Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made can be found [at the end of the book].

HARRY MUIR, Vol. II

HARRY MUIR.

A STORY OF SCOTTISH LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF
“PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MRS. MARGARET MAITLAND,” “MERKLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” &C.

“God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections....

The hope and expectation of thy time

Is ruined; and the soul of every man,

Prophetically, does forethink thy fall.”

KING HENRY IV.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1853.

LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

HARRY MUIR.

CHAPTER I.

Methinks, Sir,

A mother’s heart’s transparent—’tis so easy

To find the way into ’t.

“Well, Cuthbert, my man, are you back from your gowks errand? The month is far on now; it has taken you long,” said Mrs. Charteris.

“I have first to present my friend to you, mother,” said the advocate; “and as he will be Mr. Harry Muir only a day or two longer, we must make the most of him while he bears his old name.”

“So you were right after all?” said the old lady, lifting up her hands. “Dear me, Cuthbert, to think of that! You see, Mr. Muir, I could not believe his story, and prophesied that he was sure to fail—though I am very glad I was wrong. You are welcome to Edinburgh, and I wish you joy of your inheritance.”

With a natural diffidence, which flushed his cheek, and slightly restrained his speech, Harry Muir made his acknowledgments. His dress had been most carefully overlooked before he left Glasgow that morning, and his eye was shining with animation and high hope.

Mrs. Charteris felt “her heart warm” to the stranger as he took the great easy-chair in the corner, and bent forward towards Cuthbert as to his guide and counsellor. The attitude and expression charmed Cuthbert’s mother. She felt that her son had done much for this young man—that he would do more—and Harry Muir became dear to her good heart, because he made her son dearer, and still more worthy of love.

“We must be off again instantly, mother,” said Cuthbert, “to meet Davie Lindsay at my office. Ah, Davie is a slow man; he has not an eye for a mystery like some other people; but I suppose I must not boast. To-day we shall do a little business; to-morrow we propose a trip up the Firth by the Stirling steamer, and a glance at Allenders. Muir, it will take lots of money to put that house in decent order, you may be sure.”

Harry laughed; twenty pounds would have been lots of money to Harry two days ago. It struck him as being slightly ludicrous, and certainly quite amusing, all this grandeur of expectation. That he should have a house to repair, and lots of money to repair it—he, Harry Muir!

“It is a fine country, is it not?” he asked, in some haste, to cover his nervous joy. “I have never seen those Links of Forth, and their very name raises one’s expectation. Did you not say this house of enchantment was near the river?”

“He knows no more than we do, Mr. Muir,” said Mrs. Charteris. “You will take your bed here, of course? No doubt it is a bonnie country, but mind you must look for nothing like the Clyde.”

“Come along, Muir—I can’t pretend to cope with two west country people,” said Cuthbert. “Come, Lindsay will be waiting open-mouthed; and to-morrow we must make our pilgrimage together, and no one shall say I am ignorant of the enchanted palace any more. Come, Muir.”

Next day the little party set out upon their brief voyage. This freedom of enjoyment, without stealth or remorse, was new to Harry. He breathed freely. It seemed to him, as from a listener, he became a partaker in the conversation of Lindsay and Charteris, that this was indeed a new life, a bracing atmosphere, such as he had not known before. He became quiet at first—somewhat serious even—and looking up upon an April sky, and down upon the great stream chafing and foaming in the little vessel’s course, there came upon him the abstraction of a gentle reverie, picturing the times to come!

The times to come! Harry saw honour, wealth, independence, happiness, in a bright crowd before him. He did not see, would not see—poor, rash, incautious heart!—that a grim shadow lowered upon them all, the shadow of his conquering sin—nor that this presence held the keys of the joyous home he dreamed of, and stood defiant on its threshold, blighting the flowers around the door. He never trembled for himself—poor Harry! there seemed before him nothing but security and peace.

Overhead the clouds flew to the east like a pilgrimage of birds, sweeping over the breadth of heaven with a speed which made you dizzy; and the mass of shadow threw a sable gleam on the water, as it dashed up its foaming mane, and shook it in the breeze. There are no clouds down the Firth where Inchkeith yonder burns and expands in the full sunshine; but here we have only wayward glances of light, darting down upon us as if in play, which vanish in a moment into the pursuing cloud.

The little vessel leaps over the buoyant water with sometimes a mist of spray over her bows, and the passengers march in quick time along the decks, as if this swell and lengthened bound made music wild and martial, stirring the heart to quicker motion.

