out
of the room. She met Kaitrine on the stairs, bringing up the
invalid's beef -tea, and was glad to teil her Miss Leesbeth had
given her permission to take a message to the doctor. Aftc^r
drinking her light nourishn)ent, Miss Leesbeth turned her face
round and fell asleep. Not many minutes after Agnes was
gone, another visitor came to Hallcross, — young John Maitland,
in a great hurry, to see what was keeping Agnes so long. His
deep voice speaking to Gracie in the hall awoke Miss Leesbeth,
and she rang her bell.

' That's John Maitland, Kaitrino. Bid him come up ; I want
to speak till him.'

So John was ushered up to the old lady's room ; and when
lio entered it he was greatly shocked to see the change. Agnos
and Michael and he had taken tea with her the ])r()vinus
►Sunday afternoon, whf n she seemed as lively and well as she
had been for years.

* Ye are lookin', lad,* she said, with a somewhat sad smile.
' I'm slippin' awa'. Sit doon ! Agnc^s gaed doon to the doctor's
forme. I see ye're e'en se^'kin' her. She'll no' be lang. Sit doon i'

' They're waiting dinner. Aunt Leesbeth. I'm very sorry to
see you so poorly.'

' I'm no' sair vexed mysel*, lad. I've bidden in a tumble-doon
biggin' a guid while noo, and I'm fain to change it for the
mansion yonder,' she said, looking at him with a curious, bright,
steadfast expression, which made him wonder. Ho found no
words just then to reply.

'Sit doon, sit doon; let them wait: Agnos 'II no' be lang.
Eh, lad, I see ye canna thole her lang oot o* your sicht ! '

* That's true. Aunt Leesbeth,' Jwhn answered quite quietly.

MAITLANP OF LA UlilKSTON'.

107

It never occurred to him to contriulict her. He did not care
tliough the whole workl knew what he felt for Agnes.

* Weel, she's a dear lassie. Sit still, man, an' let me speak.
This is a fine chance. I hae seme things to settle wi' you any-
way. I've been settin' my hooso in order, John, an' I hae some
(questions to ask you.' She raised herself a little, and fixed her
keen, bri<'nt eyes on his face, Avhile, with a little nervous
gesture, she pushed her white hair back from her brow.

' I'll answer them as best I can. Aunt Leesbeth,' John replied
simply.

* Weel, what are ye daein' at the College, lad 1 '

* I'm learning as much as I can. Michael and I both hope
to take our degree this summer.'

'That's the M.A. degree, I suppose, though I dinna ken
what it's guid for. Then Michael ent<ns the Hill, I supi^se 1
What are ye gaun to do ? '

* I hardly know myself, Aunt Leesbeth. I shall have to
teach, I suppose, to earn money to let me prosecute my studies
in philosophy and metaphysics.'

' I dinna ken what these lang-nebbit words mean,' she said,
with a little laugh. ' But I wad like to ken what ye want to be.'

' I can't just say what I want to be. If I succeed, I may
end whei) I am old by being a professor of philosophy, Aunt
Leesbeth,' John said, with a smile.

* An' so ye are gaun to grub along in Edinburgh, teaching
for a iivin', lad. Weel, ye are content to climb slowly,' an'
that's a guid sigh. Is there a quicker road up ] '

* Oh yes ; if I were a rich man, for instance, I should go to
Germany and study all the schools of thought. It's the homo
of philosophy, you know. I should gain knowledge quicker
there, and so qualify myself for a post of some kind.'

•An' syne mairy Agnes?' said the old lady, with a little
laugh. John flushed all over, and hastily rose to hide his con-
fusion. Although he knew that was the hidden hope of his
heart, it gave him a shock to hear another speak of it so calmly.

*T,iat gars ye loup; but ye need think nae shame. Sit
doon again, lad, or I speak mair to ye. Is't true you an' your
faither dinna agree 1' Jolip.'s honest face clouded, and yet it

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was a relief to speak to one who was outside the family circle
altogether.

* Yes, it's true, Aunt Leeslicth ; I try to get on with him,
but I can't. He's awfully hard on us, and about everything.
But it's his religion I can't stand. It — it has driven mci to
seek truth for myself, and I've landed myself in a sea of
doubt, which is torment.'

The young man's breast heaved, his strong lips trembled.
Miss Leesbeth saw the very hands shake as they were clasped
before his face. She said nothing for a moment, but in that
brief silence a prayer was said.

'Aunt Leesbeth, if it is true you are nearly done with
life, tell me what you think of it all. What do you feel at the
prospect of the change 1*

' Feel, laddie ! just as I suppose you felt when you got into
the train last niclit to come hame ; ye kont the hame was there,
an' that your mither's welcome wadna fail. That's what the
Lord has learned me through a long and weary life ; blessed be
His name.'

John's big, earnest eyes, glowing like two lamps, were fixed
upon her as if they would read her very soul.

' I wish — I wish I could believe ; I want to believe, but I
can't. The critical, questioning mania has got a hold of me,
and I know not whore it will end.'

' Oh, fecht on ; fecht it oot manfully, and dinna lose heart,'
said the old woman cheerily. ' Efter ye see't, lad, and ken
what the Saviour did for ye, ye'll hae a grr.p o' Him naething
on earth will loose. I've never been a doubter mysel', but I'm
no' ane that blames Thomas a'thegither. He was an honest
chiel'; an' I believe, laddie, that the Lord has as muckle
sympathy wi* the doubters noo as Hi^ had then. Hand at
Him, John, my man, an' He'll show ye the print o' the nails,
and syne ye'll cry, as Thomas did, "My Lord, and my God !"'

She spoke passionately, and with a glow of light upon her
face which filled John Maitland with awe. To Wi so near one
whose life trembled in the balance, and who could yet give
forth such brave testimony, made him feel as if he stood on
holy ground.

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MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

100

' I bother mysel' aboot naothing, John ; because I believe
Goil has a purpose in a' the experiences we hae to pass tha-ough.
Mind, I (linna believe, wi' your faither, that He lias elected
some to everlastin' life an' some to damnation. The very
heathen couldna tak' that in.*

'That's it. Aunt Leesbeth. "We have been taught at home
that the millions of heathen, who had never heard of a Christ,
are eternally lost. How could any sane man, with a sense of
right or justice in his soul, reverence or love a Being who
could do anything so monstrous ? I'd rather worship matter
than such a mind, any day.'

' The heathen are in God's hands, an' we may leave them
there,' said Aunt Leesbeth dryly.

' Ay ; but that's what I can't do. I'm different from you.
Aunt Leesbeth : I have none of that boundless faith which
blindly trusts. I must know^ as far as j- can be know^.'

'Ye wad trust Agnes, though, — ay, against a' the world,'
said Miss Leesbeth suddenly. John held his peace a moment,
rebuked to the heart. * But ye canna trust the God that made
Agnes,' continued Miss Leesbeth shrewdly.

' ]>ut she's here. Aunt Leesbeth,' said John hoarsely ; * I can
see her and touch her. It's this dreadful uncertainty that
ruins me. There is too much required at the hands of faith.'

• I'm a puir ignorant auld wife, John, an' I canna argue ; but
I ken that faith is the very backbone o' the world in temporal
things as weel as spiritual,' said Miss Leesbeth, in a lower voice,
for her slight strength was exhausted already.

' I think the time has come for us to have a nevtr revelation.
Aunt Leesbeth,' said John, speaking with more candour than
he had ever done to a living soul.

' Is't a sign ye want, like the puir, ill-conditioned Pharisees ?
Ye mind what the Maister said to them : " There shall no
sign be given unto this generation." If I could, John, I
wad come back an' tell ye efter I'm awa. Promise mo
ae thing, lad : that ye'll no fash Agnes wi' your unbelief.
When a lassie loves, she's easily influenced. I'd rather
see her in her grave than your wife, John Maitland, dearly
as I love ye baith, if the price was to be her soul's peril.

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

r>e what ye like to her, but loavo hor that sweet faith which
is the sunshine o' the haini's life. Promise nio that, Jolm
Maitland, afore tlic God that made yo, and wha's servant ye'll
bo some day, though the noo ye canna see His face.'

*I promise, Aunt Leesbctli,' John answered quietly, hut with
an earnest look which went io the dying woman's soul. Slic
stretched out her pale frail hands to him, and ho, taking them
in his firm young clasp, set his lips upon them in seal of
his vow.

* Laddie, I'm wae for ye, but no' hopeless,' she said, with a
sweet pathetic smile. ' Yo hae opened your heart to me, an' I
love ye as I never loved yo yet. Ye'll be a giant in the
Lord's service yet, because your soul will be bound to Him by
the ties of these agonies. God bless you, John Maitland, and
your Agnes, for ever and over.'

There were tears in the eyes of both ; then, with a feeble
motion for him to be seated. Miss Leesbeth liegan to speak
again, with some .slight difficulty, her strength being far spent.

'No, dinna ring yet; I've just a word mair to say. I
bocht Hallcross, John, because I saw wool enough Agnes wad
never see her mother's portion if her father had it in his
hands. It's hers noo, and he canna touch it unless she gies
it till him, an' you'll see that that disna happen. It'll be a
roof-tree for you an' Agnes an' your bairns to come to when ye
arc married, wi' your students in the toon, — that is, eftor ye are
a professor;' and the faint bright smile flushed her face again.
*An' the money — that is, ofte" Kaitrine's provided for — is
yours, John. There'll bo twa thoosand pounds, I daresay.
It'll may be gie ye the Gorman trip ; ony way, it'll keep yo frao
eatin' grudged meat at Laurioston, for I ken your faither thinks
yo a wastrel. An' fecht you on, as I said. He'll show ye the
nail prints ae day, may be when yo least expect it.*

The last words were uttered in a voiceless whisper; John
was conscious of a strange change which came upon her face,
he felt the relaxing touch of the frail hands ho held, and the
next moment knew that he stood in the majestic presence of
the Angel of Death

CHAPTER XIV.

*The clay goeth down red darkling t
Tliv inuruing Wti,vc8 dash out the light.'

PON the Tuesday afternoon Miss Leesbeth was
carried to hor rest in the old kirkyard of Inveresk,
and laid down beside her kinsfolk, the 7>i' "ridges,
whose burying- place was close by that pertaining
to the Maitlands of Laurieston. It was a sweet, quiet corner,
on the brow of the little hillock overlooking the sea, and
westward the Lion's Faco on Arthur Seat and the hazy roof-tops
(»f old Edinburgh. And so another link was forged to bind
Lauricston hearts to that little God's acre ; for they knew, now
that she was gone, how true a friend Miss Leesbeth had been
to tliom all.

The yt)ung men came out from the city in time for the
funeral, r(!turning immediately after tea. It was the busiest
part of the University session. John was very quiet that day ;
he scarcely opened his lips in the house. The mystery of life
and death was with him; the 'sair battle,' of which Miss
Lct!sbeth had so hopefully spoken, was still waging in his
heart. The long mental strain was beginning to tell even on
Jolm's strong frame ; and as he stood by the open grave that
cold, raw February day, he looked worn and weary, his heavy
eyes betraying something of the spirit-anguish he endured.
After the early tea John and Michael returned to town, Willie
Laurie remaining all night at Laurieston. He was not at all
aH'eeted by the solemn event which had taken place almost in
their midst : he rather horrified Effie by saying he * saw no

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need for making such a fuss over an old woman.* EfBc wns
very tolerant as a rule with Willie Laurie's curiosities of spcocl),
and could listen to his feehlo and often vulgar witticisms with
a smile. She could forgive much hecauso of the winning smile
and caressing Avay which of late Willie had shown towards hen',
especially when they were alone. After the students left, in
the gloaming Willie coaxed her out for a stroll by the rivor-sido ;
so Agues was left to keep jNfrs. !Maitland company in the house,
while Wat and his father saw that e^^e^y thing was right about
the steading for the night. The breath of spring had received
an icy touch from a northerly wind, and the two women
sitting in the dining-room were glad to creep close to the.
glowing fire, which made the pleasant family room seem very
cheerful and inviting, contrasted with the * snell ' look of every-
thing outside. The rose branches, which the early spring had
surprised into bud, were tapping mournfully on the panes, and
the wind was moaning through the trees ; once or twice Agnes
shivered, without knowing why. She was not fanciful, or given
to anticipating trouble ; but something more than the sorrow
which had fallen upon their happy circle weighed upon her
heart. They had been talking a little about Miss Lccsbetli,
talking with that tender, reverent regret which death has made
his own attribute ; but a silence fell on them at length, and
^largaret Maitland, leaning back in her chair, closed her eyes
and let her truant thoughts wander to the land of long ago.

They were disturbed presently by the loud ringing of a boll.
This unusual sound, breaking in so suddenly upon the almost
oppressive stillness of the house, caused both to start in surprise,
which had a touch of alarm in it. They heard Katie's quick
feet in the hall, the opening of the door, and then a man's
voice. Agnes sprang up, her face blanching, her limbs trembling
so violently that she could scarcely sustain her weight.

• Oh, Aunt Maggie, that is papa's voice ! '

Then the dining-room door was thrown open, Katie said, ' A
gentleman for Miss Agnes,' and William Laurie the elder
stood in the room. It was a curious picture : the pleasant home-
like room, lit by the ruddy fire-glow; the two women, who had
toth risen, surprise, which was certainly consternation too,

MAirr.AND OF LA VRIESTON.

113

oxprcriscd on their faces ; and the tall, stout, over-drosacil, Init
liiinilsomc man, who stood regarding them with a curious smile,
as if rather enjoying the effect of his unexpected arrival.

*Is this my daughter?' ho asked, fixing his restless eyes
on the white face of Agnes. * 15y Jove ! ain't she's grown a
stuinu'r ! Haven't you a kiss for me, Agnes 1 Well, Maggie,'
ho said, turning familiarly to Mrs. Maitland, * not a word for
an old admirer? I say, years and niatrimony have made
precious little havoc with you, — you look as young as over.
How ilu you do?'

In a moment Mrs. Maitland recovered Ix^rsolf, and, in pity
for Agnes, who was still looking at her father with eyes dilated,
she advanced with extended hand and l»ade him a courteous
welcome to Laurieston. It was long before she forgot that
look on the face of Agnes. She had never seen anything more
expressive of absolute terror. It gave lier, as nothing else could
have done, some idea of the life Ellen Rankine must have led
with Will Laurie.

'How do you do, Mr. Laurie? Have you just come from
London?* she said courteously, but with coldness, which he
was quick to note.

'It used to be Will long ago, Maggie,' lie said reproachfully ;
and the proud, indignant colour Hushed all over Margaret
Maitland's face.

'We were both young then, Mr. Laurie. I am an old
woman now, and th(»re is a certain respect due to age,' she said
coldly. ' But what of your journey ? '

' Oh, I came down by the night-mail ; heard in town you
were to be eating funeral baked-meats to-day, and so postponed
my arrival,' he said carelessly ; then his somewhat uncertain
glance lighted again on his daughter's sweet face with renewed
interest and appnjval. ' So this is my girl ? I'm much obliged
to you for taking such care of her, Mrs. Maitland,' he added,
with due emphasis on the ' Mistress.' ' She does you credit.
Come and kiss your old dad, and say you're glad to see
him.'

'But I'm not,' Agnes answered, in a strange, quavering voice.
Margaret Maitland looked at her Avith amazement, wondering

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that sho had the courng!! to be so absolutely true. ' What have
you come for, father?*

* Oh, indeed ! so you're not glad at all 1 ' ho said sncorinf,'ly.
• Well, you're honest with it. * Well, I've come for you, my
girl ; so you'll need to pack up your rags, and bo ready to start
in the morning. AMierc's the boyl'

' Agnes dear,' said Mrs. Maitland, with pitying thoughtfuluoHs,
' I think you had better go upstairs for a little. I will see that
your father haa some refroshniont, and you will 1)0 better alilc,
to talk with him after. Go, my dear, at onco to my room, aiul
I will come to you by and by.'

It was a timely suggestion. The shock to tho girl's sensitive
heart had been so great, that iSIargarot Maitland feared an out-
burst of some kind. Sho preferred tliat William Laurie should
not bo a witness to his daughter's weakness.

Agnes almost fled from tho room, keeping her eyes averted
from lier father's face as if the siglit of it wore painful to her.
ISfrs. Maitland closed the door, and faced William I^aurio, looking
at him with cold, calm scrutiny, which made him slightly wince.
lie was a coward at heart, and though ho had nerved himself
with brandy for the role ho had to play, his false courage
could not stand before tho clear, contemptuous overlooking of
Margaret Maitland's eyes.

'Confound it, Maggie! what's all the fuss about?' ho said,
shifting uneasily from one foot to another. • If I'd known you'd
teach tho kids to hate their own father, I'd have thrown cold
water on Ellen's little scheme for getting rid of them.'

* I have never mentioned your name to tho children since
they came, William Laurie,' she answered quietly ; ' iiny feeling
which they have for you now is what memory has left them.
You best know what these childish memories are.'

* Well, I'm not going to carry on heroics with you ; I've come
to relieve you of the kids. Agnes can bo ready to - morrow
morning. I'll go down to the " Arms " and stay all night ; there
used to be good accommodation there for man and beast.'

* It may not be agreeable for tho children to go with you, Mr.
Laurie, nor — nor,' she added firmly, ' for Mr. Maitland and nto
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MAITLAND OF LAUIilESTON.

119

•That's a farco,' lau^'liod "Will Laurio nulcly ; Hlicy'ro under
ago, Maggio, and I'm their lawful guardian. You can't prevent

them.'

•As you liavo loft them unprovided for almost since their
mother died, the law may have something to say to you on that
head,' said Margaret Maitland, speaking more sharply than she
liad ever spoken in her life. ' But I will leave you just now ;
you are my guest, and I will see to your comfort. Michael will
bo in presently ; you can settle it with him. Perhaps you will
rcm(!m1)or ho is net one accustomed to mince matters, especially
when it is a question of right or wrong.' So saying, Margaret
Maitland retired from tho room. She was greatly agitated, but
did not wish to appear so before William Laurie. She stood a
nioinimt in the darkened hall with her hand to her hearty then,
after one g'anco upstairs, she opened tho kitchen door.

* Have you seen tho master, Katie 1' sho asked quietly.

'He is speakin' to Tam, ma'am, at the stable door,' Katie
answered.

^Irs. Maitland went out to the kitchen porch and beckoned to
her husband, then went half across the stable-yard to meet him,
and took him by tho arm. There came a sense of unspeakable
rest to her as she looked upon his powerful form, and grave,
trustworthy face. Sho thanked God again that sho was Michael
Maitland's wife.

* Michael,' she said, in a short, quick gasp, * William Laurie
nas come. He is in the dining-room. Ho says he has come to
take the bairns away. Let us walk round by tho garden a
minute, father. He has agitated me very much.'

Michael Maitland had seen that at one glance, even before
he felt the trembling of his wife at his side.

* Never mind him, Maggie. He spoke nao ill words to you, I
hope, or I'll hae something stronger than words for him.*

* I cannot tell you what he said. He is very strange and rude.
Ho frightened poor Nannie away. I fear he has drink, father.

' An' ho wants the bairns, does he "J '

* Yes ; he says Agnes must be ready to go with him to-morrow
nior'^ing. He says sho is under age, and he can compel her to go.

'That's perfect nonsense, Maggie; nae bairn, efter ^he ^

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M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTOK.

twclvo yours of age, can Ito forcinl to livo wi' anybody, — thpy are
left free to choose. Diniia bo so puttin' aboot, wife. It's no'
like you.'

'It was a shock. Oh, Michanl, T — I am so thankful to ftnd
that I am your wife' She laid hor facn on hi.s breast, ami
Maitland put his strong arm about her, stirred to the hoart by
her emotion.

' Ay, ay, whccsht noo, Maggie. It's a* richt,' he said, witb a
rough tendi^rncss beautiful to «oo in the man of few words and
fewer caresses. 'Come in, an' slip <iuietly up the stair. I'll
settle wi' Will Laurie in the "wee room.'"

Margaret Maitland was glad to leave the ent' t rospon.sibility
with her husband ; and when they entered the house slu! went
upstairs to her own room at once, only to find it empty. Slio
crossed the landing then to the room occupied by Agnes and
Etfie, but no one was there. She called Agnes softly by naino
at the foot of the attic stair ; but when there was no reply, slio
went quietly back to her own room and sat down to wait. She
guessed that Agnes had gone to fight her battle outside.

Maitland hung up his hat and marched straight into the
dining-room, the door of which he locked liehind him. Katio
had ' i)read the cloth in readiness for supper, and lighted the lamp
on t" table. William Laurie had seate.. himself in the master's
chair, and looked round with an easy smile when the duor
opened.

' HuUoa, Maitland ! * he said, stretching out his hand in a
familiar, easy way. * How do 1 '

* Ye've come for the bairns, Will Laurie, my wife tells
me,' returned Maitland, without noticing the oH'-band greeting'.
'We'll better settle this business withoot delay. What d'yo
want the bairns for noo 1 '

'Because I'm tired of my lonely life, Maitland. It's my girl
I want. Hang it, man, is a fellow to bring children into tho
world and get no good of theml If she had been taught her
duty, she would have known where her place was long ago.*

' There's aulder folk that ken less aboot their duty than her,'
said Maitland dryly, though his anger was kindled against
the selfish, unnatijral wretch before him. *I suppose yc

MA IT LAN I) Ob' LAUntESTON.

117

ha« loarnnl Unit tho Insfiio's got a wlicoii bawbocs l»!ft to hor,
whit.'li accounts fur this uinvcIcoiiK^ viHit.'

*I (tiily licartl it to-diiy,' said Will Lainio, not ruflled by thu
cutting' .sarciiriiu of LauriuHton's words. Ho luul ha<l oiioiigh
liijiior to tal:o Ww odgo otF liiR own evil tt!ini«!r, or a bitter
(junnol btitwficn them must liavt; ensued.

' Yo are awarc!, 1 suppose, that ye canna force tlicMii to gang
wi' you ? ' said Lauriuston calndy ; ' the law allows them absolutu
cludce.'

' No such thinj,' ; the kids are minors ; I can control tlumi till
they are twenty-ono. Scotch law can't control a man living in
Loudon.*

'Arc yo no' awaro that, as yo havo contributed naothing to
their support for twa years back, but have left them dependent
on mo, yo hae forfiiited a* claim on their «luty or service?'

'])ependenton you, Michael Maitland !' sneered Will Laurie.
I could bet my bottom dollar, as the Yankees say, that
both the kids havo earned thciir living hero. Y^ou are not tho
man to give bite and sup for nothing. I knew you of yore, and
so my conscience did not trouble mo.'

Michael ALiitland involuntarily clenched liia hands. His
face grew dark, the veins in his forehead became swollen, his
Hcrco anger was hard to control ; but because of his unspeakable
cont(^mpt for the wicked man before him ho would keep his
self-control, and thus measure the insuperable distance between
them. Ho could scarcely bear to look upon the reprobate
sitting by his hearth, his very i)resence contaminating tho air
his wife and children had to breathe. There was not a
spark of pity in his soul for the wreck of what had been a
promising youth ; his creed taught him nothing but merciless
coudenniation for the breaker of God's laws. Maitland was
perfectly conscientious and righteous in his condemnation : he
was but taking pattern from tho God he feared but could not
love.

' I have but few words to speak to you, William Laurie, for
it demeans any man to converse wi' ye,' he said slowly. * A' I
have to say is, that Ellen's bairns shall not leave this house
except of their own free will. Seek tho law if ye like, it'll be

\ i

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118

MA IT LAND OF LAURfESTON.

h I Mb

I'.Li^ii

'i\

tvii your ain hurt ; and you shall not leave this house this night
or I get frae your hand some acknowledgment of what I liavo
dons for your bairns. I have my account made oot. It'll hao
to be paid ; ye may make up your mind for that.'

* I came prepared, as I knew your greed,' said Will Laurie,
with a laugh. 'Bring in your account and we'll square uj).'
He took a bulky pocket-book from his bnast, and pi'oduccil a
thick roll of bank-notes and a checjue-book.

Michael Maitland stepped into the * wee room,' and took a
small account-book from his desk.

'It's twa hunder pound, at the rate o' fifty pound apioce
for twa year,' he sai^ when ho returned ; * it's that time since
ye sent a penny afore. I've wipet oot the auld debt for the
schoolin'. If ye look, ye'll find it a' correct.'

Will Laurie took the book carelessly, put up his eye-glass with
unsteady hand, and ran his eye over the neatly-figured colunin —
*To board for Agnes and William Laurie, at the rate of £1 a
^.veek.'

' All right ; pass me a pen and ink and I'll give you a cheque.
TvS exorbitant, — a perfect swindle, in fact ; but I knew what to
expect. There you are.*

Michael Maitland took the cheque, examined it carefully, and
placed it in his pocket-book.

I'll send ye a receij't after I find oot whether it's genuine,' he
said coolly ; but even that suspicion did not disturb Will Laurie's
complacent equanimity. Then Laurieston unlocked tho dining-
room door and rang the bell, which Katie answered at once.

' Bid Miss Agnes and her brither come here, Kate.'

' Miss Agnes is oot, sir ; but I see Miss Eihe an' Mr. Willie
in the garden.'

' Bid him come in, ther ; and ask the mistress to step doon
the stairs.'

A curious wene was about to be enacted in the house of
Laurieston.

! : ; si '■

._.-_ i-

CHAPTER XV.

■ Si

'But if, in thy narrow lionler
Many bitter herbs are set,
Use the letter and the sweet
As thy njed'einc and thy meat.'

HEN Afjnes Laurie Avas gently (lismi'ssed from tlic
dining-room, slie did not go upstairs. Catching up
a shawl of her aunt's from the hall-stand, she
opened the door and ran out into the night. It
was (piite dark, — a moonless, starless rel)ruary night ; the air
made chill hy the icy breath of the north-east wind. Agnes was
not conscious of darkness or cold ; a horror was upon her from
which she was trying to flee. She wandered on in the darkness,
keeping the shawl finnly about her with her stiff fingers, con-
scious of nothing but the desire to move on ; her nerves were
strung to the highest tension. The shock of her father's appear-
ance, the object of his visit, his whole domeanour, had filled her
v/itli horror and fear. The dread of childhood had grown with the
years, and it was harder to bear now because she understood it.
Her moral nature shrank from the man who called her daughter,
and he had come to take her away ! The mad impulse Avhich
came to her as she fled from the house, was to put the breadth
of miles between herself and him, and so settle the question of
leaving Laurieston. But by and by, as she walked through
the stillness of the night, and a calmer mood succeeded the chaos,
the conviction was forced upon her that the question could not
be so settled, but must have an answer given, — the answer not
of inclination, but '^f duty. She found herself suddenly, in her
restless walk, barred bv the churchvard c'litos. TIte side-wifket

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120

MAifLAND OF LAURIESTON.

stood open, and she pussed through it into the silent city of the
dead. Her feet led her then, with unerring instinct, to the new-
made grave which only a few hours ago had closed over her
dear old friend. It was enclosed by a little railing, with stone
pillars supporting it at each corner ; upon one of those Agnes
Laurie sat down, and, wrapping herself in the folds of the sliawl,
faced the ordeal which was indeed a crisis in her life. The touch
of the kindly wool against her shivering frame was a comfort
to her ; it was Aunt Maggie's shawl, and seemed almost a part
of her. Keen judge of human nature as she was, Agnes Laurie
knew quite well that her father had come determined to take
her away, and that he had some end in view. Eemembering
him of yore, she knew there was no use for her to combat that
masterful will. It would be better for the dear ones at Laurie-
ston that she should go quietly, and so spare them annoyance and
shame. That was the very first thought which rose out of the
chaos clearly before her mind. As she sat there in the dark
stillness, with only the dead about her, another thought, which
had long lain dormant in her heart, rose up strong, and clear, and
unanswerable. It was self-reproach. Something whispered to
her that she had loved the sweet ease and peace of Laurieston
so well, that the sterner voice of duty had been stilled. 8he
had forgotten that there was a duty she owed to her father ; she
had encouraged herself, any time when she had allowed her mind
to dwell upon the relationship, to believe that, because he had
failed in his paternal care, the responsibility was thus lifted from
her. It was brought sharply home to her, that while she was
living in a blessed home where only love abounded, her father
was drifting further and further from good. She saw the change
upon him, and, little though she knew the ways of the world,
she could tell that his path of life was evil. Perhaps if she had
gone to him in the desolation after her mother's death, when,
if any softer elements remained in his heart, they would he
uppermost, she might have rescued him and kept him in tlio
better way. That was an hour of keen pain for Agnes Laurie ;
in the sensitiveness of her nature, tlie keenness of her conscience,
she had no mercy upon herself. She moaned drearily, as she
clasped her hands before her face, and rocked herself to and fro,

.Xii"

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

121

ii ? I

unable to be still. She magnified what she had done, till to hei
distorted imagination it seomed to her that she had wronged her
father beyond forgiveness, and whatever he had been, or was,
her place should have been at his side. Oh, how little she had
profited by the example of a saintly mother, and by the lessons
taught her by the sweet mistress of Laurieston ! The lesson of
both lives was that the work of women upon the eartn was the
ministry of love and peace to tuo righteous and the erring alike.
And she^ who had set up in her own lioart so divine an estimate
of womanhood, had fallen so miserably short, that she had failed
in what ought to have been the very first duty of her life ! She
slipped from her seat, and, stepping within the enclosure, knelt
on the mound of the new-made grave, and prayed for forgiveness
first, then for the strength and courage she would need for the
sacrifice to-morrow would demand. She dared not allow herself
to dwell, even for a moment, on all that sacrifice involved.
When she rose to her feet and uplifted her eyes to the quiet sky,
the divine had kindled her heart with great thoughts and high
resolves. She would be so much to her father, she told herself^
that for love of her he would learn to love the upright life. She
saw stretching before her a path of life, less lovely, perhaps,
than that of which she had lately allowed herself to dream, but
a path in v/hich slie might acliieve great things for her own soul
and the souls of others. She thanked God, looking up to His
firmament where His stars of promise shone, that had taken the
scales from her eyes, and shown to her the work He had appointed
her to do. There was a beautiful and steadfast light upon her
fac(! as she turned away, which told of a heart at peace, resting
on the wisdom and goodness of a Higher Power. She had not
the slighttist douljt but that this was God's leading, — that her
soul, resting at ease, needed a new discipline, — and she was ready
to go forth, to follow where the Master led. She stooped down,
plucked a handful of snowdrops from the adjoining grave, and
turned away. She would keep them as mementoes of that strong
hopeful hour. As she turned away she heard voices and foot-
steps approaching, — familiar womanly voices she recognised at
once, even before she saw the two Miss Thorburns coming by
the church.

h :i<:i S !

!! \

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122

maitland of LAURIESTON.

■\

w ; &

a !■■'

•Mercy me, Grace Tliorbiirn, who's Unit in front?' quoth
Miss Jean, iookint,' a little aghast. ' 1 hope it isn't Miss
Leesbeth's gliost. It looks uncanny enough to be anything.'

' Well, you would come through here at this time of night,'
said Miys Grace serenely. ' You can't expect but to see ghosts
in the kirkyard after dark. It's their legitimate business to
wander among the tombs. But they won't harm us.'

'It's waiting for us, any way, at the gate. Shall we lly
back, Grace ? '

* Not likely ; come on. Why, bless me, it's Nannie Laurie ;
and she liasn't a hat on. She's a (jueer bairn.'

'Good evening, jSIias Thorburii,' the <|uiet voice of Agnes
rang out clear and pleasant in the stillnciss, rather to the reliof
of Miss Thorl)urn, who could laugh now, though her fear hud
been quite real.

' Lassie, what are you doing liere 1 Aren't yon afraid to bo
in such a place all alone?' she said as sin; sliouk hands.

* Oh no,' said Agnes, almost brightly ; ' I am never afraid.
There is nothing to harm any one hcic'

' Well, we are not silly cowards, as a rule, or we wouM
hardly come through the kirkyard aftiu* dark. We've been at
the Manse, and this was the nearest way to Laurieston. I hope
Mrs. JMaitland will forgi\'(! us for looking in to-night, but wi'ie
collecting for a treat to the Wallyfonl and Deantown bairns,
and we're sure to get something from her.'

Agnes was silent a moment, scarcely knowing how to aci, or
what to say. The Thorburns were true friends and thorough
gentlewomen, who, though they dearly loved a bit of kindly
gossip, knew also when to hold their tongues. She decided in
a moment to trust them. It was curious how having dc^-idcd
upon one course of action brought out Inir self-reliance all at
once.

' I think you had better wait till to-morrow, Miss Thorburn,'
she said, in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice. '^ly father has
come down unexpectedly from London, and I am going back
with him to-morrow.'

Both ladies stood still and stared at the girl in spaechlesa
amazement.

MA IT LAND OF LAVlUKHTON. 123

* Going where 1 — to I^ondon 1 '
' Yes,'

* To-morrow 1 *
'Yea.'

' On a visit, or to stay ? '

' To stay. My father wishes me to make a home for him
now.'

'And what on earth do yon suppose Laurieston will do
without you ? It '11 go to ruins,' said Miss Grace.

' It was not in ruins when I came,' laughed Agnes.

' No. but ' — John's name was on Miss Grace's lips, but she
]<«^pt it back.

Miss Janet seemed too dumbfounded to speak.

' Oh, if that's the case, of course wo can't go in,' she
managed to say at length. ' Going to London to stay, Agnes
Laurie ! It'll be a loss to the whole parish. It's incredible;
we can't let you go.'

' I must, though.'

'So you ran up to say good-bye to the old church? I
uuaorstand.' Well, are we to say good-bye to you here ?'

' Yes ; I am so glad I met you.'

' Will you give me a kiss, Agnes, before you go ? ' asked Miss
Jean, and her eyes were wet.

Agnes kissed them both, and ran away, for her heart was full.
It was the beginning of the partings which would rend her
heart-strings.

'There's si .aething behind all this, Grace Thorburn,' said
Miss Jean, in a shaking voice, as they turned down the brae into
Newbigging. ' Mark my words, there's mnre behind this than
we know.'

' Well, she's trusted us, and we can shut up the lying mouths
of Musselburgh when they throw out their dark hints,' said
Miss Grace, with strong feeling. ' We can say we knew all
a))out it. But I must say it's most extraordinary.'

' It'll take away my sleep from me this night, any way, Grace
Thorbur.i,' said Miss Jane. ' Mrs. Maitland will never do in
the world without Agnes. That Effie's of no use but making
herself look pretty. '

S' ■" '

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'.I'A N'^!;!

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J 24

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON,

* Do you think they have known of it for any time ? ' asked
Miss Graco niusinj^'ly.

' No ; didn't Agnes say he had come unoxpoctodly ] I
wonder what John will say to it. Anybody can s<oo ho adcn-es
lior. Laurioston will not be the same place to him, poor
fellow, when she's away,' said Miss Thorburn sympathetically.
Tliere was nothing in the world more interesing to her tlian ii
love-story.

'It'll do him good,' said Miss Grace. *If she liad stayed
hcrc!, his courting wouM have been too easy. It is good for men
to be taught they can't have everything tlieir own way.'

Meanwhile Agnes had reached the gate of Laurieston, and
stood upon the wide doorstep, her courage faltering for the firht
time.

The wind had fallen, and now made but a faint stir'^ing
among the tree branches ; the sky had cleared also, and many
stars were shining. Away down on the shore slu; could see th(i
white line of the el.bing tide, and even fancied she could hear
its voice. These waves had spoken in many tones to her, — soon
she would see and hear them in memory ahme ; a f(nv hours,
and perhaps she would have only memory to live upon. A
sobbing breath parted her lips ; she bent forward, kissod the
panels of the door, and then stepped within. She knew if sin;
lingered there slie would have no courage left to face what
must be done. As she entered the hall she heard the sound of
excited voices in the dining-room, and, laying her shawl on the
table, she listened for one brief moment before she went in.
She recognised her father's voice, and knew that he spoke in
anger.

'They shall not go, as I said, from this house, except of
their free will,' Maitland said loudly. 'Then, when Agnes
comes in, she'll settle it. There's no use for ony mair ill-
words in this hoose. Ye hae got the lad's answer. LeD
him be.'

Agnes took a step across to the dining-room; but just then
Elfie, who from her mother's room had heard the din, came
flying downstairs, with surprise and distress on her pretty face.

' Oh, Nannie, what has happened 1 Do tell me. It is cruel

to keep me i
oh why, do 3
' I cannot
me. You w
yet.'

She put
door, and w
conscious of
the room,
but, arrcstei
in the midd
rest. ^laitl
I.iiurie, who
sullen expre
point-blank
liis refusal
in a sense
:Maitland, >
Kulcboard,
did not set
Agnes woul
action at a:
decided, bu
qualities oi
entered tli(
excitement
tender sol
Margaret ]
nu'ssago oi
walked up
upon her 1
'Father
and throu
sollish ; I
to-night w
you to-mo
For a r
was so to

MAITLAND OF LAUPJESTON.

125

to koop mc in suspenso. What is going on in there ; and wliy,
oh why, do you look so strange 1 '

•I cannot tell you just now, darling. They are waiting for
me. You will know it all soon. No, you must not follow mo
yet.'

She put the girl gently from her, opened the dining-room
door, and went in. ElHe, standing in the hall, was perfectly
conscious of the silence which immediately fell upon those in
the room. When Agnes entered, her father was speaking;
but, arrested perhaps by the expression on her face, ho paused
in the middle of his sentence and looked at her, as did all the
rest. ^Maitland was standing before the fire, facing William
Laurie, who stood by the table, at which his son sat, with a
sullen expression on his handsome face. He had just refused
lioint-blank to return to London with his parent, and couched
his refusal in language which, though true, and perhaps
in a sense justifiable, Maitland had sharply rebuked. Mrs.
!Maitland, very pale and distressed-looking, stood against the
Fuleboard, wishing the miserable interview would end. She
did not see how it would end, not dreaming of the action
Agnes would take, not having any idea that she would take
action at all. Agnes had always seemed passive rather than
decided, but circumstances had not as yet called the stronger
qualities of Iter mind into play. She looked lovely as she
entered the room, her face flushed with the intensity of her
excitement, her eyes brilliant, and yet suflused with a peculiar
tender softness. Speaking to John about it afterwards,
Margaret Maitland said she look(?d like an angel sent on a
message of God. She looked neither to right nor left, but
walked up to her father and knelt down before him, all eyes
upon her in dumbfounde(1 ania/ement.

' Father,' she said, and her voice thrilled the listeners through
and through, * I ask yt)U to forgive me : I have been hard and
Koliish ; I have not done my duty to you. God has shown mo
to-night what is the duty of a child to a parent. I will go Avith
you to-morrow, and do my utmost to atone for the past.'

For a moment tliero was a strange silence. The girl's action
was so totally unexpected, and nuide the whole matter appeal

Mir

126

MAITLAND OF LAUIUESTON.

{,, ■' i^ ii

ill so diiTcrcnt a light, that it was no marvol not one present
could find a voice. William Laurie, although perhaps the most
surprised of all, recovered hiiuself first, and looked round upon
the rest in triunii)h.

• That's a good girl ! I knew you would bo sensible, if you
were loft alone. Rise up, and we'll let bygones be bygones.'

Margaret Maitland burst into weeping, and hurried from the
room; and when Laurieston himself turned his gaze from the
sweet upturned face of Agues, his eyes were wet with unwonted
tears.

'ii;.i'

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•S M

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. I

CHAPTER XVI.

•Wlion thou art far awa'
Thou'It dearer grow to mo ! '

rLLIAM LAURIE slept that night at the * Mussel-
burgh Arms,' although, for the sake of Agnes, Mrs.
Maitland proiFcred him the hospitality of Laurieston.
Ho deciined it, with a haughty dignity which was
wholly amusing; his daughter's course of action gave him a
fresh courage and a new position, though the motive for that
action he could neither understand nor ap])rcciate. The inter-
view was not prolonged. In a few minutes he left the house,
and Agnes remained to spend her last night among those she
loved. After the excitement of that sccn«! a strange constraint
foil upon the little circle. Wat and Eftie cinne in, and though
both were burning to hsarn what was the meaning of the
unusual commotion, nobody vouchsafed any explanation. Katie
brought in the coffee, but eating and drinking was simply a
pretence. Mrs. Maitland did not appear at the table. She
Ciinie downstairs, however, when she heard the bell ring for
worship. It was Katie who rang the bell ; but when she and
her neighbour entered the dining-room, they Avere bidden clear
tlie table and go to bed, as there, would be no reading.

'I'm not in a fit frame of mind, wife,' was all Laurieston
said; and, taking his candle, he said a brief good-night all
round, and went upstairs.

* Oh, mother, what does it all mean ? ' Eflie cried. * W" hat
awful thing has happened 1 Father must feel very bad not to

have the reading.'

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lilt ii

il -'I

128

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON'.

m i

' Your father is soro vexed, as wo may all ho, J^fTio, scoin"
we are to lose Nannie to-morrow, 8aiJ Mrs. Maitland, in a low
voice, and not daring to look at Agnes, who sat near the tiro,
very white and sad of face.

' Lose Nannie ! "Why, where is she going 1 "
'She will toll you herself, hairn. I can't speak ahout \\'
said Margaret Maitland, with a soh, and folloAved her hushani
upstairs.

* Agnes looks as if she were possessed,* said Willie, a trifle
impatiently. * ifou never know where you have her. Hero
our i)reciou8 governor comes ilying down when he thinks fit,
and wants to hundlo us away with him on a moment's notice,
without a word of explanation or apology. That won't suit me,
and I told him so in plain language. I know which side my
bread's buttered on. Some folk have queer ideas of duty. My
duty is here.*

Ho glanced round the room, and finally at Eflfie. He was
speaking to Agnes ; but she seemed unconscious of it, her mind
being wholly filled with what was to come. She rose presently
and glided out of the room, without a word or a look at any-
body. She had no intention to be unkind or indifferent, — she
was not herself. That had been a trying evening for her.

* Michael, my man, I don't know when I was so put about,'
said Margaret Maitland, when she entered her own room, and
found her husband sitting there, with his open Bible before him.
He shut the book ai her entrance, with evident relief.

' I'm that put aboot mysel', Maggie, that I canna read tlio
Word,' he said grimly. *I kenna, I'm sure, what way the
Almighty permits sic a reprobate as him to cumber the ground.
What did Agnes mean by a' yon 1 The lassie's surely far loft
to hersol'. She was like a daft body.'

Margaret Maitland had feared this. She understood Agnes,
but knew how difficult it would be for her to explain the
position the girl had taken up. She believed herself that
Agnes was tho victim of a mistaken idea of duty, — that the
sacrifice she was about to make was wholly uncalled for ;
yet she admired the noble spirit and the high courage with
which she seemed imbued.

MAITLAM) OF I.AUlilKSTON,

120

'Agnes sees it to Ite her duty iii»[)iinMilly to aMdo hy her
fatluT, and to try and do liini wliat good she can, Michaeh It
is not for us to put lier past that duly. May bo (lod lias put
it into her heart. Through Agiu's He may mean llis grace to
reach even that liardened heart.'

Laurioston shook liis head. ' TIcs's a lost soul, Maggie; I
liinna a doubt. I (juestion if it is richt for us to let the bairn
go with him. It'll may be be her ruin.'

'Her ruin ! nay, father; the soul of our Agnes is as pure as
lu'avon. She will take no hurt,' said Margar(!t Maitland, with
ii (juick, strange smile. ' As I naid, so I believe, she may bo
the Hght in the dark place up in that great and evil city. If I
(lid not believe (Jod had a work for her to do, I could not bear
it, father. My heart is set on the lassie more than I was aware
(if. AVill yow not be vexed to part with her?'

' 1 hinua said y(!t that I wuU pairt frae her,' Laurieston
answered ; and his wife saw his strong under-lip quiver, and
know how deep was the hold the gentle, womanly girl had
taken of his heart.

' I doidtt we'll need to let her go. She is set upon it. She
believes she has done wrong, and that she must atone for
it. She means to devote herself to him, I can see. It is a
noble choice ; but, poor lassie, I f(!ar she will find the reality
of the life she has chosen fearfully disappointing. The first
thing in the morning, George must ride in to tell John and
Miehiud, so that they may be at the Waverley Station to
bid her good-bye. I hardly know how John will take this,
fatlier.'

' He'll hae to tlule, like the rest,' was all Laurieston said ;
and his wife saw that lie was unaware of any special reason
wliy it should concern John more nearly than anybody.

'John likes Agnes, father. They will be man and wife yet,'
she said, as she began to take the pins from her hair. It fell
about her shoulders in a graceful cloud, — soft, beautiful hair,
hardly touched even yet with grey.

* D'ye say sae ? '

' I know it,' she answered, looking through the veil of her
hair with a sweet, tender smile.

ir,

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til m

MM'

•>!'

130

AfAITLAXD OF LAUJilKSTO.V.

'Weol, Mngj,MO, I'm vnxi'd to hear it. Althoiigh Jolin is my
ain son, and Agnes no hHi to nio ava, I wadna rIo hor to hitn
or ho mend liis ways. Hh'h gann afF tho straicht, wife, in llm
mattora pertaining to his sonl'fl salvation. TTnh»HH the* LnnI has
mercy upon him, and hits Ilia Holy Spirit strive at th(( last, or
he he overcome, I wad rather see Agnes, or ony Christian
lassie, in her grave than married to him.*

Sharp words to fall upon a mother's ear I She tossed hack
her hair, and looked at him full with large, hright, imlignant
eyes :

' Michael, we've had hut few words since we were married,
though, had I heen so inclint'd, I could have picked many a
righteous quarrel with you. Who made you a judge over your
Bon, or the arbiter of God's dealings with him ? You are too
self-righteous. I believe that John, with all his doubts and
questionings, is nearer the kingdom than you.'

' Aweel, Mnggie, the day will declare it, * he answered
quietly, beginning to undress. ' Oh, I say, wife, there's the
money I got off Will Laurie. Ye can put it by for Agnes,' ho
added, handing her the cheque from his pocket-book.

'Two hundred pounds, Michael ! How did you get it?* she
exclaimed, in surprise. * But will the cheque be all right 1 '

*0h, like enough. He'll be flush yet, — it's no six months
since he selt Hallcross. If Agnes disna watch, the place '11 no'
be long hers. I could lay long odds that that's what he's
after.'

' Let us not be too hard, Michael. He did not know until
he came down oven that Aunt Leesbcth was dead.'

* Naebody kens. He's an awfu' leear, and aye was.'

Just then there came a low, hesitating knock at the door.
Margaret Maitland drew her dressing-gown round her, and
opened it at once.

* Aunt Maggie, may I apeak to you 1 ' It was the voice of
Agnes, — very low and broken, and full of pathos.

'Surely, my dear lamb, surely,' replied Mrs. Maitland; and,
stepping out into the corridor, she closed the bedroom door
behind hor, and took the slight figure close to her motherly
breast.

' Comfort
Don't you tl
nrtked you.'

* My Nanr
Wo will al
answered at
the girl's brij;

« I think it
it will be as
time,— I lov(

'And I y
London is no

Mrs. Maitl
heart was sc
distress into

' And you
that. If I
should die.'

'I can sp(
will forget '-
in tones full

So the n(
though Agn(
her heart ha(
away.

Dreary an
rain driving
hanging low
moving very
emptying th
FJfie awoke
her at her t
which made
fashioned ro
of Agnes, E
also by its e:
look ; but t
have added

MAITLANI) OF LAUIUESTON.

131

' Comfort mo, Aunt Maggie, or I shall novrr bo able to go.
Don't you think I am doing right 1 I could not sloop till I
artked you.'

' My Nannie, you arc doing what is very noble and unBolfish.
Wo will all pray that your offorta may bo blossod,' fho
nnswored at once, and laid her hand in gcntlo boncdiction on
the girl's bright head.

*I think it is my duty, or I could not do it. Aunt Maggio,
it will be as bad to leave you as it was to leave mamma that
time, — I love you so.*

* And I you, my Nannie ; but we will all write often, and
London is not so far away.'

Mrs. Maitland strove to speak with choorfulneas, though her
heart was sore enough, because she saw the state of nervous
distress into which Agnes had wrought herself.

* And you will not forget me 1 I could bear anything but
that. If I thought I would be forgotten at Laurieston, I
should die.'

' I can speak for two, Nannie : neither John nor his mother
will forget ' — Margaret Maitland replied ; and then she added,
in tones full of meaning — * my dear daughter.'

So the new bond was acknowledged between them j and
though Agnes Laurie fell asleep with hot tears on her che(?k8,
her heart had its own sweetness too, which nothing could take
away.

Dreary and chill dawned that March morning, with a heavy
rain driving desolately before the sobbing wind, and a mist
hanging low upon the sea. Agnes was up before the dawn,
moving very softly about the room for fc.".r of waking Effie,
cni[)tying the wardrobe and drawers to make ready for flitting.
Effio awoke by and by, and, without stirring, lay and watched
her at her task. The room was only lighted by a dim candle,
which made curious shadows in the corners of the long old-
fashioned room ; and when the flickering gleam fell on the face
of Agnes, Effie was struck both by its exceeding paleness and
also by its expression. Agnes had always a thoughtful, serious
look ; but the occurrence of the previous evening seemed to
have added something more, — a steadfast, earnest, wistful

v< !

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132

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

expression, as of one who had had a life's work opened up
before her.

Effie was Imrd put to it to restrain her own emotion, as she
saw her adopted sister folding and refolding her garments with
nice precision, and making all ready to leave them. But she
did hold her peace, and at six o'clock Agnes rang the hell as
usual for the maids, and then went down herself. She un-
locked the front door and stepped out into the porch, to feci
f' chill, damp air catching her breath. The day Avas slowly
bn^iking, but the light seemed reluctant to creep through the
wj'oary folds of the mist. Agnes was not sorry to see tlio
mourning aspect of nature, — weeping skies would be in harmony
with the feelings of the heart that had to say good-bye to
Laurieston.

I do not care to linger upon that last morning. They tried
to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness, and to speak as if
Agnes were but going to London on a short visit ; but it was a
pitiful pretence, for each heart was full, except perhaps Willie
Laurie's, who was very philosophical always over unpleasant
things.

* Agnes,' said Maitland, as they rose from the table, * come
into the " wee room." I want a word with ye.'

He closed the door after they were in, and turned his grave,
kind eyes on her sweet, pale face. * Agnes, it is no' for me to
say whether or no' ye are daein' what's richt to go wi' your
father ; you ken as Aveel as I, that he is not what a man vshould
be. But I ken yo mean weel ; an' I just want to tell yc;, my
Inssie, that sin liver ye came to Laurieston ye hae been a
blessin' to this hooie. Ye hae given mair than ye hae gotten,
so ye are not obliged to me or mine.'

' Oh yes. Uncle Michael,* Agnes said hurriedly. ' Obliged !
well, perhaps not, — those things are not obligations. They are
debts of the heart, which only the heart's love can pay, and I
leave that at Laurieston.'

' AVheesht, lassie, wheesht ! * Laurieston*s voice was husky,
his stern eyes dim.

* An' 1 want to soy, further, that when ye get to London, if
the way o' life there is no' to your mind, or such as a God-

a woman 8

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

133

fciiiing woman can stand, without imperilling her soul's welfare,
come you back, Agnes, come you back, an' dinna wait to send
word. As long as the mistress and me live, there's an open
door for you at Laurieston. Agnes Laurie, I mean what I say.'
'Thank you, Uncle Micliael.' The eyes of Agnes grew
bric,'hter at these precious words. They icere precious, indeed,
from the lips of Maitland, whose praise was given to very
few.

* Fare ye weel, then ; an' may the God of Abraham an' Isaac
au' Jacob gang wi' ye, an' watch ower ye, an' preserve ye from
all ill.'

He took her two hands in his firm, strong clasp, and so would
have left her ; but Agnes put by the hands, and clasped her
anus round his neck for the first time in her life. The kiss
she loft on his cheek long remained with Maitland, and kept
memory green for the white-faced lassie who had stolen into
all their hearts.

It was well, perhaps, that there was little time left for the
partings ; for when Agnes came out of the ' wee room,' there was
a cab at the door, in which her father had come to take her
away. So the boxes were hastily roped and carried down, and
Agnes walked out of the house, dry-eyed and composed, amidst
the sobbing of Effie and the maids. Margaret Maitland, dry-
eyed also, went out into the rain, and looked in at the cab
window, fixing her eyes solemnly on William Laurie's face.

* May God deal with you, William Laurie, as you deal with
Agnes,' were her words.

Whereat he laughed, and asked her if he was not fit to have
the care of his own child. So Agnes Laurie left her girlhood
behind her that March morning, and went forth to take up
a woman's work in the world. Willie travelled to Portobello
with them, where he got out to catch the Leith train. His
father had nothing to say to him, remembering with displeasure
his undutiful conduct of the previous night. It must be told
that it was EtTie's bright eyes that kept him at home ; of late
the ' bairnly nonsense ' between these two had assumed a more
serious aspect.

* Good-bye then, Nannie. Good luck to you in London.

i '■

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

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Good-bye, dad. Don't look so glum. I was honest, any way,
and honesty is the best policy,' Willie said gaily ; and, lifting
his cap, darted across the platform just in time to jump into tlic
other train.

' Impudent young scamp ! ' was the comment of William
Laurie, senior. * I must say I expected better things from a
lad brought up in the holy atmosphere of Laurioston. Well,
now that we're clear away. Nan, just tell me if you're not glad
to see the last of them, with their psalm-singing and prayers'!
All pretence, especially with the old boy. He can grab the
guineas with uncommon speed.'

• It will be better, I think, papa, if we do not speak about
Laurieston,* Agnes said, with quiet firmness, and looking clearly
and unflinchingly at her father. ' We will never agree on that
question, I am sure.'

* Oh, very well ; very sensible suggestion, my dear,* replied
her father, as he took out his cigar-case. * No objections, I hope,
to the fragrant weed ? because there's plenty of it in the society
you're going to. You're about to see life, Nan, and you'll have
such good times that you'll wonder how you ever supported
existence yonder. I expect you'll create a sensation. 'Pon my
word, you're a handsome girl.'

Agnes could not even smile at his praise. There vas some-
thing in it offensive to her ; but, blaming herself for being too
fastidious, she tried to look interested, find to speak cheer-
fully.

' I wish you would tell mo something about yourself and
your life, papa. I seem to know so little. Have you a house
in London 1 *

* Not in the meantime. Half the families in London live in
apartments. In the hope that I should bring you home with
me, I took handsome rooms in Arundel Mansions, quite near
the most fashionable and select neighbourhood. I have some
friends in the same place, — well-bred and very exclusive people,
— Agnes, who will take you up and introduce you to the best
society.

• I don't think I care a great deal for society, papa.'

'You can't be expected to, as you have never seen any.

MA IT LAND OF LA VlilESrON.

13i

Why, my dear, before you've been a week in London, you'll
look back witli amazement and contempt on your past life.'

♦ I think not. I hope not, papa.'

• But you will. / know all about it. You know nothing.
Why, is this Edinburgh already 1 We've just eight minutes to
get the train. Who's that tall scarecrow bowing to you, — surely
a son of Maitland's ? '

'Yes, it is John Maitland. How glad I am to see him
before I go ! '

Something in his daughter's voice, and also in the expression
on the young man's face as he came forward, revealed a secret
to William Laurie ; and svliile he smiled blandly over the
introducti'. n Agnes gave, he said to himself, —

' So, so, Mr. John Maitland, I'm in time to spoil your little
game.'

He managed to make use of Jjhn to secure a ticket for
Agnes, to put on the luggage, and did ot give them a moment
alone. But he could not control the li-iguage of the eyes, nor
the tongue either ; for, as the engine screamed and started, bold
John, driven to desperation, indeed, said to Agnes, loud enough
for her father to hear, —

* Good-bye, my darling ; if you stay too long, I'll como and
fetch you back to Laurieston.'

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CHAPTER XVIL

'Men love to live,
As if mere life were worth the living for.'

IGNES LAURIE did not see much of her father
on that railway journey between Edinburgh mikI
London. He preferred the company and the play
in the smoking carriage, and only looked in
occasionally to see that she was all right. She was not alto-
gether sorry. These hours, if tedious and lonely, were useful
too : they gave her time to collect all her thoughts, to arraiijio
her ideas, and to face the new life to which she was speedin<,'.
It was but a vague resolving and planning at the most, as slu;
was totally ignorant of what would be required of her in her
new sphere. She had her mind made up, however, to do her
duty to the utmost by her father, and leave nothing undone to
win him to a better life. She feared, nay, she knew, by qui(;k
intuition, that her father's ways and her father's life could not
be such as would commend themselves to her. ^Mingling willi
these somewhat anxious surmisings, were memories and thoughts
of all she had given up. Hope was also in her heart, nestling
with hidden sweetness side by side with love. One day, ]wv-
haps, after her work in London was done, she would return
to Scotland to become, in a double sense, the daughter of the
house she had left. She grew calm and cheerful, and there
was a bright look in her face, when her father came to tell hor
they had reached London. He was kind and attentive to her
in a somewhat rough-and-ready fashion, and Agnes was sus-
ceptible to the slightest kindnciss.

130

MAITLAND OF LAUmESTOX.

137

' I expect everything will he ready for us, my dear ; a bit of
hot dinner to tempt your appctito, which I hope that meagre
hmch at York only stiniulaicd,' he; said, as they drove out of the
station. * I telegraplied to the housokoepGr, and tc my frien'^
Lady Culross, who has a suite, of rooms in the same house.'

* Is it a hotel, papa *? '

' No, my love ; it will seem a little odd to you at first, but it
is quite the thing for the very best people to board as we do.
I want to interest you in Lady Culross, Agnes, because I expect
you to be great friends. 8he is tlie widow of a Scotch baronet,
and very well off indeed. She has only one son,— the heir to
great estates, a fine young fellow, — Gilbert Culross ; one of the
eligibles of the season, my dear; and who knows who may carry
off the prize 1 ' he said facetiously ; but his humour was quite
lost upon Agnes, who was pondering in her mind by what
means her father had managed to get himself on a social par
with members of the aristocracy.

' Did mamma know these people of whom you speak ? ' she
asked rather timidly, not knowing how her question might be
received.

* No, my love.'

She detected in a moment the change in his voice.

* Your mother, Agnes, was an estimable woman, but she had
no ambition. She was, if you will excuse me saying it, rather
!i clog upon me. I was sorry for her. for she had a kind
heart ; but she never got over the narrowness peculiar to the
life of that wretched provincial town, which I hope I may never

see again.

* I — I think you are unjust, papa, and unkind,' Agnes said,
with that quiet courage and outspokenness characteristic of
her.

* My dear, you are young, and it is natural and right that
you should respect your mother's memory. So do I profoundly
respect it ; b\'t I also will be candid, Agnes, and say plainly
that we had better taboo that subject, like a certain other one
which shall be nameless.'

A dull, hopeless feeling stole into the heart of the girl at
the very outset of her new pilgrimage, and she had nothing, to

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138

MAITLAND OF LAUIilESTO^.

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say. Her hope had been that tlie memory of her motlxT
would be a bond between her father and herself ; and lo ! it was
the reverse.

* You are inclined to be a little morbid, the natural result of
your life for tlie last few years. Yes, I took a right step
when I sold JT lUcross, and determined to expend the proceeds
in your settlem(?nt in life,' said William Laurie, with a mag-
nanimous air. ' When you were all misjudging me over the
border, I was quietly and unostentatiously doing my duty.'

' I did not misjudge you, father ; but I thought you ought
to have told us of your intention to sell mamma's property.'

* Well, my dear, it is, if you will excuse me saying it, not
customary for a man to make his children arbiters of his
actions,' he replied blandly. ' He is supposed to have tlunr
interests at heart. I think, before you have been many days
beside me, you will admit that I have these interests at heart.
You are a very candid young lady, Agnes ; candour is a good
thing, and prevents misunderstanding, — long may it continue
to be a virtue with you. But to return to the subject of my
friends. After that, ah! exceedingly disagreeable interview
last night, which you wound up so prettily, I Avrote to Lady
Jane and told her the story, and asked her and Sir Gilbert to
join us at our quiet dinner. I hope, my dear, that you have
a decent frock in which you can appear 1 '

*My frocks are all decent, papa, but not grand. If my
dress is not suitable for your friends, I need not appear.*

* N"ow, my love, don't show your teeth already. Don't begin
to misunderstand me at the very beginning of things,' said
William Laurie blandly. 'You will always look like a lady;
and if your clothes had more style, you would be quite dis-
tinguished. Lady Culr h will take you in hand. She has
promised to do so. You need not be nervous at the prospect
of meeting her. She is the best of kind souls.'

•I am not in the least nervous, papa, I assure you. Only
I wish we could have had one quiet evening to ourselves.'

*So we shall be by ourselves. I consider the Cuirosses
almost as members of my family. We are very intimate.'

* How did you get to know them, papa 1 '

MATTLAND OF LAUllTESTON.

139

*In business. I had some dealings with Sir Gilbert,'
roturned William Laurie, with a nice vagueness. 'He has
luid the benefit of my advice several times ; and when I.uciy
Culross asked me to a quiet dinner, in acknowledgment of
my little kindness, of course I went; and so the intimacy
rijiened.'

Agnes did not reply. Tlie whole affair seemed to her both
extraordinary and unsatisfactorj'. She had a singularly dear
perception, and a well - balanced judgment, which, combined .
with a lack of vanity or desire for grandeur, enabled her to
arrive at a wonderfully correct estimate! of Ikt father's standing
with these jieople, oven before she had secui them.

There was no opportunity for further conversation, as the
hansom drew up at the door of 38 Arundel Mansions, and
Agnes found herself ushered into a very ornamental, and,
to her unaccustomed eyes, rather imposing-looking abode.

' Our ro(>nis are on the top floor, my dear. I like air and
light. Ah ! hero comes our domestic gorgon. Mrs. Fair-
weather, I present to you my daughter, of whom I have so
often spoken.'

Mrs. Fairweather was a stout and jovial-looking individual,
who looked as if she enjoyed the good things of life. She
spoke in rather a wheezy voice, with a broad cockney accent ;
l)ut her manner was kind, if a little familiar, and somewhat
reassured the sinking heart of the young girl, who felt so
terribly alone. Mrs. Fairweather took her wraps from her, and
signified her intention of showing her to her rooms.

* I suppose dinner will be ready at half-past seven, as usual,
Mrs. Fairweather ? ' said Mr. Laurie blandly.

* At 'arf-past siving, sir. I seed her ladyship and Sir Gilbert
a-comin' in from their houting about an hour ago. 'Ollins
told me they 'ad a kettledrum in Baker Street this arternoon.'

* Just so. Well, I leave Miss Laurie to you, Mrs. Fairweather.
You will wait upon her a little until she sees about a maid.
Au revoir, my love ; see you in the drawing-room later. Mrs.
Fairweather will show you the way. Be sure and come down
ten minutes before the half-hour to receive your guests.'

' Very well, papa,' Agnes answered somewhat wearily, for

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140

MAJTLANn OP LAUniKSTOU.

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the, duty imposod updu her was irksome to hei-, in her unaettlod,
nuxiouH frame of mind.

'You are tired, miss; I'll unpack them things for you.
Have you a thin gown 1 la it needing hairing?' asked Mrs.
Fairweather sympathetically, as she looked at the wearied face
of the girl, when she sank into a cliair in the bedroom. ]t
was ii curious little box of a room with two storm-windows,
fantastically and lliiuily furnished in white emvmelled wood,
nnicli hung with muslin, and bedecked with sad-colourod
ribbons.

*Yes, I am tired. But I think I can manage, tliank yon.
No, my things do not need any airing. They were only packed
this morning.'

' Hut you've had a long journey, miss ; and you are from the
country, the master toKl me. This will be a pleasant change
for you. There's lots of gay doin's in town this month. It's
the very 'ight of the season.'
'Isitr

The girl's voice was very listless, as she unbuttoned her
gloves.

The kind soul looked at her compassionately, and with a
touch of curious wonder. She coiild hardly believe that such
a quiet, self-possessed, unaffected young lady ''ould be the
master's daughter.

' Yes, miss. Y''ou do look down ; but you'll pick up wonder-
fully. Your dear par will keep you lively. I never saw a man
with such a sperrit ; and then there's Lady Jane. Bless you,
3'ou'll like Lady Jane himmensely ; though she is a bit soft,
like her son. But there, I'm forgetting mj place, jixcuse
me, miss ; I don't mean no harm. I wish you'd let me 'elp you
to dress.'

'Oh no, thank you. I am used to wait on myself. If you
could get me a cup of tea, I would be much obliged. I feel
both thirsty and faint.'

'For sure, I'll do that, miss,' said Mrs. Fairweather, and
bustled out of the room. Then Agnes rose, and, walking over
to the storm-windows, looked out, — first upon the waving tree-
tops in Hyde Park, and then away Ijeyond to the vast expanse

of roofs, whi
starlit sky.

So tliis wf
the odd litt
her lips. S'
How gi'cat a
life ! and wl
;Mrs. Fair
the little dii
looking littl
but took th
word of tha
herself a fe\
revived her
own quick (
all but her
wear for Mi
set oif the c
at throat a
pearls, whiJ
ing her fat
fastened it
ripple and i
serious faci
her father
lie looked i
' My def
dress is a 1
to-night,
your ward
love ; she
will join X
' Yes, p
smile, loo]
glossy lin(
♦ I never !
* No, n
grubby L

MAITLAND OF LAUltlKSTON.

141

of roofs, which seemed scarcely spanned by the domes of the
starlit sky.

So this was London, and this her home ! She glanced round
tho odd little room, and a slight hysterical laugh l)roke from
her lips. She felt like an unreal being moving among shadows.
How great a change had four-and-twenty hours wrought in her
life ! and what would be the end of it all ?

Mrs. Fairweather, being concerned with the final touches to
the little dinner, did not return herself, but sent a very grimy-
looking little maid with the tea-tray. Agnes did not admit her,
but took tho tray from her hands at the door, with a gentle
word of thanks, and then turned the key. She would secure
herself a few moments' seclusion at least. The hot, fragrant tea
revived her, and she began to dress with something like her
own quick energy. She hung her gowns up in tho cupboard,—
all but her best, the new crape-trimmed dress she had got to
wear for Miss Leesbeth. It was a sombre enough attire, but it
set oif tho exquisite fairness of her skin, and the touch of white
at throat and wrists relieved it. She had a string of lovely
pearls, which her mother had given her long ago ; and, surmis-
ing her father would wish her to wear some ornament, she
fastened it about her neck. Her hair, which had a lovely
ripple and shine upon it, made a becoming frame for her sweet,
serious face. She did indeed look distinguished ; and when
lier father came up at a quarter-past seven to fetch her down,
lie looked at her with critical aj)})roval.

' My dear, you are superb. Your figure is really fine. Your
dress is a little sombre, and perhaps out of date ; but it will do
to-night. To-morrow, I flatter myself, Lady Culross will take
your wardrobe in hand. I have just seen Lady Culrops, my
love ; she is on the qui vim to meet you. She and Sir Gilbert
will join us when we go down. Are you ready 1 '

' Yes, papa. How very fine you are ! ' she said, with a slight
smile, looking at her father's evening attire, at the expanse of
glossy linen, the dainty patent shoes, and pink silk handkerchief.
*I never saw you dressed like this before.'

' No, my love ; I admit that I have risen in life since those
grubby Liverpool days ! Ah, let us not speak of them ; the sun

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

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'V'i ■

is going to aliine upon us now,' lio said, as he took her hand on
his arm. There was something most unreal and dramatic ahout
William Laurie. His daughter, whose memory of the past time
had not dimmed, could scarcely believe that the 8habl)y, coarse,
harsh-speaking being of those evil days, and the exquisitely-
dressed and highly-polished gentleman before her, could bo tlio
same. The sense of unreality with her was painful in the
extreme, and made her feel depressed a?id nervous as s}i(>
accompanied him downstairs. The drawing-room, althou^'h
larger, was after the same pattern as the little attic room, — j^'ot
up in a cheap and meretricious style, with abundance of gildiujf,
and muslin drapery, and untidy ribbon bows. It was also
shabby; ^ ut the cheerful fire made it more home-like Ihan
usual, and hhe lamp-light had a somewhat softening effect on
the gilding. Agnes had scarcely seated herself when the dcjor
was opened, and the guests announced.

* Lady Culross, Sir Gilbert Culross.' Agnes rose to her feet,
blushing painfully ; but her father smiled reassuringly upon her,
and led her forward.

•Lady Culross, I present my shy little country girl, and
commend her to your motherly care. Agnes, this is my dear
and honoured friend, Lady Culross.'

Agnes saw before her a slight and girlish-looking figure,
attired in a blue silk gown cut low at the throat, and revealing
the poor scraggy old neck, a withered, aged face, with an extra-
ordinary brilliant colour, at which Agnes marvelled, not knowinj^
that, like all the rest, it was unreal. Her hair was bright golden,
another mystery to the unsophisticated girl, who wondered to
sec the attributes of youth and age so curiously mingled. It
was a somewhat attractive, if rather an empty face, and the
faded, care-lined blue eyes had a kindly light in them as they
dwelt on the face of the young girl before her. She was
surprised also, though she did not say so.

* So this is your daughter, Mr. Laurie 1 ' Lady Culross said,
with an affected little laugh, and tapping him on the arm with
her fan. * Naughty man, not to tell us she was so handsome.
How arc you, my dear ? Charmed to meet you. Charmed to
welcome you to the city. I am afraid it will be a sad revclatinn

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

143

to our stately Puritan, — hn, ha ! our stately Puritan ! — doesn't
that suit her? Gill)ort, conio forward this moment and be
introduced ta'Miss Laurie.*

A.i,'ncs then had to look from the mother to the son ; who,
like an obedient child, came forward and made his bow to the
young lady, though he never spoke. He was a tall, shambling
young man, with a fair complexion and yellow hair, and a
decidedly weak face.

There was even a kind of vacant look in the big blue eyes,
which struck Agnes as ])eing indescribably pathetic.

' Dinner waits, I think,' said "William Laurie airily. * Lady
Culross, may I have the honour 1 Sir Gilbert, pray give your
arm to my daughter. Talk to him, Agnes, my love. Sir
Gilbert is shy, but the best of pood fellows. I expect you will
be the best of friends. Eh, Lady Culross, is it not wise to leave
young folks to cultivate each other's acquaintance ? *

'Certainly, certainly. Your charming daughter, I foresee,
will captivate all hearts. Ah ! shame to leave her buried in
the country so long.'

Agnes could not bear these personal remarks. She had
never felt so wretched and uncomfortable in her life. The
unhappy-looking young man, with whom she was to be the
best of friends, kept his eyes fixed on her face with a persistence
which robbed her of the slight self-possession left to her. At
last, apparently divining what was required of him, he came
forward with a smile, and offered his arm. There was nothing
for Agnes but to lay her fingers on it and allow him to take
her downstairs.

Sir Gilbert Culross only made one remark on the way to the
dining-room :

* Isn't it beastly cold 1*

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*Tho wcnry tlioiightB camo fast,
And lifo was but a bittcrnosH, with all
ItH vividness and buauty.'

' >^rJO here and wit by nio, my dear. I have quite
fallrn in lovo witli you, — indct'd, I Imvo.'

Lady Culross slippetl hor hand through Aj^'uos
Laurie's arm, and they entered i\w, (hawing-iuuia
together afier dinner, leaving the gentlemen at the table.

• Now, you must tell jue all about your dear self, without
reserve. Yon' hav(! Ix'cn living in great seelu.sion with friends
in Scotlan<l, 1 understand 1 *

* I have been with friends, Lady Culross ; but in the midst
of a large and hapjiy family there is not much seclusion,'
Agnes answered (quietly.

*0h, I did not know about the family. You were quite
comfortable with them, I suppose, although it nuist have been
such a trial to you to be parted from your dear father'! My
love, your father is one of the best and most generous of
men.

*Yes,' said Agnes vaguely, and with an uneasy flush, which,
although Lady Cuhvss saw. she was not sharp enough to
comprehend.

•He ii?, indeed. What e has done for mo and my son T
could not tell you. My lovtt*, \ ,n\ a f mely Avidow, and my sou
hrta been rather a waywafl boy. I am going to place my con-
^Hl^ii in you, Neasie. I mwdc up luy mind before you canu*
that 1 should call you Nessio,' saul Liidy Jane, with one of her
pretty, caressing gestures. '1 wjuit ^ ou to uudtrat^iud us, sq

MAirnANI) OF LAU/i/FSTOiV.

146

tliiit you niny luivrii in love us. Well, luy dciir, I wuh luarricd
wlit'ii I was very youu;,', or ([uilc a ^irl, t(» Sir (lillicit C'uIiosh.
11(1 WHS a vcM'y oM ui.ui, NchhIc, -fuitylivn yt'iirs older tlmn I.
.Iii.st think of tliiit, my love, — he wan (]uit(' old ('iioii;,'li to Ik my
j;i;iiidt'atla!r ; l»ut I hud no choice. Mis pcoplt! were I'rij^litl'ully
iiii:;ry, and never acktujwledj^'ed nic, and of t'our«o it was very
liiinl upon them when 1 bntu^dit an lu^ir to Kilmeny. I \va.s
left a widow, my dciir, when my Ijahy was six months old, and
1 have had to rear him entirely Jinaided, — not an easy task, I
assure you, for he is very hoadstrouLf.'

* Is he 1' asked Agnes, idniost in wonder ; for licr impression
of Sir Gilbert was that his intellect was of the weakest order.

'Very headstrong, Xessie,' said Lady Culross, ■with a sigh
and a shako of her golden head. ' As a luty he was frightful.
lie did just as he liked, or Hew into .such frightful passions
that wo were afraid of our lives. He ran away from thrcjo
schools, and really is not well educated ; lint what could I dol
He burned and tore up his books. Ho would do nothing but
ride, and spend his tinu.' with the grooms and the slal)l(!-boys.
His passion for the turf, which has been such an anxiety to
me, grew with him from babyhood, 1 might say.'

*I am sorry you have had so much care, Lady Culro.ss,' said
Agnes, looking with real compassion on the poor painted face,
which, with all its attempt at youth, looked so old and worn
and sad.

'Thank you ; you are a sweet child. I am so glad you have
come to cheer my loneliness,' Lady Culross answered. * lint I
was tolling you the very worst, my dear. Gilbert has good
points. He has such a kind heart, Ncssie : ho would give
away his last farthing to any one in distress. If he had not
been so soft-hearted, he would never have lost so much money.
My dear, if we had not met your father, I believe wo would
have been poiniilcss by this time, and Kilmeny mortgaged to
the last farthing.'

' How did papa help you 1 ' Agnes asked, with the most
mtense interest. She fain would have accepted the pnases of
her father, but she had an innate consciousness that there was

something under the surface.

Even in her largo natural

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146

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

charity she could not honestly believe her f other had acted
from purely disinterested motives.

• Well, my love, perhaps I cannot make it quite clear ; but I
will try. When Gilbert grew up he tired of Kilmeny, and
insisted on coming to London ; of course I came with him, — he
has never been away from me. Well, you can imagine an
innocent young boy like Gilbert let loose froru a remote place
like Kilmeny, — it is aw.ay among the wilds of Galloway. He was
just prey for all the villains in this wicked city. His love of
horses and racing and all that kind of thing led him into
questionable company ; and he was being led astray, and his
money disappearing like water, when your dear father took him
in hand.'

' How did they meet ? '

' Quite accidentally, — though I say it was a providence, — ^when
they were going in the train to the Doncaster race-meeting last
year. Your father, like many ind..pendent gentlemen, amuses
himself with a little safe speculation on the turf. Out of the
kindness of his heart he looked after my boy that day, and
prevented him, I believe, from being ruined. You see Gilbert
has no evil in him, and believes all men honest. Hj is too
ready to follow every one's advice. I bless the day, Nessie, ho
came under the influence of a man like your father.'

Agnes dropped her eyes and tiirned her face away. Lady
Culross was perfectly sincere in what she was saying. Her
credulity was very great. Agnes wished she could share it.

