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Un des symboies suivants apparaftra sur la derniire image de cheque microfiche, selon ie cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE", ie symbols y signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre fiimto A des taux de rMuction diffArents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA, ii est filmA A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche h droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants iilustrent la mAthode. t 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 I MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON ( I I 1 .i MA IT LAND OF LAURIESTON a ]familu IbistocB BY 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 n 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 TO 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 hftntly 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 m 10 MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON. nf ^^ 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. i MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON. 11 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 '/• lU Mii Hi 12 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. 13 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 14 n MAlTLASf) OF LAURIESTON, lo 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, 17 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 B 18 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 'k P\A MAITLAM) OF LAUlUEl^TON. 19 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 I 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.' 4 /. MA ITLA SD OF LA VHIESTON. 21 i 'yond the old to ken how a Rank i no wna hor company, ti. D'ye think c' 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.' i : 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 a I 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.' 24 MAtTLAND OF LAVRlESTON. 1 ! il * 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 I 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, drawinuiishiue 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 26 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. 27 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 I 28 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 it ■3 I j MAITLAND OF LA UUIESTON. 29 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, I \4 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 .. ; i [ i 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. 33 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 34 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. I 111 to anl toi mI MAITLANI) OF LAUIlfESTON. 35 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 ae 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. I AfA I TLA NJ) OF LA Ulil ES 7 V X. 87 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. '■('■! Hi I 1 •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.' an « MAITLAND OF LAUlilESTON. 39 to TTallcross isy with my r 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' 40 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 4 M At f LAND OP LAVRItlSTON. i\ 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 I Si !l II i E'i. 42 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. 43 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 ? ' o> ^ \] h 44 MAtTLANt) OP LAUPJESTOK. ir ■:{ 1 ) ( w 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. 45 t 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?' I ■%». ini ill;;' 1 ! mis .III , II 1 1 ^1 46 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^*^ N. 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. 47 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 ; 48 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 n 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 60 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 *5 smil stea whei mail his j his Join proH will ho ] ' set antic to in work undo 4 MAirLA\l> or LAinUESTO^. 51 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' i 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 liku, 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- m- i -i ■11 66 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. gre 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 I p ;Hii . "I I i ■uiSJi 1^ \\\ 'I h: V: 4 i n lif ; II 'I) i;: I'd m.i m ■1 60 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. 61 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' 69 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; !! i I '1 ', G4 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 : !' ! i \\i\ ». ! ih^ 'i 1 \l ■hhr il i 1 F^f^ T/r f( .WPf f 1 1 1 i % i . m !■: I !;:i il^ ^11 [■; it 66 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, il; ' I MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON. 67 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 i\ ifi *f i 11^1 Ml \A ■ i r ! Mi f. ! IJ i fr'i ! ■!-■ i:'iJ';l i ';:;i fJi 1 ) t- 1 \ ' .i! r ii! 68 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. 69 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 t. .!V:f' f«1r-i ill 1 ' . f ■ '-S i 1 <^'l 70 MAITLAND OF LAURIESTOK. 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. n 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 », . m ■ I \ •'M " 'iJ 1 I :■) I J m •i !■ m 72 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.' 73 \ , \ u I' I! ; I ' I) 111 I! , S" ■ :, I i::- r "it • ;■ % I i y ': iiS ■i f ■'11 !'■ i •I I ^Qi K*i lint 74 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. 75 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 i I (i Ji I ! ;,« M m -iiif! ! ' li .i i i I I i i; \^ jit ; I i v:^:.t 'h ii' 1 ■J ' ■'. II. ii y. ;!1 ' ii>'' t I i'li Uv 1; :i^i ' 1 ■|-ij:. ;/' fi ' ■ ! i: :'■ ,. f! '■■^i ; ' 1 1 t ■ 1 ; ii!, i'l 7fl 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. 77 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 ii ^' 'j\ 78 MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON. i!i!:'i W .11 -Uti li 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 70 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 i i ■; ji i 84 MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON, I'll > :t I *■- i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 11.25 laiji UTS ■^ lift 12.2 ^ Ufi |2.0 yuu 14 U4 PhotDgraphic Sciences Corporalion m 4^ 23 WBT MAIN STREET WECSTER,N.Y. 145S0 (716)872-4S03 4^ i\ m \ 93 MAITLAND OF LAURTESTON, (\ ' *'i II > . I ;■!' I fV ^ 1/ : 1 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. 93 ' 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, 1' ill ':'l! ■^m% m iitii ( I ?■ ii t . I! \$ '«' % p r if iii 94 MAITLAND OF LAURIESTON. r\\ i' i' • ii 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, -:il MAITLAND OF LA URIESTON. 95 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 I \ ■ ^! i'l '1 m i ig 11 ' ks ^i •* I'l I', I ) I) \ % 1 ■,{■ ^i W m ,■ I VM \ m M; i": I!. 1 nil i ' Mi' l.i 11' tt iti : li.- ! Ml!'. ! 96 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. 07 % 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 % !'■: \ if tijliy u t t i '!i: ■ >' 4 lli *'' '^^i'!' lii 'I i i. -"^^ "^I^PfJT, 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. 99 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 .a ' lli> ^;li f( i' If" :i! i .'( I" j . -k i i'li w m i B|, i 100 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 waur, thouf 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. ...ft I: f , ;,; i ' VI' i' i; an Hi • II ..-J. J..:,; 102 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