Now comes a sudden gleam, touching the russet outline of Inchcolm, as a painter would have it touched; and as we pass, the light glides on before us, glittering upon the dewy slopes of Fife, and quivering along the waves, till it seems to sink there, like a golden arrow launched out of the heavens; and the clouds again fly over us, away to the ungenial east.

St. Margaret’s Hope—Ah, Saxon Margaret, Atheling, Exile, Queen and Saint! was there hope in this quiet bay when the Scottish land stretched its brown arm of succour, and vowed its rude heart to thy service? Not very far off now is grey Dunfermline, forsaken of kings—and you may see a spire glitter on the further side of those withdrawing braes, pointing where the palace crumbles, and the wallflower and ivy flourish, over forlorn and solitary places, where queens had their bowers, and kings their council-chamber. Here too is the royal ferry, with its narrow gateway, bringing to a point the broad Firth on either side; and we rustle past the sentinel-rock, which has looked down often in the old times upon the passing boats of queens, and dash with a bound into the free course once more; past little busy ports, and slumbering villages, past the great houses in their nest of trees—till brave old Demeyet bows his stately head to us among the clouds, and the sun breaks out triumphant over the crowned rock of Stirling, and we glide into this silvery maze, radiant with flying lights and shadows—the links of Forth.

Here, by the side of the water, a great saugh tree droops its long locks, and trails them on the stream; behind it are a heavy mass of alders—by its side a hawthorn slowly whitening with its fragrant blossom—and above the alders you can see a regular line of elm and beech, marshalled in fair succession, which seem to form a mall or avenue on the river’s side. Beyond all appear the roof and gables of a hidden house. You cannot tell either size or form in the passing glimpse you gain of it from the river, but the heart of Harry Muir beats high as his eye falls on this home—a home it must be, for smoke curls from the chimneys, and a boat lies softly rocking on the water at the foot of the saugh tree.

“Neighbours,” said Harry to himself, under his breath; “and I, too, must have a boat for Lettie and Rose.”

“Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, bending forward with a smile, “that is Allenders.”

The heir started violently. With an eager look he tried to penetrate the network of boughs and opening leaves, and failing that, followed with his eyes the very smoke as it curled away into the clouds. His heart beat so loudly that, for a moment, it made him sick.

“Allenders!—my home, their home!” murmured Harry; and he felt his breast swell as if with a rising sob.

A drive of a few miles from Stirling brought them to the other side of Allenders. There was less wood there, and the view was towards the wide strath in which lies Bannockburn. But Harry had not time to look at the prospect without—there was something, at the moment, greatly more interesting to him in the gray gables and dilapidated rooms within.

The house was not large, but it was tall, with windows specked over it in all corners, without an attempt at regularity; and on the eastern side was a curious little turret, obtruding itself abruptly from the wall, and throwing up a spear point, now black and tarnished, over the heads of the high trees.

The door was opened to them tardily by an old man, who did not seem at all desirous that they should penetrate beyond the threshold. This custodier of the house of Allenders was thin and shrivelled, and had a face dingy with age and smoke, the small features of which seemed to have shrunk and crept together, under the touch of time. A few thin, white hairs strayed over his head, diverging from the crown in all directions with genuine independence; and his dress was of homespun blue, with great ribbed stockings and buckled shoes. Those poor thin angular limbs seemed to bend any way with the stiff facility of wooden joints; and as he dangled his lean arms by his side, and gazed with light grey unmeaning eyes into their faces, it seemed as if the chill winter of years and poverty had frozen his very soul.

“You must let us in to see the house, my man,” said Lindsay briskly. “This is the young laird I have brought with me. Do you think he’s like the old Allenders, Dragon?—you should know them well.”

“Whilk ane is it, Mr. Lindsay—the muckle ane or the little ane?” asked the old man.

Now Harry was by no means little. He did not at all relish the adjective.

“This is Mr. Muir—Allenders of Allenders,” said Lindsay, hastily. “Come in; I’ll be your guide, and Dragon here will overlook us, and see we take nothing away.”

They entered a small square hall, dimly lighted, at the further end of which was a stone staircase of good proportions; but the walls were black with the dust of years, and the oak banisters of the stairs were broken and dilapidated. It had a dreary, deserted, uninhabitable look; and Harry, quickly impressed for good or evil, was half inclined to think Mrs. Rodger’s little parlour a brighter home than this after all.