*So, my dear, when we became such close friends, and he
told me about you and his desire to have you with him, it was
a privilege and a joy to me to say I would do my utmost for
you He told me you were a plain little country girl, who had
never had any advantages. He spoke so beautifully of your
motherless condition that it quite touched my heart; so we
laid our heads together, and made our little plans to take rooms
in the same house, so that I could have you always with me.
I know a number of nice people, although Gilbert has not yet
taken the position he ought to take as Master of Kilmeny. I
am hoping that he will awaken to his responsibility soon.
Meanwhile, my heart is quite at rest {^bout bim, for your father

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON,

147

is taking care of him. But to return to you, my love. A little
country girl, indeed ! — you look like a young princess. But of
course your family, being a branch of the Lauries of Mearns
Castle, is very old and pure. I prophesy you will create quite
a furore ; and we shall see about your frocks to-morrov. Just
think how delightful for me to have a lady to shop with ! My
love, wo will have a splendid time, won't we % '

Agnes was obliged to rise from her chair. She was sick at
heart, — sick with sorrow and shame. Laurie of Mearns Castle !
What would Laay Culross say, were she to learn now that
William Laurie was only the son of a provincial tradesman, and
his wife a farmer's daughter] It was a relief in one sense
when the drawing-room door opened to admit the gentlemen.

'Well, ladies, got your little feminine gossip over, ehl'
William Laurie asked, in a loud, cheery voice; nevertheless
there was a furtive expression of anxiety in his eye as he
looked at liis daughter's face. It was very grave, and her eyes
were troubled. But ho had not yet learned to read her face,
and Lady Culross's expression Avas quite reassuring.

* Oh yes, we have had the most delightful, cosy chat, and we
are the best of friends already,' she said airily. 'It is perfectly
delightful, Mr. Laurie, to have your charming daughter with
us perfectly delightful, is it not, Gilbert \ '

' Ya-as,' Sir Gilbert answered, with a slight yawn, and a glance
of broad admiration at the slender figure and the sweet face of
the girl at the piano.

A strange nervousness had come upon her, and, feeling Sir
Gilbert's eyes following her, she had moved quickly over to the
piano.

' It will be in tune, I suppose ? May I play a little 1 '

' Delightful, delightful, is it not ? " exclaimed Lady Culross.
' Now we shall be a perfect family party.'

William Laurie looked pleased also, taking it as a sign that
Agnes desired at least to make herself agreeable. He had not
the remotest knowledge of her powers or accomplishments, and
was astonished to hear the sweet, full, tuneful melody which
followed her fingers on the keys. Agnes found it a relief to
h^^ve her hands in motion, though the touch of the strange

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148

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

jingling keys did not comfort or soothe like the notes of the
dear old instrument at Laurieston.

But anything was hotter than to be compelled to take par'.
in the strained, unreal conversation in the room.

Sir Gilbert listened with evident pleasure to the music, and
presently shambled over to the piano, and, leaning his elbow on
it, looked down into the player's face.

Agnes played on, trying to feel unconficious of that slow,
intent, admiring g.aze ; but feeling her colour rising, nevertheless,
and the nervousness creeping to her very finger-tips.

* I say, you do it uncommonly well, don't you 1 ' he asked,
finding speech, a most unusual thing for him in the presence of
ladies.

* No ; I am playing very badly. I had better stop,' she said,
with a nervous laugh.

' Oh, I say, don't ; it's Al, you know ; and I can stand here
and look at you,' said Sir Gilbert, with a grin. Agnes looked
up at him with a touch of compassion. She saw that in his
slow, stupid way he was trying to make himself agreeable, and
that he did not mean to be rude.

* I cannot remember anything more,' she said gently. * But
I have some music upstairs, and will play for you another time.'

' Come, then, and have a rubber at whist, you young folks,'
cried William Laurie. 'Did they ever play at Laurieston,
Agnes 1 '

* No ; they had no cards in the house, papa,' Agnes answered,
as she closed the piano.

* Do you hear that. Lady Culross ? No cards in a house full
of young folks, and in the nineteenth century ! We shall have
a job with our little Puritan ; but I think she is going to be
amenable. Come, Agnes, and Sir Gilbert will teach you.
Lady Culross and I will do our utmost not to beat you.'

* I would rather not, papa.'

*I rather you wouhl, my dear,' he answered dryly. 'The
essence of good breeding, my love, is to sink one's own inclina-
tions and consult those of others. But I am forestalling Lady
Culross' lessons in etiquette. Come, Gilbert^ and cut for the
4eal.'

MA I TLA ND OF LAUlilKSTON.

149

Agnes saw that for peace's sake she must give in. She took
her phice at the table, and, when the cards were dealt, tried to
follow the instiuctions given her. If she were to win her father
it must be by gentle means, not by thwarting his wishes at the
very outset. But it was a profitless, uninteresting game, over
which William Laurie lost his temper, in spite of his efforts to
keep it..

'I say, I'm not going to play when Miss Laurie thinks it
such a bore. There's the cards,' said Sir Gilbert, in the middle
of the rubber, emptying his hand on the table. * If it's good
breeding to consult other people's inclinations, we had better
consult hers. It must be awfully stupid for her.'

Agnes was grateful to him. He meant to be kind. A
curious kind of smile dawned upon William Laurie's face, and
with a laugh he threw down his hand, though Lady Cuhoss
looked rather put out. Whist was her hobby, and she could
play well. But it was not her nature to show displeasure ; and
the next moment she was chattering on in her airy fashion,
laying a thousand plans for the days to come. At ten o'clock
they rose to go down to their own rooms, and her good-night to
Agnes was of the most affectionate kind. Sir Gilbert shook
hands with her, but, though he looked earnestly at her, appar-
ently could not find a word to say.

' Sit down a moment, Agnes, unless you are very tired,' her
father said. * We may as well have a little chat the first night.
Well, what do you think of my friends, — are they not charming
people 1 '

* Lady Culross seems very kind, papa. I thought her a little
odd at first, but I think she is kind,' answered Agnes wearily,
longing to be free from the strai.i of that trying day.

' She is as good as gold. I consider myself very fortunate in
having secured her interest in you. My dear, I assure you, if
you only conduct yourself properly, your future is made.'

Agnes did not ask how. She felt too utterly disheartened
even to wonder what he meant. She sat up suddenly, and
looked straight in her father's face with those clear, questioning
eyes of hers, which mirrored her truthful and beautiful soul.

'Papa, Lady Culross seems to be under misapprehension

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150

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

i sh >rm

about some things. What did she mean by saying I was a
connection of the Lauries of Mearns Castle ] Who can have
told her such an absurd thing 1 '

William Laurie was silent a moment, — not conscience-stricken
nor abashed at having his false pretences brought home to him ;
he was only wondering how best to deal with this remarkably
candid and o'ltspoken young woman, who had apparently out-
grown her childish awe of him, and would accept nothing from
him unchallenged.

She was looking steadily at him, and after a moment he
allowed ]<is eyes to meet hers.

' Well, my dear, I did.'

' But, papa, it is not true.'

*My dear Agnes,' said her father suavely, 'you are very
unsophisticated. You are absolutely as ignorant as a babe
unborn. You may believe me, that there are certain circum-
stances in which a slight deviation from the bald truth is
justifiable. Lady Culross has her own pride, — a perfectly
legitimate pride, I admit, — and it would not a ■ 'ow her to recognise
me unless she believed I was a gentleman. I did not tell her a
naked falsehood, Agnes; she inferred that we were of these
Lauries, and I did not contradict her. You should be the very
last to blame me for that, seeing that I had nothing but your
advantage in view. I have given myself a great deal of trouble,
my love, on your account, and I trust that I am to receive some
recognition of it from you. I must say, you are not promising
very hopefully.'

Agnes stood up. Her face was quite pale, her slight hands
clasped before her, her bright steadfast eyes fixed upon his face.
' Papa, I want to understand on what footing I am here. Why
should it be necessary for you to deviate from the truth for n»y
sake? I came, glad and anxious to fill a daughter's place
towards you, — to make a home for you. However humble and
quiet a home it may be, papa, at least let it be unaffected and
true/ she said, speaking with a strange, quiet sadness. ' This
life — at least the glimpse of it I have had to-night — fills me with
distrust and miserable forebodings. I do rot understand it.
Let us go away together, dear papa, and make a little home for

MAtTLANb OF" LAUIitl'lSTOn.

161

ourselves, and I will try to make you liappy. God has shown
me my duty. Help me to do it. I fear it will be very strange
and difficult here.'

There was an indescribable pathos in the girl's words and in
her whole demeanour. She spoke from the heart, and yet hor
words did not strike home. They were received by her father
with a cold, even a contemptuous smile.

' My love, you are reversing our positions, I think. You arc
giving advice, when you need to receive it. But I will forgive
you. You are so ignorant, as I said, of all which at your ago
you should have known. If you are sincere in your desire to
he a dutiful daughter to me, you must allow me to be the judge
of what is best for you. I repeat it, I have your best interests
at heart. Now go up to bed ; you are tired and out of sorts.
To-morrow I hope I shall see a different face opposite :ne at
breakfast. My love, good-night. Be sure to ring for anything
you may require for your comfort.'

He dismissed her with apparent gentleness, yet perehiptorily,
Agnes felt. She allowed him to kiss her, but her heart was as
cold as ice. She felt no thrill of responsive affection go out to
him. She was chilled, chilled to her inmost soul.

A sense of hopelessness, of utter desolation, overwhelmed her
as she shut herself into the cold, strange, unfamiliar room.

The bright hopes and high resolves of the morning were lost
in the darkness of the night. She could do nothing in that
hour of utter weariness and sickness of heart, but put her hands
before her face and helplessly weep.

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CHAPTER XIX.

*Her dadJy forbade, her minnio forbade —

Forbidden she wadiia be ;
She little thought the browst she brewed
Wad taste sae bitterly.'

ROUBLES seemed to be thickening about the house
of Laurieston. After an early hnu;h tliat after-
noon, Ml*. Walter Maitland drove out from Leitli
to see his relatives concerning Willie Laurie. It
had cleared up at mid-<lay, and tlie pale sun was struggling
feebly through the grey i)allor of the sky as he drove up the
avenue to the house. He raised his hat to his sister-in-law,
who sat with hor work at the dining-room window. She rose
at once, called to Katie to send the stable-boy to take ^Ir.
Maitland's horse, and went out to the door-step.

'How do you do, Margaret? I hope I see you welH' said
Vv'alter Maitland, making his biother's wife a profound bow.
His manners were a little formal : he prided himself upon his
rbsoliite precision in everything. His attire was immaculate;
his words were always duly weighed before they were uttered,
the im})ression given being that every word and act was studied
for ellect. He was very handsome, and carried his years well,
facts of which he was perhaps too conscious. But he was an
upright, staunch, conscientious man, whom all were bound to
respect, although his little foiljles were very ajjiiarcuit.

' I am quite well, thank you, Walter ; a little. sadd(!ned by
the event of the da^/ said M:^. Maitland, with a slight smile.

' How did you leave Env^a 1 '

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MAITLAND OF LAUItTKSTON.

153

'As usual. Slif liivs bocn in the draw in<^'- room these two
aftoruoons. I Iiojh' Michael is at honiel'

'Ilo is on the farm, niid can lie yot easily. Have you hud
(liiiiu'r *? '

' I lunched in town, thank you ; we dine late, you know,' he
said, and, as the lail apijcared to take his trap, he followed Mrs.
Maitland into the house. ' Yes, it woul ^ l)e ratluir a surprise
to you to see Laurie i)h<i last night. AVhat does the man
mean 1 '

' Ah, if we knew that, Walter, our minds might bo more at
rest. Effie, it ia Uncle Walter.'

'How do you do. Uncle Walter?' said EITie demurely,
extending her soft plump hand, and looking as innocent as
])ossible, though it was her habit in private to mimic his
fastidious nuuiner, and slow, precise, careful speech, so diiferent
from her father's blunt address. Walter Maithuid's demeanour
towards his brother's family was distinctly patronizing ; and the
yo'ing folks, being very high-spirited, res(!nted it thoroughly.
It had grown upon him without doubt since he married a fine-
lady wife, and there was a gulf tixed betrt'een Seafield and
Laurieston. Even the students, who might be supposed to
have culture enough to satisfy their fastidious relatives, seldom
went to Seatleld.

' You are improving, EfFie,' said Uncle Walter, looking
critically at the dainty figure and fresh roseleaf face of his
niece. ' Margaret, your young people are really beginning to
he a great credit to you.'

' I have always thought them that, Walter,' she answered,
with a quiet dignity which another man would have taken as
a reproof. ' Shall I send for Michael at once 1 He comes in
for a cup of tea with me generally about four. He will be sure
to come to-day. He knows I am vexed.'

' Oh, there is no hurry. My horse must get a breath.
You'll miss the girl. I admired the little I saw of her. She
s(!emed very modest and unussuming. I wish the lad iia'i gone
with his father too, Margaret. That's my business to-d?iy. I
am afraid we can't retain him in the office any longer. He has
grown very careless of late, and is not beliaving himself at all.

% ■ '■'

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154

M AIT LAN I) OF LAUlitESTO]^.

1 'I

No later than Monday night he had the inipeitincnce to come
into the house the worse of liquor. If Emma had seen him, or
known of it, I am certain she would have put him out at once.'

Margaret Maitland was silent a moment. Effie made a
sudden movement, but neither noticed just then the expression
in her face.

' I am very sorry to hear this, Walter,' sa'd Mrs. Maitland,
and the shadow deepened on her brow. Ellen's children were
ii heavy care to her.

' I regret to have to complain,* said Mr. Walter Maitland, in
his formal way. * Personally, I might tolerate it a little lonf,er ;
but it has been going on for some time, — latterly in the face of
])ointed warnings and rebukes, — and Mr. Grier's patience is
exhausted, I can see.'

• Does he stay out late 1 '

• As late as he dare, our doors being locked before eleven.
But he never spends an evening in the house, and his work is
done in a very slipshod manner. His abilities are good ; but I
fear he is just his father's son.'

Margaret Maitland sighed. What could she say 1 Her fear.s
were only being realized. For some time past her anxiety
concerning the wayward boy had been very great. She
happened to glance across at Effie, who sat by the fire, and she
gave a great start ; for the colour was all out of the girl's ruddy
cheeks, and the tears were trembling on her eyelashes. It gave
the mother a shock, but she strove to hide it from Walter
Maitland.

* We must see what Michael thinks. He was saying only
the other day he would ask you to get Willie a place with some
of your agents in Holland. Effie, dear, just run out and see if
father is about,* she said; and in a moment Effie was gone.
Then the mother breathed more freely. ' Sometimes if a way-
ward boy is removed from all his old associations, he picks up,
Walter. It might be so with him.*

* I am not hopeful, Margaret. He is too like his father.
Inherited evU is not easily combated. I should not care to
recommend him to any of our agents. Indeed, I could not
conscientiously do it.*

MA I TLA ND OF LA UttlKSTOl^.

155

* j\ot recommend ; but you might lay the case before them.
Surely one kind soul might be found to give him a fair chancel'

* So like a woman,' laughed Walter Maitland. * Even the
kindest souls require steadiness and integrity in those they
employ. It is a great pity he did not go off to-day, too. Why
did he not?'

* He refused ; and I was not sorry, Walter. I do not think
Williaiu Laurie has improved. I cannot suifer the thought of
the life to which he may introduce Agnes. His associates
cannot be fit for her. She is a very pure-minded, high-souled
woman, Walter. I have known none more so.*

Walter Maitland shrugged his shoulu rs.

* The fact is, Margaret, I warned you and Michael well when
Ellen wrote first. It is always a risk undertaking tlie care of
other people's children. I was amazed that Michael entertained
the idea for a moment. It was most unlike his usual hard-
hcadedness, and I told him so at the time.'

Margaret Maitland could find nothing to say. She had but
little in common with this fine gentleman. His self-righteous-
ness was much more offensive than ^lichael's, because it was
less humble and more obtrusive. Walter Maitland always put
her out of sorts. She looked anxiously at the clock, hoping
her husband would soon come in, in case she should say some-
thing to give offence. She heard the heavy familiar foot
presently, and, when Laurieston came striding into the room,
his wife slipped out, under pretence of ordering tea, — in reality
to see where Effie was. She gave Katie the order, and ran
upstairs, to find, as she expected, the lassie crying her heart
out in her own room. ' Effie, what is the matter 1 Nothing has
happened to make you break your heart,' said the mother, with
a sharpness born of her motherly pain and fear.

* Oh, that horrid Uncle Walter ! I just hate him. He is so
patronizing, and thinks himself so fine ! ' sobbed Elfie. ' And
I don't believe a word he says about Willie. It's all Aunt
Emma, I believe.*

♦Effie!'

* Well, I don't care. I will stand up for Willie. Every-
body is down on him, and praising up Nannie. Of course I

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MAITLANl) OF LAUIUIISTON.

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like Nannio ; hut it's a shamo. Willio has never had a ohuiico
And I don't wonder he doesn't spend his evening's in Scalu'ld.
He would he deiid if ho did. It's worse than a piisoji.'

Mrs. ^laitland took Effie by the shoulders and sho(jk Imr.

'Eflie, you are making a fool of yourself, ii.nd talking,' as
you have no right to do about such worthy jjeoplo as your
Uncle Walter and Aunt Emma. I am very angry with you.
Do you hear 1 '

'I don't care. Nobody understands me but Willie, and I
like him better than anybody in the world; and I'll b(i his
wife some day too, in spite of everybody, just to show that I
don't believe the horrid lies people tell.'

Elfie had wrought herself into such a hysterical state that
she might be speaking at random ; but the words foil like
lead upon her mother's ear and heart. She relaxed her hold
and sank into a chair.

•My poor, niisguidcid, silly bairn ! Ood help you ! '

These low, broken words nical.ed EIHc to a sense of M'hat
she owed her mother, Wluai she saw the eflect of her wild
talk, the quick, warm heart of the bairn overflowcnl with peni-
tent sorrow. She fell on her knees at her mother's side, and,
clasping her arms round her waist, cried impulsively, —

* Dear, darling, lovely mother, forgive me. I'm a jjerfect,
wretch ; but I gut mad, and didn't know what I was saying,
I didn't mean to vex: you. I wouldn't do anything in the
world to hurt you. Oh, tell me you forgive me.'

Margaret Maitland took the pretty tear-stained face in her
dear hands, and looked into it with the pathos of motherhood
in her eyes.

' Effie, tell me truly, — do you care for Willie in that
way 1 '

* Oh, mother, I do, I do ! I am so glad to tell you,' cried
the impulsive creature, finding relief in pouring all her heart
out. *I will never like anybody in the world so well in
that way.'

'And — and — is there any understanding between youl'
she pursued calmly, though her heart was weighed down with
pain.

MA IT LAND OF LAURTESTON.

157

'Yoa; — at least,* said Effio, with a lovely blush, 'ho know8
I — I — that I'll ninvry him some tlay.'

* ( )li, my lassie, (!od guide you hoth ! ' said Margaret Mait-
land, with quivering lips, 'Wo will talk further about this
again. I am glad you liavo given mo your confidence at length,
Ellic ; it will guide me how to act.*

* And you are not angry, dear mother? I ought not to have
told, — it was Willie's secnit too, mother,' cried Effie, clinging to
her mother's skirts as she rose.

'I had hoped none of my bairns would ever need to keep
a secret from me. No, I am not angry. Some day, when
you have children of your own, Effie, you will understand,
porhaps, what I feel. Let me go down now. Yes — yes — I
will kiss you. There ! there ! my poor lassie !*

' Don't tell father yet, mother. I think he'll be angry.'

* Father must be told this very day. Effie, "ou forget what
you are saying. I tliink, bairn, you need not fear. You are
the very light of his eye. You will never get any one in the
world to love you as your father loves you.'

' But he is so hard on anybody who — who — isn't just as
gooil as he thinks right, and there's that horrid Uncle Walter
telling him the most atrocious things at this very moment.
Oh, mother, when you go down, stick up for Willie, for my
sake ! *

It was an irresistible appeal, because it was so utterly
unreasonable, so like a woman in love. It made the mother
smile.

' Effie, you are but a child, not eighteen yet ; and to speak
of marrying — bairn, bairn, you don't know what you are
speaking about. But I must go down. You stay here, and let
me settle it quietly.*

So saying, Margaret ^faitland returned to the dining-room
Avith a new care upon her heart.

The brothers were sitting opposite each other, talking gravely
over the misdeeds of Will Laurie's son.

' This is an ill account o' the lad, Maggie,* said Laurieston,
looking at his wife as she entered.

' Yes, Michael, it is,' she answered quietly, and, closing the

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158

MA IT LAN I) OF LAUIilKSTON.

door, sat down hotwccn tlicm. Slio looked liositatin^^'ly a
moment at Walter Maitland, wishinj^, with a touch of piido,
perhaps, that she hnd not to a.sk a favour from him. But it
must bo done, for KIRe's pnko.

* I hope, Wnltcr,' she said (iui(!tly, ' that you will give the
laddie another clianco. I think ho has not boon guilty yet of
any very grave ollVnco.*

* lie is not steady, Margaret, and it is absolutely imperative
that wo should be able to trust all those in our employ. Our
firm has always b(!en ablu to boast of the integrity of its
employees. I fear ho must go.'

' I want to ask a favour from you, Walter, — the first, I think,
I have ever asked,* she said hurriiidly. • Try to get him a
place elsiiwhcro, — in Glasgow or Abordcen, — if you think there
is no opening abroad.'

Walter Maitland shook his head.

'Both Michael and you will remember how disappointed
I was at not getting your son, and how reluctant to take
Laurie. I should be glad to oblige you again, but I really
don't think I can in this instance.'

' It is a family matter, Walter,' Margaret said ; and then she
turned to her husband — 'Michael, you must help me. Two
things are of great importance, — that Willio shindd be sent
away for a little, and given a chance to get on. Can't you
guess why 1 '

' No ; riddles are no' in my way. Speak plain, Maggie,'
rejjlied Laurieston aljruptly.

* It is Ellic, father. You were right, and I was wrong.
There has boon a talk between them. Tho silly bairns think
they are in love, and Effie speaks about marrying as if it were
taking her dinner,' she answered, with an uncertain smile. ' I
hope it will come to nothing ; but we must manage it very
quietly and cautiously, without appearing to thwart them.
Effie is very headstrong.'

* Ay ; but she'll hae to take ay or no this time,' said Laurie-
ston, with exceeding bitterness. ' Walter, you may thank
Providence ye hae nae bairns. Thoy are mair bother than
they're a' wortbt'

«Tt cert
have been
Maitbvnd
Miiihaell'
• Appn
Mi<'ba»^
and his br
' I wad
Never, w
while I li>

MA IT LAND OF LAVIilKSTON.

109

•Tt ccrtninly Rcoms nxtrnnrdinnry that a lovo affair shouM
havi) been curriiul ho far and not bcscn olmorvod,' naid Walter
M.'iitland dryly. ' Yuu dun't approve of the matuli, tlien,
Midiacir

' Approve I '

Michaol Maitland brmi{,'ht his clenched fist down on his knee,
and IiIh brows j,'row black as night.

• I wad ratlior see K(fie in her grave than wife to a Lauri<'.
Never, while I live, shuU she take him wi' my consent ; novei
while I live.*

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=s=

CHAPTER XX.

i M

1 n

' Ifowo'er it came to tlipc,
Thine, pilgrim, is tUo labt and heaviest losBt'

FFIE appeared at the tea-table with wry red eyes,
and a rather defiant expression of countenance,
which her motlier was grieved to see. It boded
ill for the satis'" .ctory arrangement of this un-
pleasant aflFair. Contrary to his wont, her father never spoke
to her, and it was a silent, uncomfortable meal. Wat, a
discreet youth, saw that there was thunder in the domestic
atmosphere, and held his peace.

*Effie,' Laurieston said, when they rose from the table,
* bide here ; I have something to say to you. Wat, ye can
look in to the stable ; I heur the men in aboot.*

Effie sat down, trying to look careless and unconcerned.
Her father's voice was very grave; displeasure sat upon his
brow. Mrs. Mf atland took up her sewing and put in a few
random stitches. She remained to keep these two strong wills
from clashing, and to pour the oil of her sweetness upon the
troubled waters. But for the gentle spirit which continu.iiiy
dwelt with the mistress of Laurieston, it eould not have been
even as united a household as it was. She knew very well
that her husband, with all his love for Effie, had not the
slightest idea of her self-will, and even obstinacy of temper.
As he had habitually indulged her, she had r ever shown it to
him. Very often the mother had felt herself obliged to deal
sharply and sternly with her only daughter, in justice to herself
and the ^irl. As was his wont, Maitland went straight to the
point at once.

MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

161

' Your Uncle Walter has been hero, Effio, as yc ken, an' his
complaint was aboot Willie Laurie. Ho is not a well-doing
lad, an' they canna keep him.'

EfHe bit her lip, and tore a little hole in the lace edging of
her apron.

* I was not greatly surprised, fur I have not thought a groat
ileal of Willie for a while back. Tt seems ye have been thinkiu'
owcr muckle ab.iot him; ye'll need to think less, my lassie.
That's what I have to say to you.'

Over her sewing !Mrs. ^laitland had almost smiled. It was
so like a man, — so like her husband, — to lay down his com-
mand, and look for instant obedience.

Elfic never spoke, but her eyes hid rebellion in their sunny,
blue dei)ths.

' I may as weel tell ye, ainco for a', that if sic a thing has
over been in your head, Effie, ye may put it oot for ever. If
Willie Laurie should ever hae the presumption to ask me for
you, my answer wad be — No. I'm sayin' it to you, aince an'
for a'.'

Edie's eyes flashed, but she never spoke a word.

* Your uncle has promised to look oot for a place for Willie
either in Aberdeen or Glasgow, or may be abroad, for a year at
least. In the meantime, he'll no come back to Laurieston ; an'
tluTo's to be nae writin' back an' forrit between yon an' him.
D'ye hear what I'm sayin' ? '

' Yes, I hear,' Effie answered quietly enough ; but the
mother's anxious ear detected the sullen ring in it.

' Weel, see an' mind it, then,' Laurieston said, still sternly ;
for he had laid the thing sorely to heart, and was bitterly
disappointed at Effie's folly. ' An' 'low that Agnes is awa', see
that ye be of some use to your mother. That'll set ye better
than speakin' silly nonsense to a wastrel like Willie Laurie. It's
time enough for you to be thinkin' on a man five year efter this.'

Effie got up and ran out of the room, pulling the door after
her with a bang. Mrs. Maitland laid down her sewing, and
lifted her anxious eyes to her husband's face.

* May be you said too much, Michael,' she said gently. * It
might have been bettor to leave the thing alone.'

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162

MAITLAXD OF LAURIESTON.

-. h

'No, no, Maggie; I dinna Ijclicvc in lettin' things alone,
especially wi' bairns. Tliey maun be telt what's richt and
-vvrang. I dinna think there'll be ony niair hot- .or Avi' tliat.
She (liflna socni very vexed like.'

Mrs. Maitland did not like to say that she feared Effip's
silence was not perhaps the most hopeful sign. She was not
herself Jess anxious than before.

' I dinna ken how it is, Maggie, but it seems as if the bairns
we've tried to rear in the fear of the Lord are growin' up to lio
a heartbreak to us. I believe Walter is best oif, efter a', that
hasna nane.'

* Oh, father, you don't know what you are saying. What
would Laurieston be without the bairns'? And what a hard
man you would have been ! It's the bairns that have kept your
heart green.'

*I like the bairns weel enough, but it's a terrible thing to see
them gaun astray. They are a kind o' fearfu' joy, Maggie, at
the best.'

Her heart was sore for him. She knew that, like Jacob of
old, he wrestled in prayer for his children's souls.

'The bairns, Michael, have not yet given us nnich anxiety,'
she maintained, with a smile. ' The sons are as steady as the
Bass, and I hope — I hope this little waywardness of Eflie's will
pass away, and that we will see her married to some honest,
God-fearing man yet.'

* Ay, ay, I hope so. There's less care, Maggie, when ye can
skelp them an' put them to their beds for a taut,' he said, as he
took up his cap. * But I'm no feared for Effie. She kens
when I say a thing I mean it. I canna have Willie Laurie
comin' oot even for a nicht afore he gangs awa'. I fear I mich^
say something to him neither him nor me wad forget. You
can write to him and explain it to him in your ain way. I'm
no' for nae mair ill words in this house. There's been ower
mony this while.'

So saying, and having to his own satisfaction settled the
whole question, Laurieston went off to the stable. His wife
sat still in the shadowy gloaming, with her head leaning on her
hand, her face wearing a look of deep, anxious thought. Care

M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

103

weighed upon her heart ; and in that still, quiet time she looked
up to heaven, and asked that the bairns might be kept, and
that she, their mother, might be guided how to guide them
wherein they still required her motherly counsel. Margaret
Maitland's faith was very perfect. She verily leaned upon the
promises. Without the belief that God cared for her and hers,
she could not have lived. She did not seek i)eace in vain.
The assurance came to her that they icouhl be kept and guided.
She felt almost as if an angel had Avhispered to her the precious
words of promise : * All things work together for good to them
that love God.'

Her silent and sweet communion with the T^nseen was
broken by the opening of the outer door, and a heavy foot in
the hall. She rose up to ring for the lamp ; but just then the
room door opened, and John came in. The sight of him was
like wine to her heart.

• Oh, my laddie ! '

Her motherly voice trembled, and John took her in his arms,
and she felt sheltered in his strong clasp. There was almost
an element of lover's love between these two.

' Did you know I was hungering for you, John ? '

*I don't know, mother; I knew I wanted you badly. I
couldn't stay after the classes. What does all this mean, and
why is Nannie away 1 *

She did not grudge the passionate lingering of his voice over
that dear name, for to see Agnes Laurie John's wife was the
greatest desire of her heart. She believed that each was
necessary to the other, and that their union would be one more
blessed than is common.

' Sit down, and I'll tell you all I know ; but oh, John, it is
not much. Did you see her this morning, and Michael ? '

• I did, mother ; but Michael would not go. He is a queer
chap, Mike, mother. Fo got quite white when the telegram
came, and he would not go to the station.'

* That was curious, and him so fond of Agnes. Did he not
say anything 1 '

* Not a word ; but he did not turn up at any of the classes.
I say, though, he has not taken her away for good, has he 1 '

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

'Ah, that's what I don't know, John. I expect she'll stny
there until you take her away,' said the mother, with a smile
full of tender moaniiif?.

*I will take her some day, mother,' John answered, as ho
began to walk up and down the room. * I wish I know what
her father wants her now for. Do you think it is b(!cause of
Hallcrossl'

'No, I dofi't think so. "VVe must bo just, my son, even
when we find it easier to be harsh. Lut iio has some motive.
I am hoping that when Agnes writes, she will bo - jIc to make
some things plain to us. But, John, there is another trouhlo
with Willie and Effie. Did you know there was anythmg
between tliemi'

'No!'

Complete surprise sat on John's face.

' The foolish bairns imagine themselves in love. There has
even been a talk of inarriiige between them. Your Uncle
Walter has been here to-day complaining of Willie, and that
was how it came out. Father was very angry, and says Willie
can't come hack to Laurieston, even to fay good-bye. Uncle
Walter has promised to try and get him a situation out of
Leith.'

* Why, mother, I never heard of such a thing. What can
Effie see in Will ? '

Margaret Maitland sh^ok her head.

'That's what neither you nor I can know, John; but she
sees something. She is very self-willed. I hope there will bo
no more trouble with her.'

' It is very disappointing. There's Phil Robertson, motlici,
would give his right hand for Effie, though she's so different
from him. You would give her to Phil, wouldn't you, without
any misgivings ? He is a splendid fellow.'

* He is — T like him very much, John ; but your father would
never consent to that either, on account of his religious views,
or rather his lack of them.'

* Well, I don't think it would be right to stand in the way
for that,' said John gloomily. * Father is very narrow, llo
expects every man to cut his creed after his prescribed pattern.

M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

1(55

Men who liave thought out the great problem of life for them-
selves will not be so bound down. Mother, do you think
Robertson's ideal of life's purpose can be ignoble, when you see
the results ] '

' I desire to judge no man, John ; but I think that love for
Christ as his Saviour Avould put the crown to Kobertson's
character.'

John shook his head.

* That will never be. He admires the Chriat as a man, a
perfect example of a consecrated life ; but does not believe in
His divine attributes.'

'Is it the new fashion to speak of the Christ, Johni It is
not necessary. There is no other. Oh, my son, I hope you
have not followed in Robertson's footsteps. He promised, me
lasi autumn, Avhen he was here, that he would do nothing to
undermine your faith.'

'lie has kept that promise, then. Ke has maddened me
often by refusing even to speak on these subjects. But,
mother, I am not one to accept any man's convictions without
question. I have thought about it all, — battled with it until
my brain has been in a whirl ; and I don^t see anything a man
can lay hold on. There is nothing we can really know.*

'Oh, John, when you look around on the vast scheme of
creation, — when you look in upon yourself, and think of the
mystery and mercy of yoar being, — how can you doubt the
existence of God '/ What is it you want to know ? He reveals
Himself to us everywhere.'

' You are satisfied with that, mother,* said John hopelessly ;
'I cannot be. I was reading a curious little poem the other
(lay, about a band of pilgrims M'h.i had met to recount their
losses and sorrows. After the vest uad told their tale, one suid,

"Sail losses have ye met,
But mine is heaviev yet ;
For the believing heart hath gone from me."

I am thiit pilgrim, mother.'

' Ku, r.). my son ; the believing heart is only clouded by the
mists of doubt,' the mother answered, trying to smile and to be
calm. ' If a mother's prayers can avail, these mists will be chased

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

away soon by the shining of tlie strong Sun of Righteousness.
You are very young yet, John, and have not felt the need of
God. You have allowed yourself to drift with the tide of the
philosophy you are studying. The ebb-tide will bring you
back.'

• Mother, if father were to hear me, he would put me out of
the house,' said the young man, with a fleeting melancholy
siiiiK'. ' His religion isn't like yours, — it is without mercy.
But I am going to tell him. I will not come here under false
prcitences ; and, feeling as I do, I can't listen to him at the read-
iug, nor go to church. I won't be a hypocrite, even if it should
mean coming home no more.*

' My son, you are hard upon your father. He has been a
good father to you.'

• I am not complaining of that, and I try not to be hard.
Michael is his favourite, and I don't wonder at it. I am a
cross-grained beggar, and always was. Perhaps there would be
more peace in the house on Sundays if I didn't come.'

*It would be no trial to you, then, not to come?'
John did not answer. He had paused, with his hands in
his pockets at the darkened window, against which the rose
branches were tapping eerily, being swayed by the cold night
wind.

• Then another thing, mother,' he began, exactly as if he had
not heard the question. ' The world is so full of misery and
injustice. It is the good who suffer and the wicked who
flourish. If there wr.s a God of love and mercy. He could not
bear to ' ave things in such a chaotic state. He has endowed
us with reason, which revolts against the very ordering of our
lives. I tell you a man can't face these things calmly and not
rebel.'

'It is the waywardness of youth, John. I cannot ar;;ue with
you ; only I believe that through the discipline of life God will
lead you back to Himself. Nothing but your own helplessness
will make you feel your need. I could bear to see you sutler,
my son, for that end,'

' Motiier, I have vexed your heart, but it is such a relief to
speak. There are so few one can speak to,' he said impulsively.

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

167

*I thank God my son can speak to his mother from his
heart,' Margaret Maitland answered, in full, tremulous tones ;
and then a silence fell upon them, and only the strong cadences
of the wind filled their ears.

'Phil is going over to Leipsic at Easter, mother, and I have
niaile up my mind to go with him. He is only going to utilise
his holiday for perfecting himself in the language ; hut I'll
likely stay all winter. Aunt Leesbeth bade me spend some of
her money in going to Germany,' John said at length.

* Did she know anything about your state of mind 1 '
' Yes ; we had a long talk that day she died.'

* Does Agnes know ? '

* No, Agnes does not know,' John answered ; and his mother
saw his face change.

' Have you never thought Lliat that might be a barrier
between you ? '

' I do not believe it would. Her charity is large enough,'
John answered quickly. 'There is no narrowness about Iter
creed.'

*No; but her faith is a great deal to her. It is her very life.
Do you think for a moment, John, that a woman like Agnes
could be happy with a husband who, while he did not openly
ridicule or meddle with her religion, utterly denied it 1 That
would be how you would stand towards each other.'

'I do not believe it would come between Uf?,' John said
passionately. ' Wo could be hai)py without that.'

' You might ; I do not know. She would not. If she had to
keep her inner sanctuary veiled from you, it would break her
heart. She has high ideals, John. Marriage for hor must bo
perfect oneness of soul, or nothiiiy'. Dearly as I love you both,
and fervent as is my wish to see you husband and wife, I
could not rejoice to see you married unless that obstacle were
removed.'

John smiled. That, to him, seemed no obstacle. If Agnes
loved him, as he hoped and believed, he would enter upon life's
journey with her without a misgiving or a tl^ubt. Youth
claims freedom as its heritage, and deems its love omnipotent.

Experience, with large, wise eyes, looks on and prays.

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CHAPTEK XXI.

' I am 80 home-sick in this summer weather I
Where is my homo upon this weary earth?'

LONG string of cabs, with a sprinkling of private
carriages, stood before the door of 38 Arundel
Mansions. Lady Culross was giving an 'At
Homo ' in honour of her young friend, Miss Agnes
Laurie. Her rooms, being on the first floor, were larger and
more imposing than those occupied by the Lauries ; ntivertheless
their capacity was strained to the utmost limit, and there was
not an inch of available space. It was Lent week ; and though
Lady Culross explained to Agnes that all the best people were
out of town, she had managed to gather together a large
assemblage. Lady Culross was in her element, her jproti'i/c
scarcely so. The crowd bewildered her ; and there Avas some-
thing besides, — she felt that she was being introduced to
people under false pretences. She repeatedly heard tbe words
* Mearns Castle,' and knew that Lady Culross, in all good faitli,
was airing what she believed to bo true, that her young friend
belonged to one of the best Scottish families. To a person i)f
Agnes Laurie's strong principles and absolute truthfulness, such
a thought was intolerable. It robbed her manner of its wontoil
ease and grace ; ii was evident even to the unthinking butter-
flies, who uttered their complimentary speeches, that she was
either very a^vkward and shy, or very stilf and unpleasant.

Neither William Laurie nor Sir Gilbert were present at the
earliest stage of this entertainment : there were, indeed, very
few gentlemen, the set with which Lady Culross's son was most
intimate not being, as a class, given to attending afternoon teas.

MAITLANl) OF LAUniESTOX.

Ico

Lnily Culross had a wide acquaintaiiRo, though not in the Lest
society. Iler husband's people, well born and well connected,
had absolutely and persistently ignored her since the day she
entered their family. Not being of gentle birth herself, she
had no friends within the magic pale of what the world calls
' society.' She had therefore been obliged to seek friends for
herself ; and these were not difficult to find. There were many
to whom her title was dazzling, and who were glad to pay court
to her in order to have the nume of 'dear Lady Culross' on
their visiting-list. Then she was so thoroughly amiable, that
it was impossible not to be attracted by her. Even those Avho
laughed at her little vanities respected her for her kindness of
heart. She was the queen of the social circle in which she
moved, and was perfectly happy in it, although it was several
degrees removed from the high plane ujjou which the other
branches of the Kilmeny family stood. As was to be expected,
Lady Culross's crowd of admirers and sycophants were ready to
fall at the feet of the aristocratic-looking young lady she had
taken under her wing. It amused Agnes a little, but also wearied
her. It was as hollow and unreal as the soap-bubbles the children
blow away in the sunny air. About five o'clock the atmosphere
of the rooms became very heated, even though the windows
were wide open : the day was so close and sultry, that scarcely
a breath of air was stirring. The musicians whom Lady Culross
had hired to amuse her guests, had performed their last piece,
greatly, it must be confessed, to their own and their listeners'
relief. It was no easy task to sing or to listen in that noisy
and close atmosphere. Talk was at its height, and the people
seemed to be enjoying themselves best during the few minutes
left before the entertainment broke up. Lady Culross, attired
iu a very gay, light-coloured silk, was the centre of an eager,
admiring throng. Agnes was by her side, — a slim, girlish-look-
ing figure in white, a silver girdle clas[)ing her slender waist,
and silver bracelets of the same exquisite workmanship on her
round, white arms. Her golden-brown hair was gathered up
behind with two massive silver pins ; her whole api)earance was
winning and striking in the extreme. The ornaments were
her chaperon's gift ; but Agnes had chosen her own dress, and

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it became her well. She luiJ not much to say for horscjf in
the midst of that gay throng; her face, even in the merry clialtcr
going on about her, wore a far-oil" expression, and her eyes liail
depths in them which memory haunted. A close observer
could have told at once that lier heart was far away. So
t.. ought one, an uninvited guest, who slipped into the drawing-
room a few minutes before live, and stood just behind the door,
half-hidden by the tall, drooping leaves of a palm. No one
paid any heed to him ; and it was only when the guests liegan
to leave that he felt himself observed. He walked forward
then, right up the long room; and while Lady Culross was
busy shaking hands with the parting guest, Agnes saw him.
Then her listlessness vanished, the colour leajied to hi.'r check,
the light to her eyes, — for it was one who could bring her news
of home. She abruptly left the gentleman to whom she was
speaking .and approached the stranger with outstretched hand.

* Oh, Mr. Kobertson, I am so very glad to see you ! When
did you come ? How good of you to seek me out ! '

Philip Robertson could jiot but smile. There was no mis-
taking the warmth of his welcome ; no mistaking, either, the
loyalty of Agnes Laurie's heart. ' I came this morning. It is
our Easter recess, you know. I lost no time in coming to
inquire for you. Thev assured me downstairs that Lady
Culross would be delighted to see me if I was a friend of
yours. As I am the uninvited guest, you must present me.
Which is Lady Culross?'

* She will be here presently. Of course she will be delighted
to see you. Nobody could bo kinder than she,' said Agnes
breathlessly. 'Do come and sit down, and tell me everything
about dear Laurieston. To think you saw it only yesterday ! '

'Not yesterday,' he said gently, smiling down into the
beautiful face, roused from its apathy into new and exquisite
life. ' I spent last Sunday at Laurieston, however. They do
not know I am here. I ran up on a little business : I return
by the mail to-night. Of course you know Jack and I are
going off to Leipsic next wcekl '

' Yes, I knew that. But how did the exams, come off? How
have the boys done ? *

« Splen
round.

broke

MAITLAND OF LAUniESWN.

171

* Splendidly, as we expected. John is an honours man all
round. Michael has done well, too.'

' Oh, how glad I am ! Uncle Michael will bo pleased.'

• He is certainly pleased with Michael's success.'

• And John's also, surely 1 ' she said inquiringly. And
Robertson, seeing she knew nothing of the breach between
John and his father, only answered, —

*Woll, yes, he must be. He is the most distinguished
student of his year. But how are you ? Well and hai)py, I
trust? I should like to carry back a good account of you.'

* I am very well, and — and — yes, you may say I am hai)py, I
suppose. I have everything I can desire. I should be ungrate-
ful if I were discontented ; but London is not Laurieston.'

♦ You are changed,' he said, with an abruptness of manner
which surprised her.

* How ? Not for the worse, I hope 1 ' she asked, with a slight
smile, which had not a touch of coiiuetry in it.

♦ No. I should not dare to say what I think, or you would
road me one of your sweet, serious lectures. Those were
])leasant Sunday afternoons under the hawthorn at Laurieston,
Miss Agnes.'

Her soft eyes filled ; the proud, sweet mouth quivered ; and
he saw he had touched t tender spot. He was perfectly satislied
for his friend's sake. The woman John loved was absolutely true.

' My love, where are you ? ' Lady Culross's chirruping voice
broke the spell. 'Come, you must bid good-bye to tl)e
Tremaiues. Lut, my dear, who is this 1 I beg pardon, — a
stranger, I think ? '

• Yes ; a gentleman from Scotland, a very old friend of my
dear friends there. May I present him to you ? Mr. Robertson,
Lady Culross.'

Lady Culross had her sweetest smile and her kindest word
for the stranger from Scotland. But while she gave him her
ell'usive greeting, the sharp eyes behind the double eye-glass
w^ere taking him in from top to toe ; and her scrutiny being
satisfactory to herself, her manner gained in cordiality.

' ISfr. Robertson will stay, my love, and have a quiet cup of
tea after the crowd has gone ; then you can talk to your hearts*

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MAITLANI) OF LAni/ESTOiV.

content. Excuse nic, Mr. Rolicrtson, if I stoul ^fiss Laurie for i;
moment. There are homw IVicndH, just leaving', dyinj,' to make
an engurjcment f(jr lier to sjMaul a long tlay at Henley. Pray
find u Siiat, and we shall be l)ack to y(tu directly.'

Just as the last guests were departing, William Laurie and
Sir Gilbert entered the room.

' We owe you a lh(nisand apologies, Lady Culross/ said the
former impressively. * We hoped to be in time, but positively
this boy would not hurry.'

' Not likely,' laughed Sir Gilbert. * Kettledrums are not in
my line, and the olil lady knows it. But, I say, who ia thisl'
he added, staring blankly at the dark strangisr standing at one
of the open windows.

* Oh, papa,' said Agnes quickly, * this is Mr. Robertson, a
student friend of Mr. Maitland's sons. He had only an hour or
two to spare in London. It was so good of him to call for me.*

* Very good indeed,' said William Laurie dryly, and acknow-
ledging the stranger by the slightest inclination of the head ;

* and very good of Lady Culross to receive Mr. Robertson on so
slight an introduction.'

Agnes flushed painfully. The tone and manner were even
more offensive than the words.

' Lady Culross was good enough to assure me I diil not
intrude, Mr. Laurie,' said Philip Robertson, not in the least
disconcerted by the rudeness of William Laurie's reception ;

* but as I have satisfied myself that Miss Laurie is well, I can
take back with me a good account to the friends at Laurieston.'

' I beg, sir, that you will do nothing of the kind,' retorted
William Laurie sharply. 'These people, who were paid for
th(dr attention to my daughter, have no right to pry into her
j)resent circumstances. If they have sent you here for such a
purpose, you can tell them so, with my compliments.'

The colour left the face of Agnes, and she grew quite white.
A slight smile, full of meaning, curled Philip Robertson's lip ;
and, with a fine ease and indifference, he turned his back and
addressed himself to Lady Culross, who had now enteriid the
inner room, though not in time to hear either William Laurie's
insulting speech or Robertson's reply.

MA rrr.A m) of la unri'isroN.

17a

'Si> ynii hiivo cdiiip from Scotland ?' slu^ snid airily, and
with a iicrfcct cordiality, for hIio saw at onco tlnit Kolxirtsoii
was a ^'ontlcnian. 'And what do you think of my sweet girl?
ConfeHH, now, that hIio has vastly in-nrovedl A^'nes, my love,
como and make tea for your friend. And where have you
two nau;^'hty hoys been all day 1 Shame not to honour my
friends with your j)rc'8ence ! I do not know Avhiidi to scold
most vij,'orously.'

A<,nies moved to the tea-tahle with a swift stop. But for
the entreating look in her eyes, Robertson would have li^ft her
at once. IIo saw, nu)r(!0vcr, thiit she was anxious to speak
with him, and so, ignoring the scowl on William Laurie's face,
lie foUowed her to tlu! other side of the room.

' I nmst apologise; for my father, Philip,' she said, in a low
voice, and ho saw her hands tremhlo ns she touched the tea-cup.
'Do not, I beg of you, say anything of it at home. I cannot
think he means what ho says. He may have been annoyed
outside. T assure you I am very hai»[)y, — as happy as I can bo
away from I.aurieston. You can see for yourself how kind a
friend I have in Lady Culross.'

' ] )o not apologise, Miss Agnes ; and you may trust mo
l)erfectly,' he said, •with an eanu-st look which went to her
]i(!art. He was unspeakably touched l)y her whole demeanour.
If not unhappy, she was at least out of her eli'iuent. There
could be nothing in common between her and tli ■ fashionable,
somewhat dissipated-looking man she called father. Kobertson
had a singularly clear penetration, and in these fe .v moments
had accurately gauged the character of William Laurie. IIo
felt towards Agnes as to a dcsar sister, and more,— she was the
woman John loved. If ho had never seen her till now, that
aloiK! singled her out among women for him.

' They are feeling a little at Laurieston that you do not write
oftcncr,' ho said, in a low voice.

' I know ; but I cannot. Tell Aunt Maggio that I have so
little to write about that she Avould care to hear, that I have
not the heart. Surely she knows that I have not forgotten ' —

Her voice broke, and there was a moment's painful silence.
The- sight of a familiar face, a hand stretched to her from the

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M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

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old time, had robbed her of her self-control. Her father
watching, hawk-like, from the other end of the room, where
kind Lady Culross held him fast, saw that she was moved, and
his anger was kindled. But he did not again interfere. He
knew that to try Agnes too far was not wise. More than once
already she had asserted herself fearlessly, to his total dis-
comfiture. He was learning that his daughter, amenable to
gentle leading, would not drive. Ambition and self-interest
were making a wily plotter of William Laurie.

* Lady Culross is kindness itself, and I cannot but love her,'
continued Agnes. * Indeed, without her I could not live.
But I am very desolate, Mr. Robertson. I feel that there is
some purpose hidden in my father's heart concerning me.
Heaven help me ! I cannot trust him. I am beset continually
with misgivings and fears.'

'Leave him, then, Agnes,' said Robertson impulsively.
' Return to those whose love you have proved.'

* Not yet,' she said, with a slight shake of her head. * It
is only at times my heart sinks. Sometimes I am happy, and
believe that I am of use to my father. Tell Aunl, Maggie that
I have found duty harder than I anticipated, but that I hope a
blessing follows me. Excuse me if I ask you to go now. I see
that, for some reasor or other, your presence is not welcome to
papa. It has done me a great deal of good to see you. It is
like a bit of home.'

She held out her hand. But for those present he would
have raised it to his lips.

* John will meet me to-morrow morning ; I intend to wire
to-night. Have you any message 1 '

Her colour rose a little, but her eyes met his frankly.

' No special message. He knows — they all know — that I have
never forgotten them, and that I am sustained in this unreal
and trying life by the hope of coming back.*

* Good-bye. May all good attend you, and all your heart's
desires be fulfilled,' he made answer, and, after a brief adieu to
the other occupants of the room, took his leave.

But Philip Robertson's heart was very heavy concerning
Agnes as he went his way.

liK K

CHAPTER XXIt

'.I'ii

*To me— a woman — bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring ! '

OW, Agnes, please to tell me who that fellow was.
He had the cool assurance of a lord. What did
ho want here 1 '

The Lauries were in their own drawing-room,
after the * at home ' was over.

• There is nothing more to tell, papa. lie is simply a collego
friend of the Maitlands; and, passing through the city on
husiness, was perfectly justified in ct)ming to see me.'

*I don't think so. It was a cojifounded piece of impertinence
for him to intrude himself, unasked, among Lady Culross's
guests. Although she is the soul of good-nature, there is no
reason why her kindness should he ahused.'

Agnes made no answer.

She was sitting in a Ijasket - chair at the open window.
]>eyond the wide street the green tree-tops in the park were
waving in the gentle April wind. Spring had spread her
benign mantle on the earth, — all things were lovely and full of
promise. Some human hearts were sad, but there was no
sadness in nature's happy face.

* It seems to me, after all my efforts, — after the unprecedented
kindness of Lady Culross and Sir Gilbert, — you are so ungrate-
ful that you prefer these Maitlands to us,' said "William Laurie
harshly.

'I thought we agreed, papa, that we should not speak of
them,' Agnes said quietly, but witliout withdrawing her eyes

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

from the waving tree-tops, which seemed to touch the tcmlpr
sky. These things comforted her. There is no reproach, no
harshness in nature's moods. She has a benign and liealiiiT
tonch for those who love her, — a sympathy with humanity's
care. The divine is hid in her breast. Through tlie winds
and the waves, in the sun's strong shining, in the mercy of tlu!
rain, God speaks to His children. Happy are they to whuiu
these voices arc familiar, who in nature find nature's (Ind.
There was comfort, ay, and strength for the tired heart of
Agnes Laurie in the gentle, rhythmical movement of these
leafy boughs. William Laurie was disappointed in liis
daughter. She was not pliable. He could iind no fault with
her conduct towards him. It was perfect : so high was luu-
ideal of duty, that she sank her own desires and inclinations,
and knew no wish but to please him, — save when cohscience
bound her, and then she was impregnable as the fortress on
Gibraltar Rock. She was gentle and quiet in her objections to
go to certain places and do certain things he asked, but he liiul
found her absolutely unchangeable. His nature, lowered and
debased by evil associations, was inclined to tyrannize over tlie
weak. He had the desire to coerce Agnes ; but it is not easy
in this nineteenth century to coerce a young woman whoso
physical and mental attributes are singularly strong. Then her
high and beautiful character — her pure, proud soul — held him in
awe. Ho did not understand her. She would not be bullied ;
she never overwhelmed him with tears and reproaches. kSlic
was habitually gentle and kind, solicitous for, and attentive to,
his comfort, yet holding her own position with a perfect fear-
lessness. His object in bringing her to London was to marry
her to Sir Gilbert Culross, and so secure for himself independ-
ence and ease. He had a hold upon the weak youth, and

them b'otli ;
last. It Wiis
precarious, and Sir Gilbert was daily growing older both in
years and experience. The idea had ocr-Airred to him, that to
marry him to his daughter would be tlu) best card he had ever
played in his life. He had not taken into account any
possibility of the girl declining the honour of such an alliance.

gui'led his dealings on the turf with advantage to
but he did not know how long such a hold might

growing

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

177

He remembered her in her young girlhood, — a timid, resorvod
croature, who had little to say for herself. Her raotliev liad
been weak, submissive, and amenable always to his slightest
wliim. But, to his discomfiture, he found his daugliter a
different person to deal with. He was baffled. His only cliaiico
lay in her evident love for Lady Culross. He felt that his own
influence over Agnes was of the slightest. Then Sir GilLeit
liiinself was such a fool. He was withouf; doubt attracted to
Agnes, but had no idea how to set about winning her. The
little graces and courtesies which so commend their possessor
to the heart of a refined woman, were undreamed of by the
weak master of Kilmeny. Such was the position of aifairs
when Agnes had been two months in London.

' Well, I have kept my part of the bargain, — I have never
spoken their name since you came ; but when they obtrude
themselves upon us, it is time to speak.'

'Papa, why are you so unjust, — so hardi" asked Agnes,
turning her grave, sweet eyes on his face. He never could
meet that clear gaze ; it made a coward of his soul.

' I am not. I am sure no parent could indulge a child more
than I indulge you,' he said, in rather an injured voice. ' Do
you not believe, after the experiences of the past two months,
that I have only your best interests at heart ? '

' You have been most kind ; but there is something unreal
and unsatisfactory about our life. Do you never feel,' she
asked, looking him again straight in the face, 'that in the midst
of all this gaiety and jilcasurc-secking we have no home, nor
any true peace of niindr

' I confess it suits me very well, while it lasts,' ho said, with
a shrug of his shoulders. * liut it is a question liow long it can
last. Of course, you know I am not a rich man. The price of
Hallcross can't hold out for ever.'

*Papa,' said Agnes,, and distress sat on her face, 'that is
what troubles me most of all. I know that you are not rich,
and that you have not even a settled in-'O'ae, hov/ever small, to
depend upon. It seems to mo an awful thing that in such
I)recarioun circumstances wo should be living as we do. After
the money is all gone, what is to become of us T

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MA IT f. AND OF LAUlilKSTON.

• Oh, somcth'ng -will turn up. I consider this cxpondituro
in the meantime a safe investment. I have given you a
position, Agnes, such as you could never have had if we had
been content to grub along in a quiet way.*

Agnes said nothing for a moment, only wondered what tliat
position was. As it depended entirely on Lady Culross, it was
about as precarious as their means. She was very unhappy.
The sordid cares of life, she felt, were weighing down lier
higher aspirations. She was perfectly conscious that the desiro
to know exactly whether they were living off honest money
was now greater than any other. The fear lest, unknown to
herself, she was eating l)read and wearing apparel to which she
had no right, was over present with her like a nightmare. J*^
was a curious and torturing experience through which she was
passing. She sat up suddenly, and looked at her father again,
as he leaned up against the cabinet with his hands in his
pockets, — the picture of idle ease and indifference.

' I don't see, papa, what can be the end and aim of it all,'
she said, with her steadfast, earnest look. ' Oh, will you not
take a little house somewhere, in which we can live in a (pilot
way, and feel that we have a home 1 I am so willing to work,
papa : 1 could teach, or paint, or something, to earn money to
help. It would be no hardship to me, only the greatest
happiness. I am very unhappy here. I had hoped so nuich
that we would be so much to each other. It is all so different
from what I expected. Tliink over it, dear papa ; and let us
go very soon. I cannot bear to think that we are spending
precious money in thi'' wasteful life, for which there is no
need ; I am quite suie/ rhe a Med hurriedly, for she saw her
father's face harden, ' t!ia^ Lady ( ui.oss would make no
difference, and you Avould stiil have your frientls.'

'It won't dc,' he aiiswerod iil uptly. 'You ^'on't know
what you are speaking ; '*<:. .. 'i' 'U woula be the very first to
miss the luxuries and a''iactio.U'j uf the society to which Lady

Culross has introduced you.

!-!'■•

what I have often said :

you must allow me to be t'u. ii'.vlr; A what is best for myself
and you.'

Agnes sank back in her chair, heart-sick and disappointe(l

M':^

MAJTLAND OF LA URIESTON.

179

She could not say that she did not trust him, — that her life was
rendered intolcrab)*) by the harassing care of the present and
fear of the future. In the brief silence which ensued, William
Laurie tried to decide whether it would be wioe to tell his
(laughter plainly, and at once, what was his intention and
desire concerning her. He pictured to himself the flushing of
that i)ale face, the indignant light in the honest eyes, the few
but scathing words which might fall from her lips. He feared
H would not be .vise. It might precipitate matters, and hasten
her, perhaps, to a decision vhich might dasli all his hopes to the
gri)und. No ; he must wait, and trust to time and to Lady Culross.

' Has I.a(l> Culross said anything to you about going to
Kilmeny with them n(!xt month'?'

' She is always speaking of it, papa,' -Agnes answered listlessly

' It will be a splendid holidny for us, Agnes ; we couldn't
afftinl to leave London for a breath of country air. You will
bf charmed with Kilmeny, It is a veritable castle-by-the-sea,
standing on a rocky headland jutting into the Irish Sea. I
was down last year for a few days' shooting on the moors.'

' Then you have said we will go, papa ? ' asked Agnes.

' Of course. It is impossible that w^ can miss such an
opjiortunity. Really you are a very unsatisfactory kind of being,
Agnes. Most girls would go wild at the prospect.'

A fleeting smile dawned on the girl's grave lips.

'Perhaps I am different from other girls. I don't know
n)any, papa. But I do know I cannot bear to take so much
from people. Lady Culross is always giving me. She loads
nio with favours, which I can never repay.'

' You may be able to repay all her kindness one day, sooner
than you think,' William Laurie said enigmatically, and
sauntered out of the room, leaving his daugiiter to try and
unravel the riddle he had read her. She was not long left
alone.

Lady Culross, depressed by the loneliness of her deserted
rooms, came fluttering upstairs, seeking her favourite.

' All alone, my love, and dreaming?' she said, peeping round
the door with all the coquettishness of a young girl ; * but not,
I hope, of the dark-eyed stranger from, bonnie Scotlanci ? '

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

'irti

Agnes laufjhed outright. It was impossible to resist that
irrepressible flow of spirits. Lady Culross carried a kind of
sunshine with her everywhere.

* Oh, how absurd ! No, I was not dreaming at all. Did you
meet papa 1 We have been liaving a very serious talk. That
is all.'

* A serious talk ! Never be serious, my love ; it makes
wrinkles,' said Lady Culross, as she threw herself on the couch.

• Do you know, I am positively fatigued. Did you not enjoy
my afternoon, then 1 '

• * After a fashion, yes ; but, dear Lady Culross, I have been
trying to convince papa that gaiety anrl I do not agree. But he
will not grant my heart's desire, and tal:o, me away to some
little cottage, where we can be happy together.'

'Ve^y sensiMr of him, my love. Your father is a man of
the world, and knows what is worth having. Why, No.ssie, it
is ( ositively too bad of you to be hinting at such a thing, after
the sensation you have made. Confess, now, that it pleases you
to know how verj much yoa are admired.'

* Indeed, Lady Culros.s, I care nothing at all for the opinion
of the people T meet, so far as that is concerned. Every
woman, of cou'3>, is glad if those she loves think her pleasant
to look upon.'

* How beautifully you speaK. I (!io think, .-ny dear, that I
never met any one like you. You tii) me with amazement and
admiration every day.*

Agnes smilingly shook her head.

* It is true,' repeated Lady Culross. ' l>o you know, your
manner is enchanting. It is pert' -ct in its way. One would
think you a princess, at leas^ ; you carry yourself with such
pride.'

' Tride ! I have little enough to be proud of,* said Agnes,
with an unusual touch of bitterness.

* You have everything, — youth, beauty, und happy prospects.
I cannot understand at all, Nessie, what makes you so distrait
at times.'

' It is heart-hunger, and a miserable sense of uselessnoss.
Oh, Lady Culross, these are wasted days, and I had hoped to

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

181

do so much good. I came filled with such aspirations,' said
Agnes passionately, finding relief in speech. Hur heart was
overcharged, and must have vent. Lady Culross put lier
elbows under her dainty head, and looked iu quite a puzzled
way at her young friend.

'Good, my dear? Why, what do you mean? You are so
good that I am quite sure you could not be better.'

Agnes mournfully shook her head.

* Do you never feel what an empty, unsatisfying life this is,
Lady Culross I Do you think God ever meant luiinan beings
to fritter awaj so thoughtlessly the precious time lie has given
themT

* Oh, my love, you must positively be ill,' cried Lady Culross,
in alarm. 'You are talking quite like a revival preaclier. You
make me quite sad and anxious about you.'

*I hope not, for theie is nothing amiss with mo except a
miserable sense of duty undone and opportunity neglected,'
Agnes answered. * Lady Culross, you and I might do a great
deal of good to others in the time we spend upon ourselves.'

* Do you mean, among the poorer classes ? I give; away a
great deal, my love, to charities. I have denied myself a new
dress even, to give money away,' said Lady Cnlross plaintively.
' You make me very uncomfortable, Agnes ; bat I do not think
you mean to be unkind.'

'No, no. I was only judging myself, not you, Lady Culross,'
said Agnes quickly. ' But do you never feci that we spend our
days in a very purposeless, idle way 1 '

* We are never idle,' corrected Lady Culross. ' Every hour
has something to do. Really, you have made me very uncomfort-
able, Agnes. I am sure God can't be very angry with me. I
never Imrt anybody, and I give away a great deal. I go to
church regularly, toe, and read the Prayer-book when I am not
too late for breakfast. If He had meant me to be one of those
dreadfully useful people. He ought not to have taken my
husband away so soon, and left me to bring up a naughty boy.'

'There is another thing,' said Agnes half dreamily, as her
eyes turned again to the tree-branches tossing in the gentle
wind. ' In this busy city, among all the crowd and bustle and

' \-

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182

MAITLAN/) OF LAUnTESTOM.

hurr}ing to and fro, heaven seems very far away. I have not
felt, since I came, that Jesus is the near and precious Friond
He used to be to me, and V it is a great sorrow.'

Lady Culross's face wore a mingled look of wonder and iuvo
as she listened to what were to her strange wi.-rds. A little.
silence ensued, and there gradually stole over the face of Allies
Laurie an indcscriVjable expression of peace. 11 seemed to tho
frivolous woman opposite that she had forgo'^ten where ^lio
was, aud entered into communion with the Unhv^en. A vaf^nn
yearning stole into the heart of Lady Culross. For the first time
in her life ii... was brought face to face with tho •;mptinesa df
her existence, and realized that there were things of gretitor
value than the baubles the world counts among its treasuri's.
In a curious tlash of memory the years rolled back, and Lady
Culross saw herself, a happy-hearted child in a humble honu-,
listening at her mother's knee to the story of the child »Iesus.
Her heart, long estranged from these \o\y memories, thrilled at
the unwonted emotion. She stretchbd out her hands to the
girl before her, and her trembling lips dropped words whicli
were a prayer :

* Oh, Agnes, I am a miserable, sinful old woman. Teach nie
how to ask God for His forgiveness. I l«>lieve you are the
angel He has sent me.'

So Agnes found the harvest ripe for the sickle. In her hour
of deep desi)ondency, when her heart and her faith had almuat
failed, He gave her His work to do.

i?tii>ii-ni -• r ti^

CHAPTER XXIII

•Ask no more
Than to fulfil thy place !'

GNES sprang up, all her listlcssness gone. Oh, how
blind she had been ! Shcj had mapi)od out a way
for herself, and, finding it difficult to walk therein,
had lost hope of usefulness ; and, lo ! here her
work was lying to her hand. Tht; woman who had given to
her all the brightness of her new sphere, the woman whose
heart — encrusted as it was by the frivolities and vanities of the
world- -was tilled with loving-kindness and charity, and felt at
times the need of something more earnest an<l satisfying than
what the world can give, was asking her help. Iler heart
uplifted itself in passionate prayer, and, kneeling beside Lady
Culross, she folded her hands on her knee and looked up into
her face.'

* Dear Lady Culross, you too have felt — you feel now — that
there is something more required of us than to spend our days
in idle i)lcasure-seeking ? Oh, I am so glad we can talk now to
each other of better things, and helj) each other to a better life.'

Lady Culross looked troubled. Her heart was not at rest,
and yet she feared that she might be called upon to give up
the things which had become necessary to her. There was a
certain wistfulness, touching to see, in her manner when she
spoke.

' I believe that we — at least I — fall short of my duty,
Nessie. Since you came I have thought about things which
never used to trouble nie, I have tboncrhi Intelv a (jfond deal

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184

MAIflANb OF LAVRIESTON.

about my dear mother, who was not a lady, my dear,— but the
best woman, I think, that over lived. She died when I was
quite young ; but I can remember how she used to speak. I
think, like you, she must have lived near heaven. You rcmiiul
me of her. Your gentleness and sweetness, your courage to
stand against what is wrong, are just like hers. I was left an
orphan, Nessie, and I lived for some years with a very harsh
aunt, wlio treated me unkindly. I was glad, in a sens(!, to
marry Sir Gilbert, although ho was not a man many young
girls would have chosen. I have had a hard life, my dear,
and it has not been easy for mo to be good. I have liad no
one to show me the way. Do you think that God, who sees and
knows everything, will be as hard upon us as the world is,
Agnes ? '

* Oh, Lady Culross, lie is not hard at all. He knows every-
thing, and He pities and loves us all the time. If we did not
know that, I think sometimes we could not bear to live.'

' You really believe, then, that God is int(!r(^sted in us, and
watches over us always 1 I wish I could believe that. It
would make life easier. There are so many things in it difficult
to understand.'

'Pear Lady Culross, it is so easy to believe — so difficult
nut to believe, I think — when we know how we are cared for.
If we wait, we always see the good and the end even of
sorrow.'

* So that is what gives you strength and courage, and that
sweet patience which I have so often admired?' said Lady
Culross, looking fondly at the bright, radiant face. * My dear,
though I have affected not to understand some things, my eyes
have been open too. I know that there is a good deal in our
life which jars upon you. I know, too, my love, that you are
disappointed in your father. Yet he is a good man, as the
world counts goodness. I feel very much for you. I do not
see anything for you, with your high ideals, but disappointment
and pain. It is a very ordinary world, Agnes, filled with very
ordinary, selfish people. I fear you will need to accept that
philosophically, sooper or later.'

There was a' slight return of characteristic flippancy to

M Air LA NT) OF LAURIESTON.

185

hiT manner which Agnes did not like. She had obtained a
glimpse of the inner sanctuary, and knew that there btat
l)i'ii(!uth tliat frivolous exterior a hungry, yearning human heart,
which only i\w love of God could satisfy.

'There are a great many good, true people too. I wish I
couUl tell you about the best friend I have on earth, — the lady
in Scotland, who was more than a motlier to me. Oh, if she
wcio only here; to talk to you ! You remember in the Bible
how it says that Enoch walked with God ? Mrs. Maitland, I
think, walks with God. Oh, she is so good ! '

* Is she not a very strange, uncomfortabh; kind of person to
live with 1 ' asked Lady Culross rather vaguely.

A low, sweet laugh broke from Agnes Laurie's lips.

* If you could only see her. Lady Culross. Her face is so
sunshiny, and she is so full of fun and happy nonsense. It is
she who plans all the enjoyments for the children ; and yet she
is always ready to help people in sickness and trouble. They
come to her from far and near, asking advice and help.'

'She has a husband and grown-up sonsi I think you said.
They must adore her.''

'They do.'

Lady Culross saw that the girl's heart had f!ed back to those
dear friends and that blessed home. A slight feeling of envy
stole over her. She had so few who cared for her. She was
jealous over the affection of the girl at her feet.

' I am afraid / am very selfisli, Nessie,' she said, with a sigh.
' 1 had hoped, my love, that you were learning to care a little
for me ? '

' Oh, I do ; T love you dearly,' Agnes answered quickly ; and
it was impossible to doubt her sincerity. Even Lady Culross
was satisfied with the expression on her face.

' Well, you are all my sunshine, Agnes Laurie ; I thank God
for your love,' she said fervently. ' When we go down to
Kilmeny, my love, you will help me to do a great deal there.
There is so much to be done. If you saw our cottages, you
would be horrified. The people are very poor; but, indeed,
we are not rich ourselves, for though it is a large estate, there is
so much moorland, which brings in no rent. Then Gilbert does

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hot take any interest in improving the phvce. He tares for
nothing but horses.'

' I think, Lady Culross,' said Agnes, with a slight hesitation,
' that it would be better for him to stay at Kilmeny.'

* Of course it would. If you would speak to him, Agnes, and
try to interest him in other things, I am sure he would heed
what you say. I notice he is always pleased when you speak to
him. My poor Gilbert ! He is not very attractive to young
ladies, and he is afraid of being laughed at. That is why ho
will never join my friends, liut you never laugh at him.'

* No, indeed. I could not be sc unkind and rude ; besides,
he is always kind to me.'

' If he had had sisters, or even brothers, Agnes, he would have
been different. Surely God v»'ill not judge him very harshly?
He has not the capacities of others. He does lack something,
my love. It is a great grief to me.'

Agnes felt deejjly sorry for the anxious mother, who for the
first time had laid bare her heart concerning her son.

* I hope a great deal from having you with us at Kilmeny.
You will try to interest him, Agnes, will you not ? Try to
tliink of him as a brother, for my sake,' said Lady Culross
anxiously. She had no idea of William Laurie's planning
concerning her son. Vain, empty, frivolous woman of the
world though she was, her sense of fitness and honour were
finer tlian William Laurie's. She considered Agnes to be far
above her son in every respect, and never coupled them even in
thought. William Laurie had an inkling of her disposition,
which had kept him from openly broaching the subject to her.
He had to walk very warily, and to exercise the greatest self-
denial and prudence. Ho hoped great things, moreover, from
the sojourn at Kilmeny. He was growing tired of the slow
progress his plans were making. It was irksome to him to
restrain his impatience, and maintain a pleasant demeanour
towards his daughter. Without being conscious of it, she was
a continual reproach to him. He knew intuitively that she was
distrustful of him, and that his hold upon her was of the
slightest. The relations between them were of a strained nature.
Both knew that the^e relations could not loufj continue. Each

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MAITLAND OF LA ITRIESTON.

187

waited the development of circumstances. It was a very un-
comfortable position, especially for Agnes, whose nature was open
and candid. She felt that she had failed in her purpose and
ilcsire regarding her father. Failure, especially to youth, is hard.
But she waited bravely, trying to do her part, following God's
leading so far as she could see it, though at times her heart was
heavy and hopeless. In her present life she found neither
strength nor stimulus for her own sou*. It was all battling
against adverse circumstances and influences. She knew now
how easy it was for those in a Christian home to keep their
desires and aspirations holy. They have few temptations.
They dwell continually under the shadow of the Rock. It is the
burden and heat of the strong sun which tries the traveller. In
London, Agnes had many temptations to impatience and resent-
ment, and even anger, such as had never assailed her at
Laurieston. Yet out of that sad experience grew a strength and
Hrmness of purpose, which, though she knew it not, were the
preparations for the real work of her life. The time came when,
looking back, she saw the meaning of it all, and blessed God for
these months of discipline.

Philip Robertson thought much of her during that night-
journey back to Scotland. She had always interested him as
a fine and uncommon type of womanhood. He believed that
great possibilities were hid in her being ; he had often speculated
us to what influence she would ultimately have on the life of his
friend. He knew that her religious views were very strong, —
their frequent talks at Laurieston had revealed that to him ; and
he had admired her clear conception of the divine, her absolute
faith in the wisdom and love of God, although his reason would
not permit him to agree with her. The perfect consistency of
her character had also struck him, — he feared, indeed, that the
loftiness of her ideals would be a barrier in the way of her
hai)pines3 with John, should she ever become his wife. John
was changeal)le, — he had not yet come to the maturity of his
judgment ; he was hasty also, and even dogmatic on points which
he would afterwards condemn. Agnes, on the contrary, arrived
slowly at conclusions, and lield to them. But she had a large-
ness and breadth of view not common in women, and from that

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

Robertson hoped much. He was given to analysis of character
and motive, — it was a study of which he was passionately fond.
Xo two human beings had ever given him more satisfaction
than his friend and the woman he loved. It was a stranf^e
thing, that a man of Bobertson's strong personality and well-
balanced judgment should have been attracted in any degree by
a butterfly like Effie Maitland. But the fact remained: ho
loved the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, vain little girl with the love
of a life. As the train sped rapidly along the rugged East Coast
in the sweet hours of the dawning day, the idea occurred to him
that he might alight at Inveresk, and carry the news of Agnes to
Laurieston. He had written to John to meet him at Edinburgh.
But the chances were that John would be at Laurieston, and so
would not receive the letter. He would reach the farm about
six o'clock, — not too early for the household to be astir. Accord-
ingly, when the train stopped for a second at the quiet little
station, he leaped out, and strode away over the fields to Laurie-
ston. It was a lovely morning, full of that soft, breathing lilo
peculiar to April. The sea slept under a pearly sky ; there
seemed no motion even where the tide was ebbing. The dews
were heavy on blade and leaf, and the air laden with the awaken-
ing odours of the spring. The lark's song came pouring from the
invisible choristers in space, and the homelier songsters in hed<,'e
and tree were not voiceless. The new day was greeted by the
full-throated melody of the grateful throng. Robertson took off
his hat. The sweet refreshing air was balm after the heated
atmosphere he had left. He was deeply sensible of nature's fair
attributes, though they stirred in his soul no reverence or adora-
tion for the Creating Hand. The beauties surrounding him
were simply a part of a great system, each dependent on the
other, and fitting in with amazing and perfect unity. He admired
nature as we admire the delicate mysteries of a perfect piece of
mechanism made by human hands. And because his eyes were
holden, she withheld from him her inner sanctuary, and he knew
nothing of that sweet communion which uplifts the soul from
the sordid cares of earth and brings it into touch with the divine.
He was not aware how much he had lost, nor how lavish is
nature of her gifts and graces to the human soul.

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

189

As he swung back the familiar garden gate, he heard John
whistling to the dog. He whistled back, and the next moment
they were clasping hands, John asking, in amazement, where he
had come from at such an unearthly hour.

'Off the train,' answered Bobertson. 'It dropped me at
Inveresk.*

' Ay ; but where did it come from % '

* London. I had to run up,* answered Robertson, smiling a
little at the eager look on his friend's face. ' Have you any-
thing to ask me ? '

' Lots. But come into the house and get some breakfast.
The maids are up.*

* Oh, it's too early. Let's sit down here for a few minutes.
It's delicious out of doors this morning.'

* You're a queer beggar, Phil. You never said on Monday
you were going, or I might have travelled with you.*

* I never thought of that ; but I did not know myself. I
have a prospect of an appointment in Leipsic, John. Professor
M'Lellaiid is helping me. He telegraphed for me to come up
to London to meet some members of the Leipsic council.*

'What kind of a place?'

•Lecturer in chemistry at the English Academy there. A
good place, and will be worth five hundred a year ; and then
there's the other advantages.*

* You're lucky. I congratulate you, old fellow ; but you
deserve it. It's awfully good of old M'Lelland.'

* Yes, it is. I haven't got it yet, but I'm almost sure of it
They've only to send some particulars to Leipsic before they
appoint me. I've to begin work at once, though, so there's no
holiday. Will you go if I have to appear next week 1 *

' Yes ; there's nothing to keep me at home.*

' I wish I had thought of asking you to go up with me on
Tuesday ; I never thought of it.'

' Why do you wish it so particularly 1 ' Something in
Robertson's face made him ask the question.

' Oh, because — I saw Miss Laurie, John.

'Welir

The word fell with strange abruptness from John's lips.

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M Air LAND OF LAUlilESTON.

* There is not mucli to tell. She is quite well ; but ' —
*But wheat? Can't you speak outi' asked John sav.igcly,

'You know how anxious wo all are about her.'

*I don't think she is happy, and the sooner you take her
away the better, John,' Robertson answered steadily.

John turned his her.d away, and neither spoke xor a moment.

* How did she look 1 Did you have a chance of speaking to
herr

' Yes ; I had a long talk with her. She looks — I'll toll
you what, John : I never saw a more beautiful woman in my life
than Agnes Laurie,' said Robertson candidly.

* Oh, I know all that. But does she look unhappy 1 Do you
think that old villain ill-uses her ? '

* Oh no ; he is too politic for that. I'll tell you exrctly
what I think, Jack ; for I think it's time for you to act.
There's an idiot of a baronet there he wants to marry her
to ; and if I were you, I wouldn't give him even the chance to
ask her.'

' It's easy for you to speak. What can I do ? What can I
offer her? There's Miss Glover's money, to be sure; but it
isn't much, and I've nothing of my own. Hang it, man, a
fellow must have something to offer a woman, — especially a
woman like her. But she might come back to Laurieston.'

'She might,' Robertson answered; and was not surprised
when John abruptly left him, and strode oway through the
fields towards the sea. He had been honest with his friend,
because he believed that there was need for immediate action.
He did not like what he had seen in Lady Culross's drawing-
room the previous afternoon.

He sat still on the garden seat enjoying the freshness of the
morning, in no hurry to disturb them indoors. A snatch of
song sung in a familiar voice came floating through the open
window of the dining-room by and by, — Effie singing over her
morning work of attending to the breakfast-table. A curious
change came over Robertson's face, and presently he rose and
sauntered past the window. When Effie saw him she made a
pretty gesture of surprise, and came over to the open window
with a beaming smile. Effie was a born conuette, and she

MAITLAND OF LAUlilESTON.

191

know well tliat John's grave, studious, clever friend admired
her very much.

' AVhere have you come from 1 Have you heon lodging, like
the trami)s, in the stable or the barn all night 1 '

* Scarcely. I have just come from London. It occurred to
me, as we came to Berwick, that I should like to drop off here
and tell you my news, so 1 got the guard to stop at Inveresk.
I called to see Miss Agnes yesterday afternoon.'

* Oh, did you 1 ' Instantly Effie was breathlessly interested.
• And how is shel "Why does she write so seldom 1 '

* She is very well ; only I do not think she likes London so
well as Laurieston. I believe she will be back soon.'

*Do you really think sol' Effie leaned lier dimpled arms,
which were bure to the elbow, on the window-sill, and gave a
pathetic little sigh. ' I can't conceive how she is not enchanted
with London. When I read about her riding in the Row, and
going to every kind of entertainment chaperoned by a real
Lady Culross, I find it hard not to bo filled with envy. It is
slow at Laurieston, you know.*

* I thought there was a great deal of society here. Miss Effie,'
laughed Robertson. 'That original, Miss Thorburn, told me
once you had thirty-five different degrees of it in Musselburgh.'

'Oh, that is just like the Thorburns. They adore Mussel-
burgh, though they are always laughing at it. Let any one else
say a disparaging word, though, and they'll be down upon him.
Haven't you seen John 1 I heard him go down before I left
my room.'

' Yes, I saw him.'

'Aren't you famished? Breakfast will be ready directly.
Mother is just ready. How awfully good of you to take the
trouble to break your journey here ! '

* Perhaps I had a selfish motive. I had not seen you for a
Avhole week,' said Robertson daringly ; for the sweet, fresh face
and the brilliant eyes swept prudence to the winds. Effie
blushed, and shook her fore-finger at him playfully.

* No fibs. I am afraid you are one of those very much
learned gentlemen who think women have no capacity for any-
thing but silly flattery. / am proof against it, sir, I do assure

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192

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

you,' she said, sweeping him an absiud little curtsey. In spite
of her remonstrances, however, such speeches were the very
wine of life to Effie Maitlanrl, and she had not received quite
80 many since Willie went away.

' It is not flattery, Effie. Perhaps it would be better for me
if it were not such serious earnest,' Robertson said gravely, yet
with a touch of passion which rather alarmed Effie. She did
not want any serious love-making from Philip Robertson,
though she likf^d his admiration well enough.

She was quite glad when her mother's entrance interrupted
their talk, and in the little bustle of greeting she < , ed to
':er own room to adorn herself a little for her api.i,;< -.e at
JiM table.

Margaret Maitland was not less anxious than John concerning
Agnes, and, after Philip went away, she urged him to go up to
London at once. She scarcely knew what she feared. John,
however, had promised to meet Michael in Glasgow, on his
return from visiting a college friend on the Clyde ; and, after
some talk, it was agreed that he should wait and accompany his
friend the following week.

But when John made his call at Arundel Mansions, it was
only to find that the Lauries had gone out of town and left no
addreM

^,!^-'^j/ ■-'

CHAPTER XXIV.

'We are sent long rounds to gather experience.*

ELL, my love, what are you thinking of 1 What is
your opinion of Kilmeny, now that you see it by
daylight?'

* I was wondering. Lady Culross, how any one
who has a home like this could bear to live in London, or could
bear to leave it even for a day.'

* It is bleak and cokl, Nessie, though very picturesque,* said
Lady Culross, with a slight shiver. ' My memories of it are
not conspicuously sweet. Perhaps that accounts for my lack of
interest in it. Just look at those wild waves. Do they not
make you nervous 1 '

Agnes smiled and shook her head.

' I love to watch them. Look at that grand monarch coming
rolling in, as if ho would sweep away the foundations. There
is something strength-giving in a sea like that.'

' Look at the sunny gleAms over yonder on the green Irish
coast,' said Lady Culross, pointing across the angry sea. * It
is always so peaceful and sweet over there. I wonder why
the sea frets so here, and why the sun shines upon Kilmeny so
seldom.'

Agnes did not for a moment reply. She could not take
her eyes from the troubled sea. It enchained both sight and
thought. They had arrived late the previous night, and
Agnes had no idea what manner of place she had come to,
except that it was an ancient turreted castle, about which
wind and wave seemed to thunder continually. She had

1U4

MAITLAXD OF LAUIUKSTON.

fallen asleop, lulled by tho roar of the sea, althnugli pho
only discovered by tho morninf,' Ji<,']it that the vuvcs waslicd
the castlo rock. Kihnony stood upon a rocky hcadliuid a few
miles from Kirkmaiden. Its situation was wild and dcsnlutc
commanding an uninterrupted expanse of the Irish Sen, and
tho green outline of tho low-lying Irish coast in the distance.
It was a rugged and poverty -etricken heritage, for there, was
nothing but wild moorland immediately round it, the few rent-
paying acres being farther inland, and hidden from sij,'lit.
It was a somewhat lonely and desolate aboile ; although these
very attributes commended it to Agnes Laurie, for whom the
ways of cities had no charm. She had aci^uiesced reluctantly,
and with serious misgiving, in the change, but had learned
that for peace's sake she must obey her father. 81in had a
strange, unreal feeling, as if she were an actor in some drama.
She was waiting for further development — for some crisis
which would change all. She knew very well that crisis wa>;
at hand. She saw her father's restrained impatience ; he luid
grown more irritable and exacting, less kindly in his mnnner,
towards her. She knew she had disai)pninted him, she also
knew that their present mode of life could not go on. Yet
she was calm, waiting with patience and courage for the work
of time. She was very happy with Lady Culross, for there
was now a perfect confidence between them. It was a strangi;
and touching thing to see the dependence of the elder woman
upon the younger. Even these few weeks had wrought a
change upon the frivolous woman of the world. Very gra<hi-
ally she began to give evidence in outward things of her desiif?
after something higher than had ever yet interested her. A
softened and beautiful earnestness had superseded the old
affected manner, and she began to lay aside many of the little
artifices and devices with which she had tried to delude hcsrself
and the world. As she st(jod by the side of Agnes that grey
!May morning, her somewhat colourless face wore a look of
peace, and her quiet and simple morning-gown, devoid of
ofTensive display, aiul the soft lace cap, were infinitely more
becoming than her former style of attire. Agnes's quick eye
noted and approved these slight changes. She saw that her

MAITLAND OF LAUlilKSTON.

10.)

heart, awakened to what is truo and earnest in life, slirank
from wliat was false and pretentious. Tlicy were very liltlc
tilings, Imt they meant much to Lady Culross. Agnes knew
that, and loved her for her strength of hoart. Thoy did not
sjxiak verj much about tho new bond between them ; but it
mis a bond, and each felt it. Although so many years younger,
Agnes Laurie had long experience of that bright, earnest
Christian life, the desire for which was now uppermost in tho
mind of I^dy Cuhoss. So, while the girl had been i. )peles8
and faint-hearted, the beauty of her example, rendered more
powerful that it did not obtrude itself, and was never narrowcnl
by bigotry or selfish persistence, had abundantly testified whoso
she was and whom she served. IJy conceding a little, which a
less large-hearted, generous nature would have refused, she
had gained much ; slue had won tho heart of Lady Culross
complctelj', and through that dear human love led her to tho
divine. I question if ever Agnes herself was conscious of tho
magnitude of her work. She was not self-seeking or obtrusive,
and while firm and unyielding in matters of conscience, her
large, sweet tolerance had made her profession a thing of
beauty and winning grace. Such an example — not uncommon,
thank God ! even in this somewhat degenerate age — is price-
less : the harvest of such rare souls is rich indeed.

' There is tho gong, Agnes ; we must go down,* said Lady
Culross, breaking the silence, and laying her hand affectionately
on tho arm of the girl at her side. * I want to tell you, my
love, what a joy it is to me to have you in my own house, and
to know that you arc glad to be here with me. You will not
forget what you promised about Gilbert? If you stay long
enough you may interest him thoroughly in the estate. He
attends to what you say, Nessie. You will not forget 1 '

' No, I will not forget,' Agnes answered, with an unconscious
and beautiful smile. *I will ask him this very morning to
take me to the cottages you spoke of.'

* He will do it, my dear ; he will be delighted to do it. If
you wrap up you can have a delightful drive. I think the
sun will come out soon. He ought to shine on you.'

* Oh, so he will, dear Lady Culross. Oh, there is Sir

196

MAITLAND OF LAUJifKSTON.

Gilbert and pnpii,' sho iiddcd, as tlioy pnsBcd out into thn corridor
from the window of which there was n view of the tcrrnce und
garden. *Pui)a is lookin;^ very well just now.'

'He is very well [)n*Herved for his years,' answered Lidy
Culross ; • you see he has been temperate and careful all liis
life. That makes a great dillbronce at fifty, my dear.'

'Agnes made no n^ply. Lady Culross was completely at
fault concerning William Laurie. She really believed him te
be one of the best of men. He had always shown her respect
and kindness, and had been both useful an<l agreeable to
her. He was an accomplished actor, and could assume any
rMe to further his own ends. He had so long lived by his
wits, that they had become very sharp. He had api)arently
solved the unsolvable problem of how to live on nothing a
year. He certainly looked well and handsome, as ho came
sauntering up the terrace in a velvet jacket and a jaunty
shooting-cap. His appearance and manner gave one the idea
of independence and possession. Ho looked a fitter master of
Kilmeny than the tall, loose figure at his side. Gilbert Culross
looked up to the corridor window, saw the ladies, and his
colour heightened as he gave them an awkward bow. William
Laurie gaily kissed his finger - tips, and took Sir Gilbert
familiarly by the arm as they turned towards the house.

* Now you have it all your own way here ; and remember,
my boy, that if you don't use your opportunities it is not my
blame,' he said impressively. ' I have agreed to bury myself
and my daughter here in the height of the season for your
sake. Do you hear 1 *

' Yes. I'm going to do it,' said Sir Gilbert, with a kind of
desperation almost comical. ' You're sure she won't say No, or
laugh at me r

•She won't laugh at you. She's a lady, Gilbert,' said
William Laurie loftily. ' Only you must lead up to it gently,
and not hurry her too much.'

* I believe she will say Yes. She always speaks so kindly
to me,' said the young man, who was very simple and un-
sophisticated in the ordinary afifairs of life. He would never
have dared to think of marrying Agnes, had not William

MAITLANI) OF LAUHIKSTON.

ly;

Laurie gently and graduiiUy miggcatcd it to him. Hut he wub
very much in eiirnest now. William I.aiirit! know that tlui
matter rcstml »uitirely with Agn«'H ; l)ut ho wiw unable, in
Hpite of cloH(! watching, to tlivino tho .sttitt; of hor feolings.
Jt was oatisfactory to him to know that no lotti r.s had passed
between her and young Maitland Hi nee she left Hcotlund.
That he know for a fact, having means of aHcertaining what
hitters wero sent and received by his daughter, lie fully
intended, however, speaking on the subject of Sir Gilbert with
her that very day.

The first breakfast at Kilnnniy was a thoroughly enjoyable
meal. It was laid in a small Miorning-room, which had a south
window like tho turret, — a (luaint little chamber, panelled in
black oak, aiul having a curiously-carved lireplaie, wiih an
ingle-nook on either side.

The party were all in good spirits, William Laurie apparently
especially so, and many plans were laid for tho enjoyment of
the next few days.

'Agnes wants to see the cottagers on the west aide of the
Rhynn, Gilbert,' said Lady Culross, when a pause occurred in
the pleasant flow of talk. *! promised you should take her.
Is there anything to ride or drive in the stable ] '

'Lots of beasts and traps too,' returned Sir Gilbert eagerly.
' But there isn't much to see at Port-na-Crce, — a lot of ruins,
I'll take you to Kirkmaiden, if you like, or over to Luce Bay.*

His eyes were full of eager interest, as he looked over at
the pleasant young face opposite him at tho table.

'I am afraid it is the ruins I am interested specially in,'
laughed Agnes. 'I don't feel as if I wanted to see Kirk-
maiden again after last night. It looked so dreary in tho
rain.'

' It's a poky little hole. Well, I'll take you. I'll just go
and see what kind of a trap I can get. Are we all going 1 '

'Oh dear, no,' cried Lady Culross, nodding and smiling.
' Isn't it best to leave young folks to themselves, Mr. Laurie 1
You and I old fogies will easily pass the time about the
castle. I must see what the ruins are like, and all tho rest.
You will help me, Mr. Laurie 1 '

mv.

fHi

;«t

-> .ii^HI

id8

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

William Laurie was delighted. He thought Lady Culross
knew how matters stood, and that she was doing her best to
further them. His face beamed as he effusively assured her he
would be charmed to be ot use. This was an unexpected and
delightful turn of affairs. With her for an ally, his cause was
doubly strong. Never had Gilbert Culross looked so eager and
interested over anything outside his stables. In half an hour
he M'as at the door, with the smartest of dog-carts, to which he
had harnessed the finest piece of horse - flesh in the stable.
Leaving it to the groom, he attended to his own attire, and was
ready waiting on the doorstep when Agnes came down. He
looked at her admiringly, — the lissome figure in the perfect
tailor-made gown, the fresh, sweet face under the dainty brown
bonnet.

Yes, Sir Gilbert was very much in love ; and Agnes, perfectly
unconscious of it, gave him her frank hand as he assisted
her to her seat, and smiled at him, thinking how very much
pleasanter and more gentlemanly he was out of London. Agnes
looked back and waved her hand as they drove away, not
knowing that she was going out to meet the crisis she thouglit
inevitable, though she had certainly never connected it in any
way with the Master of Kihneny.

*I say, are you all right, — quite warm, and all that?' he
asked kindly, as they faced the cool south wind. ' There's
some more rugs. I made tliem put em in.'

'I'm all right, thank you. Oh, what a lovely liorse !'

'Yes, Fan's a regular beauty. Picked her myself. Say, I
know a bit of horse-flesh, if I don't know anything else. Just
look at her action. Not often you see a high-stepper like that
on these beastly roads.'

' The roads are a little rough ; but there's no need to call them
beastly, is there? ' said Agnes, with a little laugh.

' Well, I woji't, if yoti don't like it. I say, it's awfully jolly
to have you down, and to be driving you out like this, isn't it ? '

*I li^ e it very nmch,' Agnes answered frankly. 'What a
wild, beautiful country this is ! I wonder you care to be away
so much from Kihneny ?'

She shaded lier eyes witli her hand a moment ; for a strong

MAtTLAND OF LAU/UJuSTOiV.

100

gleam of sun shone out just then, and so suddenly and
brilliantly that it dazzled her sight. They were driving along
a rough hilly road which conimandod a full view of the country-
side for miles. It was a wild and barren landscape, — long
stretches of moorland, brightened with yellow coltsfoot and
pink-eyed daisy, with patches of vivid green in the marshy
hollows, and glimpses of the grey sea here and there between
the shoulders of the hills. Strong lights and shadows played
on these rough hill-sides, and the sun lay warm and bright on
the low groimds, where there were a few acres under cultivation.
The oat fields looked green and fresh that May morning, and
on the pasture - lands the lambs were frisking, enjoying the
genial warmth of the sun. It had been a long, severe Avinter,
and the sprinr^ had crept out tardily over that remote headland.
Agnes looked upon the wide prospect with a keenness of enjoy-
ment characteristic of her.

* Isn't it splendid ? ' she said, takirig a long, deep breath of
the delicious air. * How gloriously bracing it is ! It makes
one feel intoxicated.'

* Don't you mind the wind 'I ' asked Sir Gilbert. ' It's blow-
ing awfully hard on you. Won't it blow your hat oft' 1 '

* Oh no ; it is f.rm and fast/ laughed Agnes. * Oh, what a
broken-down little village, and a funny old church, down in the
cleft there between the rocks ! *

'That's Port-na-Cree, — our place, you know, — the cottages
vou wanted to see.'

' Oh, is it? Could we drive down? How do we get to itl'

* It's rather round-about. We go behind this hill, and then
come iu by a low road near the shore. Yes, it's a miserable
hole.'

* How do the people live ? *

* Oh, they have land ; and they fish, I believe. But I really
don't know.*

'Are they not your tenants?'

* Well, yes j but I don't botlier with them. Mac Vail — that's
my steward — .sees after them. It's an awful bore having to do
with tenants. They're always grumbling, and never pay.'

'They can't have much to pay if that's their land,' said

If 1

^00

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

Agnes soberly, looking at the barren patches on the brow of
the cliflf, on which a few oat-blades and some stunted turnip-
tops were visible.

* It looks poor enough .; but I really don't know anything
about them.'

' But you ought to know.*

' Do you think so 1 '

Sir Gilbert looked rather amazed at the suggestion.

'Of course I do. If thesp are your people, you ouyht to
look after them. Just lool: at these hovels. Do you think it
a right thing for human beings to live in siich places ? '

* Oh, well, I never thought about it at all.'

* But you ought. You are responsible, in a sense, for the
welfare of these people. Don't you think shame for me to lof»k
at your Port-na-Cree % '

' Oh, well, I never thought about it. It is rather a disgrace-
ful-looking place,' said Sir Gilbert, a trifle shamefacedly. ' But,
you see, I never thought^bout it, and nobody told me I should
do anything.'

Agnes smiled at the simplicity of his reply.

* Did your steward never speak about it 1 '

* Yes ; he sometimes says the houses need to be repaired. But
it takes such a beastly — I beg your pardon — such a confounded
lot of money to build. But if you think I should do it, I will.'

'Don't you see for yourself?' asked Agnes, pointing to a
great rent in the roof of the nearest cottage. 'Just think of
that in a storm or in wet weather ! How very little respect or
aflfection these people can have for so hard a landlord.'

*I never thought of that. It doesn't matter much, any way,
how they feel. But if you think I should repair Port-na-Cree,
I'll do it. Tell me what you want.*

Agnes felt a trifle embarrassed by such a pointed application,
but did not divine that anything lay behind it.

* Well, if I were you, I would come down here to-morrow,
perhaps, and examine every house, and inquire into the cir-
cumstances of every person in the piace. Then, when I had
satisfied myself what was required, I would send Avorkmen at
once to repair the ruins. Why, it could be made such a

picturesqt
preaches i|
' Nobo(]
had to be I
father buij
'Whatf
shiver;
state that I
'Well,^
can tell
eagerly tol
can't spea
The col
vague sen
look at h
/ have n
about the
'But J
face of (
hands tov
live at K:
every thin
money so
♦No, r
passionat
live. Sir
'I'd b
pathos,
manly a
her hear
• No, ;
frank,
you ver;
'But
for me 1
Then
'My
Gilbert,

MAITLAND OF LAURIRSTON.

201

picturesque little place ! The situation is so unique. Who
preaches in the church 1 '

* Nobody now. It's only a mission-station, I believe ; and it
had to be given up, for the people wouldn't attend. My grand-
father built it.'

' What a God-forsaken place it must be ! * said Agnes, with a
shiver; *but I believe the people are in such a hopeless temporal
state that they can't rise above it. Your blame. Sir Gilbert ! '

* Well, I'll toll you what, — we'll just go down now, and you
can tell me what should be done,' said Sir Gilbert, bending
eagerly towards her. * Then you can ask them everything. 1
can't speak to them, you know.'

The colour rose in the girl's sweet face. For the first time a
vague sense of <liscomfort came into her mind. She did not
look at him as she answered quickly, ' Oh, that would not do.
/ have no business with them. It is you who are concerned
about them.'

'But you have.' A deep, dark flush overspread the ruddy
face of Gilbert Culross, and his mouth quivered ; the very
hands touching the reins nervously shook. * If you'll come and
live at Kilmeny, — if you'll marry me, I mean, — I'll let yoa do
everything, — build the whole place, if you like ; we'll raise the
money somehow. Do you hear 1 I want you to marry me.'

* No, no, I could not ! ' cried Agnes, almost in terror, for his
passionate eagerness half frightened her. ' Never as long as I
live. Sir Gilbert. I am so sorry ; but I never could.'

* I'd be awfully good to you ! ' he pleaded, with a touch of
pathos. He was at his best in that moment. All that was
manly and good in him was stirred in him, Agnes felt, and
her heart was full of pain for him.

* No, no, never,' she said, sadly but firmly. * It is better to be
frank. I could never marry you, Sir Gilbert, though I thank
you very much.'

' But Laurie said you would. He 'told me you were waiting
for me to ask you,' he said, in rather a bewildered way.

Then Agnes drew herself up, — distant and haughty and cold :
' My father had no right so to speak ; and he knew it, Sir
Gilbert. Please to take me home ? '

!;;

"i;

\ 'i

— ''

CHAPTER XXV.

*A heart as dry as summer dust.'

ILL you kindly ask Miss Laiuio to come out on the
terrace ? 1 wish to speak to her.'

Such was the suave messa^'e William Laurie
sent by a servant about an hour after the dog-
cart had returned to Kilmeny. He had just come from the
stable-yaril, where Sir Gilbert had poured upon him a bitter
volume of invective for having deceived and misled him.
Laurie himself, gathering from his passionate words that
Agnes had refused him, was in a terrible passion. Bui he
was completely master of himself, and tixhibited no trace of
anger as he slowly paced up and down the terrace, waiting
for his daughter to come down. Lady Culross had driven to
Kirkmaiden, and would (jnly return in time for lunch at two
o'clock. It was now only noon.

When Agnes received the message, she at once left her own
room to obey her father's summons. She was as angry as it
was in her nature to be : her feelings were outraged; her heart
lilli'd with righteous indignation. Sir Gilbert's declaration had
rnaib^ many tilings plain to her. Her father's whole course of
action was now laid bare ; and she felt so bitterly towaras him
that she was afraid. Oh, this was a strange and bitter way
of lift-, which fostered all that was haAl and unlovely in the
human heart ! She felt this acutely !,>< she wimt downstairs.
But she was ijuite ready to nutet her father. It would be a
relief to say plainly what shti felt. She stepped out of the
wide doorway, and, observing him at the end of the terrace,

MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

203

walked forward without the slightest hesitation. She carried
herself very proudly that morning : her face was pale, her
sweet mouth very grave and resolute. Her father saw no sign
of shrinking in her demeanour as she approached.

'Well, my lady, a pretty fool you have made this morning of '
yourself and me ! '

Such was his greeting, and he positively glared at her as he
uttered it. She glanced up at the castle windows, and then
answered quietly, —

'We had better walk beyond the range of the windows.
There is no occasion to give the servants material for talk.'

She walked quickly forward to the end of the terrace, which
merged in a thick shrubbery intersected by many winding walks.
She turned round then and stood still, lifting her large clear
eyes unflinchingly to his face.

' Now we are not observed,* she said, still quietly, though she
was inwardly much agitated, 'But you may spare me your
blame, papa. It is I who ought to reproach you.'

* Reproach me ! ' William Laurie's anger overflowed. * Girl,
you are mad, positively mad. Do you know we have not a
penny in the world, — not a penny, and I owe Gilbert Culross
hundreds of pounds. Who do you sui)pose has kept us all the
season but him 1 I took his money, as a man will take from
liis sou-in-law. I neve,r believed that your transcendent folly
would really let you refuse him. You must go back to him,
and eat humble pi^. Tell him you will be thankful to marry
him. There's nothing for you but Kilmeny or the worldouse,
— do you hear?'

Her face blanched, and slie laid her hand on the arm of a
little garden-chair by which she stood.

* Yes, 1 hear, liut F have the right to cl-rose. Never while
I live will I marry Sir CJilbert Culross. Although I am your
daughter, you have no right .-o treat me — ay, and speak of me
— as a thing for sale.'

She spoke with passionate bitterness. She felt appalled at
her own dark thoughts ; but he tricnl her sorely.

'Then you and I must ))art, my lady, and you can go back to
the peasant, who is more to yoiii' liking tliuu the peer,' he said,

i^it

'i !■

:il

fl?

204

M AIT LAND OF LAUlilESTON.

with a sneer. • I brought you to London to give you a Lrilliunt
position. I have spent money and time and trouble on you,
wliich it would better have jiaid me to lavish on a dog. I havt;
no further use for you. We must leave Kilmeny to-night, of
course. That idiot can't take his rebutf like a man, and he will
not suffer us here. For appearance' sake we can go together
from the place, but at the railway station we part.'

So saying, he turned on his heel and went his way.

Agnes sank into the chair and leaned her head upon its arm,
totally overcome. She shook from head to foot, like one who
had received a great shock. The conflict had been short but
sharp, and now it was all over, and she might bid farewell fur
ever to all her high hopes and bright dreams of usefulness
where her father was concerned. He had cast her ofl". The
memory of his words sent the hot blood stinging to her face.
He had never loved her; he did not appear to have for her even
the natural affection of a parent. He had simply regarded her
as an instrument whereby he might further his own ends.
And because she had thwarted him, — because she had claimed
a woman's right to choose her own lot in life, — he had bidden
her go.

In the midst of all her bitterness a sense of relief crept un-
consciously, whispering that she was free. Her responsibility
was ended, and sh(} could leave the hatefid, artificial, pretentious
life, against which she had revolted since the day she was
introduced to it. Free ! — to return to the old home and the
true hearts waiting fcr her there. She sat up, pushed her hair
back from her hot temples, and, pressing her hands to her eyes,
tried to keep back the tears. But they would flow, a healing
stn'am, which relieved the surcharged heart.

Meanwhile William Laurie had turned away behind the
castlej and was pacing to and fro under the trees in the park,
trying to form some new plan of action. So Lady Culross
found him when the carriage returned from Kirkmaiden.
When he heard the roll of the wheels ho sauntered out to the
avenue, and, looking at the woman sitting in the carriage, a
new thought struck him, — an idea which had never occurred to
him before.

'All alone
sunshade.

*0h yes,
spirit he was
outing 1 '

'Oh, very

windy. Wh

'About t

suppose 1 '

'Not quit
to take a tur
you the dun<
A fearful ph
' I should
of its terrors
' Oh, well
to the coach
side, waiting
he knew so
Lady Cul
the mysteric

arm.

«I considi

this mornin;

ness. ' Yoi

she has refi

'Gilbert

There w

Lady Culrc

« You ar<

I am deep]

affection f

daughter t(

'Oh, M

Agnes is i

my son ; 1

he dared t

Willian

MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

205

* All alone, Mr. Laurie 1 ' she cried gaily, as she lowered her
sunshade. ' Have the truants not come back 1 '

*0h yes, long since,' he answered, assuming a lightness of
spirit he was far from feeling. 'I hope you have had a pleasant
outing 1 '

*0h, very; but I had to have the carriage closed, it was so
windy. Where is Agnes 1 *

'About the grounds somewhere. It is near lunch-time, I
sujipose 1 '

* Not quite. It is only a little after one. Would you like
to take a turn % If we could find Agnes, I should like to show
you the dungeon and the underground passage ci.»se to the sea.
A fearful place, I assure you, but very interesting.*

' I should like it of all things, Lady Culrosa You will rob it
of its terrors,' he answered gallantly.

'Oh, well, we can go now. Let tm out, Hardress,* she said
to the coachman ; and in a moment William Laurie was at her
side, waiting upon her with all that kind solicitude of manner
he knew so well how to assume.

Lady Culross, accepting it all in good faith, led the way to
the mysterious underground regions of the castle, leaning on his
arm.

* I consider it to be my duty to tell you what has happened
this morning, Lady Culross,' ho said, with an admirable serious-
ness. ' Your son has asked my daughter to be Lis wife, and
she has refused him.'

'Gilbert!'

There was something amusing in the intense amazement of
Lady Culross.

' You are surprised, Lady Culross. I confess so was L But
I am deeply disappointed also. I have a great respect and an
affection for Gilbert, and I would willingly have given my
daughter to him.'

'Oh, Mr. Laurie, it would have been an unequal match.
Agnes is far above my son. I admit it frankly, though he is
my son ; I am not blind to his faults. I cannot conceive how
he dared to ask her.*

William Laurie laughed.

ill

h !.

it!

Sit.

mntntv^MOMsuMfStiii'^'^tarjniifm

206

MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

'Tho very weakest of men, Lady Culross, arc l)ol(l in tlio
office and affairs of love, and Gilbert is by no means weak.
My daughter, I regret to say, is not dutiful, — not amenable td
parental guidance. She has grievously disappointed me. Ymi
know what I have done for her, and how bound up I have been
in her welfare and happiness. She has told me over and over
again that she is unhappy with mo. Not an hour ago slid
informed me calmly that she wished to return to Scotland. I
shall permit her to do so. I wish no forced duty, Lady Culross.
I have too much self-respect, even when deeply wounded, to
accept it even from my own child.'

Lady Culross was silent, being indeed strangely pcri>lex(Ml.
She was not a woman of strong discrimination, and William
Laurie'b quiet, kind manner was very convincing. She even
for a moment felt inclined to blame Agnes, whom she loved and
honoured beyond lany human being. Perhaps she had been a
little hard and unyielding for so kind a father. Such was Lady
Culross, bent like the reed with every passing wind. Her com-
panion gathered from the expression in her face what was
passing in her mind, and hastened to follow up his advantage.

' Doubtless you an; aware that she has left a lover in Scotland,
a ijerson in every way unfit for her ; but she is very headstrong.
I believe she will live to learn her mistake ; but I feel that,
since her heart has gone from us, her physical presence may go
too,' he said, M^th a fine mingling of firmness and regret. • I
have tried to do my duty by her. The only thing I have to
reproach myself with is, leaving her with those self-seeking
people during the most impressionable years. I do not know
whether you arc aware that she lately came into a handsome
property through her mother's relatives. She is therefore
independent of mo. Can you advise me, Lady Culross ? I
stand in need of the gentle advice of a woman like yourself.'

* Oh, Mr. Laurie, I am very sorry, very sorry indeed,' cried
she, all sympathy at once. 'Dearly as I love Agnes, I feel
that there is truth in what you say. But it seems terrible that
she should prefer strangers to you.^

' I am a lonely, miserable man, who, through no fault of my
pwn, cannot win i)ior keep even the love of my children,' said

MAJTLA/^n OF LAURIESTON.

207

lio pathetically. 'Fate has decreed, apparently, that I should
live a loveless life, and I must how to her decree.*

*No, no,' cried I^ady Culross impulsively, 'yor have many
friends, who will give you true friendship and love.'

* But that will not satisfy. The friendship of the crowd will
n(»t iill an empty heart, Lady Culross.'

They were standing at the quaint low postern door at the
foot of a narrow flight of moss-grown, slippery steps, which
gave entrance to the basement of the castle. It ^/as a rctinnl
and lonely spot, at the rcnnotest corner of the grounds, — a place
so seldom visited by any, that the little path approaching to it
was overgrown with grassy turf, in which the pink sea-daisies
were coming into bloom. A curious nervousness crept over
Lady Culross as she mot the intent look in the dark eyes bent
upon her. She took a stop back, and said a little hurriedly, —

' I do not think I want to face the horrors of the dungeons
to-day, Mr. Laurie. Let us go back. AVc can come again
after lunch, or another day, when wo have the young people
with us.'

' Stay a moment. It is not often I have an opportunity of
a (juict word with you,' said "William Laurie, touching her arm
Avith impressive fingers. ' I do not know in wliat words to
express the feelings which overwhelm me. It is impossible,
however, that you can be unaware what these feelings are.'

* "What feelings 1 ' asked Lady Culross timidly. There was
something masterful in the man's whole demeanour, even while
ho s])()ke Avith humility and deference.

' My feelings towards yourself. I have tried to stifle them,
believing myself unworthy of your regard. Lady Culross, it is
but the remnant of a life I have to offer you. But I entreat
you to believe that, if you will consent to share it, I will devote
it to your happiness alone.'

She looked bewildered, not even yet comprehending the exact
import of his words.

* I am aware that there is some disparity in our positions,' he
said, with that assumption of respectful humility which some
foimd so flattering, 'but that, I think, your generous friend-
ship has bridged. I trust that I do not presume when I say,

. '*

■,;-t

208

MAirnAND OF nAURIKSTON.

it. has lijn;4 boon tlioilroani of Jiiy lifo to make you myhnnonrpcl
wifp.' Tlu!n Lady Culross'H binvildorment vanished, and slm
laughod, — yes, laughed outrij^lit in licr suitor's face.

' Oh, Mr. Laurio, how absurd ! You and I arc t<x) old for
love-making, or for making fools of ourselves,' she said, tripping;
up tlio mossy stops. ' I would not marry again, not even if n
duke worn to ask mo. I had enough of it in my huslmiid's
lifetime. You will not find a bird who has escaped the en;;!'
Avillingly enter it again. I am very much obliged to you nil the
same, and this will make no difference. I will just believe you
were acting a little comedy for me. There is the luncheon
bell, so wo had better go back.*

So William Laurie's latest castle in the air toppled to the
ground.

the quaint
was think in
to the blue
one of the
from the ti
lying on th<
its most sec
f»ff, and his
blue veins
clearly defii
had told \x\
over ho Wi
indulgent t
every morn
Nobody dif
couch for
that, even
ought not
compared
same, a to\
like a you
no effect.

CHAPTER XXVI.
'Late, Inte in the gloamin', Kilnieny oani' hftine.'

ICHAEL MAITLAND tho yuungor was sitting
under tho thdrn-tn-o on tlic lawn at Lauricston,
with an open letter in liis lianil, — .John's first letter
written from Leipaic, full of j,'Iowinj; (Inscription of
the quaint old university town. He had read it through, and
was thinking over it as he lottked away ovt;r the. emerald fields
to the blue sea, shimmering under the !May-day sun. It was
one of the brightest of May (lays, and, though the wind blew
from the treacherous east, the sun tenjpered it, and Michael,
lying on the soft warm turf, forgot that the east wind, even in
its most seductive gui»e, was his natural enemy. His cap was
off, and his fair hair lay on his high white brow, where the
blue veins were jierhaps too visible, their delicate tracing too
clearly defined. Micliael's face was thinner, — the winter's work
had told upon him, and after the strain of the examination was
over he was glad to be at home to rest. They were very
indulgent to him. EHie carried his breakfast up to his room
every morning, and sat on the bed carrying on her gay chatter.
Nobody disturbed him when he lay down on the ' wee room '
couch for an after-dinner nap ; they did not seem to think
that, even after a hanl winter's work, a vigorous young man
ought not to have been so thoroughly spent. Had they even
compared him with John, whose work had been exactly the
same, a touch of anxiety might have warned them. John was
like a young lion, upon whom lack of sleep in close study had
no effect. Perhaps they were used to Michael's more womanish

' ''H '

¥'^

: I;

li'

1(!

210

M AIT I.AM) or LAIJIIII'.STO^.

waye, aii<l »•> did not idunii tli(!in.scIvc'H at LiiuricHton ; Imt
tlicro w<*r(' Hoiiic out.siiU' who Hlu»ok thoir heads, nnd Htiid thry
did not liclicvo tliiit Michael ISraitliiiul wuuld ovur livu to hf
a liccutiati-, much \vhh a placed miiUHtor, in the Church of
Scutland.

* Pour uhl Jock,' aaid Michutd to himself ; and, turning hack
the page, read over again » paragraph which had upeciuUy
interested him.

' You would enjoy this lifci immensely, Mike. We've got to
know a lot of fellows already. They're a very free, unconven-
tional set. Last night there were live or six of them in our
room, and if you had heard tlu! talk . It was a feast of reason
and a flow of soul. The hair of the orthodox would stand on
end if they could hear the freedom with which religious ques-
tions are dealt with here. It is curious experience, Mike, for
one who has had certain matters represented to him as objects
for faith, suddenly brought face to face with a freedom of
thought like this. AVhat we have been taught to believe as
infallible and untouchable certainties, are here handled as if
they were mere mathematical j)roblems, soluble by the human
understanding. I'riestly's arguments, which deny the existence
of the mind or soul in man. are in favour here; and indeed,
old fellow, the multitudinous dogmas and philosojihies are so
confusing, that (jne is glail to hold on to anything, even the
ascendency of matter, — certainly it is only matter, — which is
perceptible and impervious to doubt. I am trying to keep my
niind open and unprejudiced. I did not take part in the
discussion; only listened and tried to judge impartially. I
feel, however, that my sojourn here will be of great mental
and moral imi)ort to me. Either it will strengthen my doubt,
— though I don't want to become a disciple of rationalism, — or
it will make me dissatisfied with philosophy as a substitute for
Christianity. I want to grasp something. This uncertain
wavering state of mind is horrible. I want to be at the truth.
If it should be your truth, Mike, I should be glad ; only I must
"be convinced that it is truth. I am honest in my search after
it. So far, I have comprehended the spirit of true philosophy.'
Michael was pondering over these words, — honest, plain

words, 80 1

the house

'Get ni

l\e said ki

delicute, n

Is it a lett

' Yes, fi

Michael

over. He

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'FatI

MAITI.ANJt OF LAUItlES'l'ON.

211

wonls, 80 lik«' Jolm,- wlnn \m futlu'r ciiiiin luuml the j^ubl*- of
tilt' houHo and joined liini <>n tlui lawn,

'(lot up, niy man; the dew lies lun^' under the thorn tree,'
he said kindly, and his eyes softened as he looked Jijion the
delieuto, refined face of luH Bccond sun. * Well, wliat hue ye 1
Is it a letter frao John 1 '

« Yes, father.'

Mielmel raised himself on his el})OW, and passed the letter
over. He did not believe John intendcid that letter for his
father's eyes, but tliou^dit it best that there should be nothing
hidden, and that his father shoulil understand exactly how
John stood in matters spiritual as well as temjioral.

Michael felt the narrowness of Ids father's creed, but it did
not irritate and chafe him as it did John. His nature was not
less enthusiastic, only it was tempered by a boundless loving-
kindness and charity iidierited from his mother. It was no task,
but a pleasuie for Michael to be unselfish and j^eiierously tolerant

Laurieston read the letter from be^'inninjj; to end, and passed
it back without a word. Only, his face was more grave and
stern than it had l)cen before he began.

'Isn't it an interesting letter, father 1 ' asked Michael cheer-
fully. 'John writes so vividly and naturally.'

* It seems to me, lad, that if he could ilrift any further awa*
frae guid, he's <^an(! straicht to the best i)lace. Freedom o*
thoclit, indeed ! Tlpsettin' haverils ! I wonder the Almichty
doesna send a judgment on them for their presumption.'

Michael's sweet face clouded a little at the barshne-ss of his
father's tone.

' I don't like to hear you say that John has drifted away
frt)m good. It is his very earnestness of desire after truth
wliich blinds him. I am sure a better fellow than John does
not live.'

* It is litting for ye to speak well o' him, Michael. Ye hae
been laddies thegither a' your days. But I put it to you,
trusting to your fair judgment ; Is it no' the height of presump-
tion for miserable sinners like oorsel's to qucbtion into the deep
things of God 1 '

'Father, I do not believe tliat God is angry with Hw

ii'

,' I

'l]

I I

I
I

I \
' I
1:1

212

MAITLAM) OF hA (fini'lHTON.

croiituros, tlioupjh tlicy dcsiro f.iitli to Htaiid in Uki \v^\\, of
reason. Tiio very fiUMilMcs th«>y oxorci.so in tlieir in^iuirics Tin
lia.s givon tliom ; and if they Koarch into relif^'iou.s (lucstions
with a prayerful earm^stnoHs, it cannot be Hinful.'

Ijiuiri.'sston shook his head.

' 1 liope, I liope, that 1 winna livo to see twa sons deny thoir
Creator.'

Miehatjl laughed —a genuine, hearty laugh — in the very f;i((\
of his fath(!r'8 cxtreuK^ soieninily, which showed that he did
liot dread him, or even stand in a\V(>, of him.

'You are (piite morbid, dad,' he said ear<il(!ssly, as he folded
Im's arms -nider his liead and uplifted his face, to the sunny sky.
'I would as soon thiidc of denying that the sun shone nf»w, as
denying my Creator. You neecl not fcMr for tny fiiith, fatiier ;
it is unshaken. But you misjudj^o and misunderstand dolin
altogether. Vm glad we have this chance of speaking about
him. There is not a more reverent soul on earth than his, and
it \^ {?n agony to him that he v)ud doubt. I am sorry for liiin
just now ; but T am just as sure lliat be will coniti out unsc,atli(>d,
as I am sure yon fishing-boat, making for Mori.son's llavei!, will
get safely into port in half an hour.'

Lauriestoji looked incredtdous.

' r like not the wa}' h(> writes about it; and if he be truly
stM^king a''ter rigliteousness, what for did he Itiave od' all holy
ordinances and becouK^ a Sabbiith-breaker ? '

' He was not a Sabbath-ltreaker, fatluir,' retitrted Micliael
hotly, for be felt that the old man was unjust. ' It wiis
because he was so honest and straigbtforwi'rd that be left olf
going to church. 1 do not defend him for that. \ oidy s,iy it,
was quite in keeping with his thought. It is better, i tliiid<,
to bo an honest doubter, who has the courage of his opinions,
than a religious hypocrite ; and 1 fear there are plenty of tlieiii
both in Inveresk and in other kirks.'

Laurieston had no chance against bis son's quiet but telling
words. Ifo could only shake his head in silence;, not at all
convinced in his own mind that even Michael was orthodox.

'I did not approve of John gaun to the college! ava,' he said,
«,fter a brief pause. * Flo hasna balance; he just plunges heid-

(.f

l»IIS

itiir
lid

MA I TLA N I) OF LA UltlKSTON. 2 1 ;}

Iniif,' into things, lie wutl hao bcim far bottcr oil tho furni,
tli()U<;h I l)('lii!V(i I'm XmiU'V all' wi' Wat.'

'You could msvor liavt; kupt dock on tho farm, father; and
il woidd liavi! iKtcnashamc for him notto<{(!tto tlx; lJnivcr.sity.
lie hais a splendid intidlcct, a massivo understanding, old
rrof(!.ss(»r iM'Li'llanil told nu;,' said Michael, with a .smile.
'You'll 1)1^ proud of John yet, father, — may ho after J'ni
forgotten.'

There, was no special meaning in Michael's last sentenc
iVertheUiris it sent a chill to his father's heart,'
' You forgotten ! Na, na, my man. You'll bo Moderator

the General Assenddy yet.'

Michael shook his luuul.

' Unless 1 change iiiy views, I'll never be a minister in tlu
Established Church at all. Oh, J say, who is that at the g
Why, bless me, dad, it's Agnes ! '

In a moment Michael was on his f<!et. Lavirieston rose also,
and turned an astonishcsd face to the gard<!n gate, through
which a .slight woman's tigun; had just entered. She did not
observe them just then. SIm! was looking towards the iiouse,
and the expression on her face the two who .saw it never forgot.
Yes, it was Agnes ; changed in some indefinabl.;, ind(;scril)al)le
way, and yet th<! same, sweet, graci<jus, dear woman whose place
at Laurieston had never been Idled. Michael .saw his father's
ruggt'd face twitch, and he hung back himself when the old man
took a step forward. Perhaps Michaid him.seif did not care just
then to meet vVgnes, the woman who was en.shrined in his heart
in a deep, undying, biit hopeless love. Hopeless, because shu
belonged to John, and because; Michael believed they wero
made for each other. So he had buried his love, and rejoiced
loyally in the lieautiful development of their aU'ect.on, not
taking to himself any crctlit for his utter abnegation of himself.
To have even shadowed their happiness by a hint of his pain,
Witidd have seemed to Michael unworthy and unkind. Ho saw
the coh)ur leap in the face; of Agnes at sight of his father ; and
she held out both iier hanils, with a certain wistfulness in her
sweet eyes which revealed much to Michael, lie knew, even in
■jhat lirst look, that she had borne the cross since she went away.

(•- ■■

'1
f

MAfTLAND OF l.AUnilCSTO^,

* Uncle Micliael, I have come back, as you bade me,' he
heard her say. ' I have no other home in tlie world l)ut
Laurieston now.'

' Laurie.ston never spoke, hut folded his arms about her iuid
kissed her brow. Tlien he took her hand ui)on liis arm, ami
led her towards the liouse. On the threshold he stood still and
looked down into her eyes :

' Eairn, the sun has shone but seldom since ye gaed awa.
Ye canna come in unless ye have come to bide.'

* I have come to bide,' she answered, with a trembling smile.
* Oh, there is Michael, dear Michael ! IIow pleasant it — it is to
see him again ! You see I have not stayed very long away.
Like the prodigal, I have come back to the father's house.'

She laid hci' hand in Michael's, but with the other clung fast
to Laurieston himself. She seemed to find strength in tlie
touch of his arm, assurance in the kindly eye, which was dim as
it looked upon her face.

'I'm glad you have; come to bide, as father says,' said Michael
cheerily, for he saw that a cheery word was needed. ' Mother,
mother, where are you ? Here's a Wantlering Jew for you.'

'Bless me, laddie, what a din!' Margaret Maitland cried
from the dining-room, where she was looking over her milk
accounts. ' If you would come in and run up my figures for
me, my man, it would set you better than sleeping under the
thorn all afternoon.'

Agnes let go her hold on Maitland's arm, and crossed
the threshold of the house once more. None followed her
as, with swift st(?p, she crossed the hall and entered the
room. Mrs. Maitland, sitting with her account-books at the
table, thought the light foot was Effie's, and spoke without
looking up :

* Just run your eye over this, Effie. I am tired with these
weary figures. Agnes taught me a bad l(!ss(jn when she was
here. I have found all the things I used to do before she came
irksome since she went away.'

* Aunt Maggie, I have come back, and ' — But there was no
more said, for Agnes was kneeling at her feet, with her head
hidden on her knees, shaking from head to foot.

MAJfLANT) OF lAtrilTESTOA'.

215

* Nannie, my bairn, is it really you 1 Where have you conic
from 1 My dear, dear bairn ! Is it really you 1 '

Agnes never spoke, but clung to her as if she would never
let her go. Then Margaret Maitland raised the slight figure in
her tender arms, and, holding the dear face between her twn
hands, looked into it with loving, questioning gaze.

* Have you come back, my baiin, to be our bairn for good 1 '
.she asked.

' Yes, Aunt Maggie, if you will take me. I have nobody in
tlie world but you,' she answered ; and though her eyes were
(|uite dry, there was a wistfulncss and pathos in her whole
demeanour, which told Margaret Maitland that Agnes had been
through deep waters since she wei\t away from Laurieston.

' I have nothing to ask, my darling. Nothing to say, except
that we are blither to have you back than you can bo to come.
The place has not been like itself since you went away,' she
answered ; and the motherly smile and look of love completely
satisfied Agnes Laurie's heart. The old love had undergone
no change ; her place in that dear homo was waiting for her ;
iier welcome was sweeter even than she had dared to hope for.
Hope, which had been almost quenched, bloomed again in the
girl's tried heart. Then they all trooped in, Effie flying down-
stairs with her boisterous greeting ready. There was nothing
wanting to convince Agnes Laurie that she was welcome home.
When she went upstairs to her old room, Mrs. Maitland
followed her and closed the door.

' Could you sit down now. Aunt Maggie, and I will tell you
in as few words as possible what has happened 1 ' Agnes said,
with something of her old self-possessed, serene manner.

' My lamb, it will agitate you too much, perhaps. Some day
you may tell me ; but in the meantime all you need to believe
is, that wo thank God that you have come home, whatever may
have sent you.'

' I would rather tell you now, Aunl, Maggie, and be done
with it. I want you to know it all before I break bread again
in Laurieston.'

'Very well, Nannie; if it will relieve your mind, speak on.'

Agnes sat down on a chair o]iposite, and, pushing back her

(!■

' • '1

i' 1.

:l!<

M-

1 t

f,< ly

MAiTLAND OF LAUlilESTOK.

hat, played nervously with the lace scarf about her neck.
Margaret Maitland remembered that nervous motion of the
hands, characteristic of Agnes in moments of strong feeling.
In a few brief but comprehensive sentences, she told all that
Mrs. Maitland did not know. She passed as lightly as possible
over her father's treatment, until she came to tell of the parting
at Luckerbie. Then her voice shyok, and her eyes Idled witli
bitter teal's.

' I hoped, Aunt Maggie, till the last, that he would relent, and
let me go with him to London again. I would not have left
him yet, had he not cast me off. You remember what hopes 1
had, and what fine resolves,' she added mournfully. * Every one
of them has been quenched. Perhaps it was my fault ; but 1
do believe. Aunt Maggie, that instead of doing my father any
good, I have done him harm. I seem to have irritated and
annoyed him all along ; and oh ! I fear I have not the affection
for him I ought to have. That is where I have wronged him most.'

* You have not wronged him at all, Agnes ; and it will not be
right for you to brood upon that. We are but human, and
even the ties of kinship can be severed by harsh treatment.
My dear, 1 know you have done your duty nobly, and you have
nothing to reproach yourself with. I fear<^d — I feared you
were too hopeful. But perhaps, my dear, after you are away,
some of your words may bear fruit. God works in ways we can^
not always follow or understand. 1 believe these weary days have
had their uses. You have brightened life a little, I can see, for
that dear Lady Culross. I love her for her goodness to you.*

*Yes, she is my friend,' said Agnes simply. 'She pressed
me very much to stay at Kilmeny, but I could not,' she added,
with a slight flush, * on account of her son. I have promised
to go to her some time when she is alone. Oh, Aunt Maggie, 1
am so thankful to come back.'

' And I to have you. You are my dear daughter now, never
to leave us, until somebody else takes you away, — somebody to
whom I won't grudge you.'

So Agnes slipped into her old place, and after that day the
name of William Laurie was mentioned no more in the house
of Laurieston.

„

i»

PART II.

— ♦—

CHAPTER L

'Through the mist and through the darknessj
Travels the great human soul.'

N a sunny June morning John Maitland was pacin>^'
up and down the quay at Antwerp harbour, await-
ing the arrival of the steamer from Leith. He had
travelled in hot haste from Leipsic, to be in time,
for Michael was the expected traveller. He had been advised
to take a little trip to the Continent, to try the eflect of sea
breezes and sunny airs on the cough, which the greyer summer
of the north had been powerless to banish.

The sea trip was a gift from Uncle Walter, who had otlered
him a return passage in one of his steamers, and the brr 'lers
had planned to have ft little run through Belgium together.
Michael was not very eager to travel, — he had not John's im-
patient, restless disposition ; nevertheless, he had gladly ac-
cepted his uncle's offer, though it was the prospect of meeting
his brother which gave the keenest edge to his holiday trip.
His heart yearned over him unspeakably; the love between,
them passed the love of women, and they had never been
jiarted before. When the steamer was far down the turbid
Scheldt, John saw him standing at the vessel's prow, with a

plaid about his shoulders ; and that gave him a curious shock.

■in

' It I ■

Ji-

1! »

If* !

218

MAtTLAND OP LAURfKSTO.W

He felt tlie brilliant heat of the sunshine a trifle Imrdensome,
and yet there was Miehael, clad in a thick overcoat and wearing
a plaid. Anxiety, which was kejniest pain, robl)ed him at that
nioniont of the joy of re-union. lie was relieved, however, to
observe, as the steamer drew nearer, that there was no visible
change on Michael's outer man, — if anything, he looked rather
better than just after the session closed. Michacd singled him
out presently, and waved his hat, with a, bright flush on his
face. A few minutes more, and they were clasping hands
silently, — ay, and with wet eyes, both hearts being full.

' Mike, old boy ! '

'Ay, Jock.'

Such was their greeting ; then they linked arms and marched
off, John clutching the portmanteau, and disdaining the out-
stretched arms and clamorous voices of the porters.

* You're not tired, Mike ? I took rooms in the HStel de
I'Europe. It's in the Place Vert, — not far. Can you walk ? '

' Of course. I say, how jolly it is to s(!e you again, and what
a blessec' thing this sunshine is ! I feel it stealing into my very
bones.'

' It's been awfully hot, — too hot even for comfort. It rather
took my breath away when I saw you rolled up like a minnmy.
Was it cold ? '

* Cold ! I should think so. The North Sea airs just a'.jout
did for me. We had an easterly breeze from Flamborough
Head to Flushing, and I had to stay below all the time. When
I saw the sun lying on Antwerp this morning, it was like a
draught of generous wine to me. I say, what a quaint old place
it is ! Have you been in it long ? '

' No ; I only came last night. I thought it would be fine for
us to do it together.'

* So it will. I was thankful to see you alone. I was rathei'
afraid Phil might be with you. I like him very well, you
know, but I wanted you all to myself this time.'

John laughed.

' Phil won't be free till the end of the month. He's to join
on to us somewhere, — at Heidelberg, perhaps. Of course you
are not in a hurry.'

*Oh
' Then

MAITLANT) OF LAUPJESTO^.

219

'Uh no. I can stay as long as the money lasts,' said Michael.
' Tliim I have my return ticket. I thought of going to Paris
later on, and sailing from Dunkirk. One of Undo Walter's
hoats sails from Dunkirk every week. It would save \\w
coining back hero.'

' So it would. lUit when your purse is empty we can draw
on mine. I haven't spent much this .summer, Mike. Lcipsic
is the place for needy students who want to improv(j the time.
After we've seen the Khine, we might go to Switzerland and
have a little tramp, if you are equal to it.'

'Oh yes; at least I will be, after I've absorbed so many
quarts of this sunshine into my system. You are looking
si)lendid.'

' I f(^el splendid. IIow are they all at home ? '

' All well, and sent the usual kind messages. You are very
much missed at Laurieston, John.'

'Amir

There was nothing to be gathered from John's matter-of-fact
questiiius, only Michael was nut d(!coive(l. lie knew the warm,
true heart beating under that indiiferent manner.

* IIow is mother ? ' he aildcd, after a moment, during which
he kept his eyes turned away.

'Mother is just herself. She has been very well this
summer. Nannie relieves her of so much care.'

*Ay,' said John dryly. 'And what does Effie do for her
meat 1 '

'Keeps us all lively,' said Michael, with a laugh. " 'Though
I think she is not quite herself. I know mother thinks she is
fretting after Willie. Wasn't it a pity she wouldn't listen to
Phil?'

' A pity for her, — not for him. Effie is very jolly, and all that,
Mike, but she has not dei)th enough for Phil. She would not
understand him.'

' It does not always seem to be necessary for a clever man to
marry a clever woman. As a matter of fact, very few do, and
they seem happy enough,' said Michael musingly. ' But, I say,
how are you getting on? I want to hear everything. Your
letters have been meagre enough, in all conscience.'

-if.i

\\'\\

i ('

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If!

l'.,M!'

ilH

; I

220

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

* A man can't always pour his soul out on paper,' said Jolni
briefly. ' Here's the Phxce Vert, and there's our hotel. That's
Rubens's statue in the middle of tlie sciuare, and there's the
Cathedral. It's notliiu^' to look at, outside, — it's spoiled by these?
ugly buihlings which hem it in. After we've had a hit of
luncli, we'll go over. You'll bo tired after your journey. It's
nice the Cathedral is so near. It's just the sort of place you
could spend hours of silent rapture in.'

Michael looked again with searching keenness into John's
face. The traces of hard study and agonizing thought had
Avorn away from it, and he seemijd to be in splendid health ;
and yet there was a hardness, a curious coldness of expression,
■which made Michael feel that all was not well with him.

It was only in his first lettur from Leipsic that .lohn had
spoken at all freely. Since tiien, though writing regularly, ho
had conlined himself strictly to connuonplace topics and items
of general int(irest, and his hitters could be read in the family-
circle without exciting any connnent. Michael felt that he
was shut out, as he had never ])efore been, from the inner
sanctuary of his brother's Ihcjught. IJut in the weeks of close
intercourse in store, he hoped that all restraint would be swept
away. The sallc a mamjei' of the hotel was very (juiet at that
hour; so at one of the little tables in a palm-shaded corner tht;
brothers were as much alone as if tht>y liad bcjen in one of the
fields at home.

'Does Phil like Leipsio, then?' Michael asked, finding
John so uncommunicative that he was obliged to ipiestion him
if he wanted any information.

*0h, I think S(j. He docs not say. I have not seen a great
deal of him. His work keeps him very busy, you know.'

' And how on earth have you managed to put in the time ? '

* I ? ' John gave a short laugh. ' Oh, I've been sipping at the
fount of knowledge. I haven't been idle. I never studied
harder than I've done since I left home.'

'Or to better purpose, I hope?' said Michael significantly.

* Oh, well, that's a matter of opinion ; I am quite satisfied.
But don't let us talk such dry stuff just now,' said John, a trifle
impatiently. * Tell me all about home.'

'1th

Michae

make

John

' Ho

Why

'Ea;

out of

ing to

in spi

an in.

svunni

I'v

MAITLA ND OF LA URIESTON.

221

' I thought you did not scorn much interested in home,* said
IMicliael rather dryly. 'In fact, Jock, I don't know what to
make of you. I don't think Leipsic has improved you.*

John gave a start.

'How not improved mo? I feel splendidly.'

' Physically may ho ; hut mentally you arc out of joint.
Why dan't you out with everything, and be the better for it?'

'Easier said than done. Besides, I don't know that I am
out of joint. I'm oidy descending to terra firma after ascend-
ing to meet you. I was fearfully excited over it, I can tell you,
in s[)itc of my lack of interest in home,' said John, in rather
an injured voice. 'Man, I wish you had been with mo this
summer. It would have done me a world of good. I tell you,
rv(? got my ideas eidarged and the cobwebs swept out of my
brain.'

* And you are a happier man for it 1 '

' I think so ; yes, T am sure of it. You would revel in the
.society in the old city. Intellectually, Edinburgh is nowhere
beside Leipsic.

'Renegade!' said Michael, with a smile. 'Goon. I needn't
agree with you, you know, though I listen in silence.'

' It's a fact, though ; Robertson will tell you the same.
Thought is very far advanced in Germany, Mike. "We have no
idea of it at home.'

' Advanced in what direction V

' Towards the light, T believe, — especially where what are
called religious (juestions are concerned,' said John, as he
dropped a piece of ice into his tumbler. 'I say, won't you
have a bottle of Rhine wine 1 It's very light, and won't
intoxicate, I promi.se you. Nobody comes to Rhineland, you
know, without tasting the juice of its grape.'

It was uidike John to fly off at such a tangent. Michael
discerned in his strange manner the restlessness of a soul
even more unsettled than it had yet been. He seemed to be
longing, and yet dreading, to enter into a discussion such as
had so often taken jiluce between them. But Michael held
his peace, biding his time, feeling in no mood just then to
Avrostle with his brother in argument. It might have been

I t

I I

222

MAITLANI) OF LAUIilESTON.

that his unwillinj,'iu'SH jtuliciitcd a vn{,'uo shrinkinf;; fntni liavinj.'
John's vision niado oloar to liini. Ho foared, nay, ho was
sure, that the hiat remnant of his inother'n faith had {^{ono from
him.

• I thouglit you would hiive a thoiisand questions to ask
about Nannie coming liomc,* ho said, going far away from the
snbject. 'You have not oven asked whether she sent you a

message.

*I know she did not,' said John rjuickl;y. *I don't want
to know anything Imt that sl;e is home. So long as she is at
Laurieston, and mother there, everything is right.'

Ho spoke quickly ; but Michael loved to see the old tender-
ness creep to the grave, care-lined mouth, to hear it thrill in
the deep tones of his ' jice. So long as he retained that
sacred rtivorcnco for wtuuanhood, John could not stray very
far from the kingdom. Such was Michael's thought.

* Well, I say, if your inner man is satisfied, suppose wo
stroll over to the Cathedral? Did you study Baedeker on
board the Angliii so conscientiously, that you will know
exactly where to look for the "Descent from the Cross," jind to
give the dates of all Rubens's pictures ? I went over to early
mass this morning out of curiosity, and had a look round.
The pictures are certainly good. Well, are you ready ? *

'Yes.'

ISIichaol answered only in a monosyllable, for his heart
was again saddened by his breather's look and tone. In silence
they loft the hotel, and crossed the sunny square side ])y side.
Michael smiled as a little milk-cart, drawn by two patient dogs,
and attended by a woman in the (juaint Flemish garl), rumbled
lazily over the rough stones. As ho uplifted his face gratefully
to the cloudless sky, and felt the blessed radiance of the sun
upon him, his heart grow less heavy, for it seemed to him as
the smile of God.

'It is a quaint old place,' he repeated, as they entered the
(shadow of the little lane leading to the Cathedral door. John
nodded, rang the bell for the concihge, and paid the francs for
admission, declining the offer of a guide. There was something
inexpressibly soothing and solemn in ihe dim light anci sweet

St lib
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M Air LAND OF LAURIESTON.

223

Rtilliipsa of tlio pliu'o. A Imsh sopiiictl to rest upon it, lirok(>n
only by tho rustle of a couniry-vvonian's skirtn as slio rose from
her devotions before the altiir ste[)s, and a<,'ain by the faint
sound of a painter's briisli in one of the tninsepts, wliere
an ambitious artist was making a copy of Rubena's master-
piece.

^lichael moved away from him, and stood before the picture
with bared head and eyoa uplifted, John watching him
curiously, and with a half smile on his lips.

' Do you see this man,' he whispered presently at his elbow.
'He's making his twentieth copy. How much reverence do
you suppose ho has left for the original ? '

' Hush ! ' said Michael sharply. • Is there nothing there,
then, John, to appeal to your highest feelings T

•There is an appeal to the feelings, I admit; humanly
speaking, it was a noble death, fit ending to an unselfish
life. We deny nothing of that, Michael. We believe in
the dignity of man, in the sublimity of his nature, and the
holiness of his aspirations. In the contemplation of the ideal
humanity there is sufficient to make life worth living. There
is something grand in tho thought of working out one's own
destiny, and by force of mind and will making it as near
perfection as it can bo.*

Then Michael Maitland knew indeed that the last remnant
of faith had gone from his brother's soul 1

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'Love Bet me up on high; when I grew vain
Of that my height, love brought me down again.*

HP2 edgi' was stolen from Michael's enjoyment of his
trip. Thoy stiiyed a few days in Antwerp, faith-
fully went over all the sights, and then continued
their journey to Brussels. Nobody could be niore
kind and cheerful, more considerate and helpful, than Joun ;
nevertheless, there was a barrier between thom, which each
knew and felt. They never spoke again of religion or its
beliefs, but confined their talk to the interests of their sight-
seeing, interaperscd with reminiscences of Edinburgh life.
By the time they had seen Brussels, and walked out to spend
a long day at Waterloo, Michael felt quite ready to go on to
Cologne, where Robertson had promised to join them. He had
proposed a walking expedition in the Ardennes, but Michael
was anxious to see Switzerland.

* It may be my only chance, Jock,' he said, when they spoke
of it ; but John only laughed at him.

* Nonsense, man ; even the jioorest parish priest can afford
an occasional holiday, and I don't think you will ever require
the aid of the Smaller Livings Fund, uidess you fall very far
short of what I expect of you.'

Nevertheless Switzerland was agreed upon, and they pushed

ii in a somewhat leisurely fashion to meet their old friend.

He did not turn up at Cologne, and, after lingering a few

days in the quaint old city, they got on board the Rhine

steamer one sunny morning, willing to endure the uninteresting

221

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93A

proiicry •»" til"' litwor reaches of tlio rivor, hrraiiso of iho
<I(li<i(»iiH luxury <»f a loiijj day of itllcincss. Michael osjicfially
\v;i;-i ;^lail of tlic whL \lv Hat hIJII ill ft HUiiny coriior, with his
|>l;iiil alioni hiH kiUMt.s, t'ujoyiiij,' Mm heat, and laiij,'hiii^' hecaMsc
.liiliii assured him .sundry ladies on board wcru oyoinj^' liini
niiii|)a.ssionaie|y as an interesliuL; invalid.

.lojin, in his charaeteristie restlessness, wandered np and

tehiii'

the |)(!oi)le, and necasiona

illy

loniin^' up to Ills

hrntlier with a seornfid eojiiiiieiit on the jxtor sccMiery throii^di
wliieh they were [tassiii;,'. The .stiiit|)a;;<!8 were always intcn'cst-
iii:,'; and when they touched at Cohlentz, there was so j^'reat a
crowd on the pier that they wondered how room was to he found
for them on board.

' Come on, man, and let's watch them. Wo mi^dit see
riiil. IIo turns up often unexpectedly,' said .lohn, and,
f^'iaspiuf,' Michael by the arm, led him forward. The tourists
trooped over the, gangway for several minutes, however, and
every face was strange.

' There's the newly-married pair wc saw at the Hotel do
i'Kurope,' whispered -loiiji. 'They're doing the Rhine; and
oh, I say, upon my word, there's Mr. Laurie, Nannie's father!
Yes, upon my wonl it is ! '

'Where]' asked Michael excitedly.

'There, look, — tiiat big, llm'id nian with the light suit, and
the Held-glass over his shoulder. What in the name of wonder
is he doing here 1 '

' Hut are you sure it's Ik; 1 lie is not the least like Nannie,'

' I should say not ; but it is he, all the same. I had too
good a look of him that day at the Waverley to be mistaken.
Let's get out of sight ; I don't want to speak to him.'

' It's no good, John. He's seen us, and recognised you,
evidently,' said Micliael. 'But I don't think, after what
has happened this summer, he'll want to speak to us.'

'If wo move away he'll see we don't want to speak,' said
John, as ho turned away. ' What happened, Miko 1 You
know I was never told anything.*

' Your own fault, entirely. You said you didn't want to
know anything, except that she was safe at home.'

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22G

MAITLAhD OF LAURIESTON.

' That's true ; but you might tell mc what made hor leavo

such

1 Th

s must have come to a climax
some kind.'

'There was a climax. T believe it had to do with that
baronet, who wanted t marry her. Mother knows all about
it, of c(jurse ; but she did not tell us much, and Xannie herself
Avill not willingly speak about the time she was away. She
said, one day, she wanted to foi'get all about it.'

Defore John could reply, some one slapped him on the
shoulder with all the familiarity of an old accpiaintance.

' Maitland of Lauriestoirs sons, or I am much mistakt n,'
said a loud, lu.'arty voice. ' I see you remember me. AV(!
should not be strangers, if only for the sake of auld lang
syne.'

He held out a hand to each, without waiting for any further
formality ; and what could the young men do but accept his
salutation, thougli John's brow darkened, and his mouth took
its sternest curve?

'Going far, eh? Hope I shall have your company jis far
as Biebrich. I'm going to Wiesbaden for a little chang(^
I'm rather run-down at ))resent, and tiud nothing like the
German spas. You both look well. Having a little run, after
hard study, eh ? '

' ^Ty brotlu^r has l)een in Germany all the summer, ^fr.
Laurie,' said ^licliatd, feeling obliged to say something, Jis John
evidently did not intend to speak. * I only came over to
Antwerp last week.'

' Oil, indeed '\ All well at home ? Laurieston is a charming
place. See what an attraction it has for my daughter. I
offered her this little trip, but she preferred Scotland,' said Mr.
Laurie quite coolly, and with a shrug of his shoulders. ' I was
vt!ry sorry. Continental travel does for a young lady what
nothing else can, — gives her, as it were, a finishing touch.
But I trust my daughter will join Lady Jane Culross abroad
later on, when her ladyship has tired of Kilmeny.'

John turned away, and walked out of hearing. Michael raised
his mild eyes to the smiling face of William Laurie in simple
wonder. Although he did not know all, he was aware that

M Air LAND OF LAURIESTON.

227

Agnes had, of her own free will, severed her connection with
her father, and had no intention of resuming it again. To hear
liini s]ieaking in this matter-of-fact, ofif-hand way, gave Michael
something of a shock. Mr. Laurie saw the effect he had pro-
duced, and blandly smiled.

' I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. — Mr.' —
' Michael Maitland,' said Michael mechanically.

* Mr. Michael ; because I think you are — what shall I say —
more courteous than your brother. He is after the true Maitland
type, — not unlike the emblematical thistle. Tell him from me,
will you, that, apart from any question of good breeding, it is, to
say the least of it, highly impolite to be so boorish. It will
stand in his way as he se<>ks to get on in life.'

' You do not know my brother, Mr. Laurie,' said Michael
quietly.

* Eh, well, perhaps not ; nor do I wish to know him. It
cannot be, I would fain hope, that so uncultured a youth is the
attraction for my daughter in Scotland, eh ? '

Michael coloured painfully under William Laurie's searching
glance.

' I do not know ; indeed, I only know she is like one of us,
and we were all glad to have her back,' he said, recovering
himself the next moment.

Again William Laurie shrugged his shoulders.

* She must have two sides, then, my amiable daughter. I did
not find her all a daughter shoulil be. Would you not consider
it a daughter's duty, now, Mr. Michael, to accompany a father
who freeks restoration to health 1'

' It would depend on circumstances ; besides,' added Michael
candidly, 'you do not seem to be in an alarming state of health.'

William Laurie laughed. His good-nature was imperturbable.

'Appearances cannot always be relied on. My system is
down, I assure you. But to return to my daughter. She has
proved to me most undutiful and ungrateful ; but I am in hopes
that, when she has had time to reflect, she will regret not only
her treatment of me, but her folly in throwing away opportun-
ities which may never come in her way again. Well, good
morning. I will not detain you, as I see your amiable brother

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

declines my companionship. I see \vc are approaching Cappellan ;
and there is my friend Captain Stannard, of the Fusiliers, on the
pier; so I am in luck. Good morning, Mr. Michael. Pray
present my compliments to my daughter, and say I hope, on my
return to Scotland, to find her in a better frame of mind.'

And with a beaming smile, and an airy flourish of his finger-
tips, Mr. Laurie took liimself off. Michael looked after him in
simple wonder.

The man was a study, and a curious one. Michael thought of
Agnes, — of her pure and perfect womanhood,— and marvelled that
there could be any tie of blood between her and that polished
hypocrite, — that suave, vain man of the world.

' Well, what do you think of him ? ' asked John's voice at his
elbow ; and his face wore the expression Michael least liked to
see upon it.

' I don't know what to think, John. Isn't ho very unlike
her 1 '

* I should think so. But I'll tell you, Mike, — Will is too like
him. It is well, I think, that he is not within touch of Laurie-
ston. He was speaking of me, I saw by his glance and the
shrug of his shoulders. If he dislikes me, the feeling is
thoroughly reciprocal.'

' Yet there must be a germ of go'^ Iness even there,' said
Michael musingly.

* You have a boundless charity, my boy,' said John dryly.

* I wonder, though, where he gets the money for his travelling
expenses,' pursued Michael. ' His get-up is faultless, and he
speaks of the German spas as if he were a rheumatic millionaire.'

'I expect he belongs to the genus sponge,' answered John.
'Like the immortal Rawdon Crawley, he has solved the problem
of living on nothing a year. Did he speak at all of Nannie 1 '

* Yes ; he has not given up the idea of seeing her married to
the baronet. He says he is going to Laurieston to see her after
he returns to England.'

' Mike, do you think she was really unhappy while she was
awayl' asked John, in a low voice. 'Do you think he was
unkind to her ? '

' I do think so. She never willingly alludes to her English

■

MAlTLANn OP LAVUTESTON.

2^0

experiences ; and mother said to me once, that it was a fearfr.l
mistake to let her go, and that it wonld be years before tlu*
ellect it liad had on her wore away.'

* Then it sliall never liappen again, if I can help it,' said if ohn ;
and his voice took a very resolute tone, as he leaned his arms on
tlie rail, and looked deep down into the swif'.-il<t\ving Rhine.
There was a silence between them for a moment ; and Michael,
knowing what was coming, nerved himself for it. They were
(juite alone in that corner, for the passengers were trooping
towards the gangway as the steamer approached another pier.
The silence was broken by John at last, and he turned his
honest eyes full on his brother's face as he spoke :

' I suppose you know what I feel about Agnes, Michael, — what
is the dearest hope of my life ? '

* 1 have an idea of it,' Michael made answer, and smiled a
brave smile, tnough the oonsitive colour dyed his cheek at the
ettbrt to hide his lin.

* I bave always cared about her in that way, I think, since I
saw her first, tbough, of course, I was too young to understand.
J )o you think I bave any chance 1 '

* Who ('ould liave any chance beside you, John 1 ' asked Micluud
aifectionately, smiling still.

' She is so much better than I,' said John dreamily, while his
grave, dark face became softened into a marvellous tenderness.
' Sbe niiikes me feel my own littleness and unworthiness. All
good women do ; and she, like mother, is the best. But, as J
live, if she will trust me, I will make her happiness my first
and greatest care.'

'Would she wish that?' asked Michael gently, but unable to
keep back the question. * She believes still in the old command,
" Thou shalt have no other gods before Me." '

John impatiently shook his head.

* That will be no barrier ; I have a boundless faith in her toler-
ance. She is no bigot, nor am I. We can be happy together
without that. It is an insult to manhood and womanhood to
sujipose anything else.'

Michael laid his hand on his brother's arm, and his blue eyes
shone as he fixed them on the dark, passionate face :

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230

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTOK

'Before you a.sk her to pledge herself K, you, John, you will
bare your soul to her % You will keep nothing back ? promise
me that.'

' Why should I promise that ? What right have you to ask
it?' Johii asked almost roughly, as he shook ott" the brotlu'ily
hand.

' I have the right, because her happiness is dear to \m' t»»o, and
1 would lay down my life willingly for you both.

He grew pale as he sj)oke, and a great passion of j)ity and
remorseful tenderness swept over John Maitlaiul's soul. M icliacl
had unconsciously revealed more than he intended in his im-
jietuous words.

'Forgive mi;, Michael, best of brothers,' he exclaimed impuls-
ively. * Yoti are worthier f)f her than I. 1 will stand aside,
aiid, if you win, will think it best fur her.'

' Nay,' said Michael, with a sunny smile ; 'nay, John, for her
heart is yours.'

They were silent again. Michael, with his arm leaning on
the rail, watched the suidight gildiiig the grey turrets of the
Stolzenfels, where it kept watch on its woody height. The
thoughts of each, however, were far away from the classic Rhine ;
another picture was vividly l)efore their eyes.

'Tell me just what you mean to do, John,' Michael said.
' Now, don't look so reproachful and wretched. I am perfectly
hippy. I have known this so long, thiit the idea, like all
fiiMiiliar thoughts, has something pleasant in it. What do you
mean to do?'

' My mind resolved itself into action during the few minutes
in which you were engaged talking to Mr. Laurie. I shall go
liome with you, and look for something to do at once.'

'What kind of thing?'

' Anything. I shall not stick, I promise you. I'll go and
see Wallace ; he promised to do anything he could for me.'