Lindsay opened quickly, and with the air of one thoroughly acquainted with the house, which, however, he had only once seen before, one of the dim oak doors which opened into the hall. Within was a wainscoted parlour of good dimensions, with one small window in the great blank of its side wall, and one squeezed into a corner beside the fire-place. The carpet was so worn that pattern and colours were alike indiscernible, and dark curtains of faded purply-crimson hung over the dingy windows. A long dining-table, polished and glimmering, caught one ray of the sunshine without, and carried it down the narrow length of the apartment to the old-fashioned sideboard at the end; but save for this, the place looked as desolate as could be imagined. Lindsay turned round at the door with the air of an exhibitor, and something of the feeling; for though himself, at the first glance, had thought all this very chill and miserable, he looked unconsciously for satisfaction from Harry. Harry did not say a word. Alas! the house of enchantment—the fairy palace! The reality was a very different thing from the dream.

Cuthbert went quickly to the nearest window, and drew away with more energy than was needful the jealous curtain.

“Another window here to keep this one company, and some pictures on these grim panels, and brighter furniture—you will make this room the pleasantest of winter parlours, Muir. One can have no idea of what it will be, from its appearance just now.”

“Anither window!” exclaimed the old man, who had followed them. “Would ye break the guid wall, ye wasterful prodigal? Mr. Lindsay, is’t this ane?” and he pointed his finger wrathfully at Cuthbert.

“No, no,” said Harry Muir, with restored good-humour; “we must take your counsel since you like the walls so well. But what is your name? What did you call him, Mr. Lindsay?”

“They ca’ me Dragon,” said the warden of Allenders, vacantly. “That is, I’m meaning my name’s Edom Comrie; but I never hear onybody have the civility to ca’ me aught but Dragon. Put in anither window! What would ye do that for, I would like to ken? Do ye mean to say that what was licht enough for the auld Allenders, is no licht enough for the like of you? You can wear spectacles if your vision is failing. I do it mysel’; but what for wad ye break the guid bonnie wa’ that might withstand the French, for a nonsense window? And there’s a bonnie bush a’ fu’ o’ white roses, in their season, leaning on the house close by there. Would ye tramp down my bonnie lady rose for your mason work? Mr. Lindsay, is’t no again the law?”

“But what if we brought a bonnie Lady Rose to sit at the new window, and look out upon the flowers!” said Cuthbert with a quick blush. “When Allenders brings his family home, he’ll bring ladies here; and flowers, you know, never thrive without light. You would not show yourself a dragon to the ladies, Adam—the first time they heard of you, too.”

The old man chuckled a strange laugh.

“He thinks I’m heeding about ladies—me! and you’ll nane of you be learned, I reckon; for if ye were, there’s routh o’ grand books ben the house—I whiles read in them mysel, and they are a’ guid reading and profitable. When I come on an ill ane, I kindle my fire wi’t. I laid my hand on ane yestreen, that’s nae better than it should be, in my judgment; but it was uncommon diverting, and I just laid it by again, for my ain carnal pleasure—for I’m no abune the like o’ that, though I’m auld. Come away, Allenders—if you are Allenders; I’ll let you see the book, and like a guid laddie, ye’ll take nae heed of yon birkie and his windows.”

The young men followed their conductor in high good-humour. He had quite neutralized the melancholy appearance of the house.

Opposite the dining-parlour was a much smaller apartment, heavy and dark with books. Into the sombre twilight of this room no stray sunbeam wandered. High trees closed it round without, and great book-cases, dusty and crowded, oppressed the wall within. A single old print of some obscure Stirlingshire divine, long since forgotten, hung over the mantel-piece, and a much-worn leathern chair stood before a little writing-table in front of the fire-place. A window-seat, cushioned and covered with hard crimson moreen, occupied the recess of the window; but from this window you only looked out upon the damp outline of a neglected flower-bed, covered with rank vegetation, and upon the close screen of trees, which bent round it on every side.

“Man, I dinna envie ye the land!” exclaimed the harmless Dragon of Allenders, “but I div envie ye the books; and being a callant, ye’ll no ken how to make a right use of them. Now isna this a grand room? I’ll warrant ye never were in a muckle house like this afore?”

“It is light we want—nothing but light. It is the gloom which makes these rooms look so dreary,” said Charteris, sympathetically beholding the chill which again fell over Harry.

Harry went to the window, and looked out. Why they would be buried here—and the good fortune was a piece of penance after all.

“You should give me another five hundred a-year for consenting to live in this place, Mr. Lindsay,” he said in almost an irritated tone.

Poor Harry had a weakness of thinking that disagreeable things were somebody’s fault. He was quite impatient with Lindsay and Charteris. He felt as if they had deluded him.

“Dr. Allenders in Stirling would not think so,” said Lindsay, in his turn a little offended. “I dare say you might find a Jacob among them eager enough to bargain for the birthright.”