' So he might, seeing you took all his prizes,' jnit in jMichael.

* Phil was telling me he heard from Horslmrgh that Professor
Barnes, of Al)erdcen, wanted an assistant. I would prefer
Edinburgh, but will take anything gladly,' said .'ohn.

'Then you mean to devote your life to philosophy, John?'

MAJTLAND OF LAUlilESTON.

231

< Yes ; nothing else has any interest for me. I say, there's
?hil actually on the pier. What's he doing at this outlandish
jtlace ^ He's waving something to us. It's a letter ! '

John sprang forward, and met Roberts ^n as he stepped ofl' the
<'angway to the deck.

* It's a home hitter, Maitland, marked immediate. It came to
nte for you, so I started oil'. ]f you hadn't been here, I was
"<>in« to take the down steamer, and wait at Coblentz. Well,
Michael, old fellow, how are you?'

While Michael and Robertson were exchanging greetings,
,I(thn tore open his letter.

* AVhat's up 1 ' asked Michael, in the utmost concern, as he saw
John's face.

' Up ! Something awful has happened, Mike. MlHe has run
'iway with Will Laurie. We are to go home at ojice.'

1 ' hi M

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CHAPTER TIL

'Slie was a strange and wayward cliild.'

II, A<,mes, if the laildics would Imt cniiifi !'

'They will not be lon.L?, Aunt Maggie. They
may he hero to-morrow, or «'veii to day.'

*If they would but eonu; before father coiucs!
home, ISTannie ! I have a fear lying upon nii', my dear. 1
should not have allowed him to go alone to the miaguidt'd
bairns ; and yet I think I can trust to his love for her.'

'Yes, yes, Auntie. There is no one in the world Unclf
Michael loves so well as Effie.'

'That is where it hurts, Nannie. She was so well-heloved,
and she has made so poor a return.'

* Yes, Aunt Maggie.'

These words were wrung from Agnes. Her face was grey
with the pain at her heart. Had tlie name of Laurie not been
a curse to the house of Maitland'? Dearly as she loved Lauric-
ston, she would have given her life almost that she had never
looked upon it. A fearful blow had fallen on the proud old
name. Tb >, only daughter of the house had stooi)ed to dishonour
and intrigue, and had stolen away to make a clandestine*
marriage with one quite unworthy to take a wife to share; bis
name. And that he was her brother ; and such the return he had
made for what the generous-handed Maitland of Laurieston had
given to him ! It was such a blow, indeed, that it had taken the
heart out of Margaret Maitland, and she could not for tlui
moment rise above it to comfort Agnes, wlutse horror and shaniti
had a peculiar sting. Four days had passed since Eftle '.ad

MAITLANI) OF LAlfnil'lSTON.

233

written from a Lojulon hdtt^l iumouncin^' licr luavriage with
Will Laurie, — a halfijenitcnt, lialf-glocful letter, wliich gave
evidence that the child did not understand y<'t what slie had
done.

• Aunt Maggie ! '

Agnea stole to the elder woman's feet, and knelt down,
hiding her face, wliile the long red lines of the setting sun lay
upon her bent head tenderly, with a glorifying touch.

*Aunt Maggie, it is dreadful for yoti ; l)ut 1 sutler too. We
have been a eurs(; to this house.'

'Hush, Nannie, hush!' said Margaret Maitland sharj)ly.

• It is tnu?. Even T, wlio have tried to be of use, and who
love yoji all so truly, have helped to bring this about. Jt was
the visit home to see me in June that did it. Aunt Maggie. If
they had not met then, Ettie might havc^ forgotten. I saw a
littl(! th(!n, l)ut I feared to admit it ; and oh ! I never thought
it would go so far.'

' Agnes, listen to me ! '

Margaret Maitland took the sweet, white face in her two
motherly hands, and turned upon it her searching eyes.

• Never, never, as long as you live, say again that you an^ a
curse to this house, or that you wish you had never seen it. I
would rather have you, my darling, — ay, tliough this should
have happened twice over. You do not know what you are to
me — to us all. I spoke out freely to you, because I thought you
would imderstand. She is his wife, bairn ; and when you are
a mother yourself, you will know what I have to be thankful
for in that.'

She kissed Agnes as she spoke, and smiled, — the first smile
Agnes had seen for days.

'Aunt Maggie, I do think you are an angei,' was all Agnes
Laurie could compose herself to say.

'Nay, lassie, an erring, faidty human being, with a keen
capacity for suffering,' said Margaret Maitland, slightly shaking
her head. 'But, as I said, there is something to be thaid<ful
for ; and it may steady Willie, tliat he lias a wife to Avork fur.
Puir silly things ; to see them in a house with family responsi
bilitics upon them will be a weary sight.'

AIAITLAND OF LAUllI ICHTOt

Her eyes filled as slie spoke. Ay, the motlior's heart wad
sorely wrung. Out of the fulness of her own experience of life,
she foresaw many a rough bit on the highway for her l)riglit,
thoughtless Effie.

• Perhaps our pride needed this blow, Agues ; but it is hard
to bear. If they had but been honest and opc-'ii, and kept trut)
to each other till they were a little older, 1 believe father Wduld
have given in. He could never deny the bairn anything.'

Agnes sighed.

•It was Willie's blame, Aunt Maggie. I am afraid it is his
nature to hide things.'

' You must not altogether blame him, my (h'ar. EHi(( has
shown a deceitfulness which is very vexing,' said Margaret
Maitland, who would be just, even if she had to blame her
own.

' l>ut what will they do, Aunt Maggie, — he cannot even earn
enough to keep himself?' asked Agnes, with a i)ainful Hush.

'Eather will think of and settle that, Nannie. 1 know he
will do his best to make things straight, though I warn you he
would speak with plainness to Willie Avhen he saw them.
May be he will bring them back with him.'

*0h, Auntie, here they are, — John and Michael, I mean!
Don't you hear their voices ? '

Eoth sprang up ; but before they had time to leave the room,
the two tall, familiar figures passed by the window and strodi;
into the house. They were tired and travel-stained after tlu;
voyage t^ Harwich, and the hurried railway journey north. A
great sense of security and strength seemed to fall upon these
two women the moment John eni,3red the lOom.

•How are you, mother? We came as fast as we could,' he
said, as he kissed her; and he had no word for Agni's, — but she
needed none. The touch of his strong right hand, the glowing
light in his honest eye, told her that she was still enshrined in
his heart. In the midst of her grief and shame, that conscious-
ness stole into her heart with a gleam of light.

'Tell us all about it before even we sit down. What did
they mean ? Couldn't they have done the thing respectably ?
Who w IS trying to separate them or throw any obstacle in the

MAITLAND OP LAURTESTOX.

2;}5

way V said John impulsivoly. 'I never lioiird iiHytliiii},' so un-
attcraljly stupid.'

A^Mies stole out of tlie room, with a iinmiiun-tl excuse (»!'
seeing after tea. They hreathed nionf freely when she was
t,'one ; in her abaenee they enuld speak withdut restraint.

'Tell us how it ha}>pened,' John n^peated, in his (piick
fashion.

' There is not much to tell,' Marj^Mret Maitland answered.
' Kflie went away north to visit the Thorhurns at Doune. She
should have arrived on Monday afternoon. On Tuesday we
heard from Jane Thor';urn, asking why she had not eome. The
same afternoon the letter came from l/judon.'

'A letter from Kilie, or from him?' asked MichaeU

• Vvi)\\\ Kfhe, She had actually gone no farther than Edin-
burgh, and he had met her there; iind, after going through the
poor ceremony of their marriages, had taken the evening train
to London. They passed by Tnveresk, Eliic said, at a few
minutes past six on Saturday night,' said Mrs. Maitland, with a
slight, strange smile. • Did you think, lads, that there could be
so much guile in your sister V

• 1 don't know ; but 1 wonder where they got the money to
pay for their trip,' said John, in his driest, most matter-of-fact
tone.

* Father gave Effie five pounds on Saturday, and she had a
bit of money by her. He was always giving her. I suppose
that would help. He could have nothing'' returned Margaret
^laitland, with a touch of sarcasm which might be forgiven.

* And what on earth is to become of them after that is spent ? '
asked John. ' Will Laurie has never been able to work for
himself, let alone a wife. I hope it'll be many a long day before
1 see him, — the mean sneak. I couldn't promise to keep my
hands off him.'

' That would not undo the evil,' put in ^lichael quietly.

' No; but it would relieve me, and give him a sore skin, whieli
he stands in need of,' retorted John. ' He is a mean sneak, and
no mistake. I suppose he knows that we will never see Ellie
starve, and that, for her sake, we'll keep up his position.'

' It would be better for us to tliink that he cared so much

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U AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

for her that he could not live without her,' put in Michnol ii<,'aiu,
in his gentle way. \^\\i John only iaughwl.

* Will Laurie is not capable of a ili.iinteiestcil aflVction. l»ut,
mother, what did father say 1 '

* lie went away to London on Wediu»sday morning.*
'Did he 1 What to dor

'I don't know. He never spolvti a word to me, good or bad,
ilohn, ])ut only rose up and went,' said Margaret Maitland, with
a slight twitch of the lips. ' lie did not even ask me to come,
ntir say what he was going to do.'

' lie will, may be, giv«! AVill liaurie something he won't forget,'
said John.

* I think not. He seemed to me to go more in sorrow than
in anger. Kflie does not know what she has dcme. You know
your father, huls, — how all his (h-alings ar(! as open as the day.
That his own child should have been capable of such an under-
hand action, has cut him to tlie heart. I am more sorry for
him than for any one ; and he will not allow us to sympathise
with him.'

' lias he not written since he went ? '

' Not a line, — neither to announce his arrival, nor to say wlien
he is coming home.'

* Queer ; ia it not, Mike 1 '

* Father must be feeling it acutely,' was all Michael said ; and
his mother looked up at him with a grateful smile. Michael
understood his father, and gave him full credit for keen and
tender feelings. With John it was not so. He was evei hard
and even suspicious of his father's motives.

* Next to your father, Michael, I am sore vexed for Nannie.
She blames herself for this too. She says if she had stayed
away, Willie would not have been at Laurieston this summer.'

' That is surely foolish,' said John, still qnickly, but with a
change in his voice.

' May be, my son ; but women sometimes are foolish, and
Nannie has very keen feelings,' his mother answered, with a
slight smile. John said nothing, but opened the door and
walked out of the room.

' John seems very vexed about it, Michael,' said Margaret

MMTLANI) OF LAUIIIESTON.

237

Miiitliind, as slio tiiriicd lier oyes nn the fair faco of her second
son. ' Jt is a ^rcat ;^'ri»'f to ns all.'

• It i.H ; lint It't »is hope, niothor, that it will l>o tlio making
(•f Will,' said Michael cheerfully.

' W'o will hope HO, — wo must hope so now,' sho answertnl.
' 1 think you h>ok hotter, my .son. And you wore enjoying
your holi<lay ?'

« Not .so much as T expoctod, motlicr.'

* Why 1 .John woidd ho <,'lad to .sec you.'

' ( )h yes,— dear old Jock ; lio was not chanrjod in that way.
r»»it, mother, I wish we were all hainis again, under the thorn-
tree. I douht, I doubt we have all grown up only to vex your
heart.'

• It is with John as I feared, then, Michael?' said the mother,
with paling lip.s.

* Yes. Do you not sec a change in him? He is utterly
miserable, without knowing why. His very temper, which
used to he so generous and kind, if a little quick, is changed.
He has grown so hard and uncharitiihlo. He has no quarter
for any evil-doer. "Wo have lost John, mother. Only God
knows whether we .shall ever find him again.'

' We will. God will answer ihat prayer, Michael, else ray
heart would break,' said ^Margaret Maitland quickly, and as if
a .sudden strength had come to her. * Has lie gone to seek
Agnes, do you think ? '

' I believe it. He loves her, mother. She will be his wife
.some day.'

' I know that. She will restore him to us, Michael. The
Inunan love will lead him back to the divine.' Michael turned
)iis mild eyes somewhat questioningly on his mother's face.
He had a quick intuition. He knew that that admission must
cost her something. A woman gives up much when sho admits
that she holds a second place in her son's heart. Abdication
carries with it always its own peculiar pang.

' You are looking at me, Michael,' she .said, understanding
his unspoken thought. * It has to come sooner or later to all
mothers ; but Agnes is as dear to me as John, and so there is
no sacrifice involved.'

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MMTLAsn or I.AlIlilKSrO^.

' INFothcr, / will lie ycuir m\\ iihviiys,' \\o siiid, with a toncli nf
liis brother's inipiiisivfi.csH. * I wish I (•(nild bear c'vcrytliiii;^
for you.'

' Ah ! tlieii you would lakf away from nu! my compensations.
What wo sull'er for our children makes them doubly dear. 1
am not nt present terribly concerned for Jolui, — I know liim so
well. The husk of a j.,'ross materialism or ideal scepticism will
not satisfy his f^'reat loviiii,' heart. Ho will conu' ])ack to the
Father's housi', and I shall see it ])efore I die. It is VAX\i\ tliat
lies (»n my heart. Oh, theses inherited tendencies! Scarcely
the <,'raco of (Jod can cuncpKu- them; — and I fear, I fear Willie
lias not ;,'otten much graci' yet.'

Michael tried to cheer her again, by calling up tlie best traits
in A\'illie Laurict's nature ; and, while thoy wi^rc! talking, .lohn
liad found Agnes, away down at the foot of the sunny garden,
standing among the lihic bushes, l)y tho old arbour door. He
came softly down tho turf walk, and she did not hear bis step.
He saw the listle.«sness of her attitude, the white beautiful
hand (carelessly t(niching the caressing green boughs, tho heavy
oyt'S fixed witb a vast wistfulness on tho shining oxpans(! of
tho sea. His whole heart went out to her; he forgot evi-ry-
tliing — father, mother, sister, liome-sorrows, and spirit ajiguish
— everything but his great love. She gave a start at length,
being conscious, in her heart, of liis approach. Tho c(»lour
leaped fitfully to her cheek, and, witli her hand, she strove to
hide it, as she gave him a faint .smile of greeting.

'1 ran down just to look at tho sea. It is so peacefully
lovely to-day. It is always a comfort, I think, when one i.s
harassed imd weary.'

' AVhy should you be harassed and weary, Agnes'?' John
rtskod, as he leaned against the tree, and fixed his eyes on her
face,. *Mttiher says you blame yourself. That is surely
foolish and wr g.'

' It ma\ be, but I cmnot help it. It is my brother who has
brought t} is grief on \i>ur house. I cannot forget that.'

' It may turn out bettor than we think,' ho said, trying to
cheer her. 'They will probably mo it tliemsolvoa, two or three
times over, bin it'll do them C' ><l. The very responsibility

MMTLASh or LAIJh'iluSruN.

239

llu-y havp inctirrnd may snlur tlumi. Dini't hi \\h vox (tur-
H(!lvos ivlxnii it. This in imt tlio nn'c-ting I have thought mI out
and <li'<>ain(Ml over all siiniiiicr.'

' You arc always so j,'oo(l ; you say just tho ri^'lit tliiuj,' at, \\m
rij,'ht tinu'. I have said to Aunt Maggio all along, that wIhmi
you canic it would all look Itrightiu'.'

Sh(^ Hpokc! without (lattery, — in tluvt siniplo, direct way
peculiar to her. Her words thrilh^d Jolm, tliough, perhajis, he
eoidd have wished her less frank.

' You are glad to see nu', then*!'

' Yes, very glad.'

The wavisring colour helped up again, and she turned slightly
away from him, i>erhap.s to hide; what the deep, swecft eyes
would fain reveal.

'1 know you had couKi homo, hut T did not ask any ques-
tions, Agnes, hoeausi! I l)olievcd that ouo day, perhaps, you
would toll mo all without askiug.'

Sho gave him no answer, and, after a moment's waiting, lio
stepped across the narrow i)ath, and, standing directly in front
of her, laid his two hands on her shoulders.

• Agnes, perhaps this is not a fitting time ; but I must speak.
I have loved yon since the lirst day I saw you. I love you
now, beyond anything on earth. Some day, will you be my
wife 1 '

And she, with her clear eyes shining on his face, gave him,
out of her true heart, the answer he craved :

* Yes, John. Some day, plcaso God, I will.'

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CHAPTER IV.

' I never heard of any true affection,
But 'twas nip't with care.'

HAT evening, after sundown, Michael ^Maitland the
elder returned also to his home. His wife was
waiting ff^r him alone, of a sot i)urposo, liaving sent
the lads, with Agnes, for a stroll through the fields,
in order that she might first hear what he had to tell. He liad
come to Inveresk station, for he passed by the dining-room
window before he entered the house. The short field-path to
tlie town station led through the stackyard and up to the back
door. She did not see his face as he passed ; and si"? 3at still,
even when she heard his famili.ar foot in the lobby, though her
lieart was beating wildly with excitement and apprehension.
Ho came directly into the room, and, when she looked at him,
she felt a deep sense of relief, — she could not tell why. Ho
was tired and worn ; but his face'was neither harsh nor stern,
though its expression was very grave.

* Weel, Maggie, I'm come hame,'he said, wiili a sliglit smile.
She rose then, and, not seeing the hand he off'ered her in the
grave Scotch fashion, put her arms round his neck. He felt
her tremble, as she had done the night William Laurie had
come to Laurieston. ' My puir lassie. I should have ta'en yf>u
wi* me. It was hard to leave you behind ; but, Maggie, I didna
ken vera weel what I was daein* that mornin', an' that's a fact'

* It was perhaps better that I stayed. Tell me quickly,
father, — did you see them ? How did you find the bairn 1 It
has been so fearful for me, vaiting at home.'

240

1;!

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

241

* Ay, ay. Sit doon, Maggie, and I'll tell yo it a'.'

He placed her, with unwonted gentleness, back in her chair,
sat down before her, and passed his hand across his brow.

* Yes, I saw the bairn, — a marrit wife, Maggie, — very happy
like, puir lassie, no* kennin' yet what che has brocht upon her-
sel'. I just went, Maggie, to make sure that there could be no
mistake aboot the marriage, and syne I left them. They'll bo
hame by and by.'

' Did she seem distressed or penitent for the grief she has
caused us, father 1 '

* She grat when she saw me ; but she's ta'cn up wi' her braw
man, fin' the auld father an' mother maun stand aside for a wee.
Only for a wee, though. Unless I am mista'en, mother, we'll
hae them baith to keep. May I oe forgiven if 1 sin, but I
believe I would rather hae laid Effie beside the rest in Inveresk,
than see her wife to a Laurie.'

'Did you see anything by-ordinary to vex you in Willie,
father 1 '

* I like not his way. It is defiant and upsottin' for his years.
He did not show me a becomin' respect ; but I'll pass that by,
if he be kind to Etfio. I spoke plainly to him, Maggie, praying
all the time for strength to bridle my tongue. If he acts ill to
my bairn, he kens what to expect. As he deals wi' her, I deal
wi' him.'

Margaret Maitland saw the involuntary clen(Oiing of his
strong right hand, the quick darkening of the brows, which
told that the lower depths were stined.

*I am vexed to hear he was not sorry or repentant for what
he has done. Poor things, I think neither of them realize what
they have taken on themselves.'

' No, they dinna, Maggie ; but they will, yet. I fear for her,
for he is as unstable as water. But we maun make the best o*
him, noo that the bairn is his wife. He has robbed us of our
only lassie, mother ; but for her sake we maun try and gie him
a lift. Now, I'll tell you my plans,'

Margaret Maitland looked at her husband with wondering,
tender eyes, marvelling to see him so subdued, so gentle, where
she had expected only the throes of an angry passion, The

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MAITLAND OF LAUniESTOX.

great sorrow of the blow Lid subdued him, leaviiij,' little room
for any other feeling.

*I laid it a' oot as I came down in the trf. • an' here it is.
Nunraw is to let, an' 1 hear they hae Init few offers. I kon 1
have but to say the word to Riddcjll, and it's mine. I'll tak'
the place, Maggie, an' put them in it ; an' Wat an' me botwccn
us will manage to look to it till Willie learns the difference
atween a horse an' a stirk. If he can learn ava, it'll be a fair
chance for him ; an' we'll hae tlieni under <>or ain een, as it were ;
an' it'll shut folk's mouths, besides. What think ye o't, wife ? '

Margaret Maitland put her hands before her face, and the
tears fell between her fingers.

' God bless you, my man. You have taken a load from my
heart. God bless you, and grant that the bairns' well-doing in
Nunraw may be your reward.'

' I need nae reward. We maun see to our ain, Maggie, if
we bena waur than infidels,' said Laurieston gently, though his
eye softened yet more at sight of his wife's tears. * I believo
we could get into the boose immediately. I'll gang up to the
toon the morn and settle wi' Riddell Ijefore I leave. An' syne
you and Agnes micht gang up an' buy some bits o' furniture fi^r
them. I'll gie ye a cheque for a bunder, that should gie them
a plain beginnin'. And when they come hame, we'll try an'
gie them a kindly welcome, so that they may hae heart to
begin their life. But T confess, wife, that had it been Agnes
instead of Effie, I wad hae mair hope o' makin' a man o' Will
Laurie. I wonder greatly that the bairn should be so unlike
her mother.'

It was a great deal for Michael Maitland to say. His wife
knew that his disappointment in Effie was the shattering of an
idol which would never again be restored to its pedestal. Fur-
giving, kindly, fatherly he might bv. now to his erring child,
but she would never again be to him what she had been. It
was the first great sorrow of his life. Even in the midst of
her own sore pain, Margaret Maitland thiinked God for the
fruit it was bearing in her husband's heart. She had never
seen him so forbearing and gentle, exhibiting such unselfish
consideratioUj (!ve}i for those of hjs own household,

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MAITLANI) OF LAURfESTON.

243

' Wc will try and look forward to a length of useful days for
the bairns in Nunraw, and pray that good may yet conio out of
what has seemed to us so evil,' she said, with quiet cl-.eerfulncss,
as she laid her soft liand with a lingering caress on his. ' Tiio
laddies are hoth heic, Michael. They set off to Harwich when-
ever they got the message, and just came in at tea-time.'

'Oh! It was a pity JMichael's holiday should he broken.
How is he, mother ? '

'Both of them looking well. John does not intend to go
abroad again, he says.'

'And what is he to do, then 1*

'Seek a situation at cmce.'

*Awecl, I wish him weel,' said Lauriestcm, as ho rose to his
feet. 'They will baith be vexed at the end Kffie has come to.'

' Oh, father, I hope it is not an end,' cried his wife, with a
smile, for her heart was lightened of its immediate care. * Let
us say, rather, it may be a happy beginning for them both.'

' Aweel, so be it. Where are they a' 1 '

' I sent them out. I had an intuition that you would come
to-night, and I wanted to hear the news first. How much shall
we tell th;7m, father 1 '

'You cm tell them what you think tit, Maggie. I dinna
want toh<!ar any more speakm' aboot it. Here they are comin',
or I'm mista'en, — T hear their tongues.'

He sauntered out to the front door, his wife following, and
there were the two tall lads at the garden gate, with the slenthr
form of Agnes between them. Margaret Maitland was quick
to note how instant and searching was the look her husband
cast on Michael's face, and how relieved he seemed to see its
ruddy, sun-burnt hue. As they came forward to the house,
Agues slipped behind a little, with evident hesitation. But,
after he had shaken hands with his sons, Maitland put his
heavy hand on her slender shoulder, and looked down into her
sweet, serious face with a peculiar kindliness.

'We hae but ae dochter noo, Nannie. See that ye dinna
play us the same trick. If ye are to marry, let it be fair and
above-board, my lamb ; an* we'll set ye forth wi' a God-speed.'

' Thank you, Uncle Michael.'

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M AIT I. AND OF LAUniESTON.

The face of Agnes was as red as tlie June roses blushing on
tlie ]»orch, hut her eyes met his unfalteringly, and with a
happy light, for these words had told her that there was no
bitterness in his heart towards her.

There was peace in the house of Laurieston that night, — an
atmosphere of good fellowship and love which seemed to bless
them all. Even to .lohn, Michael Maitland was kind and
cor<^ial, asking him (questions about his life abroad and about
his frieml Robertson, till John, impulsive and demonstrative,
felt his heart go out to the old man in a nejv rush of filial
affection. The anxious mother looked on with a relieved and
happy heart. Long experience had taught her the boundless
power of love's rule ; and when she saw how (juick the young
hearts were to respond to the kindly side of their father's
nature, she could not but regret more and more that it had not
been earlier and more consistently shown to them. Had
Laurieston but dealt more openly and gently with his children,
much care, much sorrow, r;nd much estrangement would have
been prevented in the home.

There was a great and solemn earnestness in the ' reading '
that night in the old house, Laurieston chose the fifth chaptc^r
of Ecclesiastes, and twice over read the verse, ' God is in
heaven, and thou upon earth : therefore let thy words be few,'
with an impressive pause between. His prayer was short, and
consisted oidy of a petition for guidance and strength in the
sorrows of life. It was a direct request from an aching human
heart feeling the need of the divine, and, being perfectly
natural and sincere, found a response in the breasts of all
present. Ay, even in the heart of John, the unbeliever, who,
out of the pride of his high intellect and splendici reasoning
powers, had cast this thing aside as unworthy the attention
or devotion of a reasonable soul. Old memories, sweet home
influences, ay, and the strong, close touch of a mother's heart,
brooding over him in tender, prayerful love, held him in thrall.
She knelt by his side at the sofa during the prayer ; and in the
midst of it she stretched forth her hand and laid it above his
clasped hands, and so kept it till the end. That touch thrilled
him, because of its significance. He knew what prayers were

MAITLAND OF LAUKIESTON.

245

in her heart, he felt that she was wrestling for him with the
God in whom she believed. Tliere was something solemn in
the thought, something which impressed him with a vague awe
and uncertainty. He was glad when it was over ; and when
the Amen was said, he rose and passed out of the room. She
neard him go out of the house, and when they all went upstairs,
one by one, she sat down by the smouldering fire to wait for his
return.

* I want to speak to John, father. You are tired and need-
ing rest,' she said, as she followed her husband to the foot of
the stair. 'Just put out the candle, and I will slip up in the
dark. I will not be long.'

John Maitland saw his mother's shadow on the blind as he
restlessly paced up and down the lawn, and knew that she was
waiting for him. Her presence drew him like a magnet ; and
before the lights were out in the upper rooms, he softly returned
to the house.

' I am v'titing for you, my son ; come away,' she said, smiling
upon him as he entered the room. ' It is a long time since
we had a talk.'

* I don't know that I am in the mood for talk to-night,' he
answered, as he leaned against the mantelpiece, and looked
down gravely into the dying fire. His brows were contracted,
his eyes shadowed, his mouth stern and sad.

' You have nothing to tell me, then, about your life abroad ? *

* Nothing, at least, that you would care to hear ; but some-
thing has happened since I returned to Laurieston to-day.
Agnes has promised to be my wife.'

She looked at him keenly. He scarcely looked like a happy
lover, and yet his eye shone as he spoke her dear name.

' That has been a dear wish of my life, my son ; but I know
not whether I am glad or sorry to-day.'

'Wliyr

' Because yuu are changed. I question, John, if you have ii
in your power now to make her happy.'

* Why not now?'

He spoke with a certain irritation, though he betrayed no

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surprise.

Indeed, ho felt none.

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

' You know why as well as I. Micliaol has told me what beliefs
you have hecn able to accept. They are not hers. It may be
that, when she knows all, she will withdraw her promise. She
is very conscientious, and her faith is much to her. I sui)i)ose
you have not told herl '

' 1 have not ; but I do not believe it will make any difforeiup
to lier. AVhy should it? ] am happy in having,' emancipal>'<l
myself from the thrall of an old superstition. I now see liti-
apart from the mists of theology and doubt, I know it to con-
tain the highest and grandest possibilities, and I believe in th«
power and goodness and strength of humanity. In its higiie.st
form it is even worthy of worship, certainly of reverence.'

• And your life lienceforth is to be spent in the perfecting of
your liunian nature?' said Margan^t Maitland, with a slight,
strange smile. * My son, you luulertake a superhuman task.
Although you liave turned away from (iod, you cannot rob Him
of one tittle of His mercy in love He will not cast you out
when you return to Him, and He is still the hearer and answerer
of my prayers. Good-night, my son.'

She laid her two gentle hands on his tall shoulders, and
looked at him with a look half sad, half reproachful, but wholly
tender.

• You are my divinity, mother, — you and Agnes,' he said
impulsively. * Surely to worship the highest womanhood is no
sin. You have always been to me the embodiment of all
perfection. I want no other religion.'

' Your love is very precious to me, my son, my first-born son ;
but, like Abraham of old, I believe I could have strength and
courage to give you up to God,' she said solemnly. ' John, is
there nothing revolting m the thought that this human nature
you worship, with all its holy love, its high aspirations, its
noble achievements, is to go down to the grave like the beasts
that perish 1 '

' It may not. There may be another state, a further develop-
ment. There is nothing in science or philosophy for or against.
Il; is simply question and conjecture with all.

• ""Tay, I will keep my certainties, if you please. My Lord
has gone to prepare a place for me, of which none of the

MAITLAND OP LAUtitESTON.

world's cold creeds can rob me. Some day, looking back, you
will recoil, as I do, from tbe husks with which you are tryinij
to satisfy yourself. Perhaps God may use the coils of a wife's
and a mother's love to draw you back to Himself.'

She kiB.sed him then, as she had so often done, betAveen tlm
• 'rave brows, and left liim with a smile. But it was a smilt!
which hid an anj,- shed heart.

She stole into A<,'nes's room before going to her own. The
light was out ; but the blind being drawn up, admitted the full
and radiant light of the midsummer moon. Agnes was a.sleep.
She did not hear the light footfall, the soft rustle of a woman's
dress, nor feel the deej) yearning of the motherly eyes bent upon
her in love. Only in the night she dreamed that an angel had
knelt beside her bed, and left upon her a benison of peace.

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CHAPTER V.

'Tbii is my home again ; once more I hail
The dear old gablei and the creaking vanei.'

UNT MAGGIE, here are the Thorburns coming.'
' To hear the news,' put in John, picking him-
self up from the sofa. ' Til make myself scarce,
mother, if you don't mind.'

• / mind, if Aunt Maggie doesn't,' said Agnes, with a laugh.
* To punish you for your idleness to-day, we shall keep you in to
make yourself agreeable to the ladies.'

She stood against the closed door and shook her finger at
him, with a play of happy humour lighting up every feature ;
which made her look so lovely in the eyes of her big, honest
lover, that he sat down again quite meekly.

' I see you are beginning as you mean to end, Nannie,' Mrs.
Maitland said. ' That I should live to see my strong-minded
John a henpecked man ! '

Agnes blushed, and turned quickly to the window. It was
the first direct allusion her aunt had made to the understanding
between them : somehow there had been, for a few days, a
curious avoidance of serious talk about the future. They had
all been busy, of course, getting the house of Nunraw in order
for the young pair, who were expected on the morrow. Both
John and Michael had been intensely interested in the proceed-
ings, although they could hardly realize that it was their own
sister Effie who was to become the mistress of the newly-
furnished house. When all the arrangements were made, and
the business with the factor settled, Maitland wrote to his

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MAITLAND OF LA UHIESTOM

241)

son-in-law a brief, rather formal letter, intimating what had
been done, and signifying to him that he expected them
home at an early date. To this Willie I^aurie re})li»Ml
courteously, thanking his father-in-law for th(! provision he had
made for their future, and promising to do his best to make a
good tenant of Nunraw. The letter was on the whole satis-
factory, and the edge of their distress had worn off, and they
found themselves even looking forward, in a sense, with interest
to the settlement of the young pair so near. Nunraw was the
adjoining farm,— only two fields' breadth from Laurieston ; the
cosy, flat-roofed house could bo seen quite well from the dining-
room window.

•Are you prepared for them, mother ? They'll ask every-
thing,' said John comically, as the familiar figures of the ladies
passed the window.

• Hush, my son j you are too hard upon the ladies. They
are gentlewomen, my dear, and never forget their breeding.
We must be very kind to them, for I rather think they blanu;
themselves a little. They pressed so hard for Effie to visit
them at Doune, and so gave her an opportunity she could not
have had otherwise.'

She could say no more, for Katie ushered the visitors in.
They had returned somewhat hastily from the north, directly
they had heard the news of Effie Maitland's flight ; and they
were visibly agitated when they entered the room, and ap-
j)eared greatly relieved at the cordiality of the greeting they
received.

' It is as good as sunshine to see your face, Mrs. Maitland,'
said Miss Jane. *How are you, Agnes? Dear nie, John
Maitland, when are you to stop growing ? Yes, it is positive
sunshine to see your face, dear Mrs. Maitland. AVe could not
rest at Doune. I said to Grace, I was bound to know the
worst at once.'

' In spite of Nancy Kilgour, who nearly snapped our heads
off,' supplemented Miss Grace. * She as good as told us to go
back the road we had come.*

* And is it true the young couple are to take up house
at Nunraw, Mrs. Maitland ? ' Miss Jane went on. * Do you

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MAITf.AiVD OF LAl/RfESTO!^.

know, after one gets used to the idea, it is perfectly deliglitful
to get married like ElKe. The surprise it gives everybody is
worth anything. But such bairns ! Why, it is no time since
l<]ffie used to spend her Saturdays with us in pinafores. But
she has got a handsome husband. Nannie won't mind though
we say he is the best-looking in the family.*

* You may say so, Jane,' put in Miss Grace. * John an<l I
reserve our opinions. And where have you been wandering tt»
on the facie of the earth, you great big fellow ? I suppose I
must begin to treat you with some respect now, on account of
your great scholarship ? '

' The sooner the better, Miss Grace,' said John, with his deep,
sonorous laugh. ' Don't I inspire it 1 *

* I believe you do. You have no airs, any how, and that is a
great deal to say of a young man of this generation. * Isn't it,
Agnes ? '

Agnes looked up from her tea-tray with a smile and a nod.
She saw that the bright, cheerful talk of her old friends was
acting like a tonic on her aunt's spirits, and presently she heard
her laugh at some sally of Miss Thorburn, who t'"d always
something original to say.

* It was a bright thought of Effie's, and she shall have the
pick of our old china for it,' she rattled on ; ' only we'll have to
choose surreptitiously, or who knows what Nancy might do.
When are they coming home 1 '

'To-morrow evening. We are all going over to Nunraw.'

' How lovely ! We will be thinking of you. Don't forget
to break the shortbread over the bride. I'll bake a cake in
the morning and send it over. It'll give her the old maid's
blessing.'

*Why would you break it over heil' asked Agnes, with
interest.

*0h, for luck, or to indicate that she'll aye have plenty,'
returned Miss Thorburn. ' It'll be your turn next.'

* I hope so,' said John, in a low voice, as he took a cup of tea
from the hand of Agnes. She shook her head at him, and,
though they were in a corner of the room, Jane Thorburn's
sharp eyes noted that little by-play, greatly to her own delight.

MAITLAND OF LA VRIESTON.

251

* Do you know what I said to Jano when I lieard it, Mrs.
^Iiiitlandr askud Miss Graco. * I just said it was not evcu-y
one who was privile^od to ^'ivo tluj busybcxlies something' tu
talk about. It is (juite a distinction. It almost tcn^tts on»f t<»
follow Effie's example.*

'And pray, what unfortunate human being would you
pounce upon to share your flight, (jracel* queried Miss .lauf,
with extraordinary sliarpness.

'I suppose you think I would have a difficulty in finding
somebody ; but, whatever you may think, all the unmarried
ladies in Musselburgh are not victims of necessity. Where's
Michael 1 He proposed to me when he was aged nine, on
account of the jx'culiar virtues of our preserves, and the riches
of the plum-tree at the end of the house.'

' Michael is in town to-day with his father,' Mrs. Maitland
answered, when the la.gh at the old joke had subsided.
' You have done me good, lassies, with your happy talk.'

* I am indeed glad to hear you say so, dear Mrs. Maitland,'
saiil Jane Thorburn quickly, and with a smile of genuine
satisfaction. ' We talk a great deal of nonsense, but we mean
well. How soon might we dare to call on young Mrs. Laurie
at Nunraw ? Will slu^ begin with the new-fangled day " at
home" our Musselburgh magnates delight inl It is a fine
easy way of entertaining one's friends, giving them a cup of
tea and a shred of buttered bread. She'll need to do it,
though, if she's to be in the fashion.'

*I do not expect Eflie will trouble her head about such
things. She has too much to learn. Miss Jane,' returned
Mrs. Maitland gravely. * She'll need to turn her attention to
the necessary branches of housekeeping first.'

* A daughter of Laurieston should be a good housekeeper,'
said Miss Grace, as they rose to go. 'But I dare say I've
heard you say, Miss Laurie was so good she gave nobody else
a chance.*

'That is true,' Mrs. Maitland admitted, with a smile.
' You need not stand on ceremony with the young wife
at Nunraw. She will be glad to see her old friends at any
time.'

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MA ITU xn or LA VRIE^rOM.

'Very well; thivnk you. We'll bo cuHicr in our mindH tifttr
wo ask hor what she meant by treatinj,' us in such a manner.
You should have seen the two of us tearing' up ami ilown
to Doune Station to all the trains that day, and the agony
of mind we endured when .she never came. It was too bud.
(Sood afternoon, then; and we have had a delightful visitation,
art we always have at dear Laurieston. John, are you too
big and liMirned to come to an Old-fashioned tea-drinking at
Sunnyside 1 You're not 1 Well, we'll see after Nancy is
pacified. We're not going away again, whatever she may
say or do. She must just clean the house when we are
in it.'

' I don't know what will become of Nancy in the other
world if there are no brushes and dusters,' said Miss Grace.
'Don't shake your head, Mrs. Maitland; it's a positive fact,
she's never happy except " redding-up." Good-bye ! '

* There'll be another wedding at Laurieston before long,
(J race Thorburn,' said Miss Jane, as they went through the
garden gate ; * and, mark my words, it won't be a runaway
one.'

So they tripped away, happy and interested in everything,
leaving, as they always did, a sunny atmosphere behind them.
They were the first callers since Etiie's flight ; and now that
Mrs. Maitland had heard it spoken of by outsiders, she had a
fi'eling as if the worst was over.

Kurly next day Agnes went over to Nunraw, and was busy
there all day. It was a pretty house, built in cottage style, —
all on one floor, but roomy and commodious within. John
and Michael had made the garden tidy, and of course it
needed a great many finishing touches at the last, which
necessitated John spending the best part of the day at
Nunraw too, though the more engrossing part of his work
scetned to be in helping Agnes to fasten up curtains and
hang the few pictures straight on the walls. But though
they were so much alone together that day, there was not
much love-making, for Agnes had a shy, proud way with her
sometimes, >vhich kept him at arm's length. Once, when he
came down tL<) steps after hanging a picture on the sitting-

MAITLAN/) or LAUIilESTON.

2A3

room wall, lu' li-ancd f(»rwanl ([iiickly ami took her in liis
arms.

•My tlarlin^', my «larliii^', why aro you so hard with ind'
ho said, holding her thcro bh if he would Vcfy hor thorn
f(»r over.

*Ain I hard? 1 dn not moan to be,' shn said, allowing'
hor lovolit oyoH to look into his; 'only wo must not ht<

Hilly.'

•It is not silly. It is wiso, — tho 8Woot(\st, host wisdom in
tho world; and you think so too,' .said fnolish dnhn darini^ly ;
hut .she o.soapod frnm him, and ran out of tho romn, hiokin;,'
hark to toll him laughingly ho must go away to Lauritistfin,
and Boe whothor tho provisions woro roady for tho homo-
coming feast. Hut inst(?ad of ohoying hor just at onco, .John
sat down where sho had loft him, and of)voro<l his face with
his hands, for his happiness seetned too much. Tho precious
trust she had given him the trust which gives all and asks
no qiiostions — seemed to him a thing .so great anil so wonderful
that he could scarcely realize it. These fow days had l»een days
of utter and intense happiness, such as pnthably would never
come to them any nu)re. Hecause then each was su'ticient to
tho other, — the sure fa(!t of an offtirod and accepted love, tho
unspeakable joy of being together, was enough ; no questions
had boon asked, no deeper things jirobed into, no conditions
made, not even a future broached. The time, came when,
loctking back, these days seemed like a golden droiim ; and
yet darker days have tlufir compeusation too, and there
are chains forgcid by fire which neither time nor death can
break.

At seven o'clock that night, Michael Maitland himself drove
the dog-cart viver to ^Ius.selburgh station for the travellers.
On a fine summer evening, and v.ith the town full of vi.sitors,
there was quite a throng at the statiftn, and he felt glad of it.
He wanted to show that Kflie was coming back to a kindly
welcome, and that both she and hor husband were to bo
received exactly as if they had gone forth after the ordinary
way of a newly-married pair from tlu^ father's house. There
may have boen a touch of pride in all this ; but there was also

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MAITLANI) OF LAUHIESTON.

a jna},MiiUiini(»us and beautiful sj)irit in it, which liad rojoiced
Ills wife's licart. So at Nunraw tlicy waited witli a curious
Tnin[,din}^ oi agitation and pleased expectancy for the honie-
eoiuing of the hridc. Just at sunset the dog-cart drove rapidly
along the lane, and drew up at the door. Mrs. Maitland's
courage failed h(!r just then, and she withdrew into the inner
roon' ; but Agnes stood between the two boys, with Miss
Thorburn's cake of shorll tread in her hands, .and a some-
what wavering smile on her lips, ready with her welcome.
Almost before the high-stepping mare had been reined in at the
door, Effie sprang from the trap, her bonnie face flushed and
tearful, gave a hasty hand to th(5 boys, a rpiick kiss to Agnes,
and her lips formed her mother's name

'Just a moment, dear, till I break Mis^; Thorburn's short-
bread, — -just for luck,' said Agnes, Avith a laugh ; and in the
riiidst of this ceremony Mrs. Maitland came out from the room,
and Effi',' van into her anus.

' Mother ' mother darJiinj ! forgive me. T never meant to
vex you,' she cried almost hysterically ; but the loving arni'^
folded roin.d her with a duse, clinging touch, and the two
withdrew oiice more into the inner room.

Meanv^hilo the young bridegroom was standing rather
shamefacedly by the mare's head ; and Avhen JoJin gave him
a slap ou the shoulder, and cried to him cheerily, ' T wish
you good luck. Will!' his face cleared, and he returned the
honest, brotherly hand-clasp with a grip which even John's
strong fingers felt. There was not one touch of reproach in
the greetings he received ; even Agnes, who had felt it all so
deeply, gave him a sisterly kiss, and a wora of well-wishing ;
and all this brought a ilush of shame and self-reproach to his
cheek, and fired his careless heart with the noblest resolve
which had yet touched it.

' Go in and speak to Aunt ISIaggie, Will,' Agnes whispered ■
but just then Mrs. Maitland came out, and beckoned him
to her.

* God guide you, my son,' was all she said ; but she kissed
him as she said it, and the tears rose in his eyes. Those who
Bav' those bright drops thought them the dew of heavenly

to
wi

MA7TLAND OF LAURIESTON.

265

u
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jivomisc. It might be, aftor all, that there was the making of
a man in Willie Laurie. If so, these Christian souls had
(loiio their utmost to set him on Hie way with hope ar.rl
comfort. And thus they obeyed the Master's own behest, and
followed His divine loading.

There was a curious solemnity mingling with the agitated
restraint present at the first meal oaten in the house of
Nunraw. But for Agnes it could not have been enjoyed.
As her busy hands had been first and best at arranging the
house and the table, so her quick, exquisite tact now gui<led
her to say the right thing, and keep the talk from even
touching upon what was unpleasant or likely to jar. She
talked a great deal to Effie, who sat demurely by her mother's
side, scarcely daring to look up ; and at last succeeded in
rousing her interest in the house of which she was to bo the
mistress. After tea, the lads followed Mr. Maitland out to
the garden and the steading; then Agnes showed Effie over
her new domain, and tried to tease her merrily out of her
unusual quiet. But the child's heart was full.

' I do not deserve it. Mother ! mother ! you are too
good ! I do not deserve it,' she said again and again.

Agnes saw that she was only now beginning to realize
what a step she had taken, and what a care and anxiety
she had laid upon the hearts of those who loved her.

It was about ten o'clock, and the harvest moon had risen, when
they began to make ready to return to Laurieston. Effie stood
by in the bedroom, while her mother and Agnes put on their
bonnets, and her face was very white and weary ; for she knew
that now she was not one of the happy household, — that she had,
with her own foolish, unthinking hands, severed the tie which
bound lier to that dear home. The mother caught sight of her
face in the mirror as she tied her bonnet-strings, and her fingers
trembled so that she turned hastily to Agnes for help.

' Me ! Mother, let me do it ! ' cried Effie jealously ; and
Agnes stood aside with a quick-starting tear.

' Some of us will be over the morn, Effie,' Mrs. Maitland tried
to say, with a matter-of-fact cheerfulness. * And you and Willie
will come over to tea in the afternoon, — that is, if you have time

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MAITLANJ) OF LAURIESTON.

out of your household duties, lie kind but firm with your little
uuiid, Effic. She is very willing, hu*^ she needs looking after.
Of course, if you are in a ditRculty, .un. over ; hut I want you to
bo able to manage your own house. And now, my bairn, good
night.'

*I — I can't bear to bo left,' Effic faltered, clinging to her
mother's hand.

'Nonsense, lassie, y<»u have Willie; and a married wife
nnistn't bo a mother's bairn. You'll be all right to-morrow.
( tod bless you, my land), and give you happiness and peace in
your own homo.'

iSho kissed her h.istily, and hurried downstairs. Her heart
was full, too — ay, to bursting ; for it was a strange and melan-
choly thought to have to leave her young daughter behind ; but
she would not break down. As she stepped out of the door,
Willie came forward out of the darkness, and sho saw her
husband's tall figure at his side Willie spoke first, in hurried,
uncertain tones :

' I — I thank you for it all, after my meanness. I'll co my
best, Mrs. Maitland, — indeed J will ; and I'll be kind to Effie,
and try and make up for ' —

* If you are kind to Eflio, my son, it'll make up for all the
rest,' Margaret ^laitland said, as she gave his hand a warm
pressure. Then Laurieston laid his great hand on the young
man's shoulder, and said solemnly, —

'The Lord bless yc baith, and gie ye grace, lad, Guid nicht.
Wliaur's the lads?'

* Away over the fields,' Agnes said quickly from behind,

' Come then, wife ; up, Agnes ! Say guid nicht to Effie for
me. Will,' he said, with a tremor in his voice. Then they drove
away. Willie Laurie followed the trap to the gate, closed it,
and Avent back to the house, only to find his young wife crying
her heart out, with her face buried in the cushions of the sofa ;
and though ho took lior in his arms and tried to comfort her, it
was no easy task.

For Effie, beneath all the loving-kindness and forbearance
which had been shown to them, knew that there was a diff'erence,
and that she had given \ip her place in Laurieston for ever. For

MAITLASD OF LAURIESrON.

257

evfir, and what renmiiiod? :Muc1i lliat i.uj,'ht to have pleased a
voung wifo,— a dainty liousc, a well plcnisliod larder, broad acres
waiting the tillage of tlicir new master, and above all, a
handsome young husband kneiOing at her side. And yet these
\\ere the most bitter tears which had over filled Effie Maitland'ii
eyea

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CHAPTER VI.

* And you tliiiik voiir liniii tin- ln-ovest,
And y<iii call your crci'd ilivinc'

SAY, Mike, I'm iirL'd of this i.Uo lifo, aren't you?'
' Not I. I could lie here for cvor and look iit
tliat sunny sea, and feel the breath of this wcyt
wind,' said Michael, stretching his arms out lazily.
'I've earned my rest, and I'm taking it without restriction.
This is just splendid.'

lie took iinother long dcci) breath, and lay back contentedly
under the thorn-tree, against which John was leaning, whittling
a stick away to nothing.

' Is your conscience pricking you, you restless fellow, that you
want to be on the wing again ? I say, if you leave all these
chips on the lawn, Agnes will give it you.'

'Oil, I'll pick them up before she sees tliem. A fellow nuist
do something. But seriously, ^lichael, T can't stay on hero much
longer. It's too much to have two idle n. ^n hanging about,
though I must s..y father has been uncommonly g'X)d about it.
I've got on better with him the last month than I ever did
before.'/ '

' What can you do but wait 1 '" queried Michael.

* Unfortunately I do not possess the serene Micawber's faculty.
If something doesn't turn up soon, I must turn out and look for it.'

' Oh, but something will ; don't be in too great a hurry, John.
Who knows when we may all be together as happy as W3 are »
Don't you think, Jock, that Will is going to do in Nunraw 1 '

' He promises fairly in the meantime. Matrimony seems to

3 your
look ill

lis WCKt

t lazily.
Lriction.

^enUnlly
whittling

bliat you

I tlu'S(i

)W must
irc nnicli
ig al)out,
about it.
ever did

s faculty.
)ok for it.'
ry, John.
3 w3 are J
iraw 1 '
seems to

MAITLAND OF LAUIUESTON.

259

have sobered him. But the whole thing is too absurd. When I
go over and see these infants playing at keeping house, it makes
me feel weary. Won't it be mean of Phil if he never looks
near in his holidays 1 '

* Perhaps if Nunraw were a little farther away he would come,'
suucested Michael.

* Oh, I think Phil has sufficient stamina to master that. He
is strong in determination. I'm wearying to see him. If nothing
turns up I'm going to try and get an appointment at some of the
Continental Universities.'

' I shouldn't. It's like admitting that you can't get on here.
Whence all this haste % ' asked Michael ; and there was a slight
euggestiveness in the look he cast at the green tree-tops down in
the hollow, which shaded the white gables of Effie's home.'

* I want to feel as if I had a start of some kind. I've been
four months idJe, and I'm tired of it,' John answered, as he
throw the stick away and began to gather up the chips.

'John, old fellow.'

♦Welir

' You'll let Agnes stay with mother for a bit? She would
miss her fearfully.'

The ruddy colour was quick to deepen in John's dark face.
Bold, fearless, and detiamined though he was, he had a school-
girl's shyness over his love. It had never been broached between
tlic brothers since that day on the Ehine steamer, though
^Michael knew from his mother that they had come to a definite
understanding.

* I see no pro..p"ot cf being able to marry for years, if you
mean that,' he answered abruptly. ' It s not likely I'm going to
ask any woman to share a nobody's life, least of all her. She
shall h ivc the best or nothing. Of "ourse it is that which
makes mo more anxious. But I did not think you knew.'

' Yes, mother told me.'

John looked at )iim keenly, trying to gather from his face
what were his thoughts. He had not forgotten their talk that
summer day on the Rhine. But there was nothing to be
gathered from Michael'^ face. But presently he went straight to
the point :

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MAITLAND OF LAUllIESTON.

'Have yon liad any talk with hor al.tuut what we spoke of
tliatday?'

*No, none'

'Then she know>< nothing?'

'I can't say. 1 havt! never outeretl into any discussion with
her, neither luivc I tried to hide anythinj,'. We have simply
talked of other thiii<fs.'

*I do not think it is fair or right,' Michael said, with a sudden
l)assion.

'Do you nof! I'erhaps you thiid< thnt before I said a word
al)out what was in riiy heart for her, 1 should have laid before
her an elaborate .statement of my views i>u every subject?' said
John dryly, and even with a touch of sarca.sni. 'When the
opportunity conies ti> a man to ask a wttiuan that question,
Michael, if he is in earnest he does not usually pause to weigh
his words or to consider all conditions, as you may find one day
yourself.'

Michael did not answer, ivnd there was a brief, constrained
silence.

* When a fit opportunity occurs, I will lay bare my soul, as yon.
express it, to Agnes Laurie. After I have done so I shall leave
her free to bid me go or stay,' continued John; and his tone was
neither pleasant nor cordial.

'And in the meantime you will do your utmo.st to biml her
to you in irrevocable bonds,' .suiipleniented Michael passionately.
' That is not my ideal of a ])crfect love.'

John made no answer. There was truth in what his brotiier
said, and he writhed under it, because he knew very well that
the woman he loved had no idea of the state of his mind on these
great questions, nor could he be certain what would be her
verdicij when it should be revealed to her. Although he loved
her with an intense love, he had not yet sounded the dej)ths of
her nature. The new and gracious womanhood which had coifie
to her of late, was even something of a revelation to him. Its
dignity and still reticence held him in awe. There were times
when he felt that he dared not touch her, though she bad given
him the riglit to a lover's touch. She was quite unconscious of
this awe she inspired, nor dyi^l^q miss anything in hex lover...

MAfTLAXn OP LAUniKHTON.

She was a woman to whom tho outward demonstrations of
idfcction were not neoessai y. She helieved implicitly in John
Maitland, — her trust was as pcaiect as her love. So utterly did
•she helieve in that love, that she did not re(|uire him to he re-
peating^ it to her ; nay, there was to her a certain shrinking from
it. And so sh(^ setaned cold and distant to him sonu'tim(\s, wIk ii
ill reality sh(? was far from feeling either cold or distant. 1
lii^liove 1 am right in saying that Michael understood her hetter
than John. J lis intuitions and perceptions were of the finest,
and he was (piick to recognise these exquisite attrihutes in the
character of Agi'cr,. To him she was a study of the most perfect
womanhood, — in a word, she was his ideal. Ho was deei)]y and
gravely concerned ahout the relationship hetween her ami
.fohn, and felt impatiently that John had not been absolutely
open with her. She deserved nothing hut the very highest and
most honourable confidence. In this he was unconsciously hai'd
upcn his brother, not knowing \vhat agony there was for him in
the mere doubt lest Agnes, knowing all, should send him from
her side. Self-abnegation was easier for Michael by inheritan(;e
ami habit. But the strong, proud heart of John craved its own,
and feared to aacriiice anything. Thus they looked at the
matter from a totally diflferent standpoint.

' I am not going to stay here any longer,' said Joiin, recurring
to the old subject. * I am not of the stuff that makes idlers,
any more than you. Why, at this moment, I feel abh; for any-
thing; I feel even as if I could go forth and conquer the world,'

He laughed as he said it; but, as Michael looked at tho
magnificent proportions of his great figure — at the massive head
and grr.ve iutellectual face, with the eye of fire and the jaw of
iron — he acknowledged to himself that he looked not unlike
a conqueror. There was a touch of mild envy in that proud
glance, too, for manhood's years and manhood's stature had not
brought strength to Michael, but rather the reverse. Of late a
strange certainty had come home to him, — he believed that he
would not live to be old, or even to reach middle life. It is
one of the most exquisite provisions of our nature, that, after a
time, we are able to accept such certainties not only with
serenity, but even with cheerfulness. Already Michael felt as

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MA IT LAND 0^ LAU, IK^'TON.

if he stood a little outside of V;, j u-. si-ding it as a spectator
might. And yot there was no aj ■ i', 'iseaso about him, nor
oven any symptom which might alarm i elf or thofci who
loved liim. But it was certain that Micliacl ftlt hinjsdf, in a
sense, being gradually weaned away fro.n lifi?.

* I believe you, dear fellow,* he sai'i, with a quick return of
his old atfecti(»nate manner, which wus never long absent from
him. 'There is nothing 1 do not bflicivcf you can adiievc. Do
you know you are only passing tlimugh the transition stages.
Some day, not far distant, 1 hope, you will attain your full
growth, and that will l)e worth tlic^ .s(!ein" for me, if 1 live.'

He uttered the last words in a half whisper, as if they
slipped from him luiawarcs. John heard them, but his attention
was diverted at that moment by the vision of his l)eloved
stepping from the door of the house. She stood theni just a
moment, her white gown showing against the leafy greenness
of the rose-trees. She loved a white gown, which few women
can wear with l^ecomingness or grace. It suited her absolutely,
and gave a certain stateliness to her slender figure, as well as a
purity and sweetness to her whole ai)pearance. Her dress was
never obtrusive, but seemed a part of herself; the white marked
her individuality, and was thus a fitting robe.

When she saw the two under the tree, she stepped lightly
across the lawn. They both loved her, and looked at her with
eyes which betrayed that love. But ^lichael looked away
before slie came near enough to read his glance,

'How utterly you two are given up to idleness!' she said
gaily ; 'John, I do not know whether you deserve that I should
give you this.'

'A letter! Is it from Phil ?'

* No, unless he is at ^ nnan,' Agnes answered, as she handed
him the envelope.

'Annan ! Wallace has a place there,' cried John excitedly, and
tore it open, while the other two waited with breathless interest.

• Yes, it's frcmi Wallace, asking me to be his assistant this
winter. Of ell things in the earth, if I had been asked to
choose, I would have chosen this. He is a i)erfect brick.'

His boyish delight was infectious. Michael and Agnes

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MAlTL.Wn OF LAUHIESTON.

2C'5

liuij,'lii'(l, ivs he tossed liis cap in tlio air, as ho used to do on
brcakiiiyup days whtMi he was a sclioolhoy.

•I sliould nut liav(! thoiiglit, from your attitndo a niinutp a.i,'o,
that the idea of work would lie so fascinating,' Agnt^s said
tt-asingly.

'Did you not? my hidy, just wait.'

The significance of this daring speech made the rpiick red
flush swe(!p over her face, and she turned <iuickly to iMicliinl,
with a laughing remark about his attitude.

'Excuse me, Nannie; if not graceful, lam comfortable T
hiive often said I am a species of salamander, whatever tliut
hyl>rid creature may b(\ Heat is as necessary to me as air, and
I make the most of the sun while he condescends really to
smile on us. He hides his hcail soon enough in our east-windy
metropolis,' Michael answcriMl lazily. 'I say, Nannie, he has
just been growling and grunting and grumbling most disgrace-
fully about being among the unemployed. He ought to do
penance now, when his good luck has come.'

' ( >h, you can tease as nnich as you like. I tell you, you
don't know what this means for me,' said John, devouring his
professor's brief, business-like letter again. ' He does not .say
anything about salary; but I can leave it with him He's not
a mean man.'

' It'll be about two Iiundred ayear, likely,' said Michael.
' That's what Phil had when he lectured at the ]5otanic. I say,
where is ho off to now 1 '

' To answer, of course, by return of post,' John looked ba'k
to say, as he darted into the house.

* Can you imagine Jock a grave, black-coated professor, main-
taining strict discipline among his students; not allowiiii; a
solitary ' Miow ' to issue fiom the back benches'! ' asked Michael,
smiling, as he looked after him.

*Yes; he is rather imposing, .sometimes, I think,' she answered,
smiling too ; and her sweet mouth seemed to Michael to take a
sweeter, more tender curve.

'I'm afraid he shows you his best side,' said Michael un-
mercifully. ' There is a great deal of the boy about him yet,
and I'm glad of it, dear old Jock ! '

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M Air LAND OF LAUUfKSTOX.

'Tliat 18 sucli an atrocious naino, and Mike too. How can
you call each other hy such nanu^s V

'They may not l)e very elej^'ant, hut tli(\v have the music of
the past in them, to put it sentimentally,' returned Mirhaej.
' VV^e have hecn Jock and Mike Maitland since we wtnv
j)inaf(jres, and that is something,' worth treasuring.'

' Yes, of course ; T didn't think of that. Isn't this a choice
day, Michael t It is as if (lod smiled on the whole woild.'

'Yes, I feel thiit. One; seems to coine nearer heaven mi
sucli a perfect day,' Miclnnd answered dreamily ; and his faic
grew quite grave, for her words awoke anew the i)ain and fear
in his heart for her. She accepted all from the hand of (lod
with an unquesticming faith, finding in the hlessing and mercy
of each new day added proofs of llis tender care, ilv marvelled
that she liad not ere this discovered how little synqjathy there
was on such themes hetween herself and .lohn, and again
hlamed his hrother. And yet he was glad, thankful that the
shadow should he thus averted for a little while; that this dear
woman shoidd first taste love's sweetn«!ss, — for oh, its hitterness
for her would be cruel indeed !

' Uncle Michael will he pleased,' said Agnes, as her fingers

touched caressingly the red rose in her helt. ' I am not sine

that I shall not triimijth over him just a wee, hit. Aunt Maggie

* will, I know. John will rush over to Nunraw immediately to

tell her, you will see.'

' Yes, mother will be glad. John has been most fortunate, —
though, of course, it is not unusual for a professor to show such
a signal mark of favour for his most distinguished student. It
was a mere chance, however, that the place should ]je vacaid
just when he needs it.'

' Would you say chance 1 '

' No, I did not quite mean that. I understand you, of course ;
the way has been opened up.'

* As it always will be, if we only wait. I seem to see thai
more and more. Michael, I have learned what Aunt Maggie
means when she speaks of living from day to day. What an
immense amount of suffering and care we would be spared if
we learned it earlier.'

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MAirnAsh or lm.'hikstox.

2C5

•Ood grant, my sistj-r, that it may \w always possible for
you,' Mit;ha»U said, with a fcivour wliii-h iiiadci her look at hint
in surprise. It was the. first time hf hud calitHl her si^itJM*, and
it touched her to the heart. l>ut site did not ask hiiu what
had moved him, nor seek any explanation of his words. l>nt
long after, when living from day to day had become all that
was possible for her, she remembered Michaers words.

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CHAPTER VII.

'No thought of hiimnn littloiiesA
Shall cross thy high, calm houI, ahiniiig aiul pure
Ah the gohl gatt'H of lloivvcii.'

IIK reimiiiulcr of that liolidiiy timo was loii^' ic-
iiifiiibert'il liy the Miiithiiids, as a time of traiii|iiil
hiijipiiui.ss aiitl peace. The two stiuU'iit sons
^'^ roiuaineil at htnue all Scpti'iiiltef, — .lohii stiitlyiii;^
hard at his hooks in one of the attic rooms, or often under the
thorn on the lawn, and Michael lounj^'ing about enjoyin-,' the
mellow radiance of the autunmal sun, and drinking in the
beauty of the autumnal tints and the harvest fidness. John
had finally decided to lodge in Edinburgh all the winter, and it
was, of course, understood that the brothers wouhl l)e together
under one rcof while Michael was studying at the JIall.
Michael heard them make all tluiir arrangements, and Agnes
was the only one who noticed how very little part he took in
any talk about it. Many times she caught herself wondering
what could be the meaning of a certain far-oil" look which was
sometimes on his face. It made her heart heavy with a strange
foreboding, although there was nothing to alarm in IMichael's
appearance ; lie had never aeemed luttter, and roamed about
the fields between Laurieston and Kunraw, lending a hand on
both farms when the sjiirit moved him, and apparently enjoying
life to the full. ]Ie was a great deal over at Nunraw beside
Effie, who was developing amazing skill in housewifely art, and
making a cosy home for her young husband ; a lionu) for which
he ought, and indeed appeared, to be profoundly thankful. At
least, he worked well on the farm, and won golden opinions

M Aim AND OP LAUntESTON.

2Cu

from Mr. ^fiiitlaud »luriiij,' tlui busy tirno of tlio iiij^'atlicrin^'.
Tho nine days' wondtM* over the, roniantic. iimrri:»;,'o hud t|iiitt'
sultsidiid, and Mrs. Lauiit^ of Nuiinnv had taken hci- |ilaif
aiiinii); the matrons of the district as naturally as if she hail
liKikcd forwartl to it for years. Outwanlly they seemed a
Iiiijti»y pair, and if Klli»! had any (juahns of rej,'r(it for the step
sho had taken, slio Iiad Hunse and pri(h; (>noii<,'h to hid<; it,
Nt)hody know how often she* looked <»ver at Laurieston with
ilini, longinj,' oye.s, nor dreamed that she was grievously dis
appointed in tlie man for whom she had given U[> her happy
girlish life and all the; tender care of that dear home. Nohody
— certainly least of all Agnea herself — dreamed how jealously
Kflie watched her, and even in a sense grudged her her plaet^ as
the one daughter of Laurieston. liut so it was. Many a .stoim-
cloud, even in those early days, swept across the hori/on of
KIlie Laurie's married life. Tlu-y were standing at the garden
gate (»f Nunraw one evening, — Michael, Agnes and KIlie, just
before parting after a long day together.

' Tell John I'm not friends with him. '- ; i never, never conu's
to Nunraw unless to take Nannie home,' said KIlie jealously.
'Tell him Will and I will not speak to him the n(!xt time he
comes.'

'You'd better not mention my name to his highness,' said
Will, with a slight sneer. There never was much love lost
between John and me. Since you've married me, Ethe, you
may make uj) your mind to do vithout John.'

' I .suppose so,' said EfFie quietly ; but Agnes did not like her
tone.

'John lias been in Edinburgh all day, or he would have been
over. He may not be liome even yet,' she said gently.

'Oh, but he is not in town every <lay,' Effie retorted sharply.
* I can see him from my bedroom window lying for hours at a
time under the thorn. But of course, if he doesn't want to
come, we'll try not to break our lu?art.s,'

Til report matters,' .said Michael, with a genial smile.
'Hasn't this been a plea.siint September'?'

' In the daytime ; but the nights are getting too confoundedly
long again,' put in Will. ' T don't know what the two of us

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MAtTLANn OF LAURmsTON.

will do, sitting like crows staring at each other over the fireplace
every night through tlie winter. It'll l)e frightfully slow ; and
since they took off i\w late train, a fellow can't ever get an
evening at the theatre.'

' Just as well it is off, then,' Agnes said, with moix? sharpnes^^
than she usually exhibited. * I don't think Eftie is particularly
fund uf the theatres, anyhow.'

' Seeing I never was in it, I don't know,' said Ktfie ; at whiih
Will laughed.

'Kever mind them ; I'll take you up, Eftie, if we should stay
all night in town. You'll enjoy it, 1 know, (jood night then,
Mike.'

' (Jrood night, Nan.'

Eftie stood at the garden gate and watched them till the belt
of trees skirting the pasture hid tliein from sight, then turned
away with an impatient sigh.

' I wish I could go over tc»o. There's no place like Laurieston,'
she said discontentedly, and her pretty face puckered into a
frown.

*Go, then,' Will said promi)tly ; 'I'm not forcing you to livi;
here.'

What's the use of speaking like that. Will?' she asked
(juickly, feeling annoyed at his tone. ' W(>'ve got to live here,
and to be thankful we have as good a place to call our own.'

'I suppose so; but, all the same, I wish we hadn't,' muttcMcd
AVill thoughtlessly, and without any special significance, as he
Avalked away. His wife caught the words, however, and her
lip quivered as she turned towards the house. She was con-
scious of a growing restlessness in her husband, and it was
making them both irritable and unhappy. Deep down in her
heart there lurked the fear that she had built her house on a
frail foundation. Her anxiety was not unshared by the two
walking side by side across the bare stubble fields to Laurieston.
But the subject was too delicate to be talked of between them,
so they walked on in silence, though each was conscious of the
other's unspoken thought.

'To-morrow is the first of October,' said Michael, as he helped
her over the stile into the second field.

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MAITLAND OF LA UlUESTON,

269

* Yes ; and how fine the weather is still ! We may have a
kind of Indian summer in October this year.'

' It is a lovely time of the year. I do not feel any sadness
in it, as I have heard some say. Just look at that bank,
Nannie, with the dog-berries and the brambles, and the rich
hues of the leaves ! Isn't it fine 1 ' )

' Lovely ; and the sea-line, how clear and bright and blue ! I,
am quite sure, Michael, that whatever I may live to see, I shall
never think any picture quite so fair as this.'

'Let us sit down here on the bank just for a few minutes
before we go home. It is so dry and mild, and there is no dew
falling. I want to speak to you, Nannie, very seriously.'

She looked at him in surprise. *I am not sure if Aunt
iMaggie would like us to sit out of doors so late in the evening.
But I think it is dry, and we may for a little while. What do
you want to speak about, Michael dear ? '

Sometimes, though not often, she would call him 'dear,' in
her affectionate, sisterly way, not knowing that it was to him
more a pain than a pleasure, because it drew so sharp a dividing
line between him and John, whose name she seldom uttered,
never when speaking directly to him.

'It is just about a fortnight till John begins his work. How
enthusiastic he is over it ! ' said Michael, as they seated them-
selves on the grassy bank under a blaze of scarlet dog-l)erries.
' He will come to the front in everything he attempts. His
enthusiasm will carry him over every difficulty.'

' Your belief in him, your devotion to him, is to me one of
tlie most beautiful thuigs I have ever seen,* Agnes said involun-
tarily, and with shining eyes.

'Who is to believe in him, if not you and I, Agnes 1'
Michael asked, with a slight smile. ' But it is not of John I
am going to speak to-night, but of myscdf, Agnes.'

' Yes, your work begins too, very soon, does it not 1 Yet
how quiet you have been about it ! It is not often you speak
about yourself, Michael'

'I am not going to enter the Hall, Nannie,* said Michael
slowly.

She turned upon him her startled eyes in quick questioning.

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MAITLAND OF LAURTESTOiV.

* Kot enter tho Hall ! Michael dear, what ilo you mean 1 *

' What I am saying. I am not going to continue the theo-
logical course, because I shall never be a minister in the
Established Church.'

Agnes was startled but not surprised. She had suspected
something maturing in Michael's mind, although she did not
know the nature or bent of his thought.

'It will be a fearful disap})ointment to Uncle Michael,' she
said quite quietly at last.

* Yes.' A look of trouble settled on Michael's face. *It will
be in a sense the second downfall of my father's hopes. But
I have looked at it from every point, and I cannot come to any
other decision. I am not so brave as John, or I should have
spoken out long since. I have a shrinking from unpleasant
things ; only a form of selfishness, after all.'

* You are never selfish,' she replied quickly. ' Will you tell
me,' she added, with a slight hesitation, * what are your reasons
for this decision ? '

*Yes, since you have not guessinil it. My first and chief
reason is that I do not believe I should live to finish it.'

* Not live — three years! Oh, Michael.' He smiled slightly
at her distress, and touclied her hand as it lay above a branch
tinted with the brilliant hues of autumn.

* Agnes, I do not think that in your heart of hearts you are
very much surprised,' he said almost (juaintly. 'I have caught
you looking at me sometimes, and if there was not anxiety, and
even fear in that look, I cannot read hunuiu eyes. My strength
has gone from me, and you know it. It is only this sweet
idleness and the ha})piness of home which cherishes me. I
know, as truly as I sit here, that one winter in Edinburgh
lodgiiigs would do for me,'

' And you will stay here, then, to be always with us, since
Laurieston can keep you well ! ' she exclaiircd ; but he shook
his head.

' That would be t. poor use for the last handful of my days,'
he said, smiling still. ' No, no. I have taken my ease and
rest gladly, because I too have something to do ; and this long,
beautiful summer has fitted me f<^^'

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MA IT LAND OF LAUKIESTON.

271

She hung u])t»!i his words with a breathless interest ; but it
was a fcAv nionuMits before he rontinued :

' I have not siiokon at random, Agnes ; I have had the best
advice, and I know that I cannot have a long life,- that it may-
even be shorter than I anticii)ate. I am anxious to do some-
tliing for my IMaster before I die.'

He spoke the last words slowly, as if weighing each one ere
it left his lips.

' Knowing what I know of my own constitution, I do not
think it would be right to spend my strength on study, which I
should never live to apply. There are plenty of Christian
workers required, be sides those who preach in the pulpit. It is
my intention, with God's help, to number myself amongst those.'
* And will you work in Edinburgh, in connection with one
of the Church missions ? '

' I have thought of that, but I confess it has not much
attraction for me, and they have many willing workers there.
I will tell you just what I mean,' said Michael, leaning his
elbow on his knees, and turning his face to her. * You know
Robertson is an Englishman. His father was a surgeon in a
.small mining town in the north of England. One night, long
ago, when I was alone with Phil in his rooms, he began to
speak of that place, Coldaire, and of his early days. You know
Phil's graphic style, how, in a word, he can bring a perfect
picture before you. Well, just in a few sentences, he brought
that wliole parish and its mighty need before me that night, —
its ignorance, its degradation, its drunkenncc? and sin. The
miners are so rough that no minister will stay long in the placj.
Tliere is a vicar, who lives at a watering place, and leaves his
work to his curate, who changes every few months. God-
forsaken, Ivobertsun called Coldaire; and that is the sort of
phtce I should like to spend my strength in. [ believe I could
do good.'

Agnes shivered.

'You would f'o there,' she said, with difficulty, 'only to
hasten the end.'

' And what of that, if in the interval any good work were
accomplished]' he asked, "..'th kindling eye.

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MAITLANB OF LAURIESTON.

' It is a noblp idea, oertainly, for iuiy oiio but you. We
cannot spare you, Michael. Aunt Maj^gio lias had sorrow of
late ; you must consider lier.'

'T do ; r will. Rut T do not helitv^ this will bo a sorrow to
my mother,' Michael said ; and his eyes shoni; with the great
love of his heart.

'Not a sorrow, Michael; and you so dear to her! Cuuld
any mother let her son go forth to certain death without
a pang % '

Michael was silent, nr)t hearing her, indeed, for he was
recalling what his mother had said about ' compensations ' on
the night of their return from abroad.

' Does John know of this 1 ' Agnes as!- -■\ ; and a quirk
shadow leaped at once to Michael's face.

' No,' he answered ; * John would not understand. I have
told no living soul but you as yet, Nannie. Only, to-night or
to-morrow I will tell my father. Will you speak to mother 1
or am T laying too heavy a task on you 1 '

'Oh no; I will tell her. I will (' > anythir;; for you; but
oh, Michael, I cannot realize it. I cannot bear it.'

Her tears fell then, and they seemed to agitate him strangely.
lie rose and walked a few ste{)s from her, and the expression
on his face was that of a man who is putting a curb upon
himself.

' Hush, hush ! / cannot hear to see you grieved, my sister.
You must be my brave champion, and bid me God-spee<l,
when T go forth on this new ci'usade.'

' F' rhaps I may be able sfX)n, but not yet,' she answered,
trying '> sr.i^e. 'I cannot but think of Uncle Michael and
Aunt Mp .L,iiret. ho greater sorrow could ever fall upon
Laurie .ton.'

Michael snid ):othin'y^ onlj- thoi.ght of the old saying, that a
livinff -r! -it^v .' 'vorse tu bear than a dead one.

' A.,T.ep thore is another reason which I do not intend to tell
my father. I Oo. r,ot think that, even were I spared to finish
my theoloj^'icj' -ov.rse, I could subscribe to the doctrines of our
Church. 1 wan I, a free gospel for my creed, — a gospel which
admits that Christ died for all men. I could not, like some,

MAirnAND OF LAUniESTON.

273

subscribe to a creed, and then ignore it in my preaching.
There are too many restrictions in the dogmas of the Churclics.
Sometimes, I confess, I do not wonder that men's minds are
bewildered among tlie doct'-ines of theory and practice. But I
liavc no wish to enter into controversy with my father. Argu-
ment will never shake a strong man's convictions. Experience
and necessity are the greatest factors in human life. Some day
my father may feel the need of a wider creed. Meantime my
gospel is Christ for every man, and, though I will not vex hiiu
with argument upon it, I shall not hide my beliefs.'

* I think you will be wipe nf)t to vex Uivh' Michael too
much,' said Agnes slowl} , as she rose to her feet.

Looking towards the grey gables of the old house, she felt
her heart sore within her. "Was this but the beginning of
ijorrow for them all ?

* We must go, I think, dear Michael. It is getting q.iite
dark.'

' Yes, we will go. Thank you for listening so patiently to
me, Agnes. Won't you wisli me God-spocd lirst here 1 '

't do, I do,' she said, and stretched dut her hands to him.
' T honour and reverence you more than I can tell.'

Mi(;hael took her hands, and, bending down, kissed her brow.
Then ho drew her arm within his, and they Avent home.

Mrs. Maitland was standing in the open door waiting for
their coming,

' You are late, bairns,' she said. ' What has kept you ]
John has been out twenty times at the heilge, looking over the
Helds, and now he has gone off to Xunraw.'

* We were idling on the way, mother,' Michael answered
gaily ; but Agnes slii)ped past her r ant, and ran upstairs to her
own room. She coidd not bear t*^ see that smile of peace and
motherly content on the dear lips, knowing of the sorrow
looming in the distance. And yet, what need to vex herself ?
she asked, as she knelt by the open window, and looked across
the peaceful fields to where the sea slept under a silvery veil.

Did not Michael's mother know where to go for strength in
her hour of need 1

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*My tree wag thick with shade ; O blast ! thine oflSce do,
And strip tht; Tuliagc off, to let the hoavenB shine th/ough.'

THINK John's iniprovin', wife. Whether it's
Agnes or no', 1 dinua ken, Init he's niair settled
h'ke. I'm better pleased wi' him than I was.
]\l£iy be years '11 gie him sense.'
Margaret Maitland smiled, but almost immediately her face
grew graver. She had not dared to speak freely to her husband
about Tohn, believing that if he knew what views he enter-
tained on religious questions, his righteous anger would be such
that he would forbid hiip the house. It was certain that these
weeks of companions! ip v/ith Agnes had done much to soften
and refine Je'in, arid to luu r-^wn the blunt edges which the
free and easy student life at L Mpsic had made too prominent.
At heart always thoughtful for others, he now showed it more
in his outward demeanour, and so liad favourably impressed his
father. There were time?, however, when Margaret Maitland
felt as if she were treadin;; on the edges of a volcano; \v\en
she saw John',- eye flash under his father's stern utterances
concerning things spiritual, and she knew how great a curb he
was putting on himself. There had been no talk whatever
between Agnes and her concerning John's state of mind. She
wondered sometimes wh- *:ber Agnes had the remotest idea of it.
She even felt hoiself, like Michael, a little impatient with John
for what looked like concealment, and yet she felt but too
thankful to let the tide oi daily life flow in smooth channels as

long as it could

874

M AIT LA ND OF LA UltlESTON.

275

'Ih it not that you uro less hard upon him, fathisr?' slio
askt'd, witli a quiet gloam of liumour which lit up her face.
' I'crliiips there is a change in you too T

A slight smile touched Maitland's lips.

' 1 lu)i)e I was never less than just, Maggie. I suppose th(>y
winna be to marry for a while 1, '

'Oh no J I don't think cither of thorn have thought of
niavriage, — at least for a long time. John has a great ambition,
and lie thinks nothing would be t<»o good for Agnes. Confess
now, father, that he has done very well for fouv-and-twenty,
and without any encouragement.'

'Oh ay, he has done well. I nevei- said but that he had
brains, wife,' Laurieston admitted, with characteristic cautiofi,
^\iich made her laugh.

' It's ^Michael I am anxious about noo, Maggie. Isn't it next
Avock the studies begin 1 T never saw a lad show less interest
in his work. I maun be at him. It'll be his turn may be to
play truant.'

' 1 don't think he feels himself strong, father, though he
makes no complaint,' the mother answered slowly.

' He looks wed. I'll see what he says the day.'

This talk ocourred between Mr. and Mrs. ^laitland on their
way home from afternoon church the following Sabbath.
Miehael and Agnes were walking on in front, arm in arm, in
true brotherly and sisterly fashion. Indeed, it was the belief in
certain parts of the parish that it was Michael Agues favoured,
they were so much together.

'Michael and Nannie are aye very sib, Maggie, ohe doesna
fash John wi' ower much o' her company. D'ye think she kens
which she likes best 1 '

' I suppose she does. That is Nannie's way ; and it suits
John. He has a great reverence for her, and I hope they will
be happy.'

'It'll be his fault if they're no',' said Laurieston bluntly.
' Onybody could live wi' Agnes. Noo I wonder what way the
twa frae Nunraw wer(ma at thi kirk the day^ They are ower
sune begun to liide at hame.'

Margaret Maitland was silent. She too had missed theni,

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M AIT LAM) OF LAUIUESTO^.

and, kiK'.- 'i{^ liuth Avcrc well, fcanul that it was Willio's oM
(lislikc! to the church service which was keeping; both at home.
Jt was natural, of course, that rffie should not care to apj^'ar at,
church without her husband, and she but two months a wife.

'They'll be over to tea, likfJy, and we can see then what has
kept them,' she answered. * I. never saw a finer October day,
Michael. It is as mild as June '

'Ay ; but the robins arc comir.' in aboot. The snaw'll no' be
lang, Maggie, Wecl, lads, arc tlu! aidd folk ower slow for ye?'
be said, with a smile, as John aiid Wat strode past. John had
attended church with exem})lary regularity since he came home, —
a mere form^ but his mother saw that he wished to keep the peace.

That evening, just after the early tea, Michael voluntarily
i'iouglit a taik with his father. The close of a mild, bright,
tender October da} "s, to my thinking, one of the most beautiful
things in this lovely world. If there is a touch of subdiK'd
melancholy in the aspect of nature when she stands on the edge
(jf the winter storms, it gives to her an add(;d charm, ns t'M!
l)ensive look sometimes adds grace to a lov<Oy face. Tlie lu.rd
W(irk of the .lulumn is over; the fields, lying fallow wailing for
tlie, useful grip of the frost ; the trees bare and lealless, yet with
a promise of spring in the shoots, which, though young ami
tender, are strong to withstand the rigour of the dark months of
the year; the air is liushcd, and s<nnetimes heavy, as if witli
expectancy for the pure benediction of tlie snow ; the sea has
often then a deep silvery Ime upon its placid breast, and its
voice is stilled to beat in unison with the lowered pulse of
nature. If the sun breaks through the tender gloom, it is with
such a mild and chastened gleam that his jiast bold radiance
seems like a dream. Such a day was that 8abbath at Laiirie-
ston, — the last before the family circle expr-^r^d to be broken wy
for the winter.

' Vrill you take a turn, father?' .. .ehael asked, joining him in
th(! garden after tea. -lohn and Agnes were already away for
their evening walk by Hallcross up the river side, AVat and his
mother making ready to go over to Nunraw to inquire ■.> liat
had lKii)i)ened to the young folks that their faces had not lieen
seen all day.

MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTO^.

277

« Your mother is gatm ower to Nunraw, Michael,' Laurieston
nnswcred. * We can follow up, if ye like.'

'15y audby, perhaps,' answered Michael. *I want to have
a lou^f talk with you.'

Mis father looked at him keenly, and just then Mrs. Maituind
and Wat came out of the door. ' We'll may he be over by and
l)y, mother,' Laurieston said to his wife. * Michael an' me
want a crack.'

Mrs. iVhiitland nodded, thinking nothing. So absolutely did
she rest upon tlie stability of her second son, that it never
occurred to her that there might be anything special to crack
aliout. She only bade him not stand too long on the moist
lawn, an<l tlien turned away with Walter, concerned specially
just tluiii about Kllie and Willie.

' As they are all out, let's go in, father. It gets cold when
one stands long,' saitl Michael, when they were out of hearing.
Laurieston turned without a word and led tlie way into the
house. He felt the gravity of his son's manner, and wondered
what he could be about to say.

Katie had cleared the table in the dining-room, and set the
lam]) ready to be lighteil. The fire Avas burning cheerily,
and the rocjm, though filling with the evening shadows, was
brightened by that ruddy glow from the hearth. Altliough it
was not cold, they seated themselves near the tire, both con-
scious of that curious feeling of companionship and comfort
given by a bright, well-warmed hearth.

'Are ye no' very weel, my manr asked Michael Maitland
the elder, as he saw Michael stretch out his hands to the
cheerful blaze. His hands were long and white and thin, and
presented a strong contrast to the sunburnt ones lying on his
father's knee.

'Yes, I am quite well, father, — at least, well for me; but I
am going to tell you something which 1 fear will be a great
disappointment to you.'

* Ay,' said Laurieston, with no betrayal of curiosity except
the keen fixed look of his penetrating eye.

' It is about my future. 1 have made up my mind that I
am not going to the Hall next Monday.'

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278

MAITLAND OF LAUIilKSTON.

*A>, and what for no"}' Tlioro was increased dryness in
tlie old man's voico as he asked that hriof (question.

* Father, look at me. Do you tliink I am a strong man, or
likely to be a long-lived onel'

The father gave a great start, being wholly takcm by surprise.
But he never took his ryes from off his son's face, and in his
heart of hearts, as he looked, h*^ confessttd tliat the outline of
that fine face was too sharply definetl, and its colour too delicate,
to jiertain to a strong man.

' What's the maitter wi' ye ?' he asked, with that peculiar
l)luntness, or even harshness, which in a man of his strong
nature is often assumed to hide the deepest love and pain.

*I don't know that I have anything special the matter with
me at i)resent,' Michael answered, with a slight smile, ' I
thought it my duty some time ago, when I was feeling a little
out of sorts, to seek some advice. I did this about a month
ago,* without telling any one, because T thought if there was
nothing wrong it was needless to troul)le mother or you. 1
have known since then that I have not many years to live.'

• Bless me ! '

That short, sharp exclamation fell from the father's lips sharp
with its surprise and pain.

'It is true. S'mpson told me.*

' But can naething be dune 1 '

'No. Mine is not a case in which surgery can be of any
avail. They can do a great deal, fatiier, but they can't make a
new man. I am organically weak, lait I shall never be a great
sufferer, and will just fall at last like an autumn leaf, without
any fuss. That is a comfort, too. Don't let us linger on that.
We are strong enough to accept it as the inevitable. What I
want to speak about is my di>sire to make the most of what I
have left. I want to crowd as much work as possible into the
short space that remains to me.'

Maitland of Laurieston looked at his son in silence, — a strange
silence, in which many deep thoughts were hid. Uppermost,
however, was simple and absolute wonder to hear him thus
calmly discuss his life and death. Michael broke the silence,
and in his open, frank, generous way laid before his father his

MAITLAND OF LAVklESTON.

27d

plans for the future. IIo warmed to the theme, as h(? tliought
(il that (h'.sohite, Gud-forsuken spot of -whicli K(t])ertson had so
graphically spoken ; and Maitland of Laurieston listened in utter
sileiKie, but never lifting his deep eyes for a moment from hi.;
son's face. Oidy God knew what was in his heart as he
listened.

' I know it is a disappointment to you, father,' Michael
concluded eagerly, bringing his eyes to meet his father's stead-
fast gaze ; ' but don't you think I am right 1 It would be a
waste of time and money to continue my University course,
when I know I should not live to finish it. Think how much
better to die in harness, in the midst of wovk so engrossing that
there would bo no time to think of one's self. Say you give
your consent. Wish me God-speed, father. I could not go
without your blessing.'

' Ye hae spoken a heap, my man ; I doot I hae followed ye
but puirly,' said Laurieston slowly, and passing his hand across
his rugged brow. ' The first point is that ye winna be able to
gang on wi' the cfdlege ; the second, that ye hinna long to live.
He paused there, and a distinct tremor shook his strong frame,
as the wind of winter shakes the great boughs of the oak.
' The third, that ye want to gang awa to some outlandish [dace
to preach the Word to English colliers. If ye maun preach,
what ails ye at Wallyford r.nd Deantoon and Cowpits. D'ye
think they need nae preachin' there ? '

* Yes, they need it; but they have it, father. Me(;tings are
regularly held in all those places. Besides, a prophet has no
honour in his own country ; — and, and my heart is in Coldaire.'

* And in the meantime your mother an' me can thole as we
like at hame.'

The old man rose to his feet and took a turn across the room.
He walked slowly, as if his strength had gone from him.

The tears rose in Michael's blue eyes as he saw that liesitat-
ing gait, and for a moment he regretted the blow he had given.
At last Maitland of Laurieston gathered himself together and
returned to his position by the hearth. He leaned forward a
little in his chair, and again fixed his penetrating eyes on his
son's face.

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

* What d'ye think your mother will say to a' this, Micliael ?
Docs she ken ] '

* No ; but I believe she will bid me go.*

* I believe she wad gie her life's bluid for ony one o' ye,'
Laurieston answered hoarsely. ' Nevertheless, I canna see my
way to bid ye go yet, an' ye mauna ask it. When I can believe
that this is tlie Lord's daein, I'll bow in submission, but that's
no' yet.'

Michael knew that decisive tone of old. It 1)rooked no
contradiction, no argument on the part of a son. lie bowed
his head silently, and there was no bitterness in nis lioart,
because he knew that in that moment the bitterness of death
was in his father's soul. He wished that any hand but his
had dealt that blow; but he had only s})ok('n as conscience
bade him.

Katie came in, lighted the lamp, and j)ulled »lown the blinds,
wondering a little that the two sat in sucli silence by the hearth.
When she had again left them, Maitland of Laurieston rose, still
silently, and passed from the room. Tlien Michael bowed his
face on his hands and prayed, craving anew guidance and help,
for just then the way of life, which had to be fought for inch by
inch as he went forward, seemed very hard. But his heart-
struggle was nothing to that raging in his father's soul. The
strong man went out into the darkness of the night, and, standing
alone, away from all human eyes, he challenged the Lord for the
hardness of His dealings with him and his. One by one his
idols were being cast down, the temples of his own rearing laid
in ruins at his feet, the desires of his heart and the hopes of his
life destroyed ere they came to the full birth. For the first
time in his life Michael Maitland rebelled against Heaven, and,
clenching his strong hands in the darkness, looked up to the
starless firmament, asking fiercely what he had done that he
should be thus hardly dealt with. For a brief space he allowed
the dark spirit to work his will with him, and a whirlwind of
rebellious passion shook his soul. Strong in his self-righteous-
ness, he arrayed his long list of good deeds before the Almighty,
and held up his upright life in derisitm against the sorrows that
had come upon his house. The sweat-drops stood upon his brow ;

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

281

his strong mouth, which seldom responded to any of the inner
emotions, shook with the tempest.

That Sabbath night under the starless sky was the Geth-
semane in Maitland of Laurieston's life. Thoy came l)ack one
by one to the pleasant family room, and, as the niglit wore on,
wondered what had become of the head of the house. The hour
for the books ; issed by, and still he did not come. Michael,
with a strange wavering smile, bade his mother not be anxious,
even while a consuming anxiety dwelt with him. By and by a
lieavy foot passed by the window, but none stirred to meet it at
the outer door. He came directly into the ro(»ni, and before all
present approaclied Michael and laid a lieavy hand upon hh
shoulder :

' It is the will of the Lord. His will be dune. Let us pray.'

!' h

\'<''^

CHAPTER IX.

•Was it soinethiii,' said, something done,
Yexe . hi .1 ! was it touch of hand, turn of Lead?'

It wat! a surprise next day when Philip Robertson
arrived at Laurieston. After the strong upheaval
of deep feeling there was a kind of agitated atmo-
sphere in the house, of which Robertson was
conscious before he had been long under its roof. P>ut tlie old
kindly welcome was not lacking, even Maitland himself receiving
him with marked cordiality. He arrivc^d when they were at
their early dinner, and a place was made for him instantly,
without fuss, and so he felt at home.

' One question at a time, please,' he exclaimed laughingly, as
John poured out his whys and wherefonjs in a continuous string.

* So you were anathematizing me t I only came over a
fortnight ago, and I have been all the time with my sister at
Coldaire.'

He wondered at the effect his words produced ; every ex-
pression seemed to change.

' We did not know you had a sister, Philip,' Mrs. Maitland
said quietly.

* No ? Well, I believe I have not spoken of her very much.
She has only recently returned to Coldaire since her husband's
death. He was at one time a missionary in the place, but his
health broke down under the strain, and he has been living an
invalid at Bournemouth for about nine months, I do not
wonder he died, the wonder would have been had he lived. I
went to try and persuade Mary to leave the place, but she is

I i

MAITLAND OF LA UlilESTON.

283

obstinate. She thinks she can do sonic good there, because the
people loved David. I told her it was a fearful place to rear her
boy in ; but my sister is a woman of great decision and force of
cliaracter.*

T^aurieston rose abruptly and left the table, although the meal
was only half done.

Robertson looked uncomfortable, and turned questioningly to
Mrs. Maitland.

♦ I trust I have not said anything to vex Mr. Maitland ? '

• Oh no ; it is a long story, Philip. The boys will tell you it
all, after,' she said, with a faint smile. * You will understand
then why Michael looked as if he admired your sister very much
for her decision of character. She is quite young, I sujipose ? '

' Thirty-two ; her boy is five, — as fine a little chap as you ever
saw. I wanted them both to come over and winter with me in
Leipsic ; but, as I said, Mary is determined, to obstinacy, — but
she is a dear little woman for all that.'

* I admire her. It is a fine idea to carry on her husband's
work,' said Agnes, speaking for the first time.

' It is. They were devoted to each other ; but David, in spite
of his high character, had a lack of tolerance. He considered
me so much of a heatlien, that he did not care to see me very
often at Coldaire, consequently Mary and I have seen very little
of each other since I came north. It was rather hard upon me,
seeing we had no other kin in the world but each other.'

There was a slight bitterness in Robertson's tone and manner ;
yet he commanded their sympathy, for it was evident that his love
for his sister was very precious to him. He roused their deeper
interest, because it was the first and only time that he had ever
spoken of his family or friends. They understood now that he
had keenly felt the estrangement which his brother-in-law, a
good but somewhat narrow-minded man, had insisted upon, so
long as Robertson was avowedly sceptical regarding all religious
questions.

' There have been changes here too since I went away, Mrs.
Maitland,' he said, turning from the subject. *I hope Mrs.
Laurie is very well ? '

He spoke calmly and carelessly, evidently without an efiort

'2HI

M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

Aa Mrs. Maitland answered him, she told herself ho had entirely
forgotten his old love for Effie. It was not so, only he had
schooled himself in indifference, and had indeed come to Laurie-
ston for the express purpose of seeing Efiie in her new character,
and thus curing himself entirely.

* We'll go over, if you like,' said John quickly. ' But, I say,
hdw long can you stay?'

' Two days. Wallace has invited me to Annan from Saturday
to Monday, to meet my old prof.'

' Has h') ? Why, /am going too,' exclaimed John delightedly.
'Could anything Ix; jollier?'

' Mothing could,' answi'ied Phil heartily ; * only it is u shame
to leave Michael out in tlu^ cold.'

He laid his hand on Michael's slender shoulder with peculiar
kindliness, as if wondering that he shoiUd be so silent.

'Mike has gone back on his Alma Mater, Phil,' said John, as
his mother rose. ' Come, let us go out for a stroll, and exchange
news. Coming, Mikel'

Michael nodded, and the three left the house.

' It is like the old <lays come back to see those three together,
Nannie,' said Mrs. Araitland, as she watched them saunter down
the garden path.

' Aunt Maggie, we seem to have lioed a great deal in the
last few months,' Agnes said ([uickly ; ' it seems years since last
Christmas.'

' Yes, my dear. We had a long time of peace and happy
monotony, if I may say it. 1 suppose through it all we were
maturing for this. When life seems hardest, it is a blessed thing
to think that God will never try us beyond our strength.'

* I hope, I pray, Aunt Maggie, that when 1 am as old as you 1
can say the same,' Agnes answered, out of the fulness of her
heart.

* I am not afraid for you, Nannie j you have a strong heart,
which will not quickly fail. And 1 believe, my dear, that God
has a great work for you to do.'

She did not say what that work was, nor did Agnes ask.
The three old friends had a long walk by the seashore, and
back across the windy uplands, and during that walk, all the -

ji&L^33^^Y(i^_ <

MAITLAND OF LAUIIIKSTON.

285

plana and liojuvs for ilio, future wero iliscussod, with the doliglit
fill candour and frcedoni which is the privile^'c of a tried fricnd-
shil). Robertson slid not say much when Michael's dcsin; and
j)ur[)ose in the future was told to him. lUit he was more
sympatlietic than John, who thought it the most \itter folly, and
had said so to his brother in no measured terms.

' I b(dievc, de.ar fellow, the work will be to your mind ;
and I like to thiidc that you will meet Mary,' he said quietly.
* When you have come to some definite arrangement about
going, I shall write to her. I believe she could take you in.
She has a nice little house, which belonged to my father, and
was left to her in his will.'

'There's Nunraw, Phil,' John interrupted, almost with a
tone of impatience, for he could not bear the subject. 'No,
not there; don't you sec the white gables 1 Let's go down and
ask Eftio for a cup of tea.'

' I should like to pay my respects to the happy pair,' said
Robertson ; * but iNIichael looks tired.*

'I'll go straight home,' said ^lichael. * You two want your
own crack, any way.'

And with a nod and a smile he left them. Robertson
looked after him, with a curiously tender, half - sorrowful
look.

' He is a nobler man, John, than either you or T,' he said at
length.

' I admit it ; but at the same time I think he is perfectly
insane <in this point,' said dohn almost angrily, 'lie won't
live six months in that wretched jdace. T can't for the life of
me understand how my lather and mother have ever given
their consent.'

* It is hard upon your father, I see,' said Robertson briefly.

'It is. It has been the dearest hope of his life to see
l^Iike a pillar in the Auld Kirk. Upon my word, Phil, I'm
sorry for the old man. "We have all disap])ointed him. This
establishment was a sore blow to him,' he added, waving his
hands towards the homestead they were approaching.

'It woidd bo; but th^se disappointments have had a very
diflerent ellect upon him from what I should have anticipated.

IMP

286

MAJTLANI) OF LAUItlKSTON.

llo is much more human, if you will excuse me Raying it so
plainly.'

' I excuse you anything, Phil. I'm so glad to sec you and
talk with you. You know there is not a soul yonder to
synii)athise with me.'

'And what of Miss Laurie?' asked Rohertson dryly,

'Oil, you know what I mean,' retorted John quickly; hut
Robertson only smiled.

' T don't know wliether to congratulate you or not. But
Miss Laurie is certainly a lovely ' 'lan.'

John was silent, embarrass , - usual when any direct
allusion was made to his love. ' ijcrtson admired him for hia
shyness, and f onshore to lease him any further.

' 1 11 tell you what, John, there is something in this idea of
Michael's which sets one thinking. Ho is a remarkably clear-
minded and reasonable person, not given to being carried away
by sickly sentimentality, either in things spiritual or temporal.
There is something in it all, John, which makes us think
whether we will or not.'

This speech brought them to the gate of Nunraw, and Effio
herself, who had seen them approach, came running to the
door, all blushes and smiles, to welcome them. There was a
touch of mild coquetry in her nature, and she rather enjoyed
the effect she imagined the sight of her wifely estate would
have upon her old admirer. He betrayed nothing, however,
except the ordinary courtesy of an old friend called upon to
utter a congratulatory speech. It rather pained her to see that
there were no interesting symptoms of sorrow or disappointment
visible in his appearance or demeanour, and his gaze was
perfectly frank, his manner perfectly unembarrassed and cordial,
when he addressed her as Mrs. Laurie, and wished her every
happiness in her married life.

' Mr. Laurie will be in presently,' she said, with an assump-
tion of dignity which hugely amused John. 'Just take Mr
Robertson into the dining-room while I see after tea.'

Effie actually dashed away a tear as she hurried across th«
little hall, for she had sustained a grievous disappointment,
and it was suddenly brought home to her that Mrs. William

MMTI.AS'h or LAlIltlESToS'.

2M7

I/mrio was of no account or interest to anybody in the world
except to Mr. William Laurie. How different in the old days,
wImm E(Tic Miiitland had hc(!n an attractif»n which drew
Kuilors to Lauricston like a ina^'nct ! How foolish she hud
liecn, to throw aAvay her {,'irli.sh sceptre so soon ; how foolish
to have chosen Will Laurie, Mhen she might have married
that grave, handsome, distinguidicd-lookiug man in the dining
room, who might one day hav(! given her a great position !
And he had loved her, or the past was only a dream.
Foolish, foolish Effie, to opcni the door U) such vain, unavailing
regrets. ITcr endeavour now should be to make the best of
the life she had chosen. While she was upstairs putting on
a daintier gown, her husband entered the house. He was
eross and out of sorts, — truth to tell, sick of the whole dreary
business. He was not born to be a successful family man,
and the restraint imposed upon liim, not oidy by Effie, but by
the thought of the watchful and, perhaps, not too kindly eyes
at Laurieston, galled him inexpressibly. He magnified trifles,
imagined slights where none were intended, and had altogether
succeeded in convincing himself that he was an ill-used man.
He had not a singularly pleasant expression on his face as he
sauntered into the house, nor did it brighten when he entered
the dining-room and saw the two visitors.

* Hullo ! Unexpected honour ! How do, Robertson 1 Where's
Effie ? Why isn't tea in 1 It's after five.'

' She will be here presently. You might at least be civil,
Will,' John said quickly.

' Who's uncivil 1 I'm not going to affect a rapture I don't
feel, even in my own house. You students have a grand time
(if it, — holidays all the year round. If you had to trudge up and
down a beastly potato field all day, you'd know what was what,'

'You've a nice place here, AVill,' said Robertson. 'Don't
you like the outdoor life 1 '

'No, I don't. I wasn't cut out for the rdle of yokel,'
retorted Will. 'Won't you have a glass of wine, seeing
there's no appearance of tea I ' He opened the sideboard, took
out tlie decanter and some glasses ; and just then Effie
appeared, looking as dainty and sweet us a rose in June,

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iir

288

MA IT LAN I) or I.AUIilESrON.

t
i

■

'Oh, Will dear, don't bo j,'('ttiiig out tliat stuff just now.
Mysio is just ready with tea,' h1i(5 exclaimed, with a quirk flush,
and in a moment hIk; had replaced tlie tliinj^s in the sideboard
and elmt the doors, without heeding her Inisband's ominous
frown ; then slio turned to Koliertson with a smile so bri;,'ht
and radiant that it seemed wholly natural. • When did you
cornel They wore not ex|)eeting you at Laurieston, I think ; at
least, mother did not say anything about it on Sabbath night.'

' You are out of the ruiniing there now, EtHe,' Will said
promptly. Ho never missed an opportunity of reminding her
that she was no longer an inmate of Laurieston.

*I came only to-day unexpectedly,' Robertson answered.
•My lioliday has been curiously broken up this ycmr. I
meant to have a long time in Scotland, lait have not managed
it.'

' AVc are glad to see you evm at the eleventh hour,' said
Effie brightly. 'Come, sit in. How nice of you to come just
at tea-time ! *

They drew in their rhairs, and, under the influence of
Robertson's genial talk. Will recovered his good-humour, and
even tried to make amends for his rudeness. But be had
made a bad imitression <»n Philip j and KHie alsf>, in spite of
her bright demeanour, felt sorely wounded. It was a natural
and womanly pride whieli made her desire to show her old
admirer that she had not made a foolish choice. Even while
preserving a perfectly unruflfled and careless demeanour, she
inwardly resolved to speak with proper plainness to Will
directly they were alone. The young men did not much
prolong their stay after tea, but though it was not six o'clock,
it was quite dark when they left the bouse.

• What's tlie matter with Will 1 ' Robertson asked, as they
passed through the garden gate. *He seems frightfully out
of sorts.'

' He'd be the better of a good hiding,' John answered, with
the utmost energy, for he was vexed and ashamed at what had
passed. * The whole thing is a miserable farce. The pair of
them are no more lit to be responsible heads of a houso than
that croM', They'll fall out to-night over it. I saw it in

.MS

AfA I ThA M) fU'' I.M '/i'lHSTOiV.

280

FRin'fl pyc. Aiul tlid you scio tliiit littlo by-play at thfl
HJdeboard. That'll at the bottom of it, Phil, and nobody knows
where it will end.'

•I am sorry for your sisti-r,' Robortson said, in a low
voice.

•So am I, thou ^'h I <!fin't but say she richly desorveH it.
AVhcu I tliink of what mij^'ht have been' —

.John said no more, for he saw that his friend had (quickly
turned his head away.

• It's the sins of the fathers, I'liil,' said John at len;,'tb,
after they had (crossed a licM's breadth in silence. 'Poor
Will has inherited evil to combat with, and so must be charitably
jmlf^ed. How thankful we ouj,'ht to l)c that our parents have
transmitted to us no vices, Phil. If for nothing else, we owe
them a debt of honour and j^'ratitude. Thut handicaps a man
all his days, and makes the struggle after good, when he makes
it, a struggle of which we have no idea,*

i.T

i'f

T[~i

CHAPTER X.

* Ai ths wild rose blowoth, no runs the liapny river,
Kindneii freely floweth in the heart fur ever.'

ATHER, I am going to take a journey all by
myself.*

*Ay, wife, an' am I no' to spier whaur yo are
gaun 1 '

* I'll tell you, if you promise first not to prevent me going.'

Laurieston laughed a trifle grimly.

' Ye are the very woman, Maggie, to bide at liamo when I
bid ye,* he said, in mild scorn. ' Ye never thraw wi' me ; but
a' the same, ye take your ain way in a' things.'

' But it is a good way, Michael,* Margaret Maitland said, with
a quaint smile. * Confess that now.*

*0h, weel, it's no* ill,* Laurieston admitted ; addijig immedi-
ately, * but it wad be a' the same if it was ill. If ye be the
weaker vessel, Maggie, ye diniia adjiiit it.'

' I don't feel very weak, certainly,' slu; said, with a happy
liuigh. 'I've been able to think for myself all my days. Well,
iiiiiKn a guess where I'm going.'

' Oh, on some gowk's (111111(1, likely ; but I couldna say
whaur.*

' Now, Michael, that's too bad ; but I know you won't say
it's a gowk's errand. I am going away to-morrow or next day
on a visit to Mrs. Gilbert — Philip's sister.*

A quick change passed over the face of Michael Maitland.

♦That's to Coldairel'

•Yes.'

.il

. MA IT LAM) or I.AUlilKbWN. 291

•Alltl wllilt'H tllC ()l»jt(;t O' tll(! VOUHJt?'

'Twofold. I want to hoo tlio pluco, ami to ask Mrs. (Jillicrt
to tivkt! Michuul ill if ho goes.'

' I 8(!(J.'

Tli(M'i) was a niomeiit'rt silonco ; but ^Far^'arot Maitlaiul was
not ^'Hiitly MUipriHcd by lior liUHbaiid's next words. Indeed,
sho antiii|iutt'd tlnnn in h(!r own mind befoic thoy w» ru utteivd.

' I«'t tlic niorn yc aro gaiiul '

'Yes; or Wednesday. I intond to stay till Saturday, if
Mrs. Gilbert will keep mo.*

' Weel, I'll gang wi' yo.'

'I thought you would. I told Mrs. Gilbert sho might look
for UH l)oth.'

'Margaret Maitland, yo are a perfect conspirator.*

' No, no ; only I make tho way easy for you, and lielp you
to make up your mind when you eun't do it yourself,' ^he
answered, with a .slight smile. * Didn't I soo just what you
were longing for, — the .shadow of an excuse to take a journey
to Coldaire. Only, I anticipated you this time. I made up
my mind to be before you, and not l)e left as I was when you
went to London. The bairns are my bairns too, Michael.*

' Ay, and weel for them that they are. Yc hae dune them a
guid turn, Maggie. Tlusro's few wives and mithors like you,
though I say it, that shouldna.*

Sho flushed all over like a girl at this unwonted praise. It
was a constant wonder and a deep thanksgiving to Margaret
Maitland to watch tho gradual and sweet mellowing of her
husliand's tine character. It was a fine character, which strove
for and acted up to the highest idea of duty, trampling down
self on the stony way ; its t)idy fault tho narrowness of its
view and its lack of the more beautiful attributes of love. The
love was tlua-e, only kept fearfully hidden in a daik corner,
almost as if it were a thing accursed. Margaret Miiitland
thanked God for any agent which would open up the wells of
that deep lieart, — ay, even though it should dig the graves of
her dearest earthly hopes.

On the last day of October, Mr. and Mrs. Miiitland to»jk
their journey across the border. Michael had gone to town to

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

spend a few days with John in his rooms ; and it was his
m- tiler's desire that lie should not be told that they were away.
There had been no furtlier talk about his plans for the future ;
he waited, believing that in good time they would bid him go
forth to the life-work he had chosen. In the meantime, he was
willing to wait, and was enjoying to the full all the pleasant
excitement of the first days of the session, when there is so
little done and so much spoken about. The Maitlands had a
large circle of accpiaintances in Edinburgh, though, of course,
the graduation ceremony in the summer had reduced the
number considerably. John eschewed the student-garrisons on
the south side of the Meadows, and took his rooms in Montague
Street. From his study window he could see the grim ridge of
Salisbury Crags, — a consideration which weighed much with
him. Michael went up to hear his first words to the students ;
and though he was in a keenly critical mood that day, and
disposed to cavil at trifles, he had not a fault Lo find. John
had a quiet, dignified manner; a clear, impressive, pleasant
v'oice ; and, though not elocjuent, contrived to make his matter
interesting. The matter itself was good, and bore the stamp of
originality. From an intellectual point of view, Michael was
wholly pleased with tlu; maiden si)eech.

The fine weather broke on the last day of October, and
Mr. and Mrs. Maitland left Laurieston in a storm of wind and
rain, which increased in violence as they travelled southwards.
i\Iargarct Maitland had never crossed the border in her life ;
and she was full of interest in the jinuney, though the rolling
mists hid the landscapes from view. The storm seemed at its
height among the wild solitudes of the Cheviots, and the wind
swept over the hills and down the deep gorges with many a
weird, uncanny sound. It was about four o'clock in the after-
noon, und the early darkness was closing around them, when
the train stopi>ed at a bleak, exposed railway station, which
seemed to have been planted down without meaning in the
midst of a desolate moor. Though the buildings were insigni-
ficant, it seemed to be a place of some importance ; for many
lines converged, and the sidings were filled with trucks, which
bore the name of the different coal companies to which they

MAtTLAND OF LAVRlKsrON.

20;i

belonged. The country was not hilly ; and it was lit up l)y the
lurid gleam from the engine-houses at the various shafts. Few
IKissengcrs alighted from the south-going train ; and there was
iiiiijile room in the battered and melancholy 'bus, provided for
the carriage of j)assengers from the station up to the little town
The depr(!Ssed-Iot)king white horses, standing with hanging
lii'uds and druoi»ing ears, steaming in the moist atmosplicic,
pulled themselves together at the driver's harsh cry, and
hnnbered away over the heavy roads, making but slow jjrogress,
in spite of the loud cracking of the whip and the constant
shouts of the driver, whose temper a thorough soaking had not
inii)roved. It was a somewhat chilly reception ; and Margaret
Maitland felt sorry for it on her husband's account. l>ut she
was not without hopes that a warmer welcome yet await 'd
them, and that the glow of Mary Gilbert's liospitable fire and
the gleam of her happy eye would speedily atone for all the
ilisconiforts of their journey. Fifteen nr'nutes' rough jolting
brought them to the Cheviot Ram Inn, an old - fashioned
hostelry in the High 8tr(!et of Coldaire, which was both
starting and arriving point for the station 'bus, as it was
indeed the centre of lifi? in the place. The High Street was
long and narrow and irregular, its carriagc-svay a sea of black
mud, and its broken footpaths a scries of dangerous puddles.
A few gas-lamps twinkled dindy in the folds of the heavy mist,
and the shop windows shone with a curi(nis ydlow glare, whih^
the rain-drops wept on every pane. Laurieston and his wife
stepped from the 'bus, and looked about them, almost in
dismay.

' Supper, sir 1 ' said the genial host of the IJam, ai)pearing at
ids doorstep in shirt-sleeves and an ample ajnon. ' Rooms, sir,
for lady and self 1 best accommodation in town, — in fact, sir,
only accommodation fit for man or beast.'

'No, thank you, my man,' said Michael Maitland courteously.
* We are going further on, I suppose. Can you direct us to The
Knowe, the residence of Mrs. Gilbert?'

* The Knowe ? Nothing easier. Keep up the street, and
turn to your left, right down past the church and the parson-
age, and you'll see a little yellow house stamling in a big lawn,

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MAITLAND OF LAVlilKSTQN,

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— that's The Knowo. Frioiuls of Mrs. Gilbert's, sir? A lady
wi! all respect, sir.'

' Yes, thank you ; good night.'

Lauri(>ston olHirod his arm to his wife, and they trudged up
tlie muddy street.

' We're having an adventure, father. Fanny you and me, at
our time of life, setting out on a voyage of discovery,' said
Margaret Maitliuul, with a little laugh.

• Yo may say it. She's expectin' us, I think ye said ? Arc
ye sure % '

It was eminently a Scotch question. The dread of intruding,
or of arriving unexpectedly or unasked at any house, is a bug-
bear to every Scotchman. lie wants to be sure of every step
of the way before he trusts himself to it.

' Yes, of cour.w ; but even if we were not expected, I should
have no hcsitatioa in knocking at Mrs. Gilbert's door, after her
letters,' said ^Irs. Maitland stoutly ; and there, somehow, their
talk came to an entl.

There is a kind of depressing feeling in arriving at a strange
place on a dark, wet night, especially if there be any uncertainty
about tho reception likely to be accorded at the end. But in a
few minutes all uncertainty was at an end; for, directly they
turned the parsonage corner, the yellow house came in sight, its
bright windows sending forth gleams of cheerful light across
the wide lawn. The door was open, too ; and before they
reached the garden gate, they saw a woman's figure cross the
little hall, and peer anxiously out into the night.

'There she is! She's like Philip. She's looking for us,
Michael,' said Mrs. Maitland quickly. When the garden gate
clicked, the tail, slight figure ran down the gravelled path.

* Mrs. Maitland, come away. How are ycu both such a
dreary day *? and such a welcome ! I didn't date to come to the
station, because I have a cold, and I am so easily laid up.
How glad I am to see you both. Come in, come in.'

Her voice was rich in tone, but clear and sweet as a bell j
and when, presently, they were all within the cosy, well-lighted
house, they saw how beautiful was her face. ITot with the
beauty of feature or colouring, for Mary Gilbert had neither

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^fA I TLA N D OF LA VRIESTON.

295

Are

of these. She was a woman whom many called plain, though
many more thought her beautiful. She had the same dark,
"rave, somewhat sad face, which was familiar to the Maitlands
in Philip, but her smile was bright and radiant, her eyes shone
witli goodwill and peace. Her figure was tall and slender, and
the sombre black gown fitted it like a glove. Although lior
face was youthful, the hair under the widow's cap was quite
groy. A graceful and gracious woman was Mary Gilbert, iuid
her gU3st3 felt the charm of her personality steal into their hearts.

* I know you both so well from Phil,' she said, as with her
own hands she helped Michael Maitland oflf with his coat.
* Arthur dear, where are you ? This is my son, dear friends, —
a very wild little boy, I am afraid, but as good as gold.'

The small boy referred to appeared in the dining-room door,
with a very ugly terrier in his arms, and a jery roguish look in
his eye.

* I couldn't come out sooner cos Crony was growling awful,
an' I have to hold him, see, or he'll be at you. Isn't he a
beauty 1 I got him from Uncle Phil,' he said, and, as if
attracted by something in Michael Maitland's face, he went up
to him, slipped his hand in his, and with the other gripped the
original-looking Crony to keep him in order. Crony did not
look conspicuously vicious, — he only blinked his round black
eyes in a very knowing way, as if he had already taken an
estimate of the now arrivals.

'Take Mr. Maitland into the dining-room, Arthur, and aslc
Elsie to bring in tea,' said Mrs. Gilbert. 'Come ther., Mis.
Maitland, and I shall help you.'

Upstairs there was sufficient warmth and light and comfort
to do a tired traveller good. The room was large and wide and
low-ceiled, — an old-fashioned room, all curious angles and corners,
and a funny wide window with a low-cushioned seat all round
it. A big fire blazed cheerily in the dog grate, and two easy-
chairs stood temptingly on either side of the hearth. Tlie bed
was almost hidden in one of the curious angles, and the room
looked more like a delightful boudoir than anything else.

'What a lovjly room!' Mrs. Maitland' exclaimed, as she
stepped across the threshold.

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29G

MA rr LAND OF LAUHIESTON.

* It is very cosy. May T look at you, Mrs. Maitland ? You
are my brother's ideal of a perfect mother, ami your sons
worship you. I want you to tell me your secret.'

'Oh, hush, Mrs. Gilbert,' Margaret Maitland answered
quickly, and her tears rose. 'I have no secret. My bairns
love me becauso I love them. It is very good of you to alUiw
us to come here, and to be so kind to us, who are almost
strangers.'

'i^^ay. My broth r speaks of Laurieston as home; and are
we not all cliildreii of the King?' Mary (lilbert asked, as her
quick fingers unfastened her visitor's wraps. * We have a
great deal in common, even setting aside the object of your
visit, which is to me, of course, intensely interestuig.'

• Yes. I was not favourably impressed with the place as I came
through it to-night ; but of course I saw it at a disadvantage.'

' Yea, you did ; but at its best the place is not inviting. I
am bound to be frank with you, it does not beli(! its name ; but
we are going t(^ look at tlui bright side, and in the meantime
the inner man must be refreshed. Just hear that child's
tongue going, downstairs. Is your husband fond of children,
Mrs. Maitland 1 You have no li.tle gr-iiidchildren yet 1 They
will come by and by. Are you quite ready 1 You do lot>k
sweet and lovely ! Don't mind me. I am English, you know,
and Phil has told me the Scotch do not express themselves so
frankly. But I mean it. I think you are lovelier even than
I expected.'

Margaret Maitland put her hands over her ears and ran out of
the room. When they reached the pleasant family room down-
stairs, where the tempting tabh was spread, and the urn hissing
on the tray, they foiuid Arthur smigly ensconced between Mr.
Maitland's knees, his chattering tongue busy recounting the
various excellences and beauties of the inimftablc Crony, lln
was a kind of nondescript beast, called by courtesy a Scotch
terrier, with brindled coat, short thick legs, a long thin body,
and a black f'ce, surmounted by a pair of enormous ears. But,
as we say of the himian face sometimcfs, Crony was redeemed
from plainness by the extraordinary ])rilliance and intelligence
of his round blaclc eyes.

AfA/TUXn op LAVlUKSTO^.

^97

' Mr. Maitlaiid lias two dogs in Scotland, mamma,' Arthur
said, in his shrill, s\v(u;t childish tones. ♦ One is called Helj)
and one Turk. Aren't they funny names, mamma'? But they
are such clever dogs ; they can bring all the sheep in all by
thcnisclves. Mr. Maitland says I must come and see them.
CouKl I go with him when he goes away 1 '

'That would be pleasant, if his dear MKtther would come too,'
said Mrs. Maitland, as she laid her hand on the boy's sunny
head. But Mrs. CJilbert only smiled.

'Some day, ])erhap.s, you and I may see Scotland, Artliiir,
but not yet. Come then, Mr. Maitland, and do justice to our
English fare, and theu Arthur must go to bed.'

(

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£:Z3£KaBSE£aaB

•ssTSSsa

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CHAPTER XL

liii

'Sow with a generous hand,
PHUse not for toil or pun.*

AM so glad you thought of coming to seo
CoMairo for yourselves, my friends. To-morrow,
if it is dry, we will walk over the place, then you
will have an idea of the work your son wishes to
take up, — hut only an idea.'

They had drawn their chairs close ahout the hearth after tea,
Arthur had gone obediently to bed, and there was no sound to
be heard outside but the wind, and the beating of the rain-
drops on the panea

* Is it so hard, ma'am ? ' asked Laurieston bluntly, struck by
the repetition of the last words.

' Yes, it will be hard, very hard, and often most discouraging.
I made up my mind to be quite frank with you. The peoplo
among whom my husband spent his strength are diamonds in
the rougli, that is, if they are diamonds at all, which I some-
times doubt.'

* This is no' very encouraging, wife,' said Michael Maitland
briefly.

* It is true,' nodded Mary Gilbert. * I don't know whether
you know anything about miners, — with us, at least, they are
very rough, — and this place has been frightlully neglected. It
is a disgrace to the land. Until Mr. Gilbert was sent to open
a station here, there were no church ordinances for them except
the parish church, which is loft entirely to the care of a curate.
The vicar comes on a Sunday morning about once in two

til

MAlTLANt) OF LAUntESTOM.

200

months, ami preaclies the mornmg sermon. He lives at
Ahimouth. Ami there is nothing else for the people, no
innocent recreation or healthful amusement, nothing but tlu;
puhlic-houae.'

* Is there a minister now in your late husband's place 1 ' askpd
^liirgaret Maitland quickly.

'No. The authorities did not feel themselves justified in
continuing it as a mission station. It had made so little
progress. My husband's work was doi!fe chiefly out of church,
and he was making headway slowly but surely when he was
laid aside.'

* It maun be an ill place,' put in Michael Maitland slowly.

' There are good hearts in it too, and among the miners
good honest souls who preserve one's faith in human kind.
They labour under fearful di^ud vantages. It is not easy for
them to ^c good or even decent, IE^metinles think. When
you see their poor, squalid homes to- morrow, you will understand
what I mean. I have a mothers' meeting ; if you saw these
poor, depressed, untidy women, Mrs. Maitland, your heart would
ache for them. Early and improvident marriages are the curse
of the place. You will see boys and girls of seventeen and
eighteen setting up such meagre house-keeping, and then they
have so many little babies ; ten and twelve in a family is quite
a common number. Then there is' the drink.'

Mary Gilbert paused there, and her fair brow was knit in
troubled thought.

' Perhaps that is the worst we have to contend with. It so
debases a nature which is perhaps not inherently very exalted.
What views has your son on this question? '

' I dinna ken. We are not teetotallers, ma'am ; but there
never was a Maitland the waur o* it/ said Laurieston, not with-
out pride.

' That may be ; but it is absolutely necessary to take one side
or other here. David and I were of your mind when we came,
but we had to join the temperance ranks for example's sake.
Papa used to say Coldaire was a mine of wealth to the drink-
seller as well as to the coal-owner. You know papa was a
surgeon here for five-and-twenty years before he went to the

300

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

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Ijospital in Manchester, so he was competent to speak. Philip
and I were both horn in this house.*

* Then you have only come home again 1 * said Mrs. Maitland,
with a smile.

Mary Gilbert nodded.

* What could I do ? Bournemouth had no attraction for nu',
nor Manchester, for w»i never felt at home there. Phil did nut
nued me, the vagabond ; he has grown a perfect Bohemian,
Coldaire was the place for Arthur and me, so we came ; and I
believe I'm making my influence felt,' she said gleefully.
' Would you believe it, some of these great rough men are
actually afraid of me. I can talk to them ! You would think
me a perfect virago. I heard of a cock-fight on Friday, and 1
just marched straight to the men who 1 knew were at the
lutttom of it; and didn't I give it to them! If I showed the
least little bit of nervousness, you know, I should have no
chance. They don't take oflence at what I say, because they
know I mean well, and that I am kind to the wives and
children. But we want a man with a head to plan, and hand
and heart to carry out strong, good work. When I read in
Phil's letter about your son, I felt that it was a direct answer
to prayer.'

Margaret Maitland met her husband's eye, but she could not
read the expression in his face. But her own heart glowed at
the thought of the wide field around them waiting for the
toiler's hand. After a brief silence, ^Michael Maitland turned
round and looked straight into Mary Gilbert's face.

* As ye may have guessed, ma'am, it was hardly wi' my
liking that my son has chosen a life like this. I had other
plans, which the Almighty, out of His wisdom, willed to set
aside. The lad thinks himsel' that he hasna lang to live. lie
askit me to gie him the portion which would have been
lecpiired to let him finish his time in Edinburgh, and let him
spend it here. You are an honest woman, ye hae keepit back
nothing. I confess the need is great, and if my son can do a
hand's turn here, it'll l>e for the glory o' his Maker. I'll let
him come, and pray day by day for a blessin' on his work.
I've said my say ; it's th(^ wife's turn noo.*

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MA I J L A ND OF LA [J HIES TON.

301

There was a smile on liis lij)s as lie tnriiocl to his wife. Mary
(lilltcit gathered fruiii it, more tlian fioiii the words ho had
f;|)(ikon, how great was tlio leriHce the fatlier's heart Imd made !

' My say will he short. It is <jiily to ask whcsther you will
give Michael a slielter under your roof. If wc can arrange
that hcfore wc go, my heart will ])g entirely at rest.'

Mary Gilhcrt noilded again ; that curious, (juick motion of
l!ic head, accompuniid by a bright glance of the eye, was
characteristic of her.

' r should have pro|»osed it had you not spoken. He .^hall
have the room upstairs you admire so much. It was the old
nursery when; Phil and 1 used to play, and sometimes (juarrol.
And I shall take as good eare of him as you possibly could.
He is so much younger than I, that I sliall treat him just like
Arthur's big brother.'

Margaret Maitland smiled as she tliought of her tall son, her
six feet Michael, acting the part of big brother to sunny-haired
Arthur. He would do it to })erfection, and would feel at home
under that pleasant roof. Care took to itself wings. Once
more Margaret Maitland's heart was at rest.

They sat long ovit the cheerful fire, talking as old friends
talk, though a few hours ago they had been strangers to each
other. Then, after Maitland had taken the books,' as he
termed it, they parted for the night.

* That's a guid woman, Maggie, though she be English,' was
the only remark Maitland made before he went to sleep.
He awoke in the grey dawa of the morning, and, when he
drew aside the blind, ho saw that the rain had ce.;sed, and
that the sky was breaking overhead. The atmosphert; was
clear and sharp, he could see far across the flat country, which
was still weirdly lit by the glow of many pit-fires. Beyond the
one substantial street of the town, there stretched rows and
rows of little brick cottages, each with a strip of ground
enclosed by a wooden paling. There was a dreary monotony
in these interminable lines ; he tried to count them, but his eye
soon grew confused. In these melancholy dwellings abode the
l)eople Michael had chosen ; there lay his life-work, the vine-
yard it was his horie to till for the Master. He wondered, as

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M AIT LAND OF LAUIilKSTON.

ho lookuil, liow often Miclmd nii^'lit yet look from tlmt very
window, and with what contlictin<; emotions in liis uoul ! lii.s
heart waH stirred within him, and he prayed again voieehjsaly
that the Lord would bless hia beloved son, and givu him Bonis
for his hire.

Thoy 8p(!nt tho day out of doora, and before they returned to
tho house Michael Maithmd and his wifo had a tolerable idea
of tho work waiting for Michael.

Mary Gilbert, being perfectly at homo in every house, took
them to the rows, and introduced them to some of tho women.
Then she carried them to the nearest pit, and mado the
manager take them down below. Then they walked through
the town, which looked even more grimy and uninviting in tho
clear light of day, and pointed out to them the number of
taverns and pawnshops, — a number incredible in so small a
place.

* We want reading-rooms and libraries and recreation rooms
to supplant these,* said energetic Mary Gilbert ; ' and we'll get
them, too, when our new missionary comea'

Thoy visited the church also, a fine grey old church, large
enough to accommodate all tho people in the parish ; but many
of them had never set foot across its threshold. It was
reserved for the respectable and the well dressed, and when the
vicar mado his monthly pilgrimage from Alnmouth, a line of
carriages blocked the road ; on other days the lean curate read
the lessons to the verger and the pew-openers, and the old
women from the Manor almshouses. In such a state of affairs
the religious life of the place was worse than dead, and tho
influence of the church was n«7, or less : it was a laughing-stock
to the sceptical and the ribald, and a scandal to the place.

Next day the travellers journeyed back to Scotland, arriving
at Laurieston late in tho afternoon.

' I am so glad you have come,' cried Agnes, meeting them at
the door. * Michael came in about an hour ago, and I didn't
know what to say to him. Didn't you see him 1 He is away
to Nunraw to try and wring the secret out of Etlie. '

' How are you, dear 1 He will know in good time. Oh,
father, isn't it pleasant to be at home,' said Margaret Maitland,

M AIT LAND OF LAURIESTON,

303

ns hHo sat down in her own cliair at tho firesido and looked
round tho room, hallowed by so many undying ninniorics.

• It can't be half so nice for you to come, as for mo to see
you,' Agnes said (juickly. ' Unclo Michael, if you over lived
for two days here, and saw that chair empty, you would think
a groat many things,' she added, as she laid her hand on
Lauricston's arm. He understood her, and looked quickly
towards his wife. Ay, what Agnes said was true. God
forbid that that chair should ever be empty while he lived,
— such was the passionate prayer of his heart.

* Ay, lassie, God grant she may lang sit there,' ho answered
aloud. ' Ay, an' Michael's ower scekin' the news frao Effio.
She was aye a havorel. But he's wrang, for » \o disna ken.
It'll dao him guid to wait. Is a' weel 1 '

' Yes, everything. Walter is away to Morison's Haven, to
see if the ship for tho potatoes has come in. He is quite dis-
appointed not to have had her loaded and sent away before you
came liome.'

'Did Michael say anything about John, Nannie 1 Has he
met the students yet ?*

' Oh yes ; he has delivered his first lecture. A gigantic
success, Michael calls it,' she answered, blushing under Laurie-
ston's comical gazo.

* John '11 no' be ill afiF for a trumpeter as long as Michael
lives,' ho said dryly. * But ye are no' speerin', Nannie, what
luck we've had.'

' Good luck, I think; at least, you seem happy,' she answered
(juickly. * Let me take your things upstairs. Aunt Maggie.
Why, there's Michael. A little bird must have whispered to
him that you have come home.'

Mrs. Maitland rose up as hor son entered the room. As «he
looked on his face she was struck by its peculiar delicacy, ami
by the strange sweetness of its expression. Something came
over her, tho agony of the mother at tho certain knowledge that
she must give him up ; but she tried to smile as she greeted him.

• I will go up with you, Nannie. I had better change my
gown, any way. — Father will tell you where we have been,
dear, and on what errand.'

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MAirr.Asn of i.At'uiESTox.

Michapl t limed in«]nirin|L;Iy In IiIh father.

* It was nothing connccttMl with Nunuiu or Will, father 1
No more trouble, T hope ? '

* Na, lad. We've hccui cfter your fcrlii! thJH time. We've
been Hcoin' your parish.*

Michael j^row pnle, though the great heartineHH of \m father's
tone entirely reassured him.

' It'.'* lyin' waitin' for ye, yonder,- an' stany ground it is,'
eontinued Laurieston slowly. * 1 dinna say but what it's work
rt man mitht enter into wi' a his heart. We've ln'cn twa days
wi' that fine woman, Mrs. Ciilbcrt, an' it is a' scttlet that ye are
to l»ide wi' her.*

' Father, you are too good ! '

Michael spoke impulsively, and a strange dimness rame
before his eyes. His father looked at him steadily for a
moment, as if weighing something in his mind.

* I'm thinkin', my son, that there's a heap mair in the world
than I ken o'. This is a goodly heritage, an' it has come to
mo without my scekin' or my wark. I was puffed up wi' pride,
forgettin' that it was but in tlie mercy o' the Ix)rd I was allowed
to cumber the ground. Ye dinna ken o' yer blessin's or ye gang
oot into the world. I'm an auld man, lad, an' I thocht I kent
a'thing. I ken naething ava. Yon woman made mo feel but
a bairn. She's served the Lord a' l;er ilays, an' duno mair in a
4lay than I hae dune in twenty year. It's a marvel to me that
the Almichty has spared nn; sae lang. When yo gang yonder,
Michael, yc needna think shame to tak' a lesson frao her. She's
learnt me a lesson, an' I'm sixty-twa come the fifteenth o'
the month.'

* Then am I to go soon 1 ' Michael asked eagerly, after a
moment. Somehow he could find no words to reply to his
father's long speech.

' When ye like ! When ye like ! Your mither's blessin' an*
mine gang wi' ye, an' the best blessin' o' a' will be on your
wark, — if it be dune for His glory.'

W' »

CHAPTER XTT. '

*I wn for tny«elf. I nieasui;e everything
By what it is to mc'

|R. WILLIAM LAURFK, Smior, f,.uii.l Wiosbadctiflo
much to his likiiif; tlinl lip rfniuiiicd there all tho
winter. He varied tin- niuiintnny by takiii;,' littlo
trips to Homburg and iiiidcn, fiiidinjf at each placn
congenial company and aniusi'tntMit to wliilo away the time.
Mr. Laurie lived like a man of iudiipcndcnit means, — lacking
for nothing; appeared to have alMuidani pocket-money, and
not a care in the world. His last (jard had, to use his own
expression, proved a trump, and he f«)nnd the trade of pro-
fessional gambler very lucrative for a time.

In the spring the famous H\tii begun to pall upon him, or
perhaps he discovered that he was winning an unenviable and
unprofitable reputation, and so, in tlie month of April, when
the season was at its height, he drifted southwards to Monte
Carlo. And the first evening he smoked his cigar on the
verandah of the H6tel de Ilaoul Ik^ saw his old friend, Sir
Gilbert Culross, arrive by the evening train. He judiciously
withdrew into the background until he was safely within the
hotel, not having yet decided upon a course of action regard-
ing him. He was not disjjleased to see him, although their
acquaintance was supposed to be at an end. "William Laurie,
however, had neither forgotten nor forgiven the treatment he
had received from the Master of Kilmeny.

He had long counted it among the old scores which he in-
[(Mided to settle some day. The young man was alone, which

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set William Laurie thinking. "Where was Lady Culross 1 It
was very seldom indeed she trusted her feeble-minded son so
far away from her side. To see him alone at Monte Carlo,
of all places, was a thing to be pondered over and marvelled
at. Laurie felt that it required explanation, and decided to
wait and see. Here, if anywhere, he might have his revenge
on the Master of Kilnieny.

Ho turned into the salle-h-mimyer at eight o'clock to partake
of his dainty dinner, and when he saw Gilbert Culross sitting
apart at one of the little tables, he purposely walked round so
that he might pass him. When the baronet's pale blue eyes
lighted on the handsome face of his sometime friend, ho gave
a perceptible start. William Laurie, without the slightest
symptom of surprise, bowed slightly, and passed on. He seated
himself at thj side of his own table where he could have a
glimpse of the new-comer, and it did not take his practised
eye long to sec that the young man speedily began to feel em-
barrassed and lonely in the midst of that gay scene. Mr. Laurie
was trifling with his dessert, when he suddenly saw Sir Gilbert
rise and make his way awkwardly across the room.

* How do you do, Laurie ] Come and have a drink with me.
It's so confoundedly lonely for a fellow who knows nobody in
a place like this.'

Mr. Laurie took the extended hand with a paternal smile,
which seemed to forget and forgive everything.

•Charmed. I would have spoken, Gilbert, but I did not
wish to intrude. A man who has had the worst of it doesn't
usually care to make the next move, and I had the worst of it
at Kilmeny ; but perhaps I deserved it.'

*I was awfully mad at the time, and perhaps I said too
much,' said Sir Gilbert, with a slight blush. * Let bygones be
bygones, and come and have a drink.*

* Tell your fellow to bring the needful here. It's a quiet
nook this alcove. We can see without being seen, and there's
room for two.'

In a few seconds the two were comfortably ensconced at Mr.
Laurie's favourite corner, as if no shadow had ever come
between them.

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307

'And now,' said "VVilliiUU Laurie, when lio had dramatically
drunk oblivion to past Tiiisuiidcrstanding and luck to their
future good fellowship, Hell me, my boy, what wind has Mown
vou here, and where is my esteemed friend, Lady Culross ]
not Iku'c, I think, or you would not have felt the need of any
dtluir companionship.'

' I don't know ; a fellow gets tired of being tied to a woman's
apron-string ; but I thought you would have known my mother
is paying a visit to your friends, — the Maitlands of Laurieston.'

' What ! '

F(jr once in his life William Laurie betrayed unmitigated
surprise.

' Fact,' said Sir Gilbert, with a nod. 'And I'm supposed to
be salmon-fishing in Ross-shire with Macnab. You remember
Macnab ? '

' Perfectly ; a long-nosed youth of irreproachable family and
pronounced piety, who I thought would condemn salmoii-lisliing
as an irreligious sport. And why, my dear young fellow, are
you not in Ross-shire with jNlacnab ] '

' Because I preferred to have a look at the world and enjoy
myself. I've wanted to come to Monte Carlo for a long timo,
but my mother would not let me.'

'So you stole a march on her 1 Too bad ! Too bad! But
they'll i)ray for you at Laurieston, and so you'll get absolution
for committed sin,' said William Laurie flippantly. 'Don't
you know you've come to the very stronghold of Satan?'

' I don't care. A fellow must see life ; and if it is a stronghold
of Satan it's the prettiest place I ever saw in my life, and it
seems to be very lively too,' he said, with an expressive glance
round the saloon, which was thronged with handsome men and
beautiful women in gay attire.

' Oh, it's lively enough, but you'll maybe get your feathers
singed, Gilbert. Many a promising youth has left the contents
of his pockets here.'

' Oh, but I'm not going to play. I've only come to see the
place and the life. Always heard of it as l)oing jolly giiy, you
know ; but I can tuke care of myself,' said Sir Gilbert, with a
self-confidonce which hugely amused his friend,

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MAITLAM) Ob' LAUIUKSTON.

' You are going to exhibit uiipaiallelctl strength of mind,
eh r he said jocularly. ' If you don't intend to play, I'd advise
you not to stay here. It's in the very air. You can no more
resist it than you can fly.'

' ( )h, stuif and nonsense !' retorted the baronet, taking another
draught to fortify his resolution.

' Well, well ; forewarned is forearmed, they say, and I'm
rharnied to sec you exhibit sueli firmness of character,' said
William Laurie airily. * Shall we stmll over to the Casino
just to see how it's done? It's rather interesting to watch,
even though you have no stake. And now, as we go, tell mo
more about your charming mother. How has it transpired that
she is a visitor at Laurieston 1 '

* Oh, quite naturally ; she has been writing constantly to
Miss Ivaurie, and then Mrs. Maitland wrote and invited her to
!-o to Scotland. I believe there is an arrangement for Miss
Laurie to return to Kilmeny with Lady Culross, but / don't
intend to be there to play the host, after what has passed.'

' No, my friend, it will be better nut. It pains me to think
of my daughter's ingratitude, and it amazes me that Lady
Culross should stoop to eommuninate with these people, who,
for the sake of my poor girl's fortune, have got her completely
in their power.'

' I didn't know Miss Laurie had a fortune,' put in Sir Gilbert,
as he lit his cigar and handed his case to William Laurie.

* Oh, well, it is hardly a fortune regarded from your stand-
point,' the latter answered. * A little property merely, which
brings in a modest income ; but to these grasping Scotch folks
it is a great deal. Of course, they will marry her to their eldest
son, — a great hulking fellow, fit for the plough. I met the pair
of them on the Rhine last si;uimer. The second son is certainly
preferable ; at least, he has the, manners of a gentleman.'

'Don't you feel quite old now that you are a grandfather?'
'A what?'

* A grandfather! Didn'tyou hear your son has become a father?'
'What in the name of wonder do you mean V asked William

Laurie, stopping short in the middle of the promenade, careless
of the stare he provoked in the lookers-on,

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M Air LAND OF LAURIESTON.

309

no more

'It is funny I should be the bearer of the family news.
Your daughter-in-law has a little gir^ The way I know, my
iiiothor's visit was postponed for a week till Mrs. Maitland had
returned to Laurieston. She was staying at their place for a
time.'

'You don't mean to say that the young fool has taken a
wife ? ' cried William Laurie, in blank amazement.

' Why, yes ; it's an old story. I believe a runaway match, —
regular Gretna Green affair.'

' But who is she 1 '

* Mr. Maitland's daughter.'

'Oh!'

William Laurie kept silence for a moment.

* Well, they're dividing my heritage among them. I wish
both parties joy. We won't go in yet, Gilbert, unless yon arc
particularly anxious,' he said, as they approachcMl tlie iniigni-
ticent steps at the Casino entrance; 'I want to gather myself
together. A pretty respect my family show to me, you see,
when all this has happened out of my knowledge.'

' Well, but if you don't pay any attention to them, nor let
them know where you are, even, how can they lot you know
anything?' queried Gilbert Culroas, not without shrewdness,
' Wliere have you been all winter t '

* At Wiesbaden chiefly, seeking relief for certain rheumatic
twinges, which remind me occasionally that I am an old man,'
said William Laurie. ' But a gramlfathor, faugh I '

Extreme disgust was visible oi Mr. Laurie's florid face,
and he energetically tossed away the burnt eml of his cigar.

*You spoke of their place. What place is it? The imp
when I last heard of him was not earning nis bread and
butter.'

' I can't tell you anything about it. They must have a
liouse of some kind, I suppose,' said Sir Gilbert, with a yawn
and a backward glance at the brilliant lights they had left
))chind.

He did not find the events in William Laurie's family
history conspicuously interesting, and felt almost like regretting
that he had met him. He had an idea that, in spite of what

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had p.issed, William Laurie would not relax his old o.s])ionagc ;
and, having hvxm free from its thrall for a Avhilo, the young
man had no wish to renew it. He was perfectly right in his
conjecture. Having again got hold of the baronet, William
Laurie had no intention of letting him go again so long as \w
proved useful, especially as he had no longer the mcither to
consider and cajole. He told himself that Gilbert Culross
would be a very profitable investment, and determined that, if
he played, as was certain, it should bo with him. But the
tide of the adventurer's fortune had turned, and was now on
the ebb. Gilbert Culross played a great deal. As was to be
expected, he had not the power which stronger men and
women lacked to resist the liorrihle fascination of the roulette
tables, nor did he seek tti rcvsist. Fortune favoured him, and
in a week his winninv,'s were the talk of thi; place. William
Laurie found a change in his proft'ij^., and felt himself (juiftly
but effectually set aside. His advice, freely given, was never
taken. Gilbert played recklessly, and when he won laughed
in Laurie's face. So the mad gaaie went on, until one fatal
day, when the foolish young man's luck turned, as they have
it, and his winnings and more were swept into the insatiable
coffers of the Casino Bank. There was a spark of honour, ay,
and of sense in the wayward youth, for he stopped in the
niidst of his reverses, and, having paid his debts, took flight
from the. evil place a trifle poorer than ho entered it. He
said nothing of Ir's plans to William Laurie, and when that
worthy found that beyond a doubt his prot^gd had Kit without
a hint of his destination, or a word of farewell, his rage knew
no bounds. For his luck had deserted him at Monte Carlo,
and he found himself at the end of the second week without
the wherewithal to pay the large bills he had incurred at
the H'Hel do Raoul. He managed, however, to borrow the
amount, and at the beginning of May turned his face home
to England ; and, after a day or two in London, where he
managed t gather a few more pounds, he took train for the
north.

His one ho|'e was to forestall Gilbert, and be beforehand
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MAITLAND OF LAUIilKSTON.

311

would be well, unless he should find her also <,'roatly chauj^'cd.
If she were gone, then he must appeal to his daughter's gener-
osity. Money ho must have by some means immediately, for
he was beginning to feel that his palmy days were over, and
that he was less able than of yore to support life on nothing
a year. He was beginning to be known, too, and his credit
was gone. He was tilled with a virtuous pity for himself as
he reviewed his past life during the journey to Scotland. He
was fifty-seven years old, and for the past quarter of a century
he had lived, and lived wull, without any visible means of
subsistence. He acknowledged with pride that he had per-
formed a task impossible to most men. His conscience, being
dead, did not troiible him concerning the honesty or honour of
his past life. He felt himself entirely justified in the errand
he hud undertaken. If his children were in good circum-
stances, and earning a fair income, they were in duty bound to
support him. He was not sure but that the law demanded it ;
certainly the moral law did. By a curious perversion of
judgment, William Laurie provided for his children a code of
morals and obligations he did not himself acknowledge in any
of the relations of life. He grew quite pathetic in thought
over the hardness and loneliness of his own lot. He told
himself he would not mind settling down now quietly with
Agnes in the old house of Hallcross, where he had wooed and
won his wife, and spending the remainder of his days in
peace. Ways and means did not greatly troul)le him. A
precarious existence had so long been familiar that it occa-
sioned him no anxiety.

So he fortified himself for his second onslaught on the
peace of Michael Maitland's household, and arrived at the
familiar old town in the sweet spring dusk, feeling himself
a righteous man seeking justice at the hands of his own.

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CHAPTER XIII.

i w 1

'His presence there
Fell like a shower of winter rain.'

ATIE, the housemaid, was an institution at Lauries-
ton. She was the clau;j,lit('r of tlio grieve, or farm
bailiff, and had entered the service of the mistress
at fifteen. Having bt'cii trained under that
careful supervision, she was a thorouglt servant, trustworthy and
competent in every particular. Of course she had her little
way, like all good servants. Her temper was quick, and she
had a great idea of her own importance in the house.
Occasionally there were bickerings in the kitchen, when she
asserted her superiority over the cook and the dairymaid. She
had a contempt for these damsels because they v/ere 'ootlins,'
or, in other words, strangers to the place, whereas Katie's
forebears had been about Laurieston almost as long as tin;
Maitlands themselves ; of whom Katie always spoke as the
Laird's folk. Michael Maitland had no ambititju to assume
the title of Laird, and was wont to say that he wished for
nothing but to be a farmer, and one worthy of the name.
Katie took a deep and abiding interest in all the affairs of
the house, and all the domestic interests of the family ; but
she never stooped to discuss them with the ' ootlins ' aforesaid.
She had thus won the entire confidence of the household, and
there was very little hid from her. Having had a small battle
with her comrades at tea over the naming of the Nunraw
baby, she had carried herself off in dudgeon to the dining-
room window with her sewing (th-^ family being all out),

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MAJTLAND OF LAURIESTON,

313

and was there sitting when a knock came to the outer
door.

The stranger had not come in by the avenue gate, else he
iimst have been seen by Katie before he reached the duor.
When she answered the knock, and saw tlie genth'uian on
the step, she instantly donned her most aggressive air. In
such a mood nothing on earth was to be got out of Katie
Steel. She recognised him instantly, ai> I remembering the
deep trouble his last visit had caused, she felt inclined to show
him but little courtesy.

*Mr. Maitland at home, my good girl"' asked William
Laurie, bestowing a winning smile on Katie's well-favoured
face.

* No, he's nr>'. They're a' oot, sir,' she answered, getting
out the 'sir' with great difficulty. She only remembered
her manners, because she knew it would displease the mistress
to know she had lacked in respect to any caller at the
house.

' All out ! When will they be back, do you think 1 '

•I dinna ken; no' till late, likely. They're at a party,
sir.'

' A party ! Where, may I ask 1 '

' Ower there,' replied Katie briefly, pointing to the ueigh-
bouring homestead.'

*Ah, what place is that? I was once familiar with the
district ; but 1 have forgotten much of it now.'

' That's Nunraw, sir.'

* Of course it is ; and who tenants it ? It used to be a'l old
man, I think. Barclay was the name.'

' Yes. It's Mr. Will that's in it now, sir,' said Katie, with a
jerk, as if somebody behind were pushing the words out of
her.

' Oh, I see — I comprehend ; and there's a party, is there '\
Family party, eh ? '

* The bairn's to be christened the nicht, at half-past six, by
Mr. Rankine. Will you come in an' wait or they come back, or
will ye go over 1'

' I'll go over, I thir.k. It will be a pleasant stroll Take

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in my portmanteau, my good girl ; I intoncl to remain a fow
diiys,' said Mr. Laurie ; and with a bland smilo he set his bag
on the doorstep, and turned away.

Katie took in the bag, let it drop on the hall floor, and in a
deep breath uttered these enigmatical words, —

* Well, I never ! ' As she had received no orders concerning
Mr. Laurie or his portmanteau, she pushed it with hor foot
under the hall table, and there let it lie. That action indicated
the state of her mind towards the unoxpoctcd guest. To
ordinary visitors nobody could be more considerate or attentive
than Katie. She went back to her sewing, and after a time
said loud out, with great energy, —

' If the young maister lets her awa' again, he's a fule.'

Meanwhile William Laurie picked his way daintily across the
pleasant field-paths to Nunraw. The month of May had come,
as I said, and in its loveliest mood. Si)ring had beer lavish of
her bounty, and had flung a mantle of snow-bloom on every
hedge and hawthorn tree ; the orchards were pink and white,
too, the whole air laden with their rich odours. The grass was
emerald-green, and studded with the yellow buttercup and the
star-eyed daisy, while the banks under the nedgerows had their
rich mosaic of pink harebell and blue speed-well. All the
world was glad in the first blush of her loveliest summer, hope
and promise seemed to reign beneficently everywhere, the birds
in their wild glad songs bade a truce to gloom or care ; and yet
even in such glad days humanity has its cross to bear. William
Laurie was conscious of the pleasantness surrounding him ; it
gratified his eye to look upon the fair landscape which fringed
the blue sea-line, but no higher emotion stirred his heart.
There was a curious smile on his lips as he drew near the com-
fortable-looking house with the white gables, where Will and
his wife had begun life. He rather enjoyed the thought of the
consternation his appearance would cause. He paused for a
moment at the door, and surveyed the trim garden, with its
little lawn and gay flower-beds, all giving evidence of taste and
care. He could hear the merry sound of voices and the clatter
of cups within, — the pleasant din of the christening feast. He
knew that he would be unwelcome, thav he would cast a shadow

MAJTLAND OF LAVlilKSTON.

815

over the hivpi»y gathering', and a<,'ain ho felt liinisclf ag<;rii!ve(l.
Why should ho liu h^ft out in th(f cold, whilo lii.s own chihhcn
enjoyod such }j;ood chcei 1 With this iiuestion risin;^' to his
lips, he gave tho kuockov a shaij) double-knock. Walter Laiirif
cjiiiu! instantly to tho door, and his honest, sun-browned lacc
jdokod blank enough at sight of the uninvited guest.

' Well ! never scon nic before, young man 1 ' Mr. Laurie said
gdod-humouredly, luid pushing past him he hung up his hat,
and marched directly into the room from which the sounds of
feasting came. They were all gathered about the table, EUie
at her mother's side looking somewhat pale and thin, but with
a happy light in her eyes, born of the hope that her l)aby, like
many another blessed child, would be a messenger of peace and
love in her home. In a moment, and as if a thunderbolt had
falhm in their midst, the haj)py chatter ceased, and involuntarily
they rose to their feet. For a moment there was not a word
spoken, then Michael Maitland the elder went round to where
Agnes stood, and in sight of all present put his arm about her
waist. That action said as plainly as words could have done,
that there he intended her to remain.

' Am I a spectre like the Ancient Mariner, dealing death and
destruction all around T said William Laurie, with outward
gaiety, though inwardly he chafed at his reception. ' Is there
not a cup or a plate for me at my son's table, nor a word of
welcome to his house ? IIow do, Will ? Wish you joy, though
I don't think you're liktdy to have much. May I kiss my new
daughter, or does Scots law forbid 1 '

Effie visibly shrank from him, though she did not refuse her
hand in greeting.

It was felt to be a relief when Maitland himself spoke.
Agnes had hidden her face for a moment on his shoulder, but
when she heard his voice it seemed to give her strength, for
she withdrew herself from his clasp, and, steadying herself at
the table, looked at her father with great questioning, indignant
eyes. Oh, how that false smile biought back the flood-tide of
painful memory, and made th(^ flush of shame rise to her cheek !
ft is a fearful thing when tht; rtilationship between parent and
child is thus poisoned on either side. It has no compensation

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this side of the grave, for it is nature's inexorable law that,
however that sacred tie bo tlesiufated, it yet remains a thin;;
wliich cannot be rooted out of the heart, any more than it can
be severed by the law. God help tlie parent whose fatherhf)0(l
or niotherhood brings nothing but the agony of shame. God
help tlie child for whom the name father and mother U
synonymous with sor ow and fear. Life holds no more search-
ing grief than that for any human heart.

*Ye hae earned your ain welcome, William Laurie,' said
Michael Maitland firmly. 'Before we go any further it'll he
better to come to an understanding. What are ye here fori
The bairns are men and woinen noo, an' there is nae need to
send them awa' afore we discuss family matters.'

'You are very fond of hoUling a court of inquiry, Maitlain"*,'
was the light reply. * But this is not the time nor the place,
even if I admitted your right so to (juestion me. However, I
will satisfy you. I have come only to see my children (his
time, not to rob you of them. I heard of this happy ailiaiKM','
he added, with a gallant bow to EfTie, *a little late in the day.
But directly I heard of it I hurried home to pay my respects.
I congratulate you, AVill ; you have a charming wife, and, of
course, the child is a nonpareil. Note, may I presume to ask
for a flight refreshment ? The baptismal feast looks inviting
to a traveller who lunched but meagrely at York seven hours

ago.

During all this speech, and indeed since he had entered the
room, he had taken not the slightest notice of Agnes. She
was under the ban of his deep displeasure, and he intended
her to feel it. It made no impression upon her, \7here there
is no respect or esteem, a reproof cannot be felt. But she did
feel her heart bursting with its old weight of wounded pride
and bitter indignation. Her own nature, sensitive to a fault,
weighed down by the burden of her own and her brother's
obligations to Maitland of Laurieston, revolted against the
cold, calm selfishness of the man she called father. When
she turned about and quiokly left the room, nobody followed
her. Indeed, it was a relief to all when she went. Margaret
Maitland knew how utterly antagonistic were the natures of

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MA/TLANP or I.MiniHSTON.