“See, my man, here’s the book,” said the old servant, shuffling up to Harry. “Ye needna say onything to the minister about it, if ye should happen to fall in with him, for, maybe, he mightna think it very richt for a man of my years; and I’ll put it ben the house on the hob to kindle the fire when I’m done reading it; but it’s awfu’ entertaining. See, look at it; but I canna ca’ ye Allenders—Allenders was an auld man, and you’re only a laddie. What do they ca’ ye by your christened name?”

“My name is Harry Muir,” was the instant reply, for Harry had unconsciously a feeling of disgust now at the very sound of Allenders.

“Hairy! What garred them ca’ ye Hairy? it’s no a canny name for a laird of Allenders; and there’s never ane been called by it since the time the lady was lost; but I hope ye’ll come to nae skaith, for you’re no an ill lad, judging by your looks. And ye have leddies coming, have ye? what right has the like of you to leddies?”

“My sisters and my wife, Adam,” said Harry, with a smile.

“His wife! hear till him! Will ye tell me that the like of this bit callant’s married? Sirs, I never was married mysel.”

The poor old feeble Dragon looked round as he spoke with the air of a hero, and lifting up his shrivelled hands, exhibited himself complacently. But as he did this, his book fell, and stooping to pick it up, he presented it to Harry, with an unmeaning smile.

Poor Dragon! it was a very rare and fine old edition of Shakespeare, which his rough handling had by no means improved. Harry was not sufficiently learned to know that it was curious and valuable, but he saw its great age and antique appearance, and thought it might be better employed than kindling Adam’s fire.

“When you are done with it, keep it for me, Dragon,” said Harry; “I should like to look at it myself.”

The old man began to shake his head, slowly at first, but with a gradually increasing rapidity of motion.

“I’m far from clear that it’s right to give the like o’ this to young folk; it’s only those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil, the Apostle says; and you are but a babe to be fed on the sincere milk. How mony sisters have ye, Mr. Hairy?”

“Three, Dragon.”

“Three sisters and ae wife! four women intill a house at ance! Come your ways up the muckle stair,” said the old man, hastily, “and see the bonnie rooms we’ve gotten to lodge them a’ in; and plenty of light and plenty of windows, for a’ yon birkie says.”

The young men followed in silence.

On the second story there was a multitude of small rooms. One of them, over the library, which they entered first, disclosed to Harry’s half-reluctant eyes, the prettiest of little silvery burns, sparkling away into the river, under the shelter of those overgrown trees which made the under rooms so melancholy.

“Here we are,” said Lindsay, triumphantly. “How you may feel on the matter, I can’t tell, Mr. Muir, but this seems very fine to me; and the windows behind look out on the Forth.”

Harry was half-ashamed of his ill-humour, but for the moment he could not conquer it.

“We’ll give this room to the bonniest ane,” said the Dragon, with his feeble smile. “Whilk ane’s that, Mr. Hairy? and you’ll no be for ony mair windows for your Lady Rose,” added the old man, turning sharply round on Cuthbert.

Cuthbert had been investigating the apartment behind.

“The very brightest of drawing-rooms,” said the advocate, with a warmth which made Harry still more ashamed of himself. “You have nothing to do but take down this partition, and throw the two into one room.”

The poor old guardian of these dim walls clenched his hand, and shook it with feeble vehemence in Cuthbert’s face:

“Would ye put such radical notions into the innocent lad’s head? Would ye daur?”

CHAPTER II.

Lord what a nothing is this little span

We call a man!

How slight and short are his resolves at longest,

How weak at strongest!

QUARLES.

Cuthbert Charteris returned to Edinburgh that night, but not until he had first made a rude outline—he was no artist, but could use his pencil enough for this—of Allenders, with its eccentric turret and shady mall, and the boat—a very crazy, incompetent boat as it turned out—lying under the saugh tree upon the quiet water. He showed it to Harry, as they eagerly consulted about the necessary improvements, and Harry thought it quite a remarkable production; but Cuthbert greatly doubted as he enclosed it to Martha Muir. The deed almost lost its original intention of simple kindness, as he pondered over it, and feared that they might think his drawing a very poor affair; but it was sent at last.

Harry remained with Lindsay in Stirling. It was necessary to see the family of Allenders residing there, who, failing Harry and his household, were next heirs; and some legal forms had also to be gone through. Harry had recovered his usual spirits; he was, excited with his new position, with his proposed improvements, and even with his inn lodgings; and while Lindsay laboured through some necessary processes for his enfeoffment, Harry strayed out to see the town. He saw the town, it was