.TI7

fiiMicr and duu^'htcr, iind rcjfticnl tlmt thoir wills had not
< lashed Ihcro and then. Slu! felt glad of limn to think and
plan. Another n-isis had conio. »Sho wondcnul how William
Laurie was to he dealt with this time, and what was tho ohject
of his visit. Kho had an idea, too, brought suddenly home to
her, that the action would prohiibly bo taken out of their
hands. In whatsoever concerned Agnes now, John ha<l the,
lirst voice, lie was not present with them that night, which
w.is not to bo regretted. A passage-at-arms between hot-headed
John and William liaurie was not likely to further the ends of
peace. ElHe, roused to a sense of her housewifely responsibility,
at length did the best to l)c courteous and hospitable to her
husband's father. He partook of a hearty meal, talking blandly
all the while ; which was well, or the sileme lunst have Iteen
felt. When the w\vr\\ was over, KlTie, with her mother, went
upstairs to the nursery ; peace loving Wat retired to smr)ke a
pipe out-of-doors ; and in tl'c dining-room remained William
Laurie and his son alone with M.iitland of Laurieston.

'How did it come about that I find you so romforlibly
settled. Will?' asked the interloper, in his cool way. 'Von
peeui to have fallen on your feet ! '

Will had sense enough to hold his peace, for very shame.

' I'll tell yo without mincing matters, if ye want to ken,' jmt
in Laurieston abruptly. *Ho stole away my daughter, though
T admit she wont willingly enough; and what could 1 dae but
gie them a roof-tree abuno their heids, for her sake an' her
mother's ? Although the lad there is a married man, an' the
heid o' a hoose, he has a way to make, and kens biawly Mint
I'll never be satistied or he sits an independent man in Nuinaw.
It's no' the money, William Tiaurie, as ye ken brawly ; but I
hope for his ain sake an' for Etfie's that he'll be man enough to
feel his ain obligations.*

' Upon my word, you have him fast in the toils ! ' said William
Laurie, with a slight sneer. 'After a man is inveigled into an
imi)rudent marriage, it is only natural to expect the lady's
peoj)lo to do something for him ; why ' —

He paused abruptly, arrested indeed by the terrific anger in
the face of Michael Maitland, For the first and only time in

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liih lifo, an oath pasHod tlio lipH of Miiillimd of Liuiricstttn. The
iiiiiii before him, with his fnlso, Hiniliii<^' fact) and .s(iav(t tiiiinniT,
louHod in him tho duopuat, darkuHt paNKions of his nature.

Mf yu uttor another word in that Htrain,' said Mieliacl
Mailland, raising his voico, 'I'll fell yo to tho ground !'

Will Laurio tho younger, like a beaten httuiul, tin-nt'd and
slunk out of tho room. Then, because only for Kllii's .sake; hu
bad spared hor Inisband, Maitland turned u{)on tho father,
and smoto him with tho two-odged sword of a tongue which
righteous anger sharpened.

There is something fearful and awe-inspiring in tho gnat
anger of a strong nature righteously aroused; and it.nmde the
polislied scoundrel quail.

' Come, come,' ho said jocularly ; * don't swallow nie, Mait-
land ; of course, it was only my little joke. Don't you think
I'm sonsiblo of your generous kindness to my niotherh-ss
children? Don't be so hard on nio, old friend. I'm going
down tho hill, like yourself, an. li, is but natural that I should
have a craving after the old iamiliar faces. I am not in go(»d
health, and fortune has rather frowned \\\)o\\ me of late. Who
is to show mo a kindness, if not my own flesh and l)lood V

This affected humility and sentimentality were as olFensive as
his former bravado, and sickened Michael Maitland beyond
endurance.

I can speak nae mair to ye this nicht, William Laurie,' he
yaid briefly. ' There are things a man canna stand. I canna
stand you.*

With which plain statement he turned upon his heel and
went away home.

I"^^,3

CHATTEll XIV.

•A liroktMi liriml .i liim iiiilitTtTi'iiiic
Tliat aturvud ami kilk'il tliu Invu whicli forged it.'

ILTJAM T.AUKIK roiiiaiiictl tliut W\'J\\i at Nunraw.
Ill the, cdiirsc, of next tliiy, licariuj,' iiotliiug from
I.iiuii(;.stoii, ho siuintcrcd IriMucly across tho lioMs.
Aj,'iiuH, Avlius(! iiycH had tiinutl very often toward
Nunraw duriii;,' tlio day, saw liiin (umic, and wont ont to moot
him. Margarot Maithmd liad pitiod lior all day, thouyh slio liad
not darod to speak iibuut tho subject which v as in all their
minds. It was too dflicaUf, ono of tlntso iKii'-.Tul family mattcirs
wo never discnss cxcojtt under oxtronu! oomi>ulsion. Little did
^Ira. Maitland know what was t<j l)e the result of that long day's
tliouj,'ht to Agnes. Father an.l daughter mot by a curious
coincidence almost at tho s])(;i, woro Michael and Agnes had had
their nuimorable talk nearly six months before. What had been
llien s[iok(Ui of as a more and distant possibility had now become
!iu accomplislied fact, and Michael was in the fourth month of
his missionary labimrs at Coldaire. She thtmght of that evening,
oven when her mind was full of other things, as she advanced
to meet her father.

They met without kiss or any greeting. Agnes was too
conscientious to sinmlato an alFectiou she did not feel. William
Laurie was simply indifl'ercnt.

* Ah, good evening, ma bcfJe,' he said, with that airy gallantry
always characteristic of him, and which had been intensified by
his residence abroad ; ' I am very glad you had the good sense
to couie out. X want to talk with you on purely business matters,'

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

* Well,' said Agnes (juiotly, ' what have you to say to mo,
jiapal'

He looked at her critically. She was very handsome. \h\
admired her pale, proud face, — her tall, slim, graceful earriago.
He said to himself inwardly that she might have done womlurs
with such a face and figure, had she not lacked ambition. lUit
he wisely made no comment of this kind. His past endeavours
to convince her of the market value of such (;harms as hers had
not hoen crowned by success.

* T wish yoU' to look at me, Agnes, and tell me what you think
of me — of my appearance, 1 mean,' he began. * I. am out of
health. Do you thuik T look well?'

* You are thinner, and do not look so well as you did,' she
answered slowly.

' T am nnl well, and \ am in difhcultios, my dear. You did
not anticipate all the consequences of your conduct at Kiliueny,'
he said. ' I have been living on my wits abroad, but when a
man is out of health, as I am, his wits are apt to become a little
blunt. T am forced to admit that 1 am not the man 1 was. I
have not troubled you much, my dear, and 1 will be (juite honest
with you now. I have come to see whether you can oblige me
with a little money.'

'I have not very much money, papa, but what T have I will
gladly give you,' she answered at once. Pity for him was quick
to spring in her breast. It was impossible for Agnes to resist
any appeal to her generosity or kindness of heart. It ?m,N' a
pitiful thing, too, that a father should require to make such an
appeal to his own child.

' Is the place let just now 1 ' he asked, as he threw himself on
the grassy bank. She understood him at once.

* Yes, papa, it has been let since November. The rent is duo
on the twenty-third of this month, that is next Tuesday.'

* Ah, what is the amount 1 '

* Fifty pounds. Mr. Maitland let it tt» an old friend of his
own who had returned from India. He took it, furniture and
all, on a lease.

* At a hundred a year ? '

* Yes ; it is a good rent, for the house is old, and has no

MMTLAND OF LAURIESWN.

321

niitilern conveniences, but Mr. Fordyce seems to like it as

it is.'

*And what does our friend yonder,' said "William Laurie,
nodding towards Lauricston, Hake for his commission 1 — a good
round sum, I'll he hound.'

Tears of indignation sprang to the eyes of Agnes, and it was
a, ni<iment hcforc she coukl speak.

' I'apa, how can you be so unjust 1 If Mr. Maitland
were to take it all, it would not pay a tithe of what we
owe to him.' *

' My dear, you hold perverted ideas on this subject,' paid
William Laurie .scrcMKdy. *Our friend Maitland, like the canny
Scot he is, knows how many bawbees make a shilling. Ho has
jiinl seven or eight years' work out of you for nothing. Don't
contradict me, — I know what you do in the house.'

' But think of Willie, papa ! * cried Agnes rebelliously. * How
sliamefully he repaid them for their goodness. It was a positive
crime for him to steal Effie away.'

' He could not steal her, my love, unless she was willing to
^0,' put in her father dryly. ' The time has gone for a young
woman to be carried off agaiiwt her will. Be just, my dear; be
just on one side as well as the other.'

* Well, granting Efhe went willingly, papa. Will had nothing.
The chairs they sit on, the visry food they eat, belongs to Mr.
Maitland. I implored iiim to consider Hallcross as his, as part
payment of what we owe;. I olfered to make it over to him, but
he would not listen to me. There is not on this earth a more
generous and noble-minded man than Mr. Maitland.*

* Forgive me for reminding you that you had no right to make
any such offer without first consulting me.*

' I had every right. I am of age, and the property is absolutely
mine,' was the quiet answer. ' Besides, you have forgotten that
it was through the Maitlands even that came to me. Miss
Glover was Mrs. Maitland 's aunt.'

' Don't trouble to instruct me in any family history in this
parish, Agnes; it is all familiar to me,' retorted her father
carelessly. ' Let me tell you how I look upon this matter. We
will leave you out of the question ; it is proved that you have

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MAITLAND OF LA UlilESTON.

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given value for your maintouaiicc; at Laurieston. A,s to "Will, l
suppose if thoy had left him alone he would have provided a
home for his wife. That establishment over there is merely a
monument to the Maitland family pride, for which they are
entitled to pay. The question I wish to discuss with you is tlio
vexed question of your duty to me. Have you iiot regretted
,/our conduct at Kilmeny 1 '

Agnes reddened and then grew pale. The proud straightening
of her iigure, her absolute silence, were her scjle answer, lie
saw that it ^Vould not be wisi- to pursue that theme very far.

' 1 think it was utter folly : but I will i>ass it over, though in
throwing away your own ])ri»spects in life yuu blighted mine.
You have had Lady Culross here, I am told. When did she
leave ? '

' Oidy on Monday,' Agnes answered briefly,

* You have got the right side of her, evidently, wlien you
persuaded her to stoop to visit here,' said William Laurie. * Do
you intend to follow up your advantage? Therj are other
eligible parties in the world besides Sir (jlilbert. Through Lady
Culross you might make an excellent nuitch.'

Agnes's lip curled.

* I am not for sale,' she said curtly, — a speech which made her
father lauyh.

' Well, .veil, Ave will not fall out about that. I have a proposal
to make to you. I am tired of this wandering IJohemian life.
What would you say to sell llallcross and let us two live ([uietly
on the proceeds 1 It should be worth two thousand, at least.
That properly invested would bring in a modest little income,
on which we might enjoy life in a quiet way.'

Agnes stood for a moment in silence looking at her father,
picturing to herself what such a life wouki be.

* I — I will think about it, papa,' she said, almost in a whisper.
Again the old question of duty was before her, though this time
with a less imperative voice.

' HoAv soon can you let me know ? because 1 don't particularly
enjoy living here. The atmosphere is too rarefied for me. Will,
poor boy, is tied hand and foot, or he would be good for some
amusement.'

MAITLANl) OF LAUJifESTON.

.'V23

hich made her

'I will lot you know to-niorrow, i)apa, without fail. 1 will
think it over seriously, — and, and prayoifully.'

' But you won't ask advice from the JVIaitlands 1 or it's all up
witli me, and you may say No at once.'

'I will not, papa. This ia a matter I nnist and will diM^de
for myself. It involves a great sacrifice, but I shall try to do
my duty,' she answered quietly; and her voice had a weary riii,^,'
in it, as if the very thought of the struggle tired her. Williiim
Laurie picked himself up from the hank, and shook the fiillen
hawthorn bloom from his coat.

'It v-as a fearful mistake I made in allowing your mother to
send you here. Had I kept you with me, I flatt(!r myself you
woiUd have been occupying a very different position to-day. It
i:^ not too late, perhaps, to retrieve that error, if you would only
be guided.'

' I will think it over, papa, and try to do right, but' —

T.ut whatr

' I cannot go against my better judgment, even in a matter of
this kind. I have tried the experiment. I went to you befon;
in all good faith, and Ciod knows that if over woman tried to
do her duty in any sphere of life, I tried to do mine. The
exiieriment was not successful, papa. We have nothing in
common. I fear we could not be happy together.'

' That is because you are so confoundedly puritanical in your
ideas. The human mind, especially the female mind, shouhl be
capable of expansion and direction. For one so young, you arc,
to say the least of it, very obstinate, and for a woman your
judgments are too pronounced.'

' Only on matters of conscience, I trust,' said Agnes
(juietly.

'Oh, well, if conscience is your God, so be it. It is curious
how elastic this fine conscience of yours can be when inclina-
tion points a difierent way. Take this hint into consideration
while you are trying to make u[) your mind. Are you going,
then? No, I am not going in. It was you I wished to see.
Our good Maitland politely informed mo las*-, night he couldn't
stand me. I can return the compliment with interest. Good
pvening.

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MAITLAND OF LAUHIESTOX.

' Good (ivcning, papci. I sliall coinc over to Xiinraw in tin;
morning and see you. I trust God will aid me in my decision.
There is nothing in the world I want so much as to do right.
I will try not to be selfish. I do admit that I feel more at
home here than I do with you ; but pcrliaps after a time I might
understand you better.'

He saw that she was unhappy. It was impossible not to
look at her grave face and troubled eyes without knowing
that the thing weighed on her heart. As he strolled back the
way he had come, he felt uncomfortable. Those eyes haunted
him. A long life of absolute selfishness, a life in which every
thought and aim and act had had self in view, had made liis
heart hard as the nether millstone. He was not by nature
endowed with a great capacity for afliBction, and his way of life
had diminished that small store. Do you think the picture
unnatural 1 Which of us do not know a William Laurie,
though in some instances he may hide his selfishness under a
thin disguise? whorons the William Laurie of this history
possessed the virtue of an outspoken candour, if in his case it
could be called n virtue.

It was Friday night, ana there being no lectures at the
University on Saturday, it was customary for John to come out
to Laurieston, though sometimes it was late in the evening.
He liked to finish up his work in town, and enjoy his Saturday
freely at home. Between nine and ten o'clock that night
he came whistling up the avenue. But before he had reached
the dining-room window, Agnes came up the garden path to
meet him. They were a curious pair of lovers. Agnes still
exercised over him that strange awe which made him fear
to follow all the impulses of his heart. She permitted his
caresses but rarely, and yet he never doubted that she loved
him. She was not a demonstrative woman, yet there were
times when she revealed to John something of her heart. But
he did not dream even yet how much ho was to her, nor how
her whole nature turned to him, — how she clung to him with
all the might of a great love.

She came over to him swiftly, her wrap falling from her
head as she trctchtd out her hands to him. There was aa

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MAiTLAND OF LAtlPJESTOU.

325

appeal in that gesture which he did not understand, though he
saw that something had agitated licr deeply.

'John ! John ! I am so thankful you have come ! Keep me
close to your side. I want to feel that here I can be safe.'

John let his hooks fall on the gravelled path, and put both
liis arms round her, and bent his face, dark with his passionate
joy, until it touched hers. She had never so give^ herself to
liiui ; for the n\omenli he did not tare to ask what had moved

her.

' My darling ! my darling ! he repeated again and again, as
his strong arms held her close, and he felt his whole being thrill
when her white hands met round his neck an,d her eyes looked
straight into his. They were standing in the dark shadow of
the trees, and there was no one to witness their meeting.

' I have been watching for you, John, and my heart sank
when I feared it was too late. I am so thankful you have
come. Do you love me as much as ever 1 Am I dearer to you
than any other on earth 1 '

It was so unusual for her to ask such questions, or to make
any allusion to their love, that he felt almost bewildered for a
moment. But only for a moment. Then he gave her such
assurances as are beyond price to the heart of the woman who
loves.

'I am going to ask you to make a great sacrifice, John, — one
which you will only be able to make if you love me very much,'
she said, and hor voice, with its tender wavering cadence, was
almost lost on his breast. Yet he caught her words. * You
are quite sure you will not misunderstand nor think less of me
for what I am going to d(^ 1 — but I will not so doubt your love.
My father is here, and he wishes me to go to him again. I
have thought it over. T have tortured myself about it, and I
cannot see my way. I — I — so shrink from the life I saw
liefore. I cannot think it would be right to go. I did no
good before, but evil, I think. I am tired of thinking out
things for myself, John. Will you take me just as I am, and
let me have you always to rest upon ? '

' My Agnes, I — I — do not understand you, I fear,' said John
hoarsely^ for he dared not believe the thought dawning upon him.

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MAI TLA ND r)F rAUUlESTON.

* I could be content with little, John. Anything would he
riches with you,' she said, looking at him straight, with eyes
which did not falter. ' 1 will he your wife, if you will take
me — now.'

So Agnes Laurie chose her lot in life ; and, throwing asid'
for a moment the veil of her womanly reserve, showed .liilm
Maitland her heart. If ever man loved ami honoured — nay,
wiashipped — woman, John did then, and with his arms ahciil
her, his honest eyes, dim with his great happiness, looking into
hers, took upon himself a solemn vow for the future.

If human love alone could siiHico for the need of the human
soul, then John Maitland's wife would be blessed indeed.

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CHAPTER XV.

•There took my station and degrees,
So grew my own small life complet(».'

EXT morning John ^riiitland walked over to Nunraw.
William Laurie the elder was sitting witli his feet
on the fender, enjoying a cigar and the morning
paper. He had made liimself eminently at home
in his son's house ; in fact, his calm assumption of his right to
make use of all it contained somewhat disconcerted Eflie. ¥ov
tlio lirst time her pretty dining-room reeked of cigar smoke, and
when she went up to air the chamher her father-in-law hud
occupied all night, she was glad to throw the windows open in a
hurry, as it had evidently Itecn used for a smoking-room as well
as a sleeping a[)artmi'nl. It was about ten o'clock when
John arrived. Will was in the fields, Eflie busy about her
liousehold affairs, so he made his way into the house, and
found Mr. Laurie comfortably lounging in the easy-ehair at the
dining-room fire. The I\ray mornings were chilly yet, thougli
John in his splendid health wt)ndered to see the man stooping
over the fire, when the sun lay like a golden flood out of doors.
' Good morning, sir,' 1.) said courteously, as he ste^jped into
the room.

Mr. Laurie looked round lazily, touched his smoking-ciij)
with his finger-tip, and answered blandly, 'Clood morning.'

' I am fortunate in finding you alone. Mr Laurie,' said
straightforward John, going to the point at once, as was his
wont, 'as 1 wish the privilege of a few words with you.'
William Laurie scented business in the calm tones of the

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MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

young man's voice, and, pusliing back liis chair, looked at him
inquiringly. It could hardly he, he told himself, that hi.s
daughter should have dared to send this insolently complacent
youth to take her place in the interview she had promised.

* I am at your service, my young friend,' he said, still suavely.
It had been his policy all his life to present a smooth front
until he was sure of his ground. * Have a cigar ? They are
good ones, I promise you ; no Brummagem stutl' for me.'

* No, thank you; I don't smoke in the house,' said John
quietly. ' I have come this morning, sir, with your daughter's
knowledge and at her reqiicst, to tell you that she has considered
the question you discussed yesterday, and that her decision
remains unaltered.'

* What decision ? I was not aware that she had come to
any.'

* Miss Laurie has promised to be my wife, sir, and we are to
be married in the summer.'

* Indeed ? '

* William Laurie spoke quite quietly, but his nostrils dilated
curiously, and his mouth drooped at the corners of the lips.

* And when, may I ask, was this charming arrangement
come to?'

* Miss Laurie has been my promised wife for nearly a year,
sir,' axiswered John. • It was only last night, when she had to
choose between two paths, that she gave her consent to an early
marriage.'

Poor John, to Avhom the thought was yet so new and
bewildering, had scarcely schooled himself to absolute control.

*0f two evils, then, she has chosen the least, in her own
estimation,' said William Laurie contemptuously. ' And what
if I withhold my consent, if I absolutely forbid the marriage ? '

John was silent for a moment; not that this empty threat
disconcerted him in the smallest degree, only he sought for
words which would be least offensive to the man before him.
He had promised Agnes to be courteous and kind.

' We shall be very sorry, Mr. Laurie, if you withhold your
consent,' he replied, ' but it will make no difference.'

* Does your religion not teach the doctrine of filial duty J 1

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MA IT LAND OF LAVlllKHTON.

329

(l(j not pretend to be an fait with Bible reading, but I surely
remember a passage which reads something like this : " Children,
obey your parents." '

* There is ; but after a certain point obedience ceases to bo
obligatory,' John replied steadily. 'Your daughter, sir, may
1)6 supposed to have some right of choice. She is not umlcr
age, and is very capable of judging between right and wrong.'

' You are the riglit, and I am the wrong ; — very prettily put,'
said Win iam Laurie, with keen sarcasm. *I suppose you are
desperately afraid the little property which my daughter is
unfortunate enough to possess, should slip through your fingers?'

John coloured and bit his lip; these words were hard to
hear, and he put yet a tighter curb on himself.

' I am here this morning, sir, at your daughter's request, as
I said, to acquaint you with our plans; and I have alf-n v.
proposal to make to you. Although I am not a rich maii, I
can atl'ord to keep my 'vife in comfort; some day I hope to be
able to give her a position to which she is entitled. My income
from professional sources is fair, and likely, nay certain, to
increase ; then I have the legacy I received from Miss Glover,
— two thousand pounds, which I propose to settle absolutely
on my wife. She has asked me to say to you that she wishes
you to draw the rent of Hallcross ; although she cannot make
up her mind to sell it at i»resent.'

William Laurie's tenqx-r rose, and he shot a dark, angry
glance at John Maitland's face.

* You can tcdl my daughter, with my compliments, that in
sending you with any such message to me, I consider that she
has grossly insulted me. I decline to have any further con-
versation with you, or to recognise that you have any right
whatsoever to meddle with what concerns her or me. I wisli
you good morning.'

A slight smile touched John's grave lips. Tlie assumption
of injured paternal innocence in such a man could be nothing
but amusing. Li a moment, however, he was perfectly grave
again, and spoke with courtesy and a toucli of beautiful kindli-
ness which was lost on his listener.

* I wish to say, Mr. Laurie, that while I feel that I am in a

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MAITLAND OF LAUlilKSTOM.

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senso, nay, in (ivcry way, unworthy of Aj^'ues, my love for her
is such tliat I helievo I can niako \wv hiippy. That ha]>pnu'ss,
sir, will be the chiof aim of my lif(!. It will <,'rievo aiitl sikMcii
her if you do not wish ua well. May I assure, you that it shall
be my desire to carry out every wish of hers which conci-rns
you.'

Mr. Laurie here forjjot his manners entirely, and, pointiuL,'
towards the door, uttered these two words: '(!et out! '

That night there was another strange scene enacted in the
house of Laurieston — a scene which justified Katie Steel's
conviction that the uninvited guest brought nothing but trouble
in liis train. After having pondered the substance of -lohn
^laitland's message all day, and not being moUilled by rellection,
William Laurie betook himself to Laurieston in the aft( rnoon,
arriving just at the tea hour, when all were assembltnl. For
an hour the storm raged in the pleasant family room ; and the
'ill man,' as Katie called him, revealed himself, and poured the
vials of his wrath upon the assembled family. There is no
anger more noisy and obtrusive than the anger Avhiiih has no
ground or justification, but we are told that ' the curse ('auseles.s
shall not come.'

Maitland of Laurieston, exasperated beyond endurance, at
last took the intruder by the shoulders, and witii one swing of
his great arm put him out of the door. And from that night
William Laurie was seen at Laurieston no moic

In the gloaming John took Agnes up l»y the river-side. She
was pale and worn with the strife of the day, and her heart was
sore within her. Although conscience harl no sting, there was
a natural feeling of reniorst! and grief.

•I have chosen my path, John,' she said, as she elmig to his
arm, with a visible dependence upon him which roused the
deepest and most chivalrous tenderness of his great heart ; ' 1
have no fear but that I shall ]>e happy in the life we will share
together, but this will alimyt; l)e a shadow on my heart.'

' Dearest, I hope not. Everything has been done. I try to
be gentle with him for your sake, my Agnes; but I fear there
is no hope that he will ever be roused to a sense- of what ho
ought to be.'

MAITLANI) OF lAVUlKsTOW

A sliglit shiver jiasscd over hor, and ho saw her oyps fill.

*I hope not. I cannot believe that any human soul will ho
allowed so to drift to the darkness. ^lay I tell you it was not
so nuicli the shrinking from tho life he leads which hi'lpcd iiie
to decide, hut the fear for my own soul. John, th()S(' weeks I
\\a>* in London, I cannot tell you what they were. I seemed to
diift away from everything, I lost trust in myself, and felt
iiiv nature being changed and hardened. 1 do not think I
could face such an ordeal again.'

' 1 trust, my darling, you will never need to face it,' ho
answered huskily, and yet with a curious hesitation; for of a
sudden, the thought came to him, that perhaps she was about to
face a graver ordeal Where love and principle are in conflict,
it is the Gethsemane of the soul.

• It is a fearful thing, one which I cannot understand, how a
tit! so close as that which binds father and daughter together,
should be nothing but a source of pain Do you think, John,
tlmt it can be right for me to choose what is pleasant and easy "j
It might be my duty to go to my father even yet.'

He saw that the idea of duty wilfully passed by was a torture
to her even yet.

' My darling, perhaps I am not a fit judge ; I am so im-
measurably the gainer by your decision Your father sent you
away liefore, washed his hands of yon for all time coming, as
you told me. 1 cannot see th it you are bound to consider him
first now. If — if you had nothing, Agnes, I believe we should
never have seen his face at this time.'

' I have tried to salve my conscience by the gift of the place
which I know he will take by and by,' said Agnes, with a faint,
sad smile, for she too had been able to gauge the depth of her
father's motive ; * but I do not feel (|uite at rest. I have been
reading " Romola " again, John. Do you remember how you
and Michael and I enjoyed it together last Easter ? Do yon
remember Savonarola's advice to ]Kior Komola, — '* Every bond
of your life is a debt : the right lies in the payment of that
debt." I camiot forgot those words.'

'That was entirely difl'erent, Agnes; Tito was her husband,'
said John quickly.

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MA/TUNP OF LAU/ilKSTOX.

•I suppose it ia (lifl'crciit,' A<,'iioh answiTi'd alnmsl iibscutls,
as if she were woi^'hiiif,' tho tliiiij,' in her mind ; tlusii suddenly
she looked up at liini witli one of those wtrange, swift, earnest
^(lances wliieli scenu^l to reveal all lu^r heart.

'Are you not afraid, Jolm, that I may fail in my duty to
youl I think I am weak just here, ^ly leanings are towards
all that is easy a>id i)!easant.'

'Does that imply that I am likely to he a cross lo youV
asked John lightly, although he was deeply moved.

'You! You are njy tower of strength,' she made answer,
and laid her fair face contentedly against his shoulder, loving
to be near him, to show him how utterly she had given herscll'
to him, * And because 1 an) so weak and wavering in many
things, when; you are so brave and strong, I want you to be
very firm with me always, so as to keep mo from drifting into
the path of pheasant ease.'

* Agnes ! ' John stood still in tlie narrow way and looked
straight into her face, while his own grew deadly pale. 'You
torture mo. 1 have not lieen honest with you. Let rae be so
now. Do you know how far I have drifted from the right way '
Do you know that in the midst of all my siMdiing after what is
good and true, I have missed niv footing, and lost hold i>f the
anchor of the soul. I do not say 1 do not bciicivc in your (iod,
Agnes, only I cannot be certain of anything. 1 cannot profess
a belief which I have not proved. I know I have be(Mi a
coward ; and if, even now, you send me from you, it will but be
what I deserve.'

•I have known for some time that you have been do\d»ting,
John,' she answered quietly ; and there was no shrinking from
him, as he had feared, no visible horror on her face. Nay, its
sweetness of expression never changed.

'Then you do not brand me as a wicked man, Agnes'? nor
even blame me bitterly, as my mother and Michael have done ? '

' 1 blame you ! I can rememl)er how the Master treated
Thomas the doubter, John. So in His <.r<><^d time He will treat
you.'

They were utterly aKnu^ in that quiet sjtot amid the solemn
shadows lif the gre^t ttve.H, with no sound to disturb them but

k«Mi

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M Mil. A Mi OF LAriill'.SrON.

nna

tho soft iiinnimr of tlin riviT an it rushed hotwccix its ^rct;n
banks. Tlioy <:«>uM soo its silvery ^^'Icainiii},' tliroiij,'li llie frin;,'o
of its ilrooi)in<,' willows. A stran^'(? solcinn awo cnnin over
.Toliii ; a feoliii},' akin to that ho had experienced in Miss
I^M'sbeth's room tlie day sho died. Strange that Agnes should
have used her very words.

•What is it, dohn? What do you seol' sho nskod, in a
wliisper.

'Nothing. r was only wondering what I had done to
des(!rvo such hiiiipincss ;iiid such trust.'

'By and by you wil' ( learly see, .lolm ; perhaps, please God,
I may be able to help you,' she whispered. ' But I do not
think you are far from the Kingdom.'

So, with her love, she swept away his last misgiving. lie
oven felt a certain triumph in the thought th'^t sho had acted
as ho had predicted. The others, evcni while they loved her,
believed her not less narrow than themselves. So he told him-
ricit, and looked forward with all tho intoxication of young
manhood to tho realization of his manhood's drcanu

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•---v-^V.N^

CHAPTER XVI.

■J

We walk not with the jewelled great,

Where love's dear name is sold;
Yet we have wealth we would not give

For all their world of gold.'

|GNES LAUEIE stood on tlic door-step at Lauriestnn
very early on a summer morning, and looked with
tender, yearning eyes over the wide sweep of lovely
country, with the blue, sunny sea in the distance,
fringing its broail belt of yellow sands. It was the morning of
her wedding-diiy. The roses were in perfect bloom about the
door : she touched them with a caressing finger, and smiled to
see the dewdrojjs fall lil'' a shower of diamonds to the ground.
It was a fair day for a bridal ; and she lifted her eyes to the
cloudless sky with gratitude. She, who loved the sunshine and
all things bright and beautiful, felt glad that nature did not
wear a sombre look that day. She was standing by the door,
when she heard a foot in the ball behind, heavier than Kati(j
8te(d's ; and she harilly dared to look round, for lier fair face
HusIhhI redly at the ihought that before many hours were over
the lover would be merged in the husband. But it was not
John's foot; and Agnes turned immediately with a bright
smile, when presently Michael laid a hand on her shoulder ; and
jMichael's voice said cheerily, —

'A penny for your thoughts ! You see I am a trui; prophet,
after all. If the sun would not grace this marriage, he might
hide his diminished head for ever.'

Agnes laughed, and looked into Michael's face with friendliest

334

M AIT LAND OF LAUIilESTON.

335

affection, thinking what a fine, winning face it was, and hnw
constantly it hail shone upon her with a radia;ice which no
doubt or cloud had ever marred.

' I have stolon a march on Jock, and I'm glad of it. He's a.>
sound as a top yet,' said Michael. * You must take your last
walk with me. I hear mother moving upstairs : let us go, or
VdU will be appropriated immediately.'

' Xot my last walk, I hope,' Agnes said, as she took his arm
and turneti down the familiar garden path.

'In a sense, yes. Next time I walk like this it will be with
Mrs. John iMaitland,' said JMichael teasingly. ' I think we are
going to have quite a gay bridal. And what do you think ?
The folk arc to light a bonfire on the hill behind Nunraw, — on
that waste patch Will is always talking of reclaiming. John
and you should see it as you steam down the Forth to-night.
The steamer is not likely to sail before nine o'clock. You will
have a delightful trip : John knows all the ground, and he
speaks the language like a native ; and that is an advantage, I
tell you.'

' It is so good of Uncle "Walter to give us tickets for his new
steamer. Ho says I shall han'sel her, and bring good luck for
ever after.'

* Uncle Walter is quite right ; but I hardly give him credit
for such an admirable and appropriate idea. I want you to
look at Aunt Emily to-day, Nannie ; she'll have on her most
imposing mien, to say nothing of her clothes, all for the benefit
of Lady Culross. She was rather put out that we did not have
lier at Laurieston when she was here before. Mother has her
bit of pride too. She said if .iunt Emily could not come to see
Laurieston except when there were great folks under its roof,
she could bide at home.'

' How dillerent she is from your mother, Michael ! ' Agnes
said musingly.

'/ should say so,' put in Michael, quite loftily for him.
* Well, don't you think it will be quite a gay bridal 1 '

* Quite ; and I am glad of it,' Agnes answered, with a smile.
•John is so dillerent. He is absurdly nervous. I just hope he
will behave himself to-day, and that Mr. Rankine will not be

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MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

unduly loiig-windcd. If only I could have boLMi married in the
kirk of Invcrcsk, I should liave been happy.'

*That would have created an earthquake in the parisli, T
believe,' said Mi.', il, Avitli a smile of quiet enjoyment. ' Dut
we'll marry you safe and sound in the old drawing-room ; and
it'll be more home-like. Empty enough the old house will lie
when and you and Jock are away.'

•But we are not away for ever, Michael. We have promised
to odiuu homo as often as John did,' said Agnes quickly.

* T hope you will, for mother's sake. There's only Wat loft ;
and 1 doubt, Nannie, if Nunraw will long hold Will and Eflio.'

A sluidow foil on the fair face by ]Michaers side.

• I cannot bear to think of it ; but I fear you are right,
Michael. Will has got it in his head he would like to emigrate.
Effie told me about it one day, in great distress. I hope for
everybody's sake he will go no further.'

'Well, don't let it vex you. If he does go, Effie must just
make up her mind to take all the vicissitudes of life as they
come,' said Michael quickly. * Two months yau are to be away ;
and then what fun getting you settled in Edinburgh ! I am
glad your house is on the north side of the town. There is a
dignity about those fine old houses which I like. I'm glad
you didn't go in for one of the matchbox villas on the south
side.'

' Why, iSIichael, I didn't know you had any ideas on such
frivolous qiiestions.'

*Are they frivolous, my dear? I don't think so. Among
the new theories, that of environment is considered to be an
important factor in the formation or development of character.
After my experience at Coldaire, I believe it. I shall love
to picture you moving about these quaint, substantial old
rooms, giving the necessary light and beauty to their sombre
hues.'

*0 Michael dear, how poetical you have grown!' laughed
Agnes. ' I hope you will not only picture us there, but come
and see us in the bodily presence. Next to Uncle Michael and
Aunt Maggie, the scat of honour at our table and our hearth
will be for our dear brother Michael.

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

337

Agnes wondered to see him turn away his head quite swiftly.
She would have wondered still more had she seen the expression
which flitted across his face. Although he had schooled him-
self to regard her as a sister, as his brother's wife, there were
times when manhood's cross seemed too heavy to Michael to be
borne. This was one. But of all days and times, on this day
at least, that shadow must not fall on the gentle heart by his
side. He thanked God that she had not the slightest idea of
what was in his heart for her.

' I may come sometimes, but it will not be often,' he said
gently. * My work has become very engrossing, and I shall
not care to leave my post.'

*And your health, Michael? I think it is not less robust
than it was,' she said anxiously.

' I am not worse. I have strength given me for the work I
have chosen. I believe God will allow me to do a certain
amount, — that He will even allow me to see some fruits. T
only ask to be granted the privilege of establishing the work
on a sure foundation ; then some one else can carry it on. I
am niore glad than I can say, that Mrs. Gilbert has been able
to come to-day. She is a noble woman.'

Agnes could not speak. There were times when she
rebelled, as Laurieston had done, against the ruling of
Michael's life. He was so eminently fitted to shine in any
sphere, it seemed hard that he should bury his talents in that
obscure and desolate region, where there was no appreciation,
scarcely tolerance of his work. And yet, who shall jud"e of
these things? In tlie eye of God, INIichael Maitland mi^ht be
a greater hero than any who have gloriously suffered for the
cause by fire or sword.

'I am glad, too,' she said at length. 'But one thin'» I
think I shall never forgive, and that is that you have given
up your post at John's side to-day. I have no objection to
Phil, of course, but he ought only to have been an ordinary
guest. It is a shame of you not to take the groomsman's
duties, as you ought.'

' John understands, and did not press it. Some day, perhaps,
he will tell you my reason.'

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338

M Air LAND OF LAUHIKSTON.

* You owo it to me to confess it now,' slio said, with a curious
little smile ; but Michael never spoke.

'When I am tired after a long wijiter day's work at
Coldaire,' he said, after a time, *I shall sit by the fire and
picture you and John in your beautiful home.'

' How do you know it will be beautiful ? ' she asked archly.

* Because it is your blessed privilege to be able to bejutify
whatever you touch,' he answered simply. *I hope great
things in the future for you two. I like to think that
the students will find a pleasant welcome at your fireside.'

' I have it all planned,' said Agnes ; and there was a look
of deep satisfaction in her face. * I intend to have an evening
at home every week, for them, if they will come ; and Sunday
afternoons as well. John has told me of so many who have
nowhere to go, and whose lodgings are so poor and unattract-
ive. I hope — I hope I shall be able to help him a great deal
in this way. Of course he must draw them first, and I think
he will. I have gathered that he has won their confidence and
iflfection.'

*Yes, they adore him,* said Michael briefly.

' And so between us we may be able to do a little good.
If only we make life less lonely to any homesick boy, it
would be worth the trial; and with such a friend as John
they will learn to long for the attainment of life's highest
ideal.'

Agnes revealed the innermost desires of her heart to the
brother she loved. As he listened, his heart swelled with a
strange and bitter envy, which made him afraid. For a
moment he was tempted to rebel AVhy should John have
all — even the love of this dear woman, for whom Michael
would have laid down his life ] The struggle was only for a
moment; then the sunny unselfishness of his heart crushed
down all unworthy thoughts.

* God bless you, my sister, and give you the fullest realisa-
tion of your hopes!' he said, laying his hands, as if in
benediction, on her shoulders. 'Now I must take you in.
You belong to no special person for this one day, until John
takes you away.'

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MATrLANT) OF LAUKIESTON.

339

Those who were privileged to ^vitlloss the lirst wetUhng that
had taken place at Laurit'st(jii, long rciuembcred it as a very
sweet and delightful occasion, in which there was not a jarrnig
note. The only guests outside the family circle w(>rc T.ady
Culross and the two INtiss Thorburns, who invitcnl themselves.
Lady Culross was greatly mystified by the whole affair, and
thought it passing strange that any marriage (;ould hold
unless celebrated within the walls of a cb'Tch ; and yet the
short ser/ice in the drawing-room at liaurieston w s not
without its own peculiar solemnity, wliich impressed her
deeply. The blinds had to be drawn down to soften the
brilliant sunlight ; but, by some strange freak, a ray managed to
steal in, and fall sunnily upon the dear head of the bride, as she
stood with her hand in John's when Mr. Rankino was
pronouncing the final words. She made a very lovely
bride, in her rich white silk gown and costly veil, — Lady
Culross's gift, — a costume which ISIrs. Walter Maitland had not
been slow to pronounce much too grand for the wife of a poor
assistant to a professor. 8he had also been horrified at the
purchase of the house in Great King Street, and only hoped
there would not be a crash soon. But she held her peace in
the house on the marriage day, and tried to make herself
amiable, though the attempt was not a striking success.

It was a very happy mariiage. There was no fuss or hurry,
or uncomfortable incident to mar its harmony ; and in the
golden glory of the summer afternoon Jolm took his wife
away.

They all gathered on the lawn to see them go, and when
.Agnes came downstairs in her travelling garb, and saw all
the familiar, kindly faces beaming upon her, her composure
was shaken for the first time. They saw she had no strength
for individual leave-takings, and so did not crowd about her
as she went towards the carriage-doo'-. When she had taken
her seat, she leaned forward with both ham's outstretched to
Mrs. Maitland.

'Kiss me, mother, — my mother now, as well as John's.'

These were her last words, and she smiled sunnily as the
carriage drove away. The ]Miss TlKirbiirns said after, how

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MMTJ.AM) Ob' LAUniESTON.

pretty it Wcas to .sec liuw slio laid lior liaiul on John's just
tlien, as if tu Kcok .strcngtli to luuir up in the partinj,'.

'I missed ^Michael at the last, dear,' she said, turning tn John,
as the carriage swept out at the avenue gates. ' Where could
he l>c ? It is so iiidike him not to be ready with his kind
word and smile.'

*He would not In; very far away/ John answered, and a
slight shadow crossed liis face at the thought of what this day
must be to Michael.

'What have I done that I should be so blessed 1' he asked
passionately, as he bent to look into the sweet eyes of hi.s
wife.

' Nothing ; but you are going to do a great deal,' she,
answered, with her sunny smile. ' I am going to be very, very
exacting, John ; so you may tremble. What may satisfy your
ambition may not satisfy your wife's ambition for you.'

* Don't build your hopes too high, dearer,t,' he said, in a low
voice ; but she laughed his seriousness away.

' I will have no solemnity to-day, John. This is to be our
holiday — our real holiday, and we are not to think about a
solitary thing, but how we can best enjoy ourselves. We shall
work all the better for it after.'

80 they set out upon the new life, and, as they stood on the.
deck of the Antwerp boat that night as it steamed down the
Forth, they saw the moonlight lying white and tender on the
old home; and higher up the red gleam and glow of the
bonfire which willing hands had lighted in their honour.
These things w(!n! like another message from the dear hearts
who loved them, and Agnes Maitland, laying her head on her
husband's breast, thanked God for all the precious things of
lite, and asked that she might be made worthy of her happy
lot.

CHAPTER XVIL

•How perplext, grows hnUetl'— Browning.

was a gusty November afternoon j a day of
surprises to many pedestrians, especially at street
corners, where the wind would catch them up all of
a sudden, and, having stolen a hat, or turned an
umbrella inside out, would tear away again with a shriek of
delight at its own savage merriment. A day on which nervous
old gentlemc:i and fidgety ladies are best indoors ; a day, indeed,
on which a cosy room, lit by a glowing fire, seems the most
desirable place in the world. It was particularly gusty and
aggressive on the north side of the town, where the wind swept
up free and boisterous from the grey expanse of the sea, which
tossed and tumbled, and showed its white teeth viciously in
response to the rude caress of the easterly gale. At the window
of her inner drawing room, John Maitland's wife was sitting with
her work, to which she was paying but little heed ; there was some-
thing which satisfied her in the wild, grand picture of the angry
sea, tossing under the lowering sky. That was her favourite
window, her favourite seat. The drawing-room, which ran the
whole breadth of the house, had three long windows to the
street ; and the inner room, shut off by folding doors, had a
curious old-iurihioned square window, with a seat all round it,
and a Mttle stand of plants, which were always green and
delightful io look upon, though they were but hardy ferns and
common shra!?s, which had struck their first roots in Laurieston
soil, and for that reason were cherished with affectionate care by
her who loved Laurieston so well. The folding-doors were not

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342

MAITLAXD or LAUIillCSTON,

quite closed, for it was iSfrs. ^riiitliMur.s 'at home' day, ami Ititcr,
■when the students began to flock in, the large room would !«'
nearly full. It was very cosy and homo-like in the inner rodiii,
however, with the cheerful firo glowing on the hearth, ami
making lovely lights on the dainty appointments of the tea- ta lilt •
in the corner. Dinner was not long over, and John was in his
study, where a pile of work always waited for him. Presently,
however, he would he up for his cup of tea, which he made
an excuse for spending many a half-hour in that cosy corner.
Scarcely yet had John in any sense got used to the idea that
Apies belonged absolutely to him ; there was more of the lover
than the husband in all his thouglils of her, although they had
lived four months of married life together. There was a curious
look on the face of the young wife, as she sat there in the
deepening twilight, with the faint touch of the setting sun
touching her head and making a yellow shaft athwart the bodice
of her velvet gown. It was a brown velvet, rich in texture,
hanging in straiglit, beautiful folds, and with its slight train,
giving a certain stateliness to her figure. It was made with close
sleeves and a high collar, and she wore no ornament, except a
big yellow chrysanthemum in her button-hole ; not even a ring,
but the plain wedding circlet on her finger.

She was evidently thinking, and her face wore an expression
of the deepest gravity, while her eyes, as she scanned the billowy
sea, looked dark in the shadow. It was not exactly an expression
of pain or of anxiety ; but rather a half- wondering, half-puzzled
look, as if she were trying vainly to solve a problem. Her
thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the
servant's voice announcing a name, —
♦ Mr. Christie ! '

*Dcar me, Harry, you are quite early,' she said, as she laid her
work on the window-seat, and came smiling to meet a tall, slim,
fair-haired lad, evidently not long out of his teens. * I am glad
to see you. You are just in time. Mr. Maitland will be up
presently for his cup of tea. Isn't it cold 1 Have this chair —
doesn't it look inviting 1 '

It was a gracious, kindly welcome, Avhich made the lad's fair
face flush, and he looked at her with a reverent, adoring look, as

MA IT LAND OP LAUlitllSTON.

3ia

if she were a being of some superior order. J(jhn sometimes
teased her about litr complete conquest of tlie students, altliough
not often. It was too sacred and beautiful a thing to him to s(>e
the influence she had with them, an influence ho would never
hope to eipial.

' Thank you. I hope I have not come too early?' he said, a triilo
awkwardly. * You said I might come any afternoon.*

* Why, of course ; don't say another word about it,' she said
brightly. ' When I say a thing I mean it. What news from
tiio old manse of Durris, then? Is the mother to come for
Christmas ] '

* I haven't heard lately. My sister Annie has not been very
well, and it may be too cold for them to come.'

* If not, then you will go north for the holidays, I suppose 1 '
M don't know. I don't feel much like going,' he said, with a

hesitation which made her look at him keenly.

* Why not, Harry ? You are out of sorts. I am your mother-
confessor just now. Tell me what is troubling you. If you
were not so good a boy, I should say conscience was awakened.'

'I'm not good at all, Mrs. Maitland,' he cried impulsively.
'I'm as bad as I can be, and as miserable. I never was so
miserable in all my life ! *

' Why, what about 1 ' she asked, in extreme surprise and con-
cern, for this was one of her favourites, — a happy, spirited, good-
hearted, honest lad, — the only son of a widowed mother, /ho had
reason to be proud of him.

* Oh, I'm all wrong every way. I haven't been at church for
weeks and weeks, find I have such thoughts,' he said, with a
shudder. ' I believe I shall never be able to enter a church

agani.

' Why ? Tell me everything, Harry,' she said, sitting down
before him, and fixing her beautiful eyes full on his face.

* Because I don't believe as I used. I can't see through things.
I don't think University life is good for a fellow in that way.
It shakes his faith in everything. There is so much confusion
in what we hear. It isn't easy, Mrs. Maitland, to know what to
believe.'

* That may be, Harry ; but everything is easy if we keep a firm

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MA in ANT) OF LAUIilJuSTON.

liold on the Friend who stickotli clDser than a brother. If you
ask Him, He will guide you throu<,'h all these trovildcs.*

* l^ut the worst of it all ia, I don't think I boli«ne oven in that*
cried the lad impulsively. *I have heard and reail so much
al)<>ut Christ hcung only a good man, whose example ia worthy of
imitation. They deny His divinity, some of them even His very
existence.*

* Who does ? ' asked Agnes ; and her voice had a hard, dry ring
in it, as if the words were wrung from her.

* Oh, a lot of the fellows j and then the arguments in books
are so convincing. Besides, I don't believe some of the professors
believe anything themselves, and they know.'

* Does Mr. Maitland know anything about your state of mind,
Harry r

* Yes,' he answered, in a low voice, but did not look at her.
* He is always so kind ; he tells us to be sure and ask him any-
thing we are not sure about. I asked him something one day,
and he told me to speak to you. I wonder why he did not
answer himself.'

Agnes Maitland rose, for she did not care just then that the
lad before her should see her face.

' You know Thriepland jMrs. Maitland 1 ' pursued the young
man, all unconscious how deeply he was probing. 'He has
gone over to the new Agnosticism, and he told me yesterday that
Mr. Maitland does not believe in Christianity. I just told him
to shut up, that he did not know what he was talking about.
Then he said, any fellow who had brains could tell that from his
lectures. Isn't it abominable what fellows will say 1 *

Agnes Maitland was silent still. What, indeed, could she
say 1 A weight of intolerable pain lay upon her heart, and every
word the student spoke cut like a knife.

* I was awfully disappointed when I spoke to Mr. Maitland,'
he went on, finding unspeakable relief in pouring all his trouble
out. ' It took me a long time to gather up my courage to do it.'

' And what did you ask him, Harry 1 Tell me exactly what
passed.*

* Well, you see, one night I was in Thriepland's rooms. Gov/
was there. Do you know Gow ? he's the Adonis of our year, — ■

ir.

MAI TLA ND OF LAVKIESTON.

845

an awfully good-hearted fellow, too; hut ho is a materialist.
Tliriepland and he got in discussion, and between them they did
for the Christian religion,' said the hid, with a Ijoyish freedom
of expression which on any other subject would have amused his
listener. * Gow went the farthest. He said nobody with any
intellect even pretended to believe in that old superstition, which
hud exploded, like other superstitions which held thrall in the
days of intellectual darkness and ignorance. He instanced
Huxley and Tyndall, of course, and all those known men. Then
Thriepland said we needn't go any further than our junior
Professor in Moral Philosophy. Then I got mad, and .«aid he
was a Christian man. Thriepland laughed at me, and asked if
I followed the lectures closely, and if I did, had I ever heard
him place anything higher than philosojjhy itself 1 He kind
of staggered me, Mrs. Maitland, and I didn't know what to
say.'

* vVas that before or after you spoke to Mr. Maitland 1 '

* Oh, before. I told them I would ask him whether Chris-
tianity or philosophy was the best guide for human life ; and
when I did ask him he did not answer for himself, but told
me to speak to you.'

It had grown almost dark in the room, and there was a kind
of solemnity in the silence which followed on the boy's last
words. Agnes Maitland was in a strange dilemma. She felt
that the young heart which had so leaned upon the strong soul
and sound judgment of the best beloved of his mental teachers,
had met with a grievous disappointment, which had hurt and
saddened him. She also felt that he was waiting for her to
answer satisfactorily, not only for herself but for her husband.
What a mockery, in that instant of pain, seemed the influence
of which her husband had so often spoken ! She knew that in
comparison with his, it was absolutely as nothing.

* I can have but one answer to make, Harry,' she said at
length. * There is nothing which will stand the test of time
and sorrow and temptation except the religion of our blessed
Lord. I speak to you out of the fulness of my own experience.
Do not let go your hold upon the Christianity you were taught
at your mother's knee, my buy. Shut your ears to the false

i 'J

iWCy

MMTLASI) or nAUIilESTOtf.

I (

ti'iidiing whicli woulil sock to set it asido. Above all, pray, and
I will pray for yon too, that the hi'li(!viii;^' heart may not
»lt(»^'(!thor j,'o from you, I'or thcri! is no sorrow on earth liko to
(hat sorrow.'

As sh<! passed l»y his chair to ring the bcsll, feeling that hIk!
could not l)car further talk on that subject, she laid her hand
lightly on his sunny head, and that touch seemed like; u bene-
diction to the lad. SIk! felt him trcimblc under it.

* I will try ! I will, indeed ! I will not listc^n to them,' he
cried earnestly. * When 1 know you believe; it all, it will help
nie not to doubt again.'

Tie was very earnest in what he was saying, hut the words
did not much reli(!ve the heart of Agnes Maitland. She knew
very well that on the morrow ho would be assailed again by the
old doubts, and that th(! V(!ry evasion of his questioning by the
one whom love had elected as his chief mental guide, hatl done
more than anything to undermine his wavering faith. I ask
you if the heart of a loving woman and a Christian wife; could
be probed with any keener pain than that 1 Just as her hand
was on the bell-rope, the door opened and John enttired, his tall
figure fdling up the doorway, and his face wearing that look of
placid and unutterable content which the presence of his wife
never failed to bring.

* All in the dark ? Who have we hero ? ' ho asked pleasantly.
'Oh, it is yoii, Harry? What dark c(»nspiracy are you and
Mrs. Maitland concocting in this weird light 1 '

* Nothing, sir. We were only talking,' said the lad, rising to
his feet. * I am afraid I liave taken up a great deal of Mrs.
^faitland's time.'

* I give up this day to you and your chums, Harry,' Agnes
answered, so quietly and cheerily that John noticed nothing
amiss ; * and I am not sure but that it is the best spent of all
my days.*

With lights and tea came another unexpected visitor.
Agnes was standing at the tea-table with her back to the door,
when she heard the sound of the voice she loved next best to
her husband's :

* Well, bairns, here am I come for myself to see Agnes among

MAirr.ANh OP l.AVHlKSrON.

847

tho latltlit'S Isn't this u jdciiHuro 1 liavo inomised niyHclf for
wrcksr

'Why, niollicr!'

Allies turned swiftly, pnsscd by John, and throw herself on
his mother's breast. It seemed to her tlmt who had come- in
direct answer to that unspoken prayer, the yearning' of an
iichin;^' heart. Margaret Maitland felt that there was a peculiar
pathetic clingiiifj; in that embrace, btit sho foreboro to notice it,
and came forward into tho room bright and cheerful and happy,
bringing tho sunshine with her.

*0h, you have a stranger?* she said, at sight of tho tall lad
sitting by tho hearth.

♦Not a stranger, mother, only one of tho laddies,' Agnes
made answer. ' Harry Christie, this is Mr. Maitland's mother ;
and this, mother, is tho son of the late minister of Durris, in
Aberdeenshire. Ho comes a great deal about us, and is one of
our favourites.'

Mrs. Maitland had a kindly word of greeting for the lad,
and then Agnes untied her bonnet-strings and unfastened lier
sealskin cloak, and, placing her in the cosiest chair, bade John
bring her a cup of tea to drink before she could go upstairs.

Margaret Maitland accepted those little attentions with a
smile of motherly content ; and, leaning back in her chair, with
the soft light on her face, she looked the sweetest mother in
the world.

' Why didn't father come too ? ' asked John, with his broad,
pleasant smile.

♦ Father ! ' Mrs. !^Taitland laughed softly. * He'll not sleep a
night out of Laurieston if he can help it. He said he would
drive in for me if I would be ready to leave at nine o'clock.
But I just laughed, and said, " No, thank you. I'm not to have
my pleasures cut down like a bairn, who is sent to bed at nine."
And are you both well % '

* If you will excuse me, Mrs. Maitland, I will go now,' said
Harry Christie. * Yes, thank you, I will come in later on.
There's a poor chap living in Cumberland Street; he is a
gardener to his trade, and works in the summer to pay for his
classes in winter. May I bring him round ? His name is Laidlaw '

ll;

t .

848

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

* Surely ; and bring him straight to me when he comes in,
and I shall be kind to him, Harry,' Agnes replied at once ; and
with a parting smile she let him go.

' It just does me good, bairns, to come here, and to see you,
Nannio, looking so grand, and yet so sweet and simple. Isn't
slie a success, John, and aren't you thankful for your mercies 1 '

' I am, indeed,' John answered, and he laid his hand on liis
wife's shoulder. She turned her head a little, and let her check
rest upon it, and her mouth trembled. She loved him with
a love which sometimes made her afraid lest she was making an
idol of her husband. At other times she felt no such qualm,
remembering the gracious limit set by Him who gave Himself
for us, — * Even as I have loved you.'

Is there not enough in that to satisfy even the most
passionate of human hearts )

CHAPTER XVIII.

'Seeds burst not their dark cells without a throe ;
All birth is effort ; shall not love's be so ? '

BOUT seven o'clock thr folding-doors were thrown
back, the lights turned up, and the guests began to
arrive. From the first, Agnes had tried to arrange
that there should always be ladies at these informal
gatherings, having heard both John and Michael say that the
social advantages offered to students were too often a one-sided
affair, at which they were supposed to entertain each other.
She had heard them comically describe students' parties, where
there was not a single lady present.

' As if we didn't see enough of each other in the day-time !
The fellows don't want to be herded together, and kept
isolated, as if they were questionable company,' he said to her
once. *If the ladies won't come, leave the lads alone.'

But the ladies were very willing to come, and Mrs. Maitland's
Friday evenings were always enjoyed.

But it was Agues herself who was the moving spirit of these
pleasant gatherings. John's mother found a cosy corner beside
a tall palm, and ihere sat, looking on with delighted interest.
She was not left entirely in peace, however, for Agnes had
many introductions to make, and there was always some
special favourite being brought to her side. Between thirty
and forty guests * dropped in ' that night, and the room was
pleasantly full. In the inner recess, a large table was spread
with tea and coffee and light refreshments, and Mrs. Maitland
was delighted to see that the lads were not bashful about

! i I

550

MAITLANI) OF LAURIESTON.

lielping tlionisclvcs. Tliere wiuo inany gentlemanly, refined-
looking fellowfl, who it was easy to sec had been reared in
cultured \omes ; but there were others, such as Laidlaw, whom
Harry Christie introduced, who were climbing the hill of know-
ledge under many difficulties and disadvantages. To such, who
had come from poor homes, and had seen but little of social
life, John's wife was specially kind.

As Margaret ^Faitland watched her gliding about among
them, perfectly at her ease, laughing and talking with them all,
she felt a great glow of motherly pride in her heart, and a
great gratitude to God that her son should be so blessed in his
wife. The evening, however, was not quite given up to talk.
There was plenty of singing and playing of diflFerent sorts, both
on the piano and the violin, and even the flute. Agnes was a
good, if not a great musician, and she was able to accompany
all tho songs, a7id even sang herself, though her voice was not
very strong. She was willing to do anything to make the time
pass pleasantly ; and it was good to see her skill in drawing out
the best that was in some of the shy, awkward lads, who, on
their first entrance, looked about as uncomfortable as it was
possible for them to look. John himself was invaluable as a
host. He was perfectly at home among the students, by reason
of his own youth, and hi.s sympathy with all the aims and
desires of young manhood. As Mrs. Maitland the elder looked
on that stirring scene, and saw the undoubted hold both had on
those present, she felt what great opportunities were theirs,
a!.d a passionate prayer rose ivonx her heart, that God would
guide tiiem to use that influence for the highest and holiest
ends.

* John,' she said ontie, when he came to her side, * what do
you think when you look at Agnes ? Is that not a great work
she is doing ? '

' It is greater than you or I, mother, have any idea of ' he
answered, in a low voice ; and his full eye, as it rested on tho
fair face of his wife, where she stood tho centre of a little
throng at the far end of the room, told something of what was
passing in his heart.

* She is a blessing to them, as she has been to us, my son,'

MA I TLA \ n OF LA I J HI luS TO X.

351

I lie nidtlier said. 'God guuit that her reward be not denied
li( r here and hereafter.'

Never had Mrs. Maitland's * at liomo ' passed off so pleasantly,
Mild with so little cfFort. Never iiad she seemed so ha[)i)y
imd bright, never liad her laugh resounded more frequently
through the room. She made conundrums for them, teased
them with puzzling rhymes and nonsense verses, though a
quiet word of counsel and sympatliy often came in between,
and when they broke up it was with expressed regret from all.
It is often thus, I think, when the spirit is weighed down, and
an effort is demandf^d of it, — it seems to soar higher than its
wont. In tlie midst of all her apparent gaiety, a shadow
dwelt with ^gnes Maitland, a liaunting fear which was taking
shape in her heart. When the last guest had gone, they
closed the folding-doors, and gathered about the hearth in the
cosy inner room> to have a cosy, homely chat. John said he
luid work to do which would keep him up in the study till the
early morning ; nevertheless he did not seem in a hurry to go,
but stood leaning against the mantelpiece listening to his
mother and Agnes talking of Laurieston and home afftiirs, and
occasionally asking a question himself. Agnes was sitting on
a stool at the mother's feet, her white hands crossed on the soft

folds of the mother's

gown.

To see those two women, the

dearest to him on earth, mother and daughter in heart if not in
name, was a great joy to John Maitland.

* We don't seem to have heard anything of Mike for a long
time, mother 1 ' he said, after th^y had discussed the immediate
concerns of the home nost.

'He writes every week, dear, and is very well,' Mrs.
Maitland answered. ' Ho is in the midst of great preparations
for Christmas. They are going to have unheard-of treats for
both old and young. !Mrs. Gilbert has asked father and me to
go up. I believe, bairns, that father has it in his heart to go ;
then we would come back, Michael and all, for New Year at
home.'

' Dear Michael,' Agnes said ; and there was a peculiarly
. tender smile on her lips as she spoke these words.

*I am just a litthi anxious about Willie just now,* said Mrs,

I '

I'.

!«!«

'I'lll

:,! ! ;i

352

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

= ;,

Maitland presently. 'Erne says he will he off to America in
the spring. He has quite taken the craze which has robbed us
of so many of our young men.'

*It will be terrible for you if he takes Eflfie away, mother,'
said Agnes.

* It will be a bit of a trial ; but I have great hopes of Effie.
She is developing, Nannie, in ijuite a wonderful way. Tlio
Thorburns were telling us of a distant connection of theirs
who went out to take up land in the north-west, but he left
his wife bc^'jid till he had made a home. Effie spoke of thai,
and said she would never stay behind. I liked the way she
said it. It showed that she has a firm and wholesome sense
of a wife's duty. It is only in extreme or exceptional cases she
is justified in quitting her husband's side.'

*Do you really thhik, then, that they toill goV asked John,
in surprise.

' I do ; and we will not seek to hinder them. It may be
that a new start on his own responsibility will make a man of
Will. He is very discontentcid, and 'iscontent leads the way
to other things.'

* Nothing but changed ! Well, t must bo off. We had a
class exam, to-day, and I have half a hundred papers to look
over before I sleep. Good night, mother. You'll look in
before you go upstairs, wife 1 ' he added, with a downward look
at his wife. * This is the sworn foe to hard work, mother. J
have to bar th.e study door agrinst her whiles.'

Mrs. Maitland laughed and shook her head. It did her
good to see their perfect happiness ; it was a rest to her after
the somewhat unsatis'actory domestic relations between the
young couple at Nunraw. She had not told all that was
vexing there, knowing how keenly Agnes felt her brother's
shortcomings.

But though Agnes said nothing, she knew very well that
there was a good deal involved in what Mrs. Maitland had said.

* How lovely it is to have you here,' she said, nestling her
bright head contentedly against the motherly knee. * It makes
home more home-like to see you sitting jUoO tnere, with that
dear smile on your face,'

r-^'vi

MA / TLA NlJ OF L. I UltlhlSTON.

353

* My iDiiims spoil mo in my old age,' said Margaret Maitlanc^,
touching the golden hair with caressing fingers. ' And don't
you think it is a joy to me to 1x3 here, Nannie? Some day,
when you have big sons of your own, you will understand
just how I feel to-night. When I saw you moving about
among the young men to-night, and knew what a beautiful
ideal of womanhood you were giving to them, I just prayed
that my son wouhl be worthy of the blessing God had given
him, and that he would learn to thank God for all the mercies
of his life.'

Agnes said nothing, and just then the mother could not see
her face.

' You are hapjiy and content, my bairn 1 It is not outward
yoeming?' she saiil iniiuiringly.

' Yes, I am happy. I did not think, mother, there could
1)0 such happiness on earth,' she answered, in a low voice. ' I
don't need to say anything to you about John. You know
liini ; but I do think there is not in his whole nature one alloy
of self.'

'He has not had much to try him yet, my dear. Life
has been all plain sailing for him,' replied Mrs. Maitland.
'Pon't spoil him, Xannie. The best of men can be spoiled.*

' Not by too much love, I think,' said Agnes, with a musing
snul(> ; then her face grew (^uite grave again, and a touch of
sadness evpii crept about her lips. Margaret Maitland's quick
perceiition i>aw that sadness, and divined its meaning just as
clearly i.s if it had been explained to her in Avords. She
knew that the woman kneeling at her feet, while giving to
her the confidence of a child, had also her inner sanctuary
into which no stranger could enter. She had herself taught
her son's wife that the first and most binding duty of married
life is to preserve Hs sacred privacv. and allow no alien hand,
however loved, to liff. that veil. The woman, who had a long
experience of life, kne;v that there was a doud on the happi-
ness of Agnes Maitland's heart ; but she loved and honoured
her for the unswerving loyalty which sealed her lips. Some
(lay, perhaps, it might be right and fitting that Agnes should
reveal to her something of her first experiences; in the

I!'

\V'\

35^

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

> 'I

uieaiitirae she could only wait and pray. Surely if the prayers
of the righteous avail, the shadow would not long darken that
happy home. They sat until the fire faded into dying embers,
and the clock in the adjoining room gave forth the fir«t stroko
of midnight. Then Agnes sprang up. ' That is twelve o'clock,
mother; such hours! IIow have you kept your eyes open'!
Come and I will take you to your room ; then I will run down
to see what John is about, before I go to sleep.'

A few minutes later, Agnes went to her own room, took off
her gown, and, throv,^iug a warm wrap round her, ran down to
the study. As she had expected, the fire was nearly out, and
her husband absorbed in his work.

* My dear, the room is quite chilly. Didn't you promise
me to mind the fire if I allowed you to sit up?'

He pushed back his chair, gave the papcu-s a great shove
with his arm, and before she could escape caught her in his
arms.

'My darling, I have scarcely seen you to-day, and now you
are as tired and white as possible,' he said, with unspeakable
tenderness, and he took lier face in his hands and looked down
into it, his eyes luminous \vith the great passion of his heart.

*Xow, John, let me mend the fire, and then I will .sit with
you fifteen minutes,' she said, and her face flushed under that
deep gaze just as it used to do in the old Laurieston days.
She was even yet a little reticent and distant witli him,
permitting his caresses rather than sharing them, though ther",
were times when she lavished upon him the outward demonstra-
tion of her own abiding love,

* Is mother away to bed ? '

' Yes ; isn't sho sw^et and dear, John 1 Nobody ever had a
mother like yours *

* Nor a wife,* he added. ' I ought to be k good man.'

She slipped down on the hearthrug at his feet, and, folding
her hands on his knee, looked up with big, earnest eyes into his

face.

'You are a good man, John,' she said slowly. 'But
although you are so good and love me so much, I am at the
same time a happy and an unhappy woman.'

II I

ou promise

MAITLAXD OF LAUlUluSTON.

355

He gavo a sli^lit start at the grave import uf lu-r wonls,
but did not ask a single (piostion, because he knew tou well
what hIic meant.

'John, I think it is no use for me to have the students
]i(>re either on week-days or Sundays. No doubt they
think it pleasant to come, but I shall never do them any

^'ood.'

'WhyV There was a slight harshness in that l)rief
monosyllable.

'Because your influence over them is ten times greater than
mine, and one word of yours can undo all I can iitter in a
year.'

' That is a strange way to speak, Agnes,' he said, with difficulty.
'You speak as if we were utterly antagonistic to each other, —
as if, indeed, I exerted an evil influence over these lads. Are
you not a little hard upon me ? '

* Oh no ! God knows I am not,' she cried, with swift and
sudden passion. ' I — I — give you more than your due. John,
you promised me not to lead any seeking mind astray. You
said that though you could not see certain things for yourself,
you would not seek to influence others. Have you kept your
promise 1 *

* That foolish boy Harry Christie has been tormenting you,'
said John, almost gloomily. ' The very fact of his speaking to
you at my request, might convince you that I have kept my
promise.'

*In the letter, perhaps; but in the spirit, John, have you
been faithful 1 He says your lectures teach that philosojOiy is
the very hi^irhost. Oh, John, think what fearful responsibility
rests upon you. You know how these lads love you and hang
upon your words. I entreat you to be careful. In a sense, the
tvolfare of these immortal souls is in your care,'

' Keally, my dear, you are, to say the least of it, unreasonable,'
he replied, with the first touch of irritability she had seen since
their wedding day. 'If you knew anything of the study of
philosophy, you would know that, above all things, it aims at
fair and open and just judgment. These young men must face
whatever temptations to unbelief their studies present, and

I i

'■m

: if

356

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTOS'.

coquer tl> in, >tr lot themselves be conqucrcil, as the case may
lie. T v^onscientiously say tluit I have never advanced any
the<-^t;:'t.' r* i/arding reliyiuus (iue;4ions, or laid down any law of
belie.t ,;ui, o* conrse, it is an impossibility that I can be a
hypocrite. I am ,>s careful as 1 can be ; but, at the same time,
I owe it to myself to be honest in my teaching. If it is
considered to be injurious to the students, it is for the
authoritief to dispense with my services. As yet there has not
even beci a hint of complaint.'

The tone of these words indicated to Agnes that she had
rexed her husband, that he was in a sense even angry with hc^r.
But she did not flinch.

'Holding ' .(ch beliefs,' she said steadily, *I question if it is
light for you to be a teacher of youth.'

'Perhaps not, looking at it from your point of view,' he said
'.juietly. ' But so long as my conscience docs not trouble me,
1 cannot be expected to resign a position such as I may never
lave the chance of again. I hate that you should be troubled,
le»rest,' he added passionately ; * but, indeed, it will be better
foi us both if we agree to let this vexed question rest. We
muni have a distinct understanding, or it will continually jar
apor us. I have given up something already, — a great deal, if
you oily knew it, — when I attend church with you. Even thai
^light <H;tion is more a pain than a pleasure, because I am not
'lonest i»> it.'

*If that is the case, John, I would much rather you stayed
♦way.'

Agnes 1 ■>se as she said these words, and her face was very
••ale.

*I have hui.^ you, Agnes. My darling, don't look at me so
otrangely. As I stand before you, I am a man honestly trying
to do my duty, and to give out the truth, as it appears to me
',.) be the truth. If I were a coward or a poltroon, I might
disguise my convictions and affect a delight in religious ordin-
ances ', but I cannot, even to please you.'

* I do not ask it, John. I thank God that you are honest
4nd straightforward, at least,' she said, with an indescribable
mingling of pathos and pain. ' I CQUfess I did not foresee all

M Air LAND OF LAVniKSrON.

S57

this. Perhaps we were hasty ; and I did not quite understand
linw firm and rooted were your convictions.'

• My wife, wliat do those words mean 1 Not that you regret
having married me ? ' said John hoarsely.

Her answer was to throw lierself on his breast, to clasp her
arms close about his neck, and lay her cheek against hi-"

'No, no; whatever happens,! thank God I am youi v , \
1 would rather be your wife, my husband, than fill , iv o. ;. r
place in the world. I will try not to vex myself, r . ." pt ::hap.s,
ufter a time, this little cloud will pass away.'

A f

\"y

.»•

— ■ '"-Hc'-'-^iS^i"'"'--' -^"'" '^"■'"- 1=

CHAPTER XTX.

4'!

' Yet calm tliy fears,
For thou can st gain, even from tlio bitti'rest part,

A strongor lieart.'

ROM that clay a barrier grew up Lotwoon John
Miiitliiud and his wife. It soomcd but a sb'glit
thini;, a (liU'crcnce of opinion r(><^'ar(lin<,' crood, ami
yet it was sufficient to poison tho happinoss of
both. John thoiij^dit linr unreasonable bocause she rcj^'ardcd it
so seriously, and felt a slight disappointment that aft«'r all slic
could bo both narrow and hard in her judgment. lUit liis
disapiiointment was as nothiiig to hers. She was a woman of
keen, even morbid sensitiveness ; her idea of duty and responsi-
l)ility was very high and imperative, and it was a positive agony
to her at that time to dwell on her husband's position and
itiHiience. She wished, with passionate regret, that Mitliael
Maitland had insisted upon John becoming simply the young
Laird of Laurieston ; there, at least, his opinions regarding
religious or other matters could have done only a limited barm.
But in Edinburgh, in the very heart of its busy, questioning
student life, coming in contact daily with dozens of inipiiring
minds, she told herself that he was doing a great and irrejiarablt'
wrong. Although she accepted his assurance that he never
sought to lay down any law of belief, she felt that his silence
was an evasion of the whole question, which was more convincing
than any passion of oratory.

She tried to go on in the old way, to take an interest in the
young men, and to make her home attractive and pleasant; but
she Avas very unhappy, and John knew it. The early months

358

T'^

on Jolin

iv slight
ri'od, and
piiicss of
j^Mi'dcd it
fr (di sli..

lint his

ivonian »»f

roRpoiisi.

ive iigoiiv

tioii and

Michael
le yoTing
•egardini,'
ed haiiii.
estioning
iifjuiring
'oj)aml)l<'
le never
3 aileneo

nvnicing

t in the
nt; 1)nt
nioiith.-!

MA /TLA XI) OF LAURIESTON.

of the new year prescuited a keen contrast to the closing months
of the old, and under the strain the wife's health began to give
way. Tlu're was a curious reticence between them. After that
uigiit the subject was never again mentioned. It must not be
supposed, liowev(!r, that they lived in silence or estrangement.
Hut for that one thing the relationship of their married life hml
licctn (piite perfect. If possible, John was yet more tender and
thoughtful and (considerate, and she accejjtiHl these evidences of
his love gratefully, and gave him her own in return. Hut eadi
was conscious of the strange, indel'nable something whiiih stood
liitween, shutting out each from the other's innermost heart,
perhaps there was a touch of pride on both sides, a tendenccy to
hold fast by conviction, a shrinking from even the semblance
of yielding. John no longer spoke of his University work,
or allud(Hl to the subject of his lectures. Agnes no longcM*
asked a single question regarding it. It is not for nuc to judge
wherein each erred. I have simply to chronicle events as they
hapiKiued. Marriage, the closest and most delicate of all the
relations of life, cannot long stand such a strain. Tln^ very
nature and obligations of its union forbid it. Therefore, though
the world saw nothing amiss, though the dear ones at Laurieston
susiiected nothing, the barrier grew, the breach widened, and
these two, who loved eiieli other beyond anything on earth,
walked separate ways and led a separate life, so far as matters
of conscience were conc(U"ned. It was impossible, therefore,
that either could be happy. Amid these curious conditions "f
life the days sped, and the session drew to its close." Agnes
was in the drawing-room one afternoon in April, watching from
her favourite window the tender Inu's of the April sky. Sjtring
had tarried in her coming, the new year had brought nothing
but frost and snow and scathing easterly winds ; and, after a
royal temj)est, during which March tore out like the i)roverl)ial
lion, — lo, a great change ! the air became soft and balmy, the
sun shed mild, glorious beams everywhere, the hard outline and
lowering cloud-banks in the sky were melted into that dappled
loveliness characteristic of the spring. Winter was over and
gone, the birds took heart of grace, and sang their gayest songs ;
— in a word, earth seemed to have been granted a new lease of

i^i

3G0

MMTLAXi) or LArniEsrox.

'• (

I,!

life. Agnns hatl iihvnys lovcil tlic spriiiL,'. At Lauru'slon slic
had foiiiul tlu: cai'lii-st leaf ami Inul. S)ii> hail kiinwii llic
liaunt of the piiniro.' > and ili<> datl'odil, and had watched thi>
sweet unfolding of tho catkins on the river hank with a tender
eye. She seemed to have lost that interest. I'erliaps in tlic
city there is no spring to' look for; ami yet, wh.it more extiuisilc
than tho tender outline of the sky above the clustering roofs
and spires, what more beautiful than the retlected tints on llie
placid sea? A sense of rest stole into her lieart as her eyes
«lwelt on the familiar and yet ev(M'-changing scene. There was
a great change in her. Her fact! was not less swtiet, but it was
more grave, and there was a hard line, about the mouth, which
told something. She looked out of lu^alth ; and more, — tjlie
did not look like a happy woman.

* There is a gentleman in the study, ma'am. I could not tell
him when tho master would bo in,' said the servant, following
up her knock at the drawing-room d(Jor.

* At half-past four, Mary. Ask his name. If he has come
any distance he had better wait,' resj)onded the mistress, without
looking round.

The servant withdrew, and shortly there was a heavier foot
on the stairs, and the door opened.

'When I heard yo\i were in 1 made bold to come up,
Nannie,' said a familiar voice, and Michael strode into the
room.

Agnes sprang up.

* Oh, Michael ; dear, dear Michael. How glad I am to see
you ! '

She gave him both her hands, and he bent down and kissed
her, — not saying what he thought, that she was greatly changed.

' When did you cornel Are you at Lauriestoni We never
heard that you were expected.*

' Nor am I. I felt fagged, and came oflf for a rest. I have
just come in from Carlisle with the 3.10 at Caledonian, and
bethought myself of the half-way house.'

' John will be so glad to see you. He will be in in half an
hour. We dine at half-past four. My new housemaid is a little
forgetful. She only came yesterday, so does not know our

^l
w
•h
in

MAiTLAM) or LArniEsros.

.'iOl

. '<

visitors, nor i\\i\ nilcs of the. liouso. Ykh, you lookoil fuggeil,
tltiir ^lichftiO. You niiiHt liivvt" a long, long rest.'

Sli<! drew u chair to tlio licarlli for Iiiiu, though it wn8 \\()\
cnld ; and whon h»i scutrd himself, shf took ii .hair oppnsitt- t>»
liiiii, and lookotl at him with aircctioiiutc sisterly eyes.

' And how are you both ? Do you thiidc you deserve* to he
Hpokento? I hav(* had onc! miserahle scrawl from Jook, ami
nothing from you, ainee I went liaek to Coldaire on the 8th of
January. Pretty ]»ehavi<»iir that to your dear brother ! ' he said,
in mild sarcasm.

Her eyes filled suddenly; and these tears gave Michiiel a
great sliock. What eoidd they mean f

•The days seem to Hy,' she said, a little con"*- 'nedly, as
she turned her head uwuv. ' Hut you hear so eoustautly from
mother, that you can dispense with letters from any othei
quarter.'

•Well, yes. Perhaps T am too exacting, and I know you
lead busy lives. When «h»es the session close I'

' Next Friday.'

•Of course you cr . Mng o\it to Lauriestoni'

•For a day or two only.'

•Why? Hasn't .John a month?'

•Yes; but we like lumie best. We are selfish, are we nof?'
she asked, with a faint smile, which did not in the least chMcive
Mii^hae. In a moment his unerring perception told him that
they had rtomething to hide from the eyes of the Laurieston
hous(;hold.

• 1 can't say you have improved in the atmosphere of Auld
Keekie, Nannie,' he said gravely; 'you look positively ill. 1
nmst be at John to take you away somewhere for a con pl^ttj
change.'

• We shall not be leaving home for any length of time, Mi< hael.
Has John told you aljout the l)ook he is writing?'

•No. The last htter T hail from him he wrote in the
University Library on the 14th of January, — ^just a scrap answer-
ing a question I asked a))uut a book I wanted him to get for me.
Is he writing a book 1 '

' I believe so.'

■ It

Mill

3G'2

MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

Tliat answer inado IMichacl positively sore in his mind.

* Don't you know all abont it, Nannie 1 I thought John and
you n'cre one in everything.'

' No ; we ar(! two in some things. I don't ai)])rove of the hodk,
so, of course, he doesn't speak to me aljout it. But there is his
key turning in the hall door, so you can hear all about it,' slic,
said, a little reckles.sly. *I must run and deck myself a little in
your houijur. Won't you go down and surprise him in the hall 1 '

Michael nodded, but obeyed her somewhat slowly. She left
the room first, and, as he rose to follow her, he passed his ha ml
across his brow in an anxious, perplexed way. One thing was
clear, that something had come between John and liis wife
alreatly. Michael shook his head as lie went downstairs, but for
an instant he forgot his anxiety in the joy of clasping hands
with his brother. There was no mistaking the heartiness of
-lohn's welcome ; his eyes were full as he gripped Mi(;h:iers two
hands, and he threw his arm round his slioulder in the old
fashion of their boyhood, and so led him into t\m study.

* Dear old chap ! when did you come 1 Have you seen i\gnes ] '
. * Yes, I have seen her. She is not looking well, John.'

* I know that.'

Micliael saw his brow contract and his strong mouth quiver,
familiar signs to him of his brother's deep emotion.

' She will be better by and by, I hope. Why, there is the
dinner-bell already. Is Agnes in the drawing-room?'

'No; she went upstairs, I think.'

' I hear her foot,' said John quickly. 'We'd better adjourn
to t\w dining-room. You'll be ready for dinner after your
jounu^y.'

John went out before him into the hall, and just then Agnos
came down the staircase. He met her on the last step, and,
putting his hands on her shoulders, kissed her, and then touched
her head with his hand.

' My wifie,' Michael heard bin; say, and the deep tenderness
of their meeting only deepened the mystery to Michael's mind.
Dinner passed olT pleasantly enough, and, though Michael Avas
keenly obsiervant, he detected nothing amiss in the demeanour of
husband and wife towards each other. If there was a difference,

SWSWKa^jr.TTiv"*^^-" •

MAtTLAND OF LA UlilE^TON.

3G3

it was not of the commonplace kind, which betrays itself in an
altered manner. The cause, whatever it was, lay too deep for
the chance observer to detect it.

' I know you have volumes to say to each other,' Agnes said,
wlu'i! they rose from the table. ' I shall have my rest, and then
you can come to tea with me at six. See that John doesn't
lit the study fire quite out, Mike.'

* How have you been to-day, Agnes ? ' John asked, detaining
her a moment at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes filled at the
soarching and deep tenderness of his look.

' Quite well ; but I am afraid I am very weak-minded, John,
When you look at me like that I do nothing but cry. I never
us(!d to be a weeper, r.s you used to call it.'

He i)ut his arm about her and led her upstairs to her dressing-
room, where he laid her down for her afternoon rest, which had
of late become a necessity.

' Michael will ask you a great many questions, dear,' she said,
looking up at him as he bent over her. 'Tell him everything.
It will relievo your mind, and he always understands.'

'IJearest, it is intolerable to me that there should be any-
thing to tell,' ho said passionately. 'Why will this thing
stand between usi Is it to be the skeleton on our hearth
for ever 1 '

' I fear, until one or other of us yields,' she said sadly. ' How
can two walk together except they be agreed ? '

He gave her no answer except with his eyes, and they spoke
nothing but love. When the door closed upon him, Agnes
turned her face to the wall, and a sob came from between her
white lips. She was weak and weary, body and spirit alike had
sunk under the strain of the bitter cloutl which had overshadowed
her happiness. John went downstairs but slowly. He knew
very well that Michael would not wait a moment, that he would
probe to the quick. Nothing could long be hid from those
deep blue eyes. In a sense he felt glad of it. The longing for
sympathy was sometimes intolerable. Without an outlet, the
human heart is like to be consumed by its own passions. He
was perfectly conscious of the keenness of his brother's look
when he turned to him as he entered the study, but he did not

' k

1 : ■

■ I-

■I

I I

3()4

MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON.

seek to avoid it. The brothers' eyes met for an instant, then
John sat down and covered his face with his hands.

' It will do you good to speak, old fellow/ said Michael at
length. 'You know me of yore; I can be as silent as the
grave.*

It was some minutes, however, before John uttered a word.

* You see a change in Agnes,' he sa'd, lifting up his head and
looking inquiringly at his brother.

* She looks thinner, and a little harassed ; a cliange from the
city will do her good.'

* We cannot travel fur in the meantime. We shall only no in
Laurieston for a few days, I cannot risk her ftr away from tin*
best medi(ial skill in the meantime. Of course you know whut
we expect next month 1 '

* I did not until to-day,' Michael answered. ' I uuderstuml
your anxiety. Cheer up, old fellow. After it is all over tlitst'
anxieties will be at an end, and there will be another precious
life to live for.'

John shook his head, and his bosom heaved. He rose hurriedly,
and took a great stride to and fro the room.

* She is not well in health, Mike, and the mental strain she
has undergone is the worst possible for her just now. What
maddens me is that I can't relieve it, although I am the cause of
ii. Of course you know we are not at one on religious (iu(>stions.
I told her fairly before our marriage how I stood, and left her to
choose. Her own faith is so unassailable that she imjuM not
comi)rehend how far I had drifted, I suppose. She tortures
herself now with thinking I am leading my students on to
destruction. What creatures women are, Michael ! They ;iie
all conscience and heart. I believe my wife has jiassed throun;li
the very agonies of martyrdom during the last few montlis.'

* She has an intense nature, I know, and her capabilities for
loving and suffering are very large.'

* I have proved that. "Dear as she is to me, and you cannot
know how dear, there are times when I could regret the stei<
w? took. I cannot see how it is to end. It would be easy
for me, in one sense, to assume what I do not believe. 1 might
be able even to satisfy lier. l>ut my soul revolts from it. A

Istant, then

[Michael at
-nt as the

a word,
head and

from tlif

unly no (u
y friJiii th.'
:iio\v what

inderHtand
over thcs,.
r precious

hurriedly,

strain slic
V. Wiiat

e caust' (if
jncstions.
t'ft her til
:<nil(i not

tortures
ts on tti
Tlicy ;nv

throned)
ths.'
lities for

MAITLANJJ OF LAUIUESTON.

365

man without the courage of his convictions is a poor creature,
Mike.'

' You could not so insult her, John. A woman like your
wife deserves the highest tribute of respect, and this is
absolute truth and candour on your part. If I know her at all,
I can say she would rather know your innermost heart, what-
ever it may be, than be 'deceived with a false seeming.'

* We were so happy uefore this barrier grew up ; so hajipy,
that I used sometimes to be afraid that it could not last,' said
.lohn, with a groan which rent Michael's heart. 'I suppose th(5
conditions of mortal life forbid such perfect happiness can last.'

' John, in the midst of all this conflict, is there no emptiness,
iio desire for that which alone can satisfy .lUman need ? You
have proved that even the sweetest and purest of human love
is sometimes only an instrument of suffering.'

John shook his head. *I do not know what I believe,
Michael,' he said, with stiange and sudden passion. Only 1
know that sometimes I wish I had never been born.'

I cannot
;he .stei,
be easy
T niij^lit
lit. A

i '

CHAriER XX.

'Blending his soul's sublimest need
With tasks of every day.'

ICIIAEL was '. "trrly disappointed, tliougli perhaps
scarcely suri)i'iscd. lie had feared this, knowiiif^
the absolute conscientiousness of both husband and
wife. While sympathising perhaps most (iecply
with Agnes, yet his disappoinipient specially concerned hiT.
He understood fully the v<;!/i,i:^ nature of her grief, and
yet he wished she had borne it 'i> a different spirit, lie had
great hopes that wlien her physical trial was over, and .-ilu!
should be fully restored to health and the new sweet interests
of life, that her old simny-heartedness and courage would return
to her. In the meantime, he saw that she was crushed under
the blow. Ibj was concerned for her, and concerned for John,
who was so borne down by his domestic affairs that his public
usefulness was likely to be marred, Michael discerned in him
but a languid interest in the work upon whi(;h, before, liis heart
had been so passionately set. He believed that if he took the
trouble to inquire outside, he would in all probability hear a
go kI deal of diss; 'isfaclion expressed with the junior professor.
The trouble was so very real to Jolin, that it absorbed his best
euerf]'^ ; he had iiot yet risen above it nor obtained strength to
keep ic in the background. It was inexpressibly touching to
see the way in which John poured out his heart, and hung upon
ti >" words of his younger brother.

They were still talking when the tea-bell summoned them to
the drawing-room. They found Agnes th(ire looking very

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

867

'orl Michael

^ was

11-

i;rt till-

ii^m^

sweet and fair in lier comfortable tea-gown, waiting for tlicm
with a brighter look on her face.

' I think you have had a good rest to-day, Nannie,' John said,
looking at her with satisfaction.

•Yes, dear, and a good dream,' she answered. *T f»^U asU'f'i»
in a few minutes, soothed by the hum of your Voices. \V»;11,
have you turnisd everybody inside out, as Jean Thorburn ui^ed
to say, and thrashed them well % '

There was a little twinkle in her eye as she h
his tea, which provoked an ansAvcring smile in
more like herself than her husband had seen her f(

* Oh, don't tell me vou haven't gossippfd,' sin
'John is a fearful gossip. Ton should hear the tai .^
me home sometimes. The grandmntli rly old ♦' ■
male mind is above gossip is cxpinded, sir, long
now, am I not to share in it? Have yu no exriu
ences to bring us from Coldaire 1 '

' A great many, if you have [)ati(Mue to listen
Michael answered. ' I am seriously thinking of writing a book.

' Oh, that would be fine ; and don't forget to introiluco
Arthur and that comical Crony. Do you remember his solemn
look and his big ears on our Avedding day, Johni '

' No. I don't think I saw anything that day but y . face,
my lady,' John made answer gaily.

' Just listen ! and I am expected to believe that, Michael ! '
said Agnes. ' And are you going to give yourself a long holiday
just nowl'

' A few weeks ; but I was fully expecting th t you would
both be at Lauri';ston for a fortnight at least.'

' So we may yet,' said Agnes soberly. ' We have not dared
to tell mother that our visit will be very short. Have you
heard that small Madgie Laurie is walking t '

' Madgie Laurie ! Oh, Effie's baby V laughed Michael. * IFo ;
I don't think mother mentioned that item, although '*■ is ame of
great importance.'

* So you have found sufiicient encouragement in Coldaire to
make you desire to continue the work I* said John, after a
moment.

1 ' 1

'fi I

368

MAITLAM) OF LAUHIESTON,

|!li

1 ii

*Yes. I wish both of you would conio through and see for
yourselves. It has been very iii)hill, and we have had a great
deal to discourage us too ; but w(j hjrvc got a fair start, and tho
people are getting intorcstotl. Thoy regarded me suspiciously
as a kind of harmloss lunatic at iirst, but tliat is all past.'

* And have you no oppoditiou from the regular clergy of tlio
place ? ' asked Agnes.

'There is no regular clergy except the vicar, who lives at
Alnniouth. lie holds me in such measureless contempt that
he never takes any notice of me, though 1 have met him twice
at dinner and once on a public platform. There is j curate ;
pour fellow, I'm sorry for hinj.'

* Does he live in Coldairc 1 ''

'Yes; and he was. well disp ood towards me, and we wore
workir-j^ beautifully together, when tho vicar swooped down
upon him, and forl)ade him to have anything to do with mc.
Of courbo he had to obey ; but it is rather hard on him, for his
heart is in tho work,'

*Tell us about it, Michael Isn't it interesting, Johnl'
asked Agnes quickly.

* Uncommonly ; but I must go. I have a nieeLing at seven,
but I'll oidy be an hour away. You won't miss me when you
have Miciiael to talk to you.'

»So saying, John hurried away.

*iiv> Icmls a busy life,' said Agnes, as the door closed. *I
often •.vovkIci that he keeps his splendid health. He never lias
ail ache, and b^? gets through so mudi. I think he does more
than he nued, lie is so conscientious and obliging.'

' He was always that, even in our school days. Wlien home
work was optional, John always did it. Dear fellow, he'll
make his mark yet. Don't look grave, Nannie. I do think
you vex yourself needlessly. All will come rigi t.*

* But you don't know, Michael. If you did ' —

* What do I not know ] I knew everything before yon wore,
married. John did not hide his soul from me. He has told
me a gieat deal to-night.'

' Ar.Ci yet you say I vex myself needlessly, Michael, — ynu!^
exclaimed Agnes, with wide-open eyes. *Do you think it is

ilf

MAITLAND OF LAUR1E,ST0N.

3G9

nothing that lio is heli)ing younger mun than liini.splf along the
path of unbelief 1 '

* I think you exaggerate. Arc you positive that John is an
unbeliever? I think myself, that at the bottom ho is a
servant of God. I have never been hopeless about him. I
believe I shall live to see him make a grand atonement for his
brief swerving from his post.'

Tlie M'ifo's face flushed. She looked at Michatil's face with
ryes wliicli sought to rcail his very soul.

' Michael, if T could believe that, God knows what it would
be to me,' she said, in a painful whisper. ' If you knew what 1
linve suffered.'

' 1 know ; it is written on your face,' said Michael, with that
infinites tenderness which made him at times almost womanly.
' Agnes, don't you think your own faith has lacked sometbing 1
In so utterly giving way to despondency, have you given testi-
mony in favour of Him with whom all things are possible ? '

'T never tliought of that' —

Sbe spoke these words very slowly, and he saw that they had
■iwakened a wonder of thought in her mind ; then suddenly
Itiiiding forward in her chair, she looked at him with a wistful-
ness wbidi he never forgot.

' Tell me what to do,' she said, as simply as a child,

Mi(;iiael was deeply moved.

* Who am I that I should advise you, Agnes ? ' he said at
length. ' But since you ask me, I will speak. My only
qualification is the deep love I bear you both. Perhaps, too,
because T stand in a sense on the outside, I can form a bettor
judgment. I do not think, my sister, that this grievous
depression of soul is what God requires of you just now.'

' It has laid hold of me. Oh, Michael, I have been so sinful,
I have even prayed for death ; and the awful thing was that
I could not speak of it to John. If you knew how I have been
torn between two desires, — the desire to live for him, and the
desire to be at rest.'

* God requires you in the meantime, Agnes, to live for him,
and to show him in your own life such a bright example of
Clirist's service that John will be constrained to follow it,' said

2 a

-r

«l|

■J.-'»i

1*11 I

il'

370

MAITLANI) OF LAUJilK.bTOy.

Micli.ic], witli kiiulling eye. *I^o you not soo liow your
iiiiliaitpiiioss is 8ai)pin;,' his iiitorost in life ? Forgivo nio if
I speak so jdainly. It is what you wish, I know, ami yet I fed
ashanicd tliati should diiro so to sj)cak to you.'

'Who could speak so avcU, dear Michael, as you, who havo
given up so much for the Lord 1 Tie sent you to speak to iiu;
to night, just when T ncu'dcd you nutst.*

lie sa^v that she had taken '-ourage, that a now idea of duty
had arisei' in hor soul. The thought that ho had helped lier iu
an hour of need was one of peculiar sweetness to him.

M have not heen just to Jolin, and he is so good, Michael.
ITe has often put me to shame,' she said, swift and relentless
in her own self - CMndenniation. 'If he, professing nothing,
walks so un.sellisldy, what poor honour I, Avho profess much,
have been doing to tlio Master! My eyes have been opened
to-night, dear Midiael. Ood has .sent you to mc'

Slie began U> ])aee to and fro, with hor hands clasped before
her. Her checks were softly flushed, li^-r eyes shining Avith a
st-adfast light. Once more hope and high (expectation for these
two fdled Michael's heart. For tiiem he saw tb.e realization of
a dream Avhioh one day might have biim fulfilled iti liis own
ife. .\lthougli tlicro was no apparent (dinn?;e for the worse in
hir. health, Michael still believed that ho would not be loii"-
lived. Sometimes we havo such intnitinr.s, and they are seldom
witliout foundatifm. Michael lived from day to day, setting
his house in order every hour, so lliat when tlio Son of Man
came lie should find him watching. For such, death has no
sting. There was nothing morbid or gloomy about him ; his
interest in the daily concerns of life, in tho happiness and wel-
fare or sorrow of others, was keen and lively ; his laugh had lost
none of its frequency or mirth ; his smile was ready ; his gay,
bintoring way unchanged. Long after, when these things
became a memory to ^': ,30 who loved him, they marvelled over
them ; though . i''ic he was with them, they paid no heed.

I am vorj ^elfish, Michael, talking so much of myself and
my own troubles,' Agnes said presently ; and, recurning to her
own chair, she looked at him witli a calm, smiling face, which
told that peace had returned to her boul. 'Only one thing

MA/TLA ND OF LAUh'//':S'IVy.

371

liuw your
'f,'iv(! ini! if
i<l yot I foci

I, who liavo
x'iik to 1110

•If a of rliity
elpcrl licr j,,
I.

1, Micliaol.
il relentless
"g Hdtliiiiif,
"foss mncli,
)oen opened

sped before
iiiinc; with a
on for these
3alization of
in Ills own
;he worse in
lot ho loncj-
' ai'O s('l(l(irn
clay, sotting
>on of ]\ran
sath has nn
t him ; his
!ss and wei-
gh liiid lost
r ; his gay,
lese thing-",
veiled over
heed,
myself and
(u"ng to her
'ace, which
one thing

more, and then we will talk of yon. You hcaid nic say to
,I()hii that I had a good dream when I was lying down iipstnirs,
I am not fancifnl about dreams ; but may I tell you this oner

* I should like to hear it,' he answered ai once.

♦I felt very sad when John left mc; and my heart was so
heavy, that I was surprised when sleep came to mc so easily and
sweetly. I heard you speaking downstr.irs ; and after a little
the hum of your voices seemed to be lost in a great volume of
.-(Mind which came from a great throng of people gathered on a
mountain side. It was a very steep hill, and the only path to
its summit was very rough and stony. It was most difficidt to
get a footing on it. The people were pressing and thronging
upwards; and yot there was nothing to be seen but a thick
veil of mist, which hid the summit, and even rolled down the
hill and obscured the light. I thought I had come very late to
l)egiu the ascent, and that, as T looked up and saw the long,
toilsome road, my com-age failed me, — especially as I saw sorrow,
and even despair, on so many of the faces round me, T had
nothing to help me up, and seemed to .slip back at every step. .At
last it grew quite dark, and the mist rolled down so closely that
it even hid the faces of those nearest to me. I felt very forlorn,
and was alxmt to give up, Avhen suddcidy the mist rolled Ixiek,
- just like a ciirtain, Michaid, it seemed so near and real, — and I
.saw, amidst a soft, shining light, a face looking out. It was the
faee of my own mother, Mi( hael, and .she beckoned to me. And
just then I looked round, and John was with me, and I ludd
fast by his arm, and began to climb again. Anil then I aAvokc.'
' And so it will be in the future, please God,' said Michael,
with a bright smile. 'If you lose heart after that direct
message, Agnes, I shall lose heart for you.'

Then they began to talk of other things, — of Michael's work
in (Joldaire, of the prospects of Will and EfFie, and of the
swecthcait "Wat had found. And so in the mid.st of the dear
home gossip the evening sped; and when John returned at
nine o'clock, he heard the echo of their laughter as 'le opened
the hall door.

There had been no such happy evening in that house since
Chi'istmas-day ; and, when they parted for the night, it was with

I! '

'Hi

372

M MIL AM) OF nAURIRSTON,

thn foHiiig tlial Ww tliiys of youth hatl not j^'oik; from tlirni f..r
over.

'Mike looks woll, (loosii't he, Nannie 1' John said, whon tiny
WRfP alono.

'Very wciU. Perhaps after all ho may live to be an oM man,
and even to fdl a grt'at position.'

*It is possible. Thoro are few positions he would not Rracc.
He has a ripeness and soundness of judgment such as I shall
never attain, though I live to be a hundred.*

' Perhaps T think otherwise,' laughed Agnes. ' T love Michaol
dearly; but at Ihe same time, in my eyes, there is no com-
parison })ctween you.'

It was good to see the light which leaped into his eyes at
these words.

' Then, after all, you don't quite regret having thrown yourself
away, wife ? ' he said half lightly, and yet with a touch of wist-
fulness which betrayed that the thought had troubled him.
For answer she laid her slender hands on his tall shoulders,
and looked straight into his eyes.

* What do yoti think 1 ' she asked, in a curious, quiet voice.

* There have been moments, dearest, when I have been tor-
tured with the thought that, instead of the happiness I promised
you, I have only given you a cross,' he said passionately.

*It is because I haive failed so miserably in wifely duty,
John,' she said. ' I will try, I will indeed, to be a better wife
to you, — to show my gratitude for your love. I did not think
that there could be such love as yours in this world.*

Her assurances were as the wine of life to him. In his
misery he had been merciless with himself, depreciating every
effort, every motive of his own, even the most unselfish. Agnes
read it all in his face, and hid her own in shame, for indeed,
when he had asked for bread she had given him a stone. In
that instant Agnes Maitland renewed her marriage vow, and
prayed for strength to show 'n her daily life, — above all, in her
relations with her husband, — whose she was and whom she
served. They sat down together by the dying fire, and for the
first time for many months opened their hearts to each other.
The forbidden subject, which had been as bitter as gall to them,

SgSBSSS'»<P""«?«»"«»«!"««'i''?'»''''*f*'*^

n Micy

'I iniin,

race.
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MA in AND OF LAin!//:sroy.

878

Wiis frooly spoken of ; and before the nobility and absolute truth-
fulness of her husband's soul, Agnes felt herself shrink into
nothingness.

While they were talking of these sacred things, she with her
fiico lying on his breast, Michael slept upstairs the fresh and
(Infandess sleep of a guileless heart. How little either of them
dreamed that his work was done, and tliiit his last obedience id
the Master's behest, was to hold the cup of cold water to the
lips of his brother's wife 1

1*1 :
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TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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(716) •72-4503

I r

CHAPTER XXL

• Home of our cliildliood ! liow affection clings
And hovers round thee witli her seraph wings 1*

h<
Iv

HAV]*'. an idea that I should like to walk out to
Laurioston to-day,'- Michael said at breakfast next

morning.

'You could not have a hettor day for it, if you
are able,' said John. *T have had niy turn down to the Botanic
and hack already. Do you know, 1 have a Avarm heart to the
Botanic ; it is fidl of Phil, sonushow. Do you remeniher how
we used to rush down to he in time for his ..ecture at eight
o'clock in the summer mornings? Good old days, eh, Mike?'

' Pine old days,' INIichael answered, with a sparkle in his eye.
* Student life is very jolly. Don't you mind, Nannie, how we
used to come home on Friday nights, and the pancakes you
used to make surreptitiously for Jockl Does he get pancakes
on Friday nights yet 1 '

*Not he. There are no impromi»tu feeds noAV ' laughed
Agnes. * Everything is done dt^cenlly and in order. Some-
times 1 think it is a little monotonc)us. Clockwork regularity
is very comfortable in a way, Imt there is no novelty about it.
Now at Laurieston one never knew what was to happen, and
there were the most delightful meals at all sorts of unheard-of
hours.'

'Ah, but Laurieston is the country, my dear, and you are
bound now to conform to the usages of polite society,' said
Michael, with gentle banter. * Looking forward, I see you and
Jock full-fledged members of our grave, decorous, professional

S74

MAlTLANb OF LAUltiKSTOS'.

37u

aristocracy; dispensing a perfectly iniinaculntn but slightly
heavy hospitality; growing more and nxorc conservative year
])y year ; and fully convinced that there never was, and never
will be, a more glorious and important institution than the
hoary University of Edinburgh.'

'You radical, to go back so completely on your Alma Maret,*
put in John, laugT-'ng too at the pictiu-e ;^[ichael drew.

' At bottom, pernaps, I love the old institution as well as you,
though I believe she'll need to make a great stride one of these
days, or there'll be an earthquake which will shake her founda-
tions. I say, isn't this Friday ? Is there anytliing to hinder
you walking with me ? I can wait an hour or two ; the days
are long now.'

* Do go, dear,' said Agnes, meeting hor hii.«nand's oye. * It
will do you all the good in the world. He mis.s(\s his walks,
Micliael, and the old wife, never a great pedestrian, has not
improved.*

* Well, I think I will. I can be ready at twelve, Michael.
I'll just walk out, shake hands with them all, and catch the
three o'clock train at Inveresk, which will bring me home
in time for dinner. I haven't been that old road since one day
you end Phil and I tramped out two years ago.'

It was high noon when they turned their faces southwards
from the city. As they passed by the University gate, nothing
would satisfy Michael but that he should enter in and take a
walk round the quadrangle. John was quito struck at tlie
affectionate, even tender interest with which his brother
viewed the familiar precincts; he seemed to find a peculiar
delight in recalling all the memories wilh which the grey old
wal'S were fraught. It was an exquisite spring day, just such
another as that memorable one on which they had walked the
same way, and discussed a matter of vital interest to both.
There was nothing of the kind broached that afternoon.
Their talk was all of home and home affairs, only interrupted
at times when Michael would stand still before some wayside
blossom, or point out to John a nest hidden snugly in the
thicket of the high hawthorn hedge. He was a boy still in
his enjoyment of these simple things. John marvelled at

If]

i I

lii

I •'!

■ I

376

MAITLANn OF LAURIKSTON,

him that day, feeling glad to see him so bright and interested
and well.

• I say, do you over hear from Phil 1 ' he asked, as they came
near the Old Town.

•Never. We've lost touch of each other somehow,* John
answered. 'Does not Mrs. Gilbert hear sometimes from
himr

'Occasionally. He is a queer boggar, Phil,' said Michael
musingly. *I believe I can prognosticate his future. He'll
live on in that old Loipsic till he becomes fossilized into a
regular German savant y who knows nothing and cares for
nothing outside the musty covers of his books. I wish he'd
waken up ; — that is no life for a young man of his capabilities
and energies.'

*He says he's absorbing in the meantime,' John replied,
with a laugh. * He has an insatiable thirst for knowledge.'

• The mistake is to go on selfishly absorbing without giving
anything out. After a time the desire to impart what he
knows will depart, and then the fossilizing process will be
complete. I'm disappointed in him.'

'Well, I suppose he gives out to a certain extent as
a master of pupils,' said John; but Michael shook .his
head.

• That is merely mechanical ; I could gather that from what
he said last summer.'

'If he had married Effie, he would have been a different
man,' said John quietly 'He would have had something
substantial to live and work upon, then.'

' Hear the wise old Benedict,' laughed Micliael. ' Well,
perhaps you are right. A man is the better for an earthly
incentive of some kind. So here is the grey old burgh again.
Isn't it queer, Jock, that however old we grow, and whatever
ties we may make elsewhere, the bairn's hame is aye the
dearest, at least, as long as the mother is in it. What a
blessed mother we have had, — and have still, thank God I It is
something to have lived, if only for that.'

John did not answer. Michael's words required none. On
that point, at least, the brothers were entirely agreed.

rested

I came

John
from

[chael
iHe'Jl

ito a
for

he'd
lities

M AIT LAND OF LAVlUESTON.

377

Verily, Margaret Maitland's huirns had arisen to call her
l>lessed, and so motherhood gave her its incomparable recom-
pense.

It was some minutes before Michael spoke again, and then
his words surprised John, and made the colour rise in his
cheek :

* If the child is a son, Jock, will you call him Michael 1 '

* I don't know. It will be Nannie's prerogative to name the
chUd.'

* I hardly think she will call him after her own father ; but
she may. I should like him to be called Michael, and T
should like to think, too, that he would be a minister of Christ
some day. "Will you tell her that, John ? '

'What do you mean, speaking like that, Mikel' John
asked, almost roughly, for the words chilled him to the heart.
They were passing through the churchyard just then, and,
without making answer at the moment, Michael left his
])rother's side and crossed the green SM'ard to the family
burying ground of the Maitlands.

'There has been no record added to this stone for a great
many years, John. Six-and-twenty years since our elder
brtjther died,' Michael said quietly, when he returned. John
made no answer, nor was any further word spoken between
them until they broke the silence when their mother met them
at the door.

' My sons, to see you both together o: the door-stane,' she
said, with a visible trembling; 'it is as if the years rolled
back, and the lads had come again. Come in, come in !'

' He would walk, the thrawn carle, mother,' said John gaily.
'So I came to bring him safe home, and to get a look at
you. I have to be home to dinner at half-past four.*

* Oh, that's awhile. Katie shall set on the kettle, and bring
a cup of tea for Mr. John ; and send somebody for the laird.
And how is my Agnes this day ? '

* My Agnes is very well,' said John, with his pleasant smile.
' See how they take my wife from me, Mike. We are coming
next Friday, mother, so you will have all the bairns to make
din by the fireside again.'

, i

I < ,

w . ■

•v

I !■ "

;ii ''

1 1

MMTLAND OF LAUJlIESTON.

' Thank tho Lord,' M;irt.;arot Afaitland said, under her breath.
Only God knows wliat it is for tho mother to he loft by a
(tliildloss hearth, after tho littlo ones for whom she has spent her
'•■irongth, have gone forth to fill their own places in the world.
Laurieston, though not quite childless, was nearly so, Wat's
marriage being near at hand. It was with unspeakable satisfac-
tion that her eyes dwelt on the face of her second son. There
was nothing there to alarm, or to give the motherly heart a
single pang. Michael had never looked better, or likor long
life. When she heard he had come for a long holiday, her
spirits rose, and she bustled about as happy and as eager as a
girl. The years had dealt gently, very gently, with swecst
iSIargaret Maitland. She scarce looked the mother of th(\se
tall s(ms, especially of six-foot John, with his grave, bearded
face, who seemed almost like her younger brother. Tt was
good to see tlie d(H'[) satisfaction on tho face of Maitland of
Laurieston, when he caiue into the room and saw his two
sons. He had a warm fathei'ly greeting for both, though
doubtless it was upon ^lichael's face that his eyes dwelt with
most tender anxiety.

' Hae ye run awa' ? ' he asked comically.

'Yes, deserted, positively deserted,' cried Michael honestly.
* Mother, I will be honest, even at the risk of flattering you
too much. I was so homesick that I couldn't live. T tried
battling with it for a few days, but it was no good. T was
cowardly enough to be grateful to Mrs. (lilltert when she
brought down a packed portmanteau on Tuesday morning, and
told me the train left at half-past twelve.'

* Hoo's Agnes ? ' asked Laurieston, turning to John. ' Could
she no' come the day ? '

' We've walked,' answered John. ' We are coming next
week, when the session ends.'

* Walked ! and is Michael no' clean done ? '

* No ; I'm as lively as a cricket, father. I begin to be
ashamed of myself for trying to salvo my consriei^ee with the
belief that I needed a change, I never remember feeling so
much like a baby before. I couldn't crush down the desire to
rush home.*

iv t

MAtTLAND OF LA UlltESTON.

879

•There was nae reason '.v hut way ye should crush it down,
laddie/ said his father ; * ye hae earned a holiday. An' are the
pit folk a' weel % '

* Oh no ; a lot of them are not well. Our latest endeavour
for the public good is the building of a cottage hospital in
Coldaire. Do you know Carlisle is the nearest, and sometimes,
especially in the case of accidents, the time which elapses
between the injury and the surgical treatment has caused
death. We've got nearly all the funds raised, and a plan
drawn out. The Squire gave us the site, and premised us all
the timber. We'll have it ready before winter. After my
holiday, I'll push the thing on as hardly as it can be pushed.
ITulloa, there's Effie ! '

It was Effie, looking very bonnie, and as girlish as ever,
though she was leading her small daughter by the hand.
^Michael pounced on the child at once, and tossed her to the
ei'iling till she screamed with delight. Effie had her cares,
caused by a somewhat indifferent and grumbling husband, who
gave her no little anxiety ; but she was learning to bear them
nol)ly, and was utterly loyal to him, not complaining even to
her mother. The reality of life was making a woman out of
Efhe, and the deep responsibility she felt regarding the child,
whose upbringing woidd depend almost entirely upon herself,
had made her both thoughtful and conscientious. Although
her mother was not without her anxiety concerning her, she
could not altogether rogvot the circumstances which were doing
so much to mould the thoughtless girl into a thoughtful and
unselfish woman.

John enjoyed that little peep at the old home. It refreshed
him like the breath of the wind from the sea. When he
went away, Michael walked with him to the avenue gate, and
there detained him, heedless that the signal had gone down foi
the train.

♦We had a fine walk to-day, old fellow, and there is no
barrier between us,' Michael said ; and the strangeness of his
words did not strike John at the time. 'There is always such
peace where mother is. No strife can exist in her presence.
Give my love to Nannie, and tell her ' —

C''

380

AfA I TLA N I) OF LA UlilES TON,

'Whatl' asked John quickly. 'Don't you see the signal
down 1 You can give her all the messages yourself next Friday.'

' Tell her the dream is coming true. God bless you, brother.
You have been the best of brothers to me.*

Even in his haste John paused to look with startled question-
ing into Michael's face. But it was sunny and serene, and ho
gave a little laugh as he gave Michael's hand the lest grip.

'You do say out-of-the-way things, Mike; one never knows
where to have you. Good-bye, old chap. We'll thrash every-
thing out next Friday. There she comes : it's neck or nothing
for me.*

So saying, John gave a nod anc r*; M, his long legs easily
keeping pace with the train, already slowing up to the station.
Michael watched him dash over the field, vault the hedge, and
then lost sight of him as he ran down the railway embankment.
Then slowly he retraced his steps to the house. Effie's littlo
girl came toddling to meet him, but the young mother was not
far away.

•I declare, Effie, I can't believe this atom belongs to you,'
said Michael ; ' it seems no time since you were like her.*

• Are you so much older than me that you feel quite fatherly 1 *
asked Effie, with a smile.

'Sometimes I feel very old. And how runs life at Nunrawl
IsWiUwelir

'Will is very well. He has not been saying very much
lately about going to America. I hope he will be put past it,'
said Effie gravely,

' Father says the place is doing well enough, and that he will
soon be a free man in it.'

'Yes, it is right enough for that. But I tlnnk, Michael, — in
fact, I am sure, — that Will has to send money to his father,' said
Effie shamefacedly. ' I always know when a letter comes from
London. He is so moody and miserable after it. I believe
that is at the bottom of it. He thinks if he were away across
the sea that claims would not be made on him.'

' But the father can't be in want, Effie. He draws the rent
of Hallcross.*

' It is only a hundred pounds, and I suppose that is nothing

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

881

[igHill

Iday.'
[ther.

ftion-
ho

lows
my.
ling

to a man like Mr. Laurio,' said Ellio, a little despondently. * I
am so sorry for Will. Ho tries to do right, but it is not so
easy for him as for you or John. His nature is so different.
Sometimes I get very miserable, Michael, and don't know what
to do.'

* Is little Madgie not a comfort to himt*

'Oh yes!' the mother's face brightened. 'He is very foinl
of her, and she likes him, I believe, better than me. I think if
Will felt that lie owed nothing to father, and could call tln'
place his own, he would be different. Lut it is so difficult to
save when there is that drain on us.'

* I question, Effie, if it is right that you should allow that
drain to exist Mr. Laurie is an able-bodied man, and I don't
nee that his children have any right to keej) him in idle luxury.'

* I think that too, but T daren't say anything to Will, he is
so touchy on that point. I know he feels bad about it. Will
you speak to him, Michael 1 iSoniehow you can deal with tlu^
most delicate matters, and nobody takes offence.'

'I'll try, Eftie,* said Michael cheerily; 'and don't you bother
yourself too much. After all, that is only a minor trial, and it
will pass away.*

t !:i

I ,•■

-»'*

tH' .■■'

— ^-.-1^

CHAPTER XXTT.

•Death imswers innny a prayer;
Bright day, nhino on ! be glad ! days brighter far
Are itretched bcfof^ inino eyes than thoRu of mortals are.'

HE weeks passed very rupidly, and on Thursday,
when they parted for the night, it was with the
happy tlii»iij;ht that the morrow wouhl biinj^ Jolin
and Agues to Laurieston, and then the family eiielo
would be complete. ^Ii(;hael euniplained of being a little tired,
and went early to bed. Hefore Mrs. INfaitland went to her own
room, she looked in to him as usual. AVhen they were bt>ys she
had always taken a luok at them after they had gone to Ited,
and since Michael returned this time they had had many a chat
in the familiar room. He was sound asleep when she went in
that night, tliough the lamp was burning brightly on the table,
and the open Lible beside it. 8he bent over the bed, kissed
him lightly on the brow, and then went to put out the lamp.
As she did so, her eyes fell on the psalm Michael had been
reading, the second verse of which was deeply underlined :
'Bless the Lonl, () iny soul; and forget not all His benefits.'
* Amen,' the mother said to herself, as she slipped out of the
room. She could re-echo that song of praise. Just then life
seemed a very full and blessed heritage to Margaret Maitland.

*I don't know when I felt so contented, father,' she said,
when she entered her own room. ' We are blessed in the
bairns, are we not 1 The Lord has led them so wonderfully,
and removed all our anxieties. I think we may live to see
Michael even a middle-aged man, eh, father ? '

'It looks like it, Maggie. The lad never seemed in better

383

MAITLANl) OF LAUItl KtiW^.

3«3

-*J

lioaltli, and liis spirits aro woiulirful. IIo's as wild as a
loon.'

' lie has surprised mo, I confess, this tiiuo. Ho will not ho
Kolcniii ahout anytliing. I wonder what has miulc him so
hiii)py.'

* TTc fools himsol' strong an' wed, I dinna doot, and his work
is prosperin' in his hai^d, and that is hoartenin' to a man,' siiid
I-aurieston. *\Ve are hlessed in the hairns, Maggie, an' the
troubles that were sair upon us \ ^ve turned into blessing,'?.'

'"Elcss the Lord, my soul; and forget not ;ill His
l)t',nofils," ' she repeated softly, and with that thought in hor
heart fell into a deep, refreshing sleep.

They gathered as usual in the breakfast-room about seven
o'clock, and, though Michael did not appear, there was no
comment made: he often rested in tho morning, mikI Katio
Steele would make breakfast for him at any houi', tliougb sbo
sometimes made a disturbance if other nenibers of tho funiily
kept the meals 'hingin' on,' as she expressed it. Mrs. Maitland
Inisied herself with some trifling duties after tho menfolk had
gone out to the field, where the sowers were busy ; but when it
rang nine o'clock she slipped upstairs to Michael's room.

'Laddie, ye Avill sleep yoursel* stupid,' she cried gaily.
* Who was to sow a breadth of the oat-field the day, eh ? The
sun is putting you to fair shame, Michael, this bonnie morning ! '

She opened the door and went into the room. The blind
was up, and the sun shone in full and brilliantly across the bed
and on Michael's face. She wondered that he could Ix ar that
dazzling light.

* Yo ueedna pretend ye are sound, my man, as you used to
do whiles on the school mornings,' she said, in gentle banter;
and, stretching out her hand, she put it over his eyes.

Then a strange and terrible cry rang through the old house
of Laurieston, a cry which made Katie Steele's faithful heart
almost stand still. Li a moment she came flying upstairs, and
straight to Michael's room. And there was the mother kneeling
by the bed, the clothes flung back, and her trembling hands
laid upon her boy's heart.

• Katie, Katie, get the master, quick ! I fear this is death,*

WrjTl

•

38 I

MAITLANI) OF LAUIil ES'I'ON.

Aftor that one iiwful cry wniii;,' from her in \\vx .iRony, tlio
mother ivcovctcmI Imt srlf cuntn)!, an<l r<'iiuMnl«?nMl wliat shoiiM
b(! done before tli»' doctor cnnn!, if lifo indeed still linj,'ere(l in
that acetnin^'ly lifeless form. It was all in vain. Life was
ended here for Michael Muitland. Death had stolen in imi
awareson this sunny nmnnii;:, and with ;,'entlest fingers beckoned
hini away. It was such a death as we inij,dit ask for niir
dearest, sinijtly a closing tif the eyes uu earth, and an awakening
in heaven. 'So He givcth His beloved sleei>.*

When Maitland of Laurieston entered the bouse, they passed
out one by one from the room, and left him with his dead. Ay,
even the mother herself stole away. SIki felt like a woman in
a dream. There was no thought of tears, or of rebellious and
noisy grief in her heart. iShe felt dumb, ]tas.':ioide8s, wondering
that the boy she had kissed a few hours before, an<l for whom
she had predicted a b-ngth of useful days, should \n\ already
beyond her touch, beyond her ken ; but not, thank (iod, so far
away that her faith could not follow him. Shi^ .'<at down in
the pleasant family room, folded her hamls, and watched thn
slanting rays of the sunshine broaden on the walls and flot»r;
and so sat in utter silence until she heard a movement upstairs.
Then she thought of her desolate hu.sband, and stf»lc away up
again to the chamber where Michael slept. In the arm-cliair,
close by the bed, his father sat motionless, with his arms folded
across his breast. Sorrow was doing its silent work with the
strong heart of Maitland of Laurieston. Again he wrestled
with the rebelliousness of a hitter questioning ; again the
ilarker passions of the man's soul sought to hold him in
thrall. "When his wife entered, he rose to his feet in evident
relief.

*It is death, Maggie. He is away. Wc needna bide here.
I'll go out of doors, I think, ihere is mair room, and the sun
is kindly.'

He spoke with difficulty, and the heart of his wife bled for
him.

* Not yet, father. Let us pray together. Let us thank the
Lord for his safe and beautiful home-going,' she said, with a

MAirrAS'l) OF LMJlill'lSTOS.

385

K the

jlniilil

|i'*l ill

was

nil

|nni<<l

niir

MiiiiK

touch of lior kiiiiUy hand on hia unn. iJut Ikj only .shouk \\u
head. ■

' It's owcr sudden. Tluno was iiiic preparation.'

•What fori Did Michat'l need uny [)rcpariitioii ? He often
spoke of his two honu's. Neud we grudyc liim to the other
home, whisn wn liuvc! had him livc-and-twonty years — five-and
twenty years,' sIkj repeated, with an indes( rihahlo pathos of
tenderness. M am his mother. I sulFercd for him, Michael,
and I can praise the Lord. If we had had to witness weeks
and ni(»ntiis of weariness and pain, that would have heen
liarder. Didn't we give him up when we let him away hist
yearl Wo hardly dared hope then for anythiii;j; so comforting
as this ; and I — I know he dreaded physical siitlering.'

Michael Maitland's face twitched. It was amazing that
strength was given to the hereft mother to administer these
crumls of comfort to the heart which could feel nothing but
the blackness of a bitter loss. She folded her hands upon his
arm, led him to the bed where Michael slept, and, kneeling by
him, prayed aloud before her husband for the first time. There
arc times when we stand awed before the grandeur of woman-
liood, times when a woman's hand seems to draw aside the
portals of the Unseen. Such a moment was that to Maitland
of Laurieston. Ho knelt by her side meekly, feeling that she
was guiding him, and that Clod's hand was in that guiding.
For the second time Michael Maitiund passed through a fierce
baptism of pain, and for the second time laid his precious things
on the altar, like Abraham of old, obeying the Lord's call.

So passed that strange, sad morning for the house of
Laurieston; and before noon another unlooked-for summons
came. Michael Maitland was making ready to go to town to
acquaint John with what had happened, and to see about other
things, when a telegram was handed to his wife.

' It's from John, father. Agnes is laid up,' she said quickly.

* What is to bo done ? '

• Ye canna weel gang, mother.'

' I must go, dear, lest we may have to let two of the bairns
go. A shock might be certain death to Agnes to-day. I promised
to be with her, and she will not understand my absence.'

rii

1 1

-_.

iBHii

i Wil ii

386

MAITLANJJ OF LA UKIESTON.

* Au' will ye bide ? ' he asked ; and at the question, tlie first
tears she had shed that day welled up hot and bright in her
eyes. It was the manner of the question, the wistful, pathetic
look which accompanied it, wliich overcame her.

* I will not leave you longer than I can help. I think we had
better drive in, and I can see how Nannie is. Unless it is very
serious, I will not stay. I can tell her that Michael needs me,'
she added, with a faint, sad smile.

So the reply to John's telegram was the stopping of the
Laurieston dog-cart at the house in Great King Street. When
John heard it, he came hurrying downstairs from the drawing-
room, where he was passing as best he might the hours of the
fiercest anxiety he had ever experienced in his life. It v'as an
inexpressible relief to him when he saw his mother's face.

' How is she ? ' was her first question.

'Very ill, mother; I can't bear it much longer,' he said
hoarsely.

* Hush ! it will be soon over,* she said, with a quiet cheerful-
ness. ' Is the doctor upstairs 1 '

* Yes; he has been hero since morning.'

* I will go up presently. Ask one of the maids to bring mo
a cup of tea,' said his mother, putting up her veil. 'John, this
is a day of searching for our house. The Lord has taken
Michael away.'

* Taken Michael away,' repeated John, pausing with his hand
on the bell-rope, and looking with open eyes at his mother.
' What do you mean ? '

* He is dead,' she answered, in a whisper ; and, sitting down,
covered her eyes with her hand.

* Dead ! Michael dead ! Why, I saw him in the market
with Wat on Wednesday, and of the two he looked the
healthier.'

' lie is away, John,' his mother answered. ' When I went
up this morning, thinking him long in rising, I found that his
sleep was sounder than I knew of. It must have happened
early in the morning. I heard him moving just at sunrise.
He must have thrown up the blind then. It was a beautiful
and painless end, I do not doubt. But — but ' —

,■ I

MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

587

3n, the first
liglit in her
till, pathetic

liink we had
[ss it is very
needs me,'

ing of tlic
leet. When

le drawin''-
lours of the
It v-as an
s face.

cr,' he said

let cheerful

to bring me

'John, this

I has taken

ith his hand
his mother.

tting down,

the market
looked the

lien I went
id that his
J happened
at sunrise,
a beautiful

She stopped quickly, for one deep, bursting sob forced itself
between John's lips, and she saw him shaking as if with a
sudden ague. For a time there was nothing said.

♦And you came to me, mother, in the midst of itl' John said
at last. * A mother's love is past comprehension.'

' I can do nothing for our dear Michael. He has more than
even my love could give him. But I can do something here,
and I knew Agnes would need me,' she said, in a low voice.
* There is no cause for unusual anxiety upstairs, is there ? '

*I don't think so. But it is so frightfully prolonged,' he said
passionately. * It is more than I can bear.'

♦ I think you should go out. Father got out of the gig at
the Eegister. You can guess where he has gone. I see George
Paton is waiting at the door, John. Just put on your hat and
drive down with him to the stables, and find your father. You
can h(3lp him with the — the arrangements, as we don't need
you hero.'

She even smiled slightly upon him, as she put off her bonnet
and lifted the teacup to her lips.

' I never knew until to-day what a woman's strength is,
mother. You put me to shame.'

Ho obeyed her implicitly. In a sense he was glad to bo
told what to do. In a few moments ho was l)eside George on
the front seat of the dog-cart, and handli'^.g the reins himself.
There was relief iu the very idea of rapid action. For the first
time in his life he felt glad to leave his own house.

The torture of suspense he had endured, knowing that his
wife suffered, and uncertain as to the issue, was a fearful trial
to him.

The ■ very thought of his mother's presence in the house
brought strength and comfort. But, as he drove rapidly through
the busy streets, he marvelled yet more and more at her perfect
control, at her beautiful setting aside of self. Again and again
he blessed her in his heart, with a reverent and tender blessing.

Margaret Maitland did not hurry upstairs. She wanted to
be perfectly calm, to carry with her a demeanour which would
cause no flutter of sorrow or anxiety, but rather give a sense of
rest and strongtb. She took off her bonnet, put on her dainty

f^\

-'I

\r'

388

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

lace cap, her soft house-shoes, and then slipped quietly up.
She met the nurse on the stairs, a pleasant, refined woman,
whom she had known for some time. ' How is Mrs. Maitland % '

' Weary mg for you, ma'am. She heard the carriage come.
The doctor thinks her all right.'

Margaret Maitland nodded and smiled, passed on and entered
th' room, where she was a pillar of strength to Agnes in her

hour of need.

At suiiset that day, another Michael Maitland came to fill
the place of him who had gone away.

[Oman,

land 1 '

conic.

Intercd
|in her

to fill

CHAPTER XXIII.

*Sour was the fruit upon that withered tree.*

ILLIAM lATJRIE, J-lc^nior, led a life of indolent ease
in London. 11(3 was not a rich man, but the little,
income from his daui^hter's estate was assured, and
an occasional cheque from his son — which the
threat of a personal visit never failed to bring — kept him from
suffering anxiety concerning at least the necessaries of life.
He still indulged in a little i)lay, though cautiously, and
patronised the turf moderately. Long experience had rendered
him shrewd and far-seeing, so that he seldom made a bad
venture. He was not now able to afford the luxury of West-
End rooms, but contented himself with a modest suite in that
quiet and unostentatious thoroughfave, Norfolk Street. He
still enjoyed a little society of a kind, although he had fallen a
little from his former estate, and no longer counted any member
of the British aristocracy among his friends. Gilbert Culross
had spoken out so plainly in London concerning his sometime
adviser, that that worthy had felt himself obliged to threaten
his former proUgd with an action for defamation of character.
This threat silenced Sir Gilbert. Nevertheless, VT'illiam Laurie
found himself shunned in certain quarters, and so was obliged
t(j hunt for pastures new. He had a new scheme in hand,
which, if successful, would place him in a position of affluence
for life. But it was a scheme which would require the utmost
delicacy and caution to bring it to a successful issue. It also
required money, nnd one cold ISfarch morning he felt himself
constrained to indulge in some strong language when the

889

■,iAt.

390

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON^.

postman came without an expcoted letter from the ndrth.
SittinjT there in the clear, searching morning light, a chanfje
was visihle on the face of William Laurie. His toilet was not
yet carefully made, and in his dressing-gown his figure! had a
slouching stoop, his face was grey and evciu haggard, his cycH
dim and clouded, and his grizzled whiskcus and somowiuit
unkempt hair gave him rather a vagabond look.

It was only eight o'clock, — early for Mr. Laurie to appear
downstairs ; hut he was in a fever of expectation ahout the
letter which did not come Tn lieu of tlm important missive,
however, a visitor arrived in IVorfolk Street Lefore ^fr. Laurie
had (piite finished his mornii^g nicd. And that visitor, greatly to
our worthy's amazement, M'as his own s(jn. He was surprised,
but he was careful not to show it. He rose to gn^et him as if
he had merely dropped in from the next street.

*Ah, good morning, Will. Hope T see you well? Wife and
family well 1 Two in the family, — am I correcit? 8weet cherubs,
no doubt; but I would warn you against a large offspring. It
is highly improvident unli'ss you ar(! a millionaire. Have a cup
of coffee ?'

' I'll take a substantial breakfast, if you have no objection,*'
answered Will bluntly ; ' I've been traveling all night.'

'Another thing I would warn you against,' snid William Laurie,
as he rang the bell. 'Always make a point of .slee[»ing in a
Christian bed, and make long journ(\yR in tlu! daytime. It is an
erroneous idea that to spend the night in a railway train without
sleep is a saving of time; and, as wc^ are on that subject, may I
ask why you travelled all night ? A country gentleman,' he
added, with a slightly ironical cmjihasis, 'cannot be greatly
pressed for time ? '

' Perhaps you have forgotten that it is customary to put in the
seed in spring,' said Will, almost rud<'ly, for his father's coolness
irritated him. ' If it were possible I should return this morning,
but there is too little time, so I must wait till the night mail.'

'Well?' said ^Ir. Laurie inepiiringly ; but just then the maid
entered to receive ler orders. When she had left the room
again, Will looked straight at his father, and spoke out candidly :

'I've come to tell you that I can't send you any more money.

MAITLAND OF LAUIUESTOX.

391

ndrth.

faf* not

had :i

lis eyes

li'nvJiiit

I appear

ht tljci

liissive,

T«iurie

'')'•

I knew it would be no good to write it, and that it would be
worth the trouble and expense of the journey if I could convince
you that you needn't ask me for any more.'

'A dutiful speech, truly, my son. Tovhaps one day you
will find by sad experi(>nce how much sharper than a serpent's
tooth it is, etc.*

* As to being a thankless child,' put in Will quickly, ' I don't
know that you ever gave us any reason to lie thankful to you.
You spoke about it being improvident a minute ago to have a
large family. I don't know what we, were born for, or what
good you ever did for us. We bave been nothing but paupers
all our days.'

William Laurie looked keenly at his son, and perceived that
beneath his evident anger there ilwelt also a firm determination.
Although he had made no remark concerning it, he had been
struck at once by the chang(! in Will's outward apptjaranee. The
boyish look was gone, the full roundness of youth liad given
plac(i to the harder lines of manhood in his face, and there was
an air of decisicm and responsibility in his whole demeanour
which came with a shock of unpleasant surprise to the father.
lie felt that with Will his day was over.

' You are, to say the least of it, a trifle aggressive,' he said,
with perfect mildness. ' T do not think that I have been ex-
orbitant in my demands. You are well aware, what a meagre
pittance I can count upon as a fixed income. If I asked a little
aid from my own son, who is in affluent circumstances, it is hard
to be insulted and to have my poverty cast in ni} teeth, especi-
ally as I am in infirm health, and growing old.'

* You are only fifty-eight, father j and you know you ani as
strong as I am,' said the plain-spoken Will. ' What 1 want to
know is, why you don't seek for a liglit job of some kiml which
would bring you in something every week 1'

A sickly smile came on William Laurie's face, but he refrained
from making any comment on this awful suggestion.

* And as to my circumstances,' continued Will, with the utmost
dryness, ' I have not at this blesseil moment a penny I can call
my own. Although you know it all just as well as I can tell
you, I had better tell it to you again. My wife's father put me

if.

892

MATTLAND 01^ LAUnrESTON.

in the farm, and the stock and plenishing cost two thousand
pounds. That is four years ago. I have paid him back fourteen
hundred pounds of that money, so that I am still six hundred
in his debt. I ask you how you suppose a man so hampered
has money to give away. I tell you what I have sent to you
already was simply stolen from Maitlund, and when your letter
came yesterday I felt like throwing myself in the soa.

William Laurie sat down during this passionate speecli, and,
putting his finger-tips together, he looked over them at his son's
indignant face with the most unutterable coolness.

*I don't know where you and your sister have got all your
puritanical not'ons. I'm not greatly surprised at her, because
she was always a prude like her mother ; but T confess I expected
you to turn out better. And so you actually intend to pay back
every farthing of that two thousand \ And pray what dowry
did you get with your wife ? '

Will's face flushed.

*No dowry, — except the house furnishings. I wanted none.
If I live I shall pay back that money to the uttermost farthing.
I know very well that they were disappointed in her marriage.
I hope to show them yet that there may be something good,
even in \ I^aurie.

* So, so. And I am to be sacrificed on the altar of your
pride ? '

* There is no sacrifice,' retorted Will hotly, and then paused
for a moment, partly ashamed of himself. He had come with so
different an intention, fortified by his wife's good wishes ; but
it was indeed diflicult to keep his temper under the half-con-
temptuous tone of his father's voice. There was a slight silenc;*',
and then Will spoke again, more quietly, having subdued his
anger, and feeling strengthened by the memory of Effie's last
words, which had bidden him bo gentle and kind.

' I have said my say a little roughly, perhaps, father,' he said
honestly j ' I will speak for Effie now. She bade me say that
if you would leave London and make your home at Nunraw, she
would do her utmost to make you hai)py. It would be much
better than living in London lodgings, and I know she meant
what she said.'

I' I

M AIT LAND OF LAUmESTOX.

393

[urteeii
jindred
[ipered
po you
letter

' And your said William Lauvie, with slightly elevated brows.

'I can do no less than re-echo her invitation,' Will replied
sincerely. 'If you will come I shall try and remember my
duty. You would find it both a pleasant and an active life.'

' Yes ; I might feed the cattle and the pigs,' replied William
Laurie, with a cheerful smile ; * only I fear the rdle would not
altogether suit m(!. Pray present my compliments and thanks
to my charming daughter-in-law, and say that I regret that
• ircumstances over which I have no control prevent me accepting
her hospitality.*

* I wish you would speak out honestly, and without all that
nonsense, father,' cried "\7ill. 'Won't you admit that I am in
an awkward position, and that I am doing right ? '

* Life is too short to enter into abstruse ([ucstions regarding
mural obligations; but, since yea ask me i)lainly, I think that
the Maitla"'^ owe you something for having saddled you with
their daughter, and that, as she is theii only daughter, she is
entitled to a handful of old Closefist's bawbees. But if they
have converted you, far be it from me to seek to lead you astray.
Have you given up the emigration craze ? '

* I had made up my mind that if I could not get out of paying
away more money, I should throw it all up,' Will replied honestly.

' Well, you may relieve your mind after the singularly delicate
way in which you have conveyed to me your decision ; I am not
likely to forget myself so far as to ask you. Here is your break-
fast. While you eat you may bestow on me some further crumbs
of domestic news. Is Agnes well ? '

* Quite well. They are at Laurieston just now for the Easter
recess.'

* How many children has she ? '

* Only one, of course. He is just beginning to walk. He is
the finest little chap you ever saw.'

* It is magnanimous of you to admit that, when you are the
father of two cherubs. And is Agnes deliriously happy with
her loutish Professor 1 '

'They appear to be satisfied with each other,' said AVill,
answering with difficulty, for his father's tone made him writhe

* And what do they call my first grandson 1

i>\

|) . il

394

MAtTLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

'Michael'

' Oh, of course, they could not pass over grandpapa number
one,'

*I rather think he was called after his undo who died,' put
in Will.

* Ay, — sudden death that, — remember it at the time. Ho was
a likely young fellow, a perfect gentleman beside his brother.
I met him on the Khine once.'

' There are not many Michael Maitlands in the world,' said
Will soberly, and with a curious look in his face, which only the
mention of Michael could bring there. Effie km^w what that
lueant. From the day of Michael's death Will had bt-eii a better
husband to her, — ay, and a nobler man. So that Michael,
though so sadly missed and mourned, had not died in vain.

'I suppose our Professor has a fair iucomc! ? '

*0h yes; they live in good style. He is not a professor yet,
though he hopes to be one some day. P»ut he makes a great deal
privately, and he has written a book wliirh lias a good sale.'

* Ah, what kind of a book ? '

* A treatise on Moral Philosophy ; but T can't tell y<>n a^'y-
thing about it, as it is not the kind of reading I care about.
There is never much said about the book. Tin; very mention of
it at Laurieston makes a dryness in the atmosphere.'

'Too advanced for tho old boy, eh ? So you think your sister
is quite satisfied with her life ? '

* I have no reason to think otherwise. She was always a quiet,
reserved woman ; she is that still,' said Will guardedly.

'And are you quite satisfied with your lot in lift^ ? You are
young to settle down to a bucolic existence 1 '

'My lot in life is good enough for me., if T could fed
myself an honest, independent man,' said Will bluntly.
'I've got some common sense lately, and I know my own
failings.'

'And those of others, particularly of yoiu* parent,' said the
elder man blandly. 'I admire the charitable spirit of Chris-
tians ; it makes me glad I'm not one. So you actually went
to the expense uf a railway tickc^t to London to tell me all
this?'

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTOX.

3Uo

imber
put

|o was

)thor.

r said

that
)('ttor

»I wanted to see for mysolf how yon arc, and to liavo a
talk with ycu,' answered Will. ' Now you know how I stand,
you can comprehend and exruse my refusal to scud you any
more money. It is not aa ii you were in need. You seem to
me to ho very comfortable hero,' he added, glancing roiuul
the snug, well-furnished room.

*I do not complain. I trust the day is at hand when I
Khali be quite independent of my children. Let no man think
that, because he is a father, he has provided a haven of
.shelter for his necessity or age. It is a vain delusion, the
product of a sickly .sentinientality which has no foundation in
fact.'

♦ You may believe that if you were in need we should
not forget our duty,' said Will (piietly. ' What on earth is the
use of going on like that?'

'You are not n^spcctful to me, William; but I do not
expect it. Maitland nf Laurieston has rc^jaid my trust by
holding me up as a r(iprobate and an object of ridicule before
the eyes of my own children. Perhaps he may live to regret
it.'

Will pushed back his chair somewhat impatiently, and r(»se
to his feet. He could not have patien(;e with his fathci's
grandiloquent style of talk; but he wished to be respcctlul
and kind to him. It is not easy, however, to assume a respect
which does not exist; and it may be admitted that WiUiani
Laurie, sen., had not given to his children much ground up<»n
which to build their respect \)r esteem. Father and son spent
the day together, but it was not one of (conspicuous enjoyment
for either, and Will felt glad when the train sped him away
from the great city, out into the purer air of the open country.
He was indeed trying to redeem the past, to look at life from
an honest, healthy standpoint; and the hours spent with his
father were not calculated to act as aids to the higher life.
After having tested life in many different phases, William
Laurie affected cynicism in his declining years, and sneered at
everything, casting doubt on every good intention or motive.
His companionship was not at all healthy for a young man
like his son, who was but feebly striving after good. Under

i^)t

:)'.)()

At A rr LAN I) op" LAUniRSTON.

the influence of liis futhor's unhealthy convorpation, Will hiul
felt tho old rchellioua gruinl)linj,'s rise within him, douhta of
the goodwill and faith of his fellow men, suspicions even of
his dearest. And from these he was glad to flee. He reached
his home early in the afternoon of the following day, and
when he passed through his own garden gat(^, his littli'
daughter, playing nt ganlening with the faithful loUic at her
heels, shouted with delight and toddled to nuset him, her
little hands outstretohed, her dimpled face radiant with love.
He caught her to his heart, pressed his check to liers, and felt
his eyes grow dim. They were not dry when he reached the
dnor, where EfiRe stood to welcomes him. He was conscious (»f
the anxiety of iier look, and somehow his heart smote him.
He put his other arm about her, and looked down into
her sweet face, his own softened with a great tenderness.

'I am so glad to see you. Will. It is like weeks since yuu
went away. You have no idea how Madgie has fretted, and
even baby has missed you.'

* r <mly know noAv what blessings I possess, antl how lightly
1 have jirized them, KHie,' Will said, with a tightening clasp of
liis arm.

Kttie asked no more. Her heart was at rest

|1 liad
[)ta of
|f'n of

icliod
and

liftl.'

)U'V
love.

CHAPTKU XXIV.

*The heart hath many soiiowk hcsidcH lore;
Yeu, many as tliu vciuH which viait it.'

GNES, that's a beautiful bairn.'

So said Margarut Maitland, as they sat under
the old thorn on a sunny April morning, enjoying
the beneficent radiance of the sjiring sunshine.
Agnes smiled ; and watched in silence for a moment the tiny
figure, toddling somewhat unsteadily across the lawn, tilling its
chubby hands with the daisies which lay like a white carpet
on the sward. It was a beautiful sight to see thit mother
and child together, a sight of which those to whom both were
dear never tired. Motherhood had given the last gracious
touch to Agnes Maitland's character and life. There was one
who thought her perfect, and who deemed it no sin to lay
at her feet a love which had in it all the elements of reverent
worship.

' You think him beautiful, mother, because he has sunny
hair and blue eyes, and because his name is Michael,' she
answered at length. *He has not filled the old Michael's
])lace, but only made it seem less empty, and for that John and
I are glad.'

* Agnes, my lamb, there is a thing I want to spoak about,
though I hardly know how to put it. There is a look on your
face whiles I dinna like to see. Not long ago I looked out
by the window, and I saw tears in your eyes while you
held the bairn on your knee. What ails you? Is it any-
thing which it would eiase your heart to tell? If I am

I»

898

M Air LAND OF LAURIESTON.

anytliing, T am your mother in lovo, Nimnio, though not in
name.'

A slight tremor piisscd ovor Agues Maitlaud, and the delicate
colour paled away from her face.

'Sometimes my heart is heavy, mother. The boy in growing,
ami the day coming when I shall have to guide him. It is an
awful thing to think that he cannot learn from his father to
look up to his Maker.'

She spoke in a low voice, shamefacedly, as if such ccmfession
was more a pain than a relief.

'Then he still stands aloof from the faith I taught him,
Agnes? Tell mc, K.ts it ever made any estrangement between
you?*

• It did at first. I think you did not guess. Michael knew.
Po you remember when he waited with us a night on his way
home ? We had a long talk then. He showed mo where I
was wrong, and since then wo have been much haj)pi(!r, — so
happy, that sometimes I tremble when I think how light a
shadow that other thing casts upon me. Mother, what is it
that holds John back from belief? Ho is so noble and good,
so utterly unselfish. His spirit is more Christlike than mine,
for, with all his gentleness, he is unflinching and courageous
when wrong-doing is concerned. That is where I am weak. I
pass over things rather than face unplea-santness.'

• Tell me, my dear, have you never seen anything which woidd
lead you to believe that he is beginning to think differently of
these things?'

• Never. We never speak of it. I go my way in this, and
ho goes his. Our opinions do not clash, because we never
compare them. Is that not cowardice on my part ? And yet,
and yet, when did talking ever do good ? I cannot argue.
I cannot give logical reasons for my belief in a risen
Saviour and a merciful God. Only I know it is more than
life to me.'

'And you live it, my daughter. Oh, I have watched you,
and have marvelled that the Lord's answer to the unspoken
prayer of your daily life has been so long withheld. You can
trust Him yet ? '

M AIT LAND OF LAUIUKSTON.

300

icalo

|18 all

T to

'To the uttcrinost,' Agues aimwoml Hiini»ly. ' SDini'tiiiics,
mother, I am opiJrL'Hsed witli a Hickcning iipiJirlmiiHion of hdiihs
fourful evil. It in my iiaturo to miiko idols of those I love.
Sometimes, whi'ii I Heiireh my licart ahoiit th(! chihl thciv,
I feel afraid. Is it wronj,', do you tliiiik, to love so much'/ '

♦My lamb, why will you toniKiiit yourself] There is no
limit 8et, so long as we do not put our earthly idols before
Him. It is not the overllowing of lovo which saddcins the
earth, but the dearth of it. 1 have lived longer than you, my
Nannie, and I have seen a great deal of God's dealinj^s with
folk. And I have never yet seen one (»f His children tried
beyond their strength ; and that is a great comfort.'

*You have sullered greatly too, mother. Throe gravels!
Sometimes, when I look at them, I wonder how I should feel
if I had to lay mij darling away out of sight beside tliem.
Pray to God, mother, that He will not require that of mc
Anything but that.'

She ran and caught the child from the lawn, and clasped
him close in her tender arms, wdiile her face, glorHied with
the passion of motherhood, pressed itself against his golden
head. It was a sweet picture : the gracious young mother in
her white clinging gown, tall and lissom and lovely ; the child
a model of infant beauty, with skin like alabaster, and cheeks
like the blush of a summer rose. He would not long be still ;
he struggled to the gr(nind again, and toddled off with his?
sweet, uncertain step to meet his father, who stood within the
portals of the door. In a moment ho came triumphantly
leading the tall figure, his round eyes lifted adoringly to the
grave, kind face bent upon him in love. His baby chatter,
unintelligible to any ear but his mother's, rang out clear and
shrill on the quiet air, — dearest music on earth to his mother's
heart !

'This is an imperious master, and no mistake. What am
I to do, you tyrant?' asked John laughingly. *Kiss mamma 1
1 wish I never had a less irksome task.'

He bent down, touched her hair with a lingering touch, and
raised her white hand to his lips.

•This is the new allegii.nce, mother, I never kiss my lady's

I i

400

MAITLAND OF LA UlUESTON.

lips excopt wlicii she gives me leave,' he said, in happy banter.
' Ain I not a much ruled man ? Six feet two, and can't call my
soul my own, — nor my shirt-collar. Oh, you rogue ! '

The child's shrill, sweet laughter rang out again as the chubby
fingers found their v/ay round his father's neck, the signal for
a wild frolic, in which the little one delighted.

* He ought to have a cap on, dear. The sun is mild, but the
wind has a chilly toich,' John said presently.

* He had a cap. I expect it will be on some of the bushes
Wjiere he was chasing a butterfly,' said Agnes, rising. 'He
nciver ails, mother, so we are not altogether careful, sometimes.'

* Oh, he is hardy enough. I don't believe in coddling bairns.
Sit down, lassie, and leave the twosome to their play. I don't
know which is the bigger bairn.'

* Father thinks ISfi. Fordyce is likely to return to India next
month. Do you know what John proposes ? — that we should
let our house for the summer months, if anybody will take it,
and come down to Hallcross % ' said Agnes.

' That would be fine for us all. Don't you think it a good
proposal 1 '

*0h, very. I would fill the house, mother, all summer.'

'Whovnth?'

' All sorts and conditions. Our particular students, of course,
are all away ; but there are one or two I should ask to stay
with us. ] Tarry is in town yet ; and that lad Laidlaw I told
you of has begun his medical course this summer. I don't
know where the money for it is to come from, bat he seems
determined to succeed. We must help him all we can. If we
come down I think I'll ask him to give up his lodgings, and
come to us for the remainder of the session. He can have the
little room oft' the drawing-room, and one of the attics for a
study.'

'It would be a boon to the young man, I don't doubt,' Mrs.
Maitland answered.

'Then there are two young girls I got to know quite accident-
ally, by hearing one of them play at an evening party. They
are minister's daughters, mother; and they have a widowed
niother and an invalid brother whom they support, They teach

•^ ,

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

401

banter.
I call my

[chubby
Ignal for

I but the

bushes
*Hc
letimes.'
bairns.
I don't

lia next

should

take it,

a good
ler.'

' course,

to stay
' I tolil
I don't
i seems

If we
gs, and
ave the
3 for a

,' Mrs.

3ident-

They
iowed

teach

music and drawing in several schools, and go out in the evenings
to play at parties. Just think of that for refined, well brought-
'ip girls ! But they have a noble courage, and are sustained by
the knowledge that they are keeping the home together. John
thinks I should ask them down too. Wouldn't they enjoy
HallcrossT

' Ay, they wouhl,' Mrs. Maitland answered, with a curiously
tender smile. ' But if you don't let Hallcross again, what of
the money for London 1 ' ,

* Wo have thought of that, — at least John has,' said Agnes,
with a slight flush. 'It will be sent just the same. God
has blessed us, mother ; we have no anxiety about money
matters.'

* The book has been a success, you see,' said Mrs. Maitland.

' When I count our income, mother, I leave out the profits of
the book. John knows I would not touch that money. He
has it laid away.'

* And what is to be dune with it 1 *

' John will tell you tliat himself, — I don't know,' she answered ;
and the quickened tone of her voice indicated that that was a
sore subject.

* It is such a small book, and so uninteresting to the ordinary
reader, Agnes, that I (iuestion if it could do the harm you
imagine.'

* Of course it is only a students' handbook ; but don't you
see, mother, it does harm just where it might have done good.
It is the students who are inquiring into these things, and they
are the men who will be the guides of another generation,' said
Agnes, with a slight touch of passion. ' Do you know Harry
Christie is prosecuting his studies for the Church, and he
doesn't know what ho believes, or whether he believes anything
at all. That was one whom John might have guided easily, at
a critical time.'

* But when the time comes for him to take vows, Agnes, he
will have to know what he believes.'

Agnes shook her head. * I believe that that is why there are
so many barren ministries. Those who occupy the pulpit do
not teach others out of the fulness of their own belief. I have

■■I I

402

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

w \

learned a great deal, mother, since I came so much in contact
with the students.'

* These are searching times, Agnes, I don't donht ; but the
very questioning shows an interest in religious things, which is
healthy and hopeful,' said Mrs. Maitland cheerily. 'Well,
shall we go over to tea with the Miss(;s Thorburn, this afternoon,
and take the bairn? He will divert them.'

Agnes nodded and laughed. Somehow at Laurieston, the
shadow which lay upon her life seemed less dark. It might be
because that at home she had to battle alone, a prey to her own
anxieties and fears, while, amid the cheerful, loving companion-
ship of the happy circle at Laurieston, there seemed no time for
harassing thought.

The arrangements concerning Hallcross were carried out.
The tenant left in May, and the first days of a sunny June saw
the old house filled with a new and delightful element. Among
the young people .she had gathered about her Agnes was in her
element. In the dispensing of her gracious hospitality her
husband was her able helpmeet ; and to many that brief summer
at Hallcross remained one of the brightest memories of their
lives. It was shadowed, however, ere it closed, by a dark and
terrible tragedy.

Agnes was sitting in a lounging-chair on the lawn one
afternoon with her sewing, and the child playing about her
feet. It was one of the loveliest of June days, — a day when
even the summer zephyr slept, and there was no stir in the
slumbrous, odorous air. The roses hung heavy on their slender
stems, and made great masses of pink and white and deep red
among the green. The daisies were white on the smooth lawn,
and the gay butterflies flitted across the sunshine, and the bees
droned lazily from the hearts of the fragrant, old-fashioned
flowers ; but there was scarcely the twitter of a bird in that
leafy old garden. Agnes missed the accustomed melody of song,
but, in talking to her little son, she told him that the little birds
were tired with the heat, and had gone to sleep in the shade.
This seemed to mystify and exercise him greatly, and he forth-
with began a pilgrimage round the shrubbery to find the sleeping
songsters,

contact

but tlio
wliich is
* Well,
ternoon,

ston, the
might be

her own
mpanion-

time for

ried out.
June saw
Among
as in her
ality her
f summer
3 of their
dark and

awn one
bout her
lay when
ir in the
ir slender
deep red
>th lawn,
the boes
'ashioned
1 in that
^ of song,
ttle birds
ic shade,
he f(ji'Ui-
slecping

MAlTLAX/i or LAfnUF.STOiV:

403

Agnes walclied the Liny figure in white, gmwii very straight
and sturdy on his sun-browned legs, and when slid saw the clear,
red glow on his upturned face, she thouglit what a blessiucr
Hallcross h;id been to him.

He spent the livelong day in the oM garden, and sdnictimes
Ihey would find him asleep under the spreading bcci.litrtc, tired
out with his play. It was his very life; and often Ids mother
thouglit of the dear old lady who had foreseen the day when
they should oc(Mipy tlie old house, and their rhildren make
music in its rooms.

Her reverie was broken by the announcement that a visitor
was in the drawing-room.

'Who is it, Mary?'

* Miss Thorburn. t^he came to the back gate and in by the
back door, ma'am.'

Agnes rose, cast a look at the child who was wandering amou"
the trees, and then entered the house. 'She felt no anxiety
about him. I le was often left for hours at a time.

* You'll have to do away with the back gate, Mrs. Maitland,
if you don't want surreptitious callers,' cried INIiss Thorburn, in
her gayest mood. * How are you this hjvely day? Grace has a
cold, — positively a cold in weather like this. But it serves her
right ; she will stay half an hour in the sea instead of ten
minutes, as she ought.'

* I hojie she is not very bad 1 '

' Bad enough ; and she is so amusing over it. She said last
night, " I'm going to be ill. I feel it ; Init I won't — I'm
determined I won't. Who's going to waste time being ill?"
And she sent mi; out this afternoon, because she said my tongue
deavcd her. And now, after all this palaver, where's little
Maitland 1 His dear grandmother says he is growing in length
and breadth at an alarming rate.'

' He is as well as possible. He lives in the garden. AVhat
a delight it all is to him ! I am so glail we thought of coming
out this summer. But, Miss Jean, why do you call him little
Maitland ? ' asked Agnes, with a smile.

'I never will call him anything else,' said Miss Jean, with
rather a curious look, 'I can't just yet speak of any Michael

401

MMTLAM) OF LAUltlKSTOS'.

Imi (tiio. liesides, he will bo Miiitlaml of Lauricston some day,
won't \\iiV

* Ah ! I don't know that,' .said i\gn<;s ijiiickly.

' Well, I ho])o not for many a h^ng year. 1 must say his
grandfather looks as young as any of his sons. So Walter is to
take to himself a wife in spring?*

' Yes, and l-ave us. Ho is going away to America in August
with Mr. l.iddcH's son, who has bought a farm on the Red
River, and if there is ii suitable place for sale father wishes him
to buy.'

'Dear me, is that all settled? Well, Walter will make a
splendid colonist, and there is no nonsense about Bessie Rankine.
She ran put her hand co anything, though she is a minister's
daughter. Don't you think it is far better than if he stayed
at home? Then^ is really no need for him at Laurieston.'

'No; and if wi; are to people the new country, Miss Jean, it
is good to send them our best,' replied Agnes. ' Won't you
take off your bonnet and stay to tea ? My household will be
home presently. Th(!y come down in a body it four o'clock.'

'Yes, I will ; tliank you.'

' I am so glad t(t get back to the old-fashioncil, substantial
teas. Miss Jean,' said Agnes, as she led the way ttf a bedroom.
'In town J always t(dl John I feel that we are cheated of a
meal, and T do so enjoy mother's teas when I go out to Laurie-
ston. But won't you keep on your hat and let us go out to the
garden for a bit?'

'In a little. I want to cool down, and tiiis house is always
so deliciously cool,' said Miss Jean, as she sat down on Miss
Leesbeth's couch. The old lady's room was the guest chamber
of the house, and was exactly as she had left it. They lingered
for a little while, talking, as old friends tidk, of matters interest-
ing to both ; and wlnui at last they leisurely descended the
stairs, ]\Iiss Jean remarked that she had never seen Agnes in
better spirits.

' I have so many mercies. Miss Jean,' Agnes answered, with
a shining eye. ' Would it not be a shame if I were lo look
gloomy or sad ? '

They passed out into the pleasant garden ; and though the
child was nowhere visible, his mother thought nothing amiss.

M Air LAND OF LAURIESTOH.

405

(l;.y,

|ay his
■r is Ui

' He hides sometimes,' she said, with a lauj^h. * Tlie little
rogue ! he is just as full of frolic as he cau be, and his father
carries him on. I sometimes say I don't know which is the
})igger baby.'

They crossed the velvet lawn and turned into the path
behind the box-hedges ; and all at once in the midst of her
happy talk Agues stood still, for the garden gate whicli opened
on the river bank was ajar, and the child nowhere to be seen.

t , '.I

CHAPTER XXV.

* Thoii weepest, cliiltUess mothjr !
He was tliy first-born son,
Tljy first, thine only one ! '

]T was never known ]k)W it liiul happened, nor who
was responsible for undoini,' tlie Knits of the garden
gate. For the child's sake, that gate had been kept
rigorously locked since they came down to Hall-
cross; because just without the wall the river-bank was steep
and sudden, — the I'ow of the water very deep and treacherous
and swift. A great cluster of wild roses was entwined about
the willows just opposite the gate; and as it was a mass of
pink bloom, they supposed the child, in trying to gather of its
treasures, had slipped down the bank, — and then all was over.

When the mother ran out of the gate, and her eyes took one
wild sweep of the bank without seeing anything, she turned,
with the unerring instinct of love, and followed the current
of the river. Jean Thorburu followed her as best she might.
They were fearful moments for these two women, but they
were not long prolonged. A few hundred yards down the
stream the water was diverted into a ra ill-lade, across which
was a wooden sluice which also served as a foot-bridge.

And there the baby, in his white, floating dress, was found.
Agnes stooped down quite rpiietly, caught the dripping skirts,
and, lifting the motionless figure, clasped it to her heart, and
turned away home. She passed by Jean Thorburn on the
grassy path without an uttered word, or even a look ; and so
they returned to the house. As they i)assed through the open
door a sound of happy laughter reached them, and then the

406

MAITLAND OlP LAUlUESTON.

407

deep tones of John's familiar voice. Then Agnes shuddered,
and turned to her friend: 'Go to liim, Jean, tell him, — and
keep the rest away.*

Miss Thorburn nodded, and flew up the box hedge path,
waving frantically to John. He waved his hat gaily to her ;
but the next moment, seeing something was amiss, took a long
stride towards her.

* Something has happened to the baby. Agnes is there,' she
gasped, and then ran on, and sent Harry Christie away for the
doctor.

* My God, Agnes, what is this 1 ' John said hoarsely. * He is
not dead 1 '

' Yes — it happened in a moment — I left him — the gate was
open. Take him ! Take him ! '

Ho was just in time to catch mother and child in his arms ;
but a great strength came to him, and he was able to carry both
into the house, feeling their burden no more than a feather's-
weight. Very sl\ortly the doctor came, and nothing was left
untried ; but the little life was gone, quenched in a single
moment ; the sweet eyes out of which the sun had shone but
an hour ago, had closed for ever on the fair scenes of earth.

They had given up their efforts ; and Agnes, with her own
hands, and in a strangely calm, steadfast kind of way, had
begun to dress the little limbs for their last sleep, when the
grandmother came in.

* Agnes ! Agnes ! it can't be true. God hasna taken the bairn 1
You are too quick with your dressing. Let me look at him.'

* God has taken liim, mother, and I live,' Agnes answered, in
that still, quiet way ; and the mother shuddered to see with
what calm dexterity she put the lace robe on the child, and
then smoothed away the golden curls from the brow. ' I sup-
pose I needed a punishment. I know I made him an ido' ;
but I think, were I God, I would not make mothers' hearts so
fearfully clinging, and then torture them like this. It is not
fair, nor right, nor just. He cannot expect us to love Him
when He so treats us.'

'Wheesht, lassie, wheesht!' said Maitland of Laurieston,
who had entered the room, and heard her words. *I hae

40d

MAITLANP OF LAVltJESTON.

passed througli it a', — ay, three times ower; an' noo, I dinnu
ken that I am mair grateful for the bairns on oartli than tlie
bairns in heaven.'

'You have some left. He was my all. Look at him. What
mercy or good could there be in taking him away ? I never
asked him from God. I would rather have had no child, than
that I should just have him a moment and then see him
snatched from my arms. My baby ! my baby ! *

She knelt down by the bed and hid her face. I.aurieston
touched his wife's arm, and bade her come away.

* She'll be better hersel'. Let's look for John. I've never
seen his face.'

They closed the door behind them, and left mother and child
together alone. She was where they could not help her, where
the hand of God Himself alone could touch her with a healing
touch. John was not far away. When the doctor left, ho just
sat him down on the window-seat in the dining-room, and,
with his hand over his eyes, sat still.

•John, my son, I think Agnes needs you,' his mother said. ' She
is alone in there with her lamb that God has taken to Himself.'

' If that is what you believe, motlier, I am glad 1 have no
God to believe in,' John made answer, looking up quietly.
* Please not to speak like that. When I think that, through
somebody's carelessness, the door was left open, and he wandered
to the river-bank, and that a natural consequence followed, — I
can bear it. But when you say that God took the child, — deli-
berately cut short that lovely life by a cruel and sudden death, —
I cannot bear it. Spare me the comfort of your religion, I beg
of you, lest I curse my birth.'

Father and mother looked at each other a moment in silence.
It was the first direct avowal which had fallen from his lips ;
and though to Maitland of Laurieston it appeared blasphemy,
he held his peace. He had himself passed through these deeps ;
he knew by the agony of experience what it is for a human soul
to battle with the Almighty.

*Do you think that Agnes will speak like thati ' John asked
presently, in the same quiet, strange voice. 'Because if you
think BO I will not go in. I might say something to hurt her.

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

409

tUnna
an tlie

Wliat

never

3, than

se him

never

You arc looking,' at mo ; hut I know what I say. My child has
heen taken from mo; his death has resulted from a natural
cause. I am strong enough to Lear that ; but the other, I will
have none of it, even from her.'

He was suffering from the keenest anguish. They saw it in
the twitching of his face and the dim clouding of his eyes. But
his words nearly broke his mother's heart.

* Agnes is the mother of your child, John,' she said sternly.
* If you have a heart, go to her now, and I will pray to God
here that you may be kept from hurting her.'

After a moment, and without another word spoken, he rose
up, and went away to the upper room to his wife and child.

They heard the door open and shut, his heavy footfall cross
the floor, and then a deep silence.

•We cannot understand God's dealings with us and ours,
whiles, Michael,' Margaret Maitland said. ' Let us kneel down
here and pray for more faith.'

When her husband entered the room, Agnes rose to her feet
and turned to him with a pitiful wistfulness, which awoke in
him a new passion of tenderest love.

' My darling ! my own poor wife ! '

He clasped her close to his heart ; and she hid her face,
trembling and clinging to him as if she had never felt so needful
of his care.

' Isn't it fearful, John, to think that an hour ago we had a
child, and now we have none ? Do you think I shall be able to
bear it and live 1 '

' We must — we will help each other,' he answered, in a low
voice, and with difficulty ; for the sweet face of the child on the
pillow, looking so life-like and so lovely, was like to unman him.

' Oh, isn't life hard 1 There is a great deal to bear which ia
not easy. I wish — I wish I understood. It is so hard to have
faith.'

She forgot the lack of sympathy which had so long existed
between them on such themes, she remembered nothing but that
he was her best-beloved, and that the child who had gone from
her was his child, and that he had loved it.

' I have been asking God to make it plain to me, to give me

410

MAITLAND 01' LAUltlESTOM,

a crumb of comfort ; but it 1ms not como yet. ()\ isn't the
sunshine cruel 1 I drew the Minds quite closi- to shut it out ;
luid do you hear that blacklurd? Thore has not been a notn nil
day. It is like a sung of triumph. Do you think I shall evor
bo able to go out of doors again ? '

'Yes, yes J after a time we will ^tow accustoni('(l, I supijose,'
he said, in a hard, dry tone,

•Accustomed to what — to being without our darling!' sIki
said quickly. 'I hope not. That would be tlus hartlcst of all.
If I could keep him lying there, I think I should not foci it to
be so awful. But — but very soon they wiU take him away.'

He had no word to say. He only gathered hor yet more
closely to him, and so held her in utter silence ; but she fult his
touch cr nforting.

* I suppose we have loved him too much,* sho said, after a
time, drawing a little away from him, and touching with her
hand the hem of the child's white rol)o. * Not too much, in one
sense, perhaps, because you know there is no limit set; but
perhaps we have built too much upon him, and thought too little
of other things. But I can't speak about it ; it is so hard not
to think it all so cruel.'

Her breast heaved, a great sob broke from her lips, and then
there came a passion of tears. John envied her thes(t tears.
His eyes wtro dry and burning, his lips felt parehed, his heart
hardened. He could scarcely command himself to speak t(!nderly
and comfortingly to her ; and yet, God knew, he had never loved
her more than then.

When they went downstairs at last, leaving their darling to
his quiet rest, the face of Agnes was serene again, — the fearful
drawn look had gone from it, the staring, stony look from her
eyes. She entered the dining-room witli her hand through her
husband's arm ; and, looking at his mother, she said, with a faint,
sad smile, —

* I am learning, mother, as I go step by step with you. Soon
I shall be as rich in experience as you.'

Margaret Maitland was unable to speak ; but she knew her
prayer for the bereaved mother had been already answered.
So that sad day closed.

UAirUNn 01' lAUniKSTON.

411

the

lout ;

In all

HVi'r

|)()se,'

sll(i

all.
it to

tT a
her
one
but

little
not

Ff'iirful iiH liiul bei'U the struggle, Agnes hnil given the child
up, and couiil even, in the early lunirs of her bitter sorrow, follow
him with tlie eye of faith to that brighter clime whither he had
gone. For her the words, ' Of such is the kingdom of heaven,'
had obtained a new and most pn^cious significance ; but with her
husband it was dilU^rent. For him tlio child's death Avas a black
and bitter anguish, which had no assuagement. The dumb
despair in his eyes haunted his wife in sleeping and waking
hours. In the night she heard him rise and walk across the
corridors to the room where the child lay, and there he remained
till the sweet morning broke. Though she lay listening with
strained ear, she could hear nothing, not even a footfall on the
floor. He was dumb and silent in the anguish of his pain.
What these night hours were to John Maitland, was never told.
But they left their mark upon him, and when Agnes saw liim
in the clear morning light his hair had grown grey. Then she
knew that his sorrow was more awful to bear than hers, because
he had no hope. She was very tender, very gentle, very wifely
towards him ; but she did not put a single question, nor allude
to what was uppermost in her mind. She wondered what were
his thoughts now concerning the unknown, whither the pure
soul of his son had fled. She could not bear yet that a doubt
should be cast upon that future ; if it had grieved her before, it
was an intolerable thought now. So she held her peace ; and
when her heart failed her, she would steal up to the sunny upper
room where the baby slept, and beside him find peace. But
the day came — ay, too soon — when that comfort was denied her ;
when they bore another Michael Maitland to his rest in the
old burying-ground on the hill overlooking the sunny sea. It
was a great burying for so young a child. Although no invita-
tions were sent, they came from far and near, as they had
done when the family burying-ground had been opened for
Maitland's second son. The name was respected in the
parish, and the parents of the child greatly beloved. Then
the circumstances of the child's death were such as to call
forth the liveliest sympathy in every heart. So a great crowd
passed through the churchyard gates that sober June day, and
grouped about the open grave. It was a grey, pensive day, with

412

MAITLANT) OF LAVlilKSTO^.

a soft miflt voiling sky and earth nnd s'^a, and a pccnliar iound-
lossness in the air, which caused that dread sound, the earth
falling on the coflfin-iid, to fall with 8tartlin<,'distinctner.s on the
ears of the assembled throng. At the first thud they saw a
visible shudder pass over tl»e father's strong fij^'ure, then without
a word spoken he turned about and strode! away. Although it
was so unusual, none sought to follow him. They were astonished
likewise at the unwonted emotion exhibited by Maitland of
Lauricston. lie had borne the ordeal of his own son's burial with-
out flinching; but his sorrow for his little grandson seemed greater
than ho could control. Before they turned to go, ho tried to
thank them for their courtesy and respect shown to him and his ;
but, after a few words spoken, he broke down, and, leaning on
Will Laurie's arm, turned away home. Many a voice spok»?
kindy and sympathetically of the Maitlands that night, and
many a compassionate thought was directed towartls the childless
house of Hallcross. Agnes had need of all the sympathy which
could be bestowed. Their father and mothei ,ueaded with them
to come over to I^urieston, at least for the night ; but Agnes
shook her head, while a wan, wavering smile touched her lips.

' You know, mother. Could you have left Laurieston when it
was newly hallowed 1 ' she asked ; and after that Margaret Mait-
land had not a word to say.

By their childless h(?arth that night John Maitland and his
wife sat together. Tiio strangers who had been within their
gates had returned to town, b'dieving that in their sorrow they
were better alone. And it was so. The night had come softly
down, the gentle rain was weeping outside, and the grey, soft
mist lay heavy on the land. They heard the pattering drops
on the leaves of the red rose-trees, and sometimes a drop would
fall into the fire with a hissing sound, which almost startled them.
The fire had been the mother's thought. She knew that in its
ruddy glow there was a mysterious kind of companionship which
might be of use. And though it was not cold, they crept close
to it, as if trying to warm their desolate hearts. They had sat in
utter silence for a time, Agnes with her pale hands folded above
her black gown, and a far-off look in her eyes. Only a few days
ago these bauds had known no idleness. It had been her pride

MAI'll.ANh OF hMiniKsrn^.

II. T

t(» ply i\w n.'o.lli-, cciiHtaiitly f(.r lin- .larliiiK, ;i,„l „„w^ ._th.i.
hcomed to l)o notliiiij; to do in tlio \m\\m\ Trrliaits it w»i.s Imt \

little lifu : a child

Hci'iiis of no iinportanco uiitsidi-, tlio walls of

the homo which it (ills with li'dit and

music and laii;'liffr

but it was, of all i\n>. livos in th.s yrcat world, tho most precious
and moHt ncccsfiary to thc'-sci two.

' Arn you tired, Agnes 1 '

With thoHo words, tittonid in a tone of peculiar .significant
tfinderne.ss, Jcdin broke the Hilence.

'Tired ? Oh, I don't think so,' she answered, with a slight
Ktart. • If I am, it is with doing nothinc'

• You look pale and worn. Como and sit by mo, will yr.u not ?
^Ve must be more to each other now.*

She rose up, stepped across the hearth, and before she sat
down j»as8ed her hand throtigh his dark hair.

*It has grown grey, John, these few days. I have an old
man for my husband the rest of my days,' she said, smiling down
upon him, — that sn)ile which was verily th(>. light of his life.

lie c.iught the fohls of her dress and hid his face in them,
while her hand still lay on his bent head.

'What a comfort you are to me, dearest. You are more
nec(!ssary to mo than I am to you.'

' Do you think so ? You will always doubt me, John. Some
day I must try and tell you how 1 love you ; but it is so difficult
to find words. But it is here.'

She touched her heart lightly, and then slid down at his feet
and laid her head on his knee, as she often used to do in the
early days of their married life.

'Do you know what I have been thinking all day, John'!*
she said dreamily. 'Of the meeting there. How strange it
would be for them both ! '

* What meeting ? '

'Between our darling and his Uncle Michael. How glad Michael
would be to sec him ! It would be like a message from us.'

She spoke quite quietly and naturally, and as he listened
John was conscious of a strange sense of awe. After a little,
Agnes felt his silence, and, turning her head, looked up at him
suddenly with wide, questioning eyes,

I Ills

;!^«:

■*^*-:

^^HH

ml^n

m '^

'is >i

flffl^^Hjl

Vm '.

'!1 '^

414

MMTLASD or l.AURIKSTO^.

'John, lias it, not niiidc any dift'ereiico ? (Surely now that
baby is in heaven, it will be a real plact; to y«.u ! '

With those open, yearning eyes upon him, he dared not
answer.

'John.' She turned round to him and leaned her arm on
his knee. ' Look at me (juite straight, so that I may read
your soul. Our little rhild, whom (Jod gave us, has gone
away from us. Where do you think he has gone 1 Do you
not believe that there is a beaven, where we shall find him
again when our life is ended ? *

He put up his hand to shade his eyes, l)ut she grasped it and
kept it back.

* Look at me, John, and tell me,' she cried, in a voice which
pain made sharp and shrill, ' did you lay him in the grave
to-day, believing thai was all ? '

'Agnes, you torture yourself and me,' he said hoarsely.
' I cannot lie to you. I do not know what I believe ; but
this I must say, that I »,'an't grasp what your faith makes so
plain to you. Where the child has gone, I know not ; and
whether I shall see him again, I know not. There is nothing
before my mental vision but a chaos of all that is miserable and
confusing.'

A low cry fell from the lips of Agues Maitland. Then she
rose up silently and left him alone.

[f'w that

fired not

arm on
iiy read
Jias gone
J Do you
find him

|d it and

e which
le grave.

loarsely.
^e; but
lakes so
^t ; and
nothin-f
ibJe and

len she

CHAPTER XXVI.

*I am not what I was.'

I ILL LAURIE'S visit to London proved effectual.
His father troubled him no more for money. He
had a new project in hand, Avhicli he hoped would
render him independent of his children. But the
issue was uncertain, — a woman being in the question. It was
a matter in which William Laurie believed Agnes would be
useful to him, and as he felt a real desire to see her for her
own sake, he wrote and asked her to comj to London. He
was not at all sanguine about the response she would make to
his appeal ; it was therefore a surprise to him when he received
a telegram the second evening after he had written, saying she
would bo with him by the evening train of that day. He
was still in his rooms in Norfolk Street, though they had of
late proved rather expensive for his means. He was already
in debt to his landlady for a considerable sum, with the
natural consequence that she had become careless of his
comfort. There was something pitiful in the broken-down
man, aged before his time, living amidst such discomfort and
•uncertainty. Things were certainly at a low ebb with the gay
Mr. Laurie. iJut it is sometimes the darkest hour before the
dawn.

He announced to the landlady that his daughter was
coming, and managed to impress even that incredulous female
with a certain idea of Mrs. Maitland's dignity and grandeur.
He did not go to the station to meet her, although he spent a
greater part of the day out of doors. He had appealed to her

4!5

416

MAITLANl) OF LAURIESTON.

as an invalid, aii<l musf. the''ofore sustain the part he had to
play. It was about seven o'clock, and rainy darkness had set
in, when the cab rattled up to the door. The landlady herself
was in the hall when the bell rang, to receive Mrs. Maitland.
When she saw the tall figure with its graceful carriage, and
the sweet, calm, beautiful face behind the veil, she breathed a
sigh of relief, feeling that for once her lodger had not deceived
her. Her manner underwent an immediate change, and it was
with the utmost respect and attention that she showed Mrs.
Maitland into the sitting-room. A cheerful fire burned there,
and the table was laid for tea. "William Laurie, in dressing-
gown and slip[)ers, rose someAvhat languidly from his easy-
chair, and advanced to meet her with a certain furtive look of
anxiety in his worn ryes.

* I am so glad to s(^e you up, papa,' Agnes said, and kissed
him, not without affection, for his haggard, aged appearance
touched her inexpressibly.

* Oh, I am not quite so had as that,' he answered sincerely,
though he had intended to make the most of his ailments.
' Now that I see you, I almost regret that I sent for you so
hurriedly. You do not look particularly well. It was very
good of you to come.*

* I am quite well, and I was very glad to come, papa,'
Agnes answered quickly. I felt the need of something to do.
Your summons was very welcome.'

He looked at her for a moment in keen silence. There was
something in that beautiful, serene face which made him
wonder. It was a suggestion of sadness, of endurance, a
something indescribable, which he felt in his inmost soul.
He saw that Agnes had gone through much since they had
last met.

' Your husband was quite willing for you to come, I hope ] '
he said, almost humbly for him. *I should not like to vex
him.'

' He is abroad at present, at Berlin, with his old friend
Mr. Eobertson. I wrote to him before I came. Don't look so
concerned, papa. John lots me do just as I like. Don't think
7 liaye married a domestic tyrant.*

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON.

417

* I am glad to hear it. Well, will you go upstairs and take
oflf your bonnet? I hope Mrs. Briggs will attend to you.
You will not find here the comforts to which ycu are accus-
tomed, hut the place is a good place as lodgings go.*

*0h, I shall be all right, never fear. I shall .ot be many
minutes upstairs, for I shall be glad of a cup of tea.'

Mr. Laurie rang the bell, and when Agnes left the room shcj
found the attentive Mrs. Briggs waiting to show her upstairs.
Agnes had a peculiarly winning and gracious manner, which
always impressed strangers, and won for her their kind offices.
She had no reason to complain of the landlady, who of her own
accord had rushed up and kindled a fire in the room the lady
from Scotland was to occupy. The few courteous words of
thanks with which that thoughtful act was acknowledged,
were sufficient reward to Mrs. Briggs for her extra trouble.

When Agnes returned to the sitting-room, robed in her
soft mou"ning gown, with a touch of white at the throat, her
f, her looked at her in open admiration.

• My dear, you have greatly improved. Tou are very
handsome. Matrimony has given you a new dignity and
grace which is most becoming. I am very proud of you.'

Agnes smiled.

' You can talk nonsense yet, papa. Come and let us have
tea and talk. Tell me what is the matter with you.'

* I have no special complaint. I am out of sorts generally.
I suppose I am getting old. I am afraid I misled you
in my letter. Did you expect to find me seriously illT

'I did not know. You look ill enough to require some
attention, and I shall be very glad to give it. Suppose we go
out of London for a while, and take a little change to some sea-
side place?*

The kind solicitude of her look and manner smote him with
a sense of his own unworthiness. Agnes wondered to see him
look so disconcerted.

' I wrote to John last night, and I told him if you were
able we might take such a little change. If we decide upon it,
I shall write to him from here, and then he might join us and

take me home.*

418

MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON.

* You are very kind. You have a good husband, I think ? '

* I have. The best tb^.t lives,' she answered, in a low voici-,
and he saw her mouth tremble.

' And you lost your little son 1 I was very sorry foi yon
when I knew of it, though I did not write. One caniuH
express sympathy in a letter. It 's mostly best to leave peoi)lt!
alone when they are in trouble.*

Agnes inclined her head and bent over her teacup. For a
few minutes there was nothing said.

' You did not think of going abroad with your husband 1 It
would have done you good,'

*In a sense, yes. But I wished him to go alone. It is
not always a wife's duty to follow everywhere. Kobertson
and he are old friends, and they will enjoy a few weeks
together. It is often a mistake women make, I think, trying
to sever these old friendships between men. A woman cannot
be, even to her husband, quite what a tried friend of his own
sex can be.'

*I never heard finer words of wisdom from a woman's
lips, Agnes. Your husband ought to be a happy man. I hope
he appreciates the treasure be has won ] '

'We understand each other, papa, so far as such things
are concerned, and that is much,' Agnes answered quietly.

'And have you been living at Laurieston since he wcnit
away ? '

*I have divided the time between Hallcross and Laurioston,
and spent a part with Will and Effie. How happy they
are, papa! It would do you good to see them. I was
very much afraid for Will at one time, but he has (piit(^
changed.'

'I admire his wife very much, — a sensible, independent
little woman. I am glad to hear they are getting on so
well. Of course you knew she offered me a home with
them 1 '

' Yes, I knew ; but I was quite glad that you decided not to
go. Young people are best alone, especially untried, inexjieri-
enced folks like Will and Effie.'

' I had an atom of common senb i left, and I knew that ;

b^
o\

hi
sj

MAITLAND OF LA UlUKHTON.

419

Voice,
^i joii

JOOJ)},,

If'

or a

? It

It is
^i'tson
Neks
frj'iiig

iniiot
own

but there are timec when I am oppressed with a sense of my
own desolation and homelessness.'

Agnes was silent. She could not remind him how careless
he had been of opportunities in the past, and how he had
set aside what had been offered him in good faith. He
perfectly understood, however, her unspoken thoughts.

*I am going to be perfectly honest with you, Agnes,
whatever the consequences of that honesty may be. I
had another reason than my poor health for wishing to see
you.'

*I am ready to hear it, papa,' Agnes answered, without
surprise.

•"Would it astonish you very much to hear that I am
contemplating a second marriage 1 '

Agnes started.

* It is a surprise to me, I confess, at the present time, though
in the past I seemed to be constantly expecting to hear of it,'
she answered. * If it is a suitable marriage, I shall be veiy
glad, for your sake.'

He looked relieved, and answered buoyantly, —
' Your profoTind common sense, Agnes, amazes me more and
more. It is common for grown-up daughters to resent a second
marriage, though why it should be any of their business I
don't know. The lady whom I hope and expect to marry is
very rich, and it would be a very satisfactory escape from th(,'
worries of my present life.'

Agnes looked at him keenly. ' Papa, I hope that is not all.
It would be a mean and despicable marriage, if selfish comfort
is its only aim. I must speak plainly, because I feel so strongly
on these subjects.'

♦ My dear, I wish you to be perfectly candid, and I expected
it. I will admit that at first, when I began to contemplate such
a change, that loas my idea. But whether you believe me or
not, I have since learned to esteem and regard the lady very
highly, and even to think, Agnes, that poverty with her would
be preferable to poverty endured alone. She is a very fine,
woman, generous, sympathetic, kind-hearted. I prophesy you
will like her.*

WBWPBPW"

420

MAITLAND OF LAUIUESTOM.

Agnes felt that her father was sincere. She liked the
expression on his face even morj than his words.

* Who is she, papa 1 ' she asked. ' Tell me all about her.'

* Her name is Mrs. Rathbone. She is the widow of a gentle-
man who made his fortune in the manufacture of the useful
and indispensable match. I do not know that it is a larye
fortune, but it is certainly a competency. She lives at a
charming place on the Thames, near Brentford. May I hope
that you will consent to call upon her there % *

' It will be my duty to do so, papa, if there has been any
talk of marriage between vou.'

' Thank you, my dear. You are very kind. I believe that
the sight of you would be the turning-point in my favour.
Mrs. Rathbone is at present in a state of hesitation. I believe
you would decide her.'

* I hope you have been quite honest with her, as you have
been with me, papa 1 ' Agnes said quietly. * If she is such
a woman as you describe, she deserves the very highest con-
fidence.'

* My dear, I have hid nothing from her. I even exploded
the old fallacy about the Lauries of Mearns Castle when she
asked me about it. I believed at one time it was expedient
to resort to such mild frauds on society. I know now that I
was wrong and you vere right. Honesty is the best policy,
after all. She also knows that I have nothing ; but I do not
think that that weighs with her at all "We fic^em to suit each
other. I confess that, when I am in her society, I feel myself
to be a better man, and I regret the hypocrisy and the sin of
my past life as I have never regretted it before.'

Agnes looked with deep interest on the handsome, worn face,
and her heart filled with a strange compassion. How true it is
that a wasted life brings nothing to its possessor but a harvest
of undying regrets ! But the very fact that the capability for
regret remains is a hopeful sign.

' She is not in the accepted sense a religious woman,' he con-
tinued, half absently, and evidently absorbed in his theme.
' That is, she does not speak much about it. But she is a good
woman, a healthy-minded, free-spoken, straight down sort of

MAITLAXI) OF LAURIKSTON.

421

the

|r.'

3ntle.
fsofiil

at a
I hope

any

person, who hates humbug and affectation. Perhaps she is not
very refined, I don't know ; but I do know that she is as good
as gold.*

* I should like to tee her very much. Does she know I am
here ? ' Agnes askod.

' She knew you were coming, — at least, that I had asked you.
1 told her, Agnes, the whole of that miserable story about
(lilbert Culross. She is the sort of woman you can confess
your sins to and feel the better for it. Her interest in you is
awakened. She thinks you must be a lovely character. I can
write to-night, I suppose, and say we shall come and see her ? '

* I am quite willing,' said Agnes. * I feel deeply interested
in her. If you should make her your wife, papa, you will see
that she does not regret it, I believe.'

* I shall do my best. I have grown more humble of late, and
see things differently. I suppose it will not he possible for me
to attain to any great height of goodness, but I shall do my
best. And should she do me the honour to marry me, I shall
not be likely to forget how much I am the gainer. The wonder
to nie has been that she tolerates me at all.'

They sat talking far into the night, and, for the first time in
her life, Agnes parted from her father feeling towards him
somewhat as a daughter should. She saw that in him was
awakened at least a transient desire after a better life, and she
blessed the woman whose influence had wrought even so slight
a change. There was Still the old satisfaction and pride of self,
the unreal way of talk, the pomposity of manner which used to
jar so harshly upon her ; but they were modified greatly, and
the certainty thai, he was for once in his life perfectly sincere
and honest was a great satisfaction to her. She felt glad, as
she lay down to sleep, that she had obeyed her first impulse,
and come to him at once. It was long before she slept. The
hum of the city was not yet stilled, and, though distance
.softened it to a low continuous murmur, it was sufficient, after
the utter stillness of Laurieston, to keep her awake. She thought
of many things as she lay in that unfamiliar bed, but at length
her heart's interest centred upon one theme, the husband from
whom she had parted, not in anger, but with a strange feeluig

422

M AIT LAND OF LAURIKSTON.

of relief. A baby's grave, so often tbe most precious tie of all
which can bind human hearts together, had severed them. It
•stood like a barrier between them, a barrier which not even a
deep and fervent love could bridge. The world knew nothing
of that slight estrangement, nor did those who loved them
dream of it. Perhaps they had wondered 'a little that husband
and wife should part at such a time, — that Agnes should not
tare to share with her husband the change of scene. T»ut so
jealously did they guard their inner sanctuary, that the bitter-
ness was not dreamed of, and so was not made the subject of
comment among any.
And that was welL

CHAPTER XXVIL

teT -w= post ^-8^j jn„':i*;:

B,S^«, •ii-"'" '^"^ r fi be vevy Vased to have an
iS^ she said »^'™" S XV,uaintanc». Thoy
opportunity of making M'- Mooted » J ^ ^^^^ _^^^^,
aecided at once to go and despat<* a ^^„ ^^^^^^ ^
A-nea spent the mornmg '» 7' ''^0. a v,eek, but she fclt
husband' He ^^ ^'^.^^^'^^ "»«»'' «« ">«*•'"
the separation ^^}^;\,Zu^^ «- ^ ^^^ ^Tf,
him every day. What "'-^« ' ^ „„,Uered love, .t »

evidence as they d.d of a p^.on^^ ^^^^ ^j ™nd »h>cU

„ot possible J^'-^l'^^^^ J'JTe anon. They decided t<.

„i,e,d comfort; hut "J *>» J" ^;,,, steamer at West-

Jl up toKevr, and got o"^"'™ " soft and sunny; the

Ister Bridge. « -^ "'^'^^^"ing tempe^d by the
heat grateful, hut "ot *oo_oppres ^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^,^ 4
gentlest of south wnds. They d ^^_^ ^^^^^^ ,^,, , tr.ll.

the short, la.y voyage. A^^^'^-ived him as she saw hm
restless and preoccupied. ^"'J" . g^ i„„v.e<l more hke
Ttriding up anddov,nthe,na-«*f^^, ^^^, ,, ^he i ea
himself in his »"'*"^'"''™- id-afternoon in evening dress

„£ him being out of d""" '™'' , , w„p ; while Agnes
hut the long travelling -at drdd^ay^^^^^ ^.^^ M

herself had »/«*='°'^°h! arrived at Linden I^dge at a
Eathhone dined early, and the^

424

HAITIAN D OF LAUIHESTON.

quarter before six. It was a pretty house, standing on a sunny
slope facing the river, but with plenty of greenery about it, and
even a little wooded park behind. Agnes was shown up to a
dressing-room, and before she had removed her gloves the dour
opened and some one came in. Agnes turned round quickly.
She did not remember ever feeling so curiously interested
before. A lady entered the room, a tall, handsome figure,
rather stout, but i.ot ungraceful, well dressed and with taste, in
a black satin gown with a sweeping train, and a cap of exquibitu
lace, which was most becoming to her open, cheerful, ruddy
face. She was past middle age, evidently, for her plentiful
hair was quite grey, and her face had a wrinkle here and there.
But her -vhole presence was comforiablu and cheerful and
pleasant to look upon.

Agnes advanced with a smile. ' Mrs. Ratlibone ? '

' Yes. I came to you at once. It is an odd, strange feeling
entering a house where you don't even know the mistress,* said
Mrs. Bathbone, clasping her guest's slender hand in her own
ample palms. * I am very glad to see you. It was so nice of
you to come at once, without any ceremony.'

While she was speaking, Agnes was quite conscious of her
keen scrutiny, and her colour slightly rose under it, though it
was so good-natured and kindly.

* How very pretty it is here ! ' she said, with a little nervous
smile, as she tried to withdraw lier hand. Mrs. Rathbune
smiled too, and with a sudden gesture bent forward and kissed
her cheek before she released her. In thi t caress to William
Laurie's daughter, William Laurie himself was accepted. It is
not too much to say that the aristocratic-looking and biiautiful
Mrs. Maitland had taken the widow's heart by storm. They
relapsed into a natural and cheerful talk presently, anil Agnes
felt herself perfectly at home. She liked to feel tlie kindly
hands of Mrs. Rathbone about her, and the somewhat loud but
very musical tone of her voice sounded both friendly and pleasant
io her. She believed every word her father had said about
her, and more. She felt herself that this was a good woman,
and a motherly, who could be trusted in everything. William
Laurie looked relieved when the two ladies entered the drawing-

Ma IT LAN I) or J.AVniESTOX.

i2[

inny

and

Ito a

|door
3kly.

bsted

jure,

fe, ill

room together, hut there wns a (liffidenco in liis manner whiih
entirely astonished Agnea, who hud never seen him other than
Ht'lf-aatisfied and calmly at ease. Sh(! liked to see it, however ;
it indicated to her that he had a profound respect for the
cttuiiiany in which he found himself. The dinner was; perfect,
though not elahorate. Agnes, a keen judge and critic of house
hold management, was filled with admiration for the whole
arrangements for their comfort. It was also a most enjoyahh-
meal, for Mrs. Rathhone had a fund of cheerful talk, and shr
did her utmost to be agreeable. That evening, for the first
time in her life, Agnes saw her father at his best. As she
listened to his clover and interesting talk, .she no longer
wontlered at the fascination he exercised over those with whom
he came in contact.

They went out into the pleasant garden after dinner, and
watched the sun setting on the placid river. Agnes thought it
one «)f the prettiest pictures she had ever seen, and said so in
hor heartiest manner. Mrs. Rathbone was evidently pleased
with her admiration of the place; and so, in the midst of pleasant,
uninterrupted talk, the evening sped so rapidly, that all were
surprised when the early darknciss fell, and it was time for them
to i)art. Again Mrs. Rathbone accoiupanieil her guest upstairs,
and, while Agnes was buttoning on her boots, she looked down
at her with a curious air of hesitation.

* Am T to see you again, Mrs. '^^^itland, before you leave
London 1'

'Oh, I hope so. We were thinking of going out of town
together, pa])a and I, for a little change. 1 shall stay likely
until Mr. Maitland comes to fetch me. I should like you to
meet ray husband, Mrs. Rathbone.'

' I should be afraid of him, I think ; he is so very clever,
Air. Liiurie tells me. Is it not correct to call him Professor
Maitland r

' Oh, not yet,' Agnes answered, with a laugh. ' Some day,
jierhaps very soon, he may attain to that dignity. I have had
a very delightful evening here, Mrs. Rathbone.'

The widow's pleasant face flushed with gratification.

' I am very glad indeed, — very glad,' she said, with fervour ;

426

MAITLAND OF LAUJiJ/'JSTON.

then she looked at Agnes with a certain wistfulness, which,
however, presently lost itself in a broad atnilo.

*My deal, I suppose you know — I hopo you do, at loiist—
what hos been in the wind hitelyl* she suid quickly. 'What
would you think if two old folks like your father and I should
think of spending the rest of our lives together?'

Agnes fastened the last button on her boot, and then rose
somewhat hastily.

'I should think, dear Mrs. Rathbone, that my father has
great good fortune ; and my constant prayer would be that he
should be worthy of his happiness,' she said, looking straight in
her simple, candid way into the face of the woman before her.
* And I would say, too, that if there is anything I can do to be
useful and kind, I shall do it with all my heart ; and I know I
can speak for my husband too.'

Mrs. Bathbone sat down suddenly ; and it was evident that
she was unusually affected.

'It is just this, Mrs. Maitland: I am frightfully londy; I
have not a relation in the world. Of course I have plenty of
friends and acquaintances, plenty of them ; and I may tell you
that I have been asked to marry several times since Mr. Rath-
bone died. But I never could think of it, until your father
asked me. He thinks very little of himself ; he says he is not
good enough for me. I will not deny either, my dear, since wo
are speaking candidly to each other, that some people have tried
to poison my mind against him. But for all that, I am willing
to try the experiment ; because, in fact, I like him, my dear,
that's all, and we seem to suit each other.'

Agnes was too much touched by the simple sincerity of Mrs.
Rttthbone's words to smile.

' I can only say that I believe my father is sincere in his
regard for you, and that there is no reason why you should not
be ' M>p','she answered; and then hesitated a moment before
ahe lued ' There is no doubt, Mrs. Rathbone, that if the

marriage should take place, he will be immeasurably thx^ gainer.
H* is perfectly conscious that ho has vrry Htlb to offer you in
return for all you would chafer on him.'

* If you mean the m mey, ^vr the house, what is that to a

MAITLAND OP LAUIUKSTOS.

427

,„, „„y l,u»ine,8 to ,,u..im. I 'J™ " ^^. „„ ,„ ,„i,„, tto

\)itmgof venomous U.u^ui ^ um

.ur gvav.« the better.' ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^^ HathW'a

Atones smiled, ami, i.»>i»b "

affectionately, ^^l^»»" ^r '

iivertlow. Willi. Ill I uuvie was pacing

.We .r. l.«din, >"".f' " " 'j ['^'J' 1„. .1,.,, ,,„.u..,l from
v.ico ,f, \.is ho4os3 s«.d at '»» . , . w.. have

L„ making up a '"»'*'',:;^'t , ri Iw-a : «"'! «»"«"

other «onl« wv, on h.8 ln«. ^ « ' ' ,,j „,„ tw„ ,„icldle-
«Ue. them, ": -' -:^tlr .. ?: On. ,la,-wh,.n ho had
aged love ..flan- than he ^^T ,^ l!„t, Leforo they l««.

rix: ':— ^^^^^^^ "- "'-' '-^^ ""''"" ''^

"■1\rt, .ater. to yo» A... ;... y- .- ---

to me at thi, time • he sa.d - *^ ,^^^,^ „„, ,,,,„ed it at

door of Undo. Lodge. I/"^' ' ' ,t if

your hand,. I h"F I ''^"""f the common, papa ; it has been

^ .1 have done nothing ""'"V^'S.hone,' Agnes replied, a
a pleasure to myself to "-«' ^J^^^ * ,„ ^d past, «* "^
Utile wearily. Somehow aU at one- ghe rememhered or'y
leight of bitter memory - -* her.^ ^^^

the sordid misery of «" "[V^ ;„e hastening, where het

428

MAITLAND OF LAUJilESTON'.

bidden su£fer long, and not quench the bruised reed, there are
times when memory has so fierce a sting that it takes all the
grace God can give us to follow the example He has set us.
Agnes did not grudge her father his good fortune ; nay, she
was honestly, sincerely glad of it; only she could not quite
forget. He had a quick intuition, and, divining the nature of
her thoughts, kept sHr-nt. He felt that to express regret oi-
contrition for the past just then would be out of place. They
made the railway jourrey back to town almoKt without a word,
and, when they reached Norfolk Street, Agnes went to her own
room at once. She closed the dooT, and, before taking off her
cloak, knelt down before the bed and burst into tears. She felt
glad that she had been able to restrain them until she was out
(if her fatlier's sight. She was unselfish enough to refrain from
casting any shadow on his happiness. She left him with God.
She believed that, if not then, the day would come when the
thought of the wife of his youth would cost him bitter and
penitential tears. Even out of the largeness of her heart, Agnes
could not admit that he had been faithful or kind to her mother,
and she may be forgiven for the bitterness of the tears she shed
that night. They met next moming with cheerfulness, however,
and pleasantly discussed the quiet enjoyment of the previous
evening. After breakfast Agnes went oui alone. She did not
say where ohe was going, nor ask her father to accompany her ;
but he knew that slie had gone to visit her mother's grave.
She drove to the cemetery, and back into the city, dismissing
the cab in Oxford Street. She was leisurely looking in at a
shop window, when a lady came out of the establishment, and
at sight of her uttered an exclamation, which caused Agnes to
look round with a start.

'My dear darling Agnes, is it really youl'

' Why, dear Lady Culross ! *

•Agnes could say no more ; but they clasped hands in silence,
which Avas more eloquent than words.

' What are you doing in London 1 when did you come 1 antl
how are you 1 ' Lady Culross managed to say at last.

' I came to see my father, who is not well. I only came the
day before yesterday. I had no idea you were in town.'

MAITLAND OF LAUPJEiSTON.

420

ire

•I am shopping, my dear, for the wedding. My daughter-in-
law elect is in town to-day too, and is to take tea with me at
four o'clock. I am going back to lunch now, at the Langham,
whore I am staying. Will you come 1 This is my cab.'

* Yes, I will come,' said ignes at once.

« Is the Trofessor with yen 1 ' La<ly Culross invariably called
John the Professor, and wiien reproved for it, as she had been
jokingly at Laurieston, had quaintly replied that she was merely
taking time by the foielock, and that it would save learning
the new name by and by.

' Xo ; John is abroad.'

* Abi.-.ad, and alone, so soon after — after * — here Lady Culross
came to a significant pause.

' Let us go. Lady Culross ; I want to talk a great long talk
with you,' Agnes ansvered hurriedly, and the next moment
their cab was rattling along the street.

' And your father is out of health ? I have heard nothin"
about him for a long time,' said Lady Culross. *Is he very

iiir

Agnes slightly smiled.

' Not very. His system seems to be run down. We think
of going down to Broadstairs for ten days or so. Would it
surprise you very much to hear that he is going to marry
again 1 '

Lady Culross laughed as she replied, —

*My dear, I am never surprised at anything. I hope for
your sake it is a suitable marriage.'

* It is suitable so far as the lady is concerned,' said Agnes, with
a sigh. 'What I fear is that my 1 ther may not be able to
make her happy. He has so long had no one to consider but
himself.'

' Or at least he has considered no one but himself,' put in
Lady Culross, with good-humoured shrewdness.

'Well, itt,sso,' Agnes admitted. 'H(! a])pears to be moved
to better things just now ; but I confess I cannot be quite
sanguine. But it can never be my duty, dear friend, to expose
my father's faults and weaknesses, even to the woman he is
going to marry.*

430

MAITLAND OF LAUIilESTON.

* Most certainly not.'

* Bosides, I tlJ'ik lie has been very frank with her, and I
must hope for the best. When does Sir Gilbert's marriage tak(!
place ? '

'In October; and I think, my dear, the sensible girl he haw
won is going to make a man of him,' said Lady Culross gaily.
* Here we are. I have a cosy private room, where lunch will l;'j
ready, and where we can talk undisturbed. I confess I want
to know how so devoted a wife has allowed her husband to go
abroad, while she follows the bent of her own sweet will in
London.'

Agnes made no reply until they were alone together at the
lunch table, and Lady Culross looked at her with aflFectionate
and questioning eyes.

* My darling, your sorrow has aged you very much, and yet I
never thought you more beautiful, 'she said significantly. 'You
look as if you had the sweetest consolation in your bereavement.'

'If I look so, it is no guarantee that I feel so, liady Culross,'
Agnes answered, in a low voice. 'I am not consoled, noi
resigned, nor happy, and my husband and I have parted because
we feel differently on these subjects, and are miserable together.'

'Who suggested the parting ? I do not think, Agnes, that it
would be Mr. Maitlaiid ? '

'No; I suggestiMl it. He has gone to Berlin to join Mr.
Robertson.'

' Did he not ask you to go ? *

' He said something, but he knew that I — why should I
hesitate to say it 1 — he know that I v/ished him to leave nie for
a little.'

' You don't know what you are doing, Agnes. Take care how
you pierce that true hcai't. It is a possible thing that God may
have taken away your child to teach you your duty to your
husband. Take care that you do not i)ass that message; by.'

It was Lady Culross's opportunity to utter a word in season,
and though Agnes answered nothing, she hid and pondered it in
her heart,

iOUA,'

' I

CHAPTEE XXVITI.

*0h, I remember, and ■will ne'er forget
Our meeting-spots, our chosen, sacred hours,
Our burning words that uttered all the souL'

ULLOA, old fellow, how are you 1 '

'Can't complain. How are you? Why, you
look years older.*

Those words of greeting, uttered in the quick,
eager fashion, and accompanied hy that fervent handclasp which
indicates emotion, passed hetween John Maitland and his friend
Kohertson at the Central Station in Berlin, on the evening of a
fine August day.

* I can hardly believe that it is you,' said Kohertson, with his
old pleasant smile. ' Yes, you look older ; why, there are even
some grey hairs there, untimely at your age. Have you much
luggage ? It could be sent up if you would care to walk home
with me. It is a glorious night for a walk.'

' Yes, of course I can walk. This is all I have,' said John,
making a motion with the portmanteau in his hand. * We can
carry it between us. It is fine to see you again, but I felt sony
not to look you up at Leipsic. I stopped a night, just for auld
laiig syne. How do you like your new quarters ?'

' They are not new now, you forget. I have been half a year
here. I was just thinking of gathering together, and taking a
lazy journey home to Mary, when the letter came that you
were coming.'

' But why didn't you write and tell me so ?
be disappointed.*

Mrs. Gilbert will

432

MAITLAND OF LAUUIESTON,

*Not she, for she didn't know I had any such thin^ in
Qontemplation. Write and put you off, indeed ! ' said Phil loftily.
* I see you don't know what it is to me to see you again, to have
you in tlio flesh here, without let or hindrance. What did Mrs.
Maitland say to this bachelor exploit ? '

' She highly approved,' John answered quietly. * That's fine,
Phil, very fine. I never saw a more striking ]»rospect.'

He alluded to the magnificent stretch of Fried rich-Strasso,
with its thou.^uuds of gleaming lights, which dazzle the eye of the
traveller a>:. he enters it from the Central Station.

'Ay, it is fine; I never tire of it. It struck Heine oddly
once. He said it reminded him of eternity, though I confess I
do not see the analogy. You will like Eerlin, I prophesy. It
is a city of magnificence, not only of things material, but from
an intellectual standpoint. Leipsic, my dear fellow, is a stagnant
marsh pool in com[»arison. I shall show you the new city of
my adoption with no small pride, I promise you.'

'Have you sold your birthright, Phil, and bought with it
a mess of continental pottage?' laughed John. 'Can no good
now come out of Edinburgh, for instance, of which you used to
be so proud 1 *

• Edinburgh, my dear fellow, is a queen of cities so far as hisr
natural graces go ; for aught else — ' a very expressive shrug
finished th»' sentence, 'liut let us not begin to argue these
vexed questions. Can't you see I am as a thirsty traveller in
the wilderness, Imiging for news of home ? How is Laurieston
looking in these long summer days? Are there as many rose-
blooms and buds on that south gable yet ? And when did the
snow disappear from the thorn-tree, where we used to hold such
delightful vn'tiim in the old days ? You see '■' have forgotten
nothing.'

' Everything looks just as it did then. There is no change on
the outward face of the old home.'

' Changes there must be within. It is the inexorable law of
time/ added Robertson. ' I trust you left your wife well ? '

There was a note of tender sympathy in Robertson's voice,
which John felt and understood.

* She is well in bodily health, but she has suffered sorely

MAIILAm OF LAUniESTON.

433

• „„ Phil Thetehave been limes when I feaicd

that it has been all a ■»«^'''- , „ w . So fat as I could
•Heaven «o,Ua,'wasthe fervent «PJ^^ ^^^^^^ „^ ^^,^

judge, I thought there nev

happiness than y outs ^^ ^„ y„„ ^j confid-

Vwe ean speak of that agam^ «,„fessed,' John

ence,Phil. Thati» n.y sdfta emu ^ J ,i„,est message.,

xeplied. 'My"f''*"*?rtmrof Effie numbet t«. My
and Effie has sent you »^^ °^ y^, „. hting you baek
father did not foTg.A JO e.thet.

with me if I «»"y'- „ „ae is at Lautieston, then!

. We will think of It. Yout m j ^^^.^ she

„m divide the time. She ^^^ „„ ,^^, She does not
thouch to me it seems the d**';'! P t^aehetous gleam

WW of course, the agony It ..^me to so ^^.^^_ ^^^ ^^^

„rXat datk rivet -W* '°^^^f J' l,elf such awful ties
we* Robertson, not *" ;'™^^^^»:Ud satisfy even the most
Wh™ they are nven, the totta e ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ y

exacting bclievets rn a «al hell ^^ ^^^ he

«^r\lv''"-T:U me about yourself. _ I don't know that I

:^!:^"f fabout yout oec«P^i»J«-,^^^( ^^ at the
"" I i's not very obscure^ '^,^1%^^^,. You know I
Jvetsity bere, a-^ — f f a Cld it more to my mmd
was gtinding it «P »* 1-«P™' r ^ave dabbled too long and too
Ihan ehemistty. Eact .s, John, bav ^^^^^^^^^ ,
Ich in many things, and I m t^y = ^^ ^^.„^ „„,tog ,„st
pated faculties now on one. ^^_^^

n' guessed that. ^ ^^ '"^LITTU^^^^^^T^.

X^ J« .^^- ^^-ritf- i^to a mere
together '^V.'^'^'ltttog outside of books' j^.

-^^::frn'rf-j-^^^^^

But here the intensity of hft is ^

434

MAiTLANI) Oh' LA UltlESTOX.

that stiiguiitiou is inipussiblo. Of courso, you know, tliought is
in the very fiirtlicwt stato of advnnco here'

*I supiMj.so it is,' John asscntod, wi'li l)nt a languid
into rest.

'For instance, wo have Ardnicycr, my greatest friend here,
hicturing on the nervous system, and explaining even thti
highest and holiest emotions as a mere form of energy on the
part of the molecules of the hrain ; and my own science
explains or explodes much of the old dogma. There is
no doubt that religion's day is over, John. The strongest
and greatest minds of the age are agreed on that point.'

' So be it,' John answered, still listlessly ; a;id Robertson
perceived that he had not in these questions the eager, burning
interest of yore.

Their talk was interrupted, how^ever, by their arrival at the
house where Robertson lived, where a substantial dinner
awaited them ; and when they had enjoyed it, they stroile<l
out of doors again, loath to miss the beauty of the summer
night. It was quite dark as they strolled along the magni-
ficent Unter den Linden towards the Brandenburg Gate. The
avenues were thronged with citizens and strangers, enjoying
the pleasant air and the beauty of the scene. They passed
at length through the famous gateway into the Thiergarten,
which also presented a lively scene. The moon had now
risen, and made a fantastic play of light and shadow through
the network of the trees.

'I think we have walked far enough,* said Robertson.
* To-morrow we must come back and see the Schloss yonder,
where the king shows himself to the people at the window.
Let us sit down here where it is quiet, and talk.'

They chose a bench under a spreading tree, a little removed
from the thoroughfar*}, and there remained undisturbed. John
was ready to talk now, and, turning round to his friend, he
looked him straight in the face :

*I infer, Phil, from what you said a Trhile ago, that your
ideas on religious questions have undergone no change 1 ' he said
abru^'t/ly.

' Well, that is hardly correct. When I left Scotland I was

MA/TLAXn OF LAURIKSTON.

435

in a kind of negative state of mind, open to conviction from
any quarter. But I confess my study of the questions since T
have been abroad has not conduced to my acceptance of any
religious faith. Reason counts for so much here, there is no
encouragement whatever given to the cultivation of faith as a
virtue.*

* So you have gone over to the other side entirely 1 '

* Well, ^ es, I suppose I must say so. T study all the I'swzs,
and their name is legion. It is a little bewildering at first
to find of how very little account Christianity is here. It is
simply one subject among many others more or less interesting
and engrossing. To men reared as we were in strict orthodoxy,
it is, as I say, bewikltring. But it is astonishing how very
soon one gets used to it. I confess I am strengthened in
the conviction that religion is not a necessity to the soul of
man.'

*But have you ever been face to face with the fearful
realities of life, PhiH It is these things which stagger a
man. When I looked on Michael's face in death, I had some
curious thoughts. Can tl:ey, with all their wisdom, explain
away that mystery, or the despair of human hearts over an
eternal parting ? ' asked John, with a kind of quiet passion which
betrayed something of his inner emotions.

* They explain it to their own satisfaction, I suppose,* said
Robertson, with a slight hesitation, for he detected the per-
turbed state of his friend's mind, and knew very well that
though he spoke of Michael he was thinking of a more recent
loss. ' When a man rosolves in his own mind that this life
is all, his philosophy aids him to endure the sorrows which
nature, in her ordinary course of development, must eni/ail upon
all humanity.'

* That is not possible for me,' John made answer, and, rising
to his feet, took some hurried steps across the sward. * Phil, —
I am the most misctrabit of men. I would give twenty years,
nay, all my life, to be able to believe as Agnes does that we
shall find the child in anr ther and a better world. You know
nothing of the storn).:-, wh'.ch have shaken our home to its very
foundations. The difference of opinion regarding these matters

436

MAITLAND OF LAURIKSTON.

lias estranged from me my wife, whom I love better than my
own soul. She hates me because she thinks I deny to the
little one we have lost, any right to a future life. If that
were all, perhaps I might be able to bear it, that is, if I had
the strength of assured conviction to fall back upon. But I
have not even that. There is in my heart an intolerable
horror at the very thought of that young life, full of promise,
having gone down to the grave for evei'. The soul revolts
from it. Do you mean to say that a being endowed with such
exquisite faculties — he was no common child, Phil, although
he was my own — should simply be quenched in utter darkness
after such a short and fitful gleam of life. To my mind, that
cannot stand to reason. I have got the length of believing
that there is further development, that life is continued
somehow and somewhere beyond ; but I want the connecting
link, and, God helping me, I shall not rest until it is revealed
to me.'

Robertson held his peace. He had no words wherewith to
answer the passionate outburst from John's lips. * I should
think,' he said, after a long pause, and speaking slowly, — 'I
should think that at such a point your wife should be an
invaluable aid. To one searching after faith, the experience
and wise counsel of one whose faith has always been steadfast
should be a great help.'

*I see you do not understand,* John answered, with a
visible touch of impatience. 'Mrs. Maitland's faith is so
unassailable that she has no patience with me. She cannot
understand why any human soul should doubt. I wish — I
wish my brother Michael had lived.'

Had Agnes heard these words, her eyes would have been
opened. A good woman, unselfish and conscientious beyond
the average, she had yet, through some strange perversion of
ideas, neglected and passed by her first and most precious
duty. In these dark days, she had not been to her husband
all she might, — all she had in the earlier days so ardently hoped
to be.

*Your mother '^-began Robertson; but John shook his
Head,

i^' ■.-

MAITLAND OF LAUniKSTOy.

437

my
the
[that
had
Int I
mble
lise,
|voIts
'such
[ough
:ness
that
jeving
inued
Jcting

his

* I do not liave the confidential talks I used to have with
my mother. I could not well talk with her on these subjects
without letting her know how my wife and I are divided upon
them. So I have kept silence, because I know it is my wife's
desire that that should not be known, even to my mother, who
loves us both so well. It is different with you, and the time
has come when I must speak to some one. Although I said
nothing to Agnes, she divined my object in coming here.
We have lived a miserable life since the thirteenth of June.'

Robertson remembered that was the date of little Michael's
death.

* She said to me, Phil, on the day we buried him, that she
hoped s. would have no more children. I knew what slu;
meant, but they were sharp words for me to hear. I think
she did not quite know how they hurt. Even the best of
women can be strangely cruel at times. I don't suppose it
entered into her head that her suffering in comparison with
mine was niV

* I wish I could help you, from the bottom of my heart I do,'
said Robertson fervently.

* You are helping me, letting me pour out my soul to you
Oh, man, it is a relief ! I have been pent up, at home, till life
became intolerable to me. I have even understood, Phil, what
was before a mystery to me, how men might be tempted to end
it all in a coward's grave.*

Robertson reached out his hand and touched his friend's
arm, and a slight smile came on John's lips. The moonlight
lay clear and broad and white upon him where he stood.
He seemed to feel the tenderness of its touch, and, taking
off his hat, uplifted his face to the clear and starlit sky.

'You have done me good already, Phil. Let us not talk
any more about me and my woes to-night. Come and let us
follow the throng, and try to forget that there is such a thing
as sorrow in the world.*

* I am sorry, in a sense, that you have come in holiday time,
for all my students and the most of my friends are out of
town. Had you come a month earlier, we should have held a
Jcnejpe in your honour,' said Robertson. ' Do you remember

438

MAlTLANn or LAVlilESTOS*.

that night at Loipsic Ion*; a.^^o, wht-u Ww, discjussion got so hot
that we were glad to escape, in case the oombatants came to
blows 1 '

'Yes, I remember it well. Tint Leipsie is very orthodox
and rcspectal)le, I am told, in eoniparison with Heidelberg or
Bonn. You liave heard me s[ieak of Harry Christie, one (tf
my own students, studying for the Church. He is at Heidel-
berg just now, and writes thrilling accounts of the life to Mrs.
^laitland. He was in liorror the otlier week over the first
duel he had seen. "What a brutal i»ractice it is ! '

' Very ; but it seems a concomitant of continental university
life. Taking it all round, though, it is a pleasanter, freer,
more g(Mierous life than wliat we shared at our Alma Mater.
For instance, the professors here, even the most learned and
famous, address their hearers as fellow-students, and at once
imt tlicmselves on a footing with them. There is a fine fitness
in it, John ; for, after all, what are the best and most accom-
l»lished but students, seeking to drink deeper at the fount of
knowledge 1 Still, can you imagine our dignified profs, in
Edinburgh so unbtmding themselves 1 The line between
teacher and taught is too harshly dra^^ and so a measure of
influence is lost. Why, man, such class-ruom rows as we used
to see and often assist in are utterly unknown here. There
is a sympathy and an affection in the relation between the
professor and the student which has araazcsd and touched me
profoundly.'

'That is encouraging. I like to hear it,' answered John.
' There is no doubt that the influence of personality is great.
It is important that the bond of humanity an'' brotherhood
should always be kept to the front.*

'I hope that when you mount the professorial chair, John,
you will be a bright and sliining light,' said Robertson, with
a kind of affectionate banter. 'See how we have wanilered
from the throng already. This is the Philosophers' Alley,
John, so called because Hegel and Schelling used to walk here,
daily. Can you fancy the feast of reason and the flow of soul
to which only the birds and the stirring leaves were listeners
during these walks t '

MAITI.AM> OF LAUlUES'i'OS.

439

' rt'rliiipa iht'y sometimes iiin)rovi!(l the time by strict
silervco,' John unsweml, ii trifle iihseiiily. ' Tlio solitude of
this place and the solemnity of the night imi)resse8 me deeply.
I feel as if I did not want to talk even to you."

«I understand you. 0>ir fnendt'hip is of suUicient "grit"
tobear silenee,' R'.hertsm answered, with a smile, and it was
almost in uubiukeu silence that they totmced their steps to the
city.

CHAPTER XXIX,

' Tliink, when our one soul umlerstandi

Tho great AVurd which makes all things new,

When earth breaks up, and Heaven expands,
Uow will the change strike nie and you

In the huuse not made with hands?'

URING the days of close intercourse which followed,
Robertson was enabled perfectly to discern the bent
of John ^laitland's raind. lie was entirely weaned
away from the old themes which had once been of
such surpassing interest. He no longer cared to discuss wilh
fervour and eagerness the various theories which sought to set
at naught faith in revealed religion. Formerly, it had been a
triumph and a delight to him to find any new and convincing
argument against Christianity, as it had been taught to him;
but it was evident now that his desire was reversed. He was
eager in pursuit of all that would go to conlirm the supremacy
and power of Christianity. He loved to .seek evidences of the
Divine attributes of the Lord Jesus. Robertson, standing aside,
while not sharing in these desires, had yet a kind of warm and
wide sympatiiy with them. Although a lonely man, with few
ties of love or kindred, he understood that in his friend's case
it was the heart of the man and the father crying out for some-
thing to fill the aching void which death had made.

Because the child of his love had gone beyond his ken, he
wished — nay, passionately longed — for the power of simple faith
to pierce the mystic veil which separates the seen from the
unseen.

Robertson's heart was filled with a profound compassion for

440

MA IT LA Nh or KAif/ilKSro^V.

441

liim. H(! oven hoped that h.^li.'f iui<rht lie.tome posHible to liim,
though noim knew better than li.- how diHicult— imy, how well-
nigh imposHihl.'— it is for the <lou])tin-,' heart to conin back to
the old standpoint. Tlicy had many long talks. There, was
nothing in the philosophy of human life they did not discuss ;
and though Robertson, of course, steadfast in his own Agmmti-
(tism, could not give his friend any impetus heavenward, still
his companionship was a distinct benefit to John Mail land. It
was not only a fresh companionship, but the friendship he had
proved was in itself a very satisfying and comforting thing.
They were like brothers during the weeks spent in the German
capital ; and in the third week of September they left it
together. During his residence abroad John had received
constant letters from his wife, and Ik; knew her movements
up to the last. She had been at Broadstairs with her father
for a fortnight, and left I^ondon for Scotland on the day they
left Berlin. John was surprised at the last intimation, the first
arrangement being that she should wait in London till he camo
to take her home. Her letters, while they had been very
precious to him, revealing as they did without reserve the deep
love she bore him, liad sometimes puzzled him. She seemed to
have something on her mind ; to be constantly reproaching her-
self with duty undone, especially with her shortcomings in her
relations with him. In his letters he had striven to reassure
her; but his tender assurance of lov*e and unspeakable trust
seemed only to distress her. He gathered from her letters that
she was finding the separation from him hard to bear; and
though it had been intolerable to him, he could not regret it,
since it had shown to each the other's heart. The news that
Agnes liad already returned to Scotland changed their plan of
travel. They parted at Paris ; Robertson to reach London by
Calais and Dover, John to get his uncle's steamer at Dunkirk
for Leith. He did not send any intimation of his home-coming.
He had a strange desire to meet his; wife unawares, and he
believed he should find her at Hallcroi^s.

It was a misty, raw afternoon when the ;.teamer anchored in
her dock at Leith. John felt glad that his uncle was not there
to see her come in, and hurried away, not caring to see or speak

442

MAITLAND Ob' LA Ulill'lSTOX.

with any. He took train from Loith to Portobcllo, and from
thence walked home. The rain cleared off as he walked, and
the sky hroke overhead, showing sweet glimpses of blue, where
liy and by the stars began to glimmer with a kind of shy,
uncertain brightness. The tide was in, and the sea so calm
and motionless, that the waves breaking on the saiuly shore had
scarcely a murmur to impart to the night. It was a quiet and
lonely road, dark and dreary enough on a moonless autumn
night; but the very darkness and stillness were unspeakably
soothing to the heart of the man who had so often walked that
familiar way. He did not hasten ; and though his mind seemed
overflowing with many thoughts, yet none seemed to have a
definite shape. He felt strangely removed from the busy life
of men, with its fever of unrest and struggling, almost like one
standing upon some lonely shore waiting — for what, he could
not tell. He seemed to have been in that state of dreamy
waiting for days. On board the steamer in the North Sea he
had paced the deck for many hours, looking over the tossing
expanse of wave and foam, thinking much, and yet oppressed
by that strange sense of unnatural calm. It was the reaction
aft 3r the fierce heat of the battle, but he did not know vi^hat it
mi<^'ht forebode. He knew that within an hour his wife's head
would be on his breast, — that he should hold to his heart what
was doarest to him on earth ; but the thought did not quicken
his pulse nor send any unwonted thrill to his heart. Once or
twice he looked up to the sky, watching the gradual, exquisite
brightening of the stars, and the rain -clouds rolling swiftly
towards the ^ea.

Soon the familiar lights of the little town began to gleam in
the near distance j and just as he crossed the High Street,
keeping the spire of the church in view, the town clock rang
seven. Once more he strode up the Loan, and reached the way-
worn steps which led to the kirkyard, the gates of which were
never closed. He did not keep the straight course ti;^ agh it,
but turned aside, as wf.s natural, to the burying-ground of the
Maitlands. It was evident that no rain had fallen on the hill,
for the short, smooth turf was dry, and not a drop glittered on
tree or flower. Two white rose-trees, planted by a Maitland a

MAITLAND OF lAVntKSTOlf.

443

generation Imforc, were still covered by a mass of white bloom,
and hung low over the headstones, almost hiding the lettering
on one. But at the other side the branches had been fastened
back while the sculptor had chiselled a new name, and so had
been left. The cloud had rolled away from the moon's face,
and a broad white light bathed the old kirkyard in its radiant
flood. By that mystic and solemn light John Maitland read for
tlu! first time the new name upon the stone, — with surprise, it
must be confessed, not knowing that any order had been given
regarding it :

Itft also slups

MICHAEL RANKINE,

BELOVin AND ONLT CHILD OF JOHN AND AONEB MAHXAND,

Who died on the 13th June 18—, aged one year
and three months.

'FOBBID TBKM NOT, FOR OF SUCH IS THE ElKGDOM OF HlAVEN.'

A slight shudder shook the strong man as he bent his face
upon his hands. * Forbid them not.' The words were a direct
reproach to him. He read in them the secret anguish of a
mother's soul, — a protest against the creed which had sought to
rob her child of his inheritance, and her heart of its immortal
and sustaining hope. An intolerable agony of desire took pos-
session of his soul. He took off" his hat and uplifted his
haggard face to the sweet heavens which smiled placidly upon
him. There was prayer — nay, imploring entreaty — in that up-
ward and steadfast look. It was as if he sought to penetrate
the heavens, to demand that their secret should be revealed to
him. After a time his head lowered on his breast, and he knelt
down until his forehead touched the letters of his son's name.
These words broke the deep stillness of the night : —

• Lord, I believe ! Help Thou mine unbelief ! '
. • . • "

Agnes had spent the greater part of that day at Laurieston.
The servants had been left in charge of Halleross during her
absence in London, and, though she returned unexpectedly, she

444

MAtTLAlfD or LA VRTE^TON.

found everytliing in good order, for tlicy were faithful girls,
who gave the service of love. She found the time hang heavily,
and yet did not care to be lonr or far away from the house,
lest her husband should return m find it empty. She expected
him to come by the London train, and did not dream that day,
when she watched from the window at Laurieston the Dunkirk
boat steaming up the Firth, who was standing at the bow.

They knew au Uncle "Walter's boats by the colour of their
funnels. As children, they had loved to watch them come and
go upon the sea. It was a very quiet house at Laurieston now,
except when Effie's two wee girlies came over, and made in the
old rooms something of the music of yore. Their grandfather
made much of them, and allowed them to tease and wheedle
him in a way which made his wife sometimes wonder. It is a
curious and a beautiful thing to see the love and forbi^araiu^e
of the grandparents towards the third generation. Childn^n's
children seem to have some wonderful and potent charm : or
perhaps it is that the old come back very gently and beautifully
to understand the child-life, and even to participate in tlie
child-like spirit. It ever seems to me like a preparation for
that kingdom of which it is written that, except ye become as
little children, ye cannot enter therein, ^faitland of Laurieston
had certainly changed. The old rugged, bristling points in his
character had been so gently mellowed by the hand of circum-
stance and time, that scarcely a trace remained. The fine spirit
of charity had entered into the man and changed his whole life.
Blessed are they on whovi; sorrow has such a sweet influence.

Although he was fond of his two little grand-daughters, the
untimely end of his son's son had been a great blow. His
pride in that noble boy had been a pride of no ordinary kind.
In him he seemed to see blossom anew the hope of his youth.
He had even looked forward into the far years, and pictured
him Maitland of Laurieston. There had been no talk for a long
time about Wat's succession to the place, and in the spring he
was to leave with his young wife for the new world. It was
understood, therefore, in a tacit, unacknowledged way, that
John's birthright, which he had given up for the higher dream
of his youth, was to be restored to him. Michael Maitland had

MAITLAND OF LAURIESTOI^.

445

changed his opinion on many iH.ints, and now saw nothing
incongruous in the idea of a college professor heing also Laird
of Laurieston.

His deep sorrow for the loss of little Michael made him
peculiarly tender with his son's wife. Sometimes, even yet,
Effie would experience a jealous pang, when she saw the two
together, Agnes with her arm through his, and often her head
touching his shoulder, as they walked. But Margaret Maitland
loved to see them thus. She could not forget that in the old
days, when his own children had harshly judged him, Agnes
had remained loyal and loving to Maitland of Laurieston. She
alone, indeed, of all the household, had given him his due.

Agnes walked half-way with Effic across the moonlit fields
after tea that evening, and then took the shortest path hack to
Hallcross. In spite of all their teasing, she would not sleep a
night out of her own home, and that day she seemed in a fever
to be back. The blinds were not down in the dining-room
windows, and, as she glanced through the jessamine sprays, she
thought what a bright and homely picture it was. The ruddy
firelight cast its glow all over the pretty room, lending to the
crimson tints of carpet and hangings a warmer and more brilliant
hue. The tea-tray was on the table still, very daintily set with
the delicate china and rare silver in which the housewifely
soul of the mistress of Halloross delighted. A bowl of late
roses stood on the sideboard, and the delicate greenery of the
treasured plants and ferns added the finishing touch. But
Agnes sighed as she stepped hastily into the room and shut the
door. "What were these things, though pleasing to the eye, in
comparison with the living presence which is the light of the
home? She stood by the hearth a moment and res^ted her left
hand on the mantelpiece, while her cloak fell partially from her
shoulders. When John passed by the window presently, that
was the picture which met his eye. He noted the listlessness
of her attitude, the downcast and wistful look on the sweet
face, and when presently he saw her bend her head and touch
with her lips the plain band of her wedding ring, his eyes grew
strangely dim. That simple and unconscious act was an earnest
of his welcome home.

446

MAITLAND OF LAUUIKSTO?^,

She heard the opening of the door, and gave a great start,
though she did not move a step. But when he came into the
room she ran to him, with all the itassion of her love glowing
in her face, and clasped her arms about his neck.

' John ! John ! Thank God ! My husbr.nd. I think I could
not have borne it another day.'

* My wife ! '

These two words expressed all that was in his heart. The
joy of that reunion was greater than either had anticipated. It
seemed to fill their hearts to trerflowing.

* John, forgive me ; I have been so poor a wife. I have
been so wicked and selfish, dear, and have given you so little
for the love you have lavished on me. I shall never forgive
myself. But if you will help me, I will be a better wife.
Never again, never while I live, shall I forget what you have
been and are. It only needed this separation to let me know
it ; and so, though it has been so hard, it has been a blessed thing
for me..'

She would not let him speak. She put her hand on ^is lips,
and looked into his eyes, her own luminous cs he had never yet
seen them.

*God has used it to show me the hardness of my heart.
Before you say the words of love for which my heart has been
hungering, tell me you forgive me for all I said when we burioil
baoy.'

* Hush, my darling, hush ! *

He spoke with an infinite tenderness, and held her closer to
him, for she was trembling from head to foot

' No ; I must speak. There is so much to say. Let me say
it all at once. There is more to forgive eveii than you know,'
she said, with a break in her voice ; * I had the name put on
when you were away, and it has some words on it which will
grieve you. Perhaps others may not know, — but I meant
them to make you feel hurt. I shall be ashamed for you
to read them, but I must tell you, so that you may for-
give me.*

' My dearest, I read them ; and God made them His message
to me,*

MAITLAM) OF /.A miK^S'lVX.

She raised la-r licad and looked at liiiu, with j.arted lips and
eyes full of mnU\ and intense questi(iiiiii<f.

'He ha,s Ix'en slowly leading nic, my Agnes, by a way I
knew not. The agony of jiartiiig with tin- cliild made my ^oul
begin to question whitlu-r he, had gone, and after a fearful
struggling T have obtained a glimpse of hght. I feel even as if
your faith might become possible for me.'

•John!'

He never forgot the breathless and broken utterance of his
name, nor the look which ac(;ompanied it.

' It will be but a Aveary and painful stumbling towards the
goal you have so long readied,' he said, with a strange touch of
sadness. * I have followed the path of the unbeliever at my
own painful cost. I do not suppose that the peace of full
assurance will ever be mine. It is impossible to return without
a scar after such a battle as mine has been.'

' "With God all things are possible,' said Agnes, and her whole
face shone.

' Yes ; and your prayers with and for me will help me on,'
he said, with a look of peculiar and significant tenderness.
' I feel the selfishness of my desire. Human love woidd not
consent to an eternal parting. It prompted me continually to
seek for some more satisfying solution of the mystery of death.
But God will be merciful to me, wife. He will not judge us
for the very ioolings He has given us. But the way will be
toilsome for rao. Pray that what has been revealed to me
to-night by 'm • chael's grave be but an earnest of better days to

come.

He put his arm about her, and they knelt down together. In
that long silence many deep thoughts were hid, — ay, and many
prayers, which were heard in Heaven and answered in peace.

THiS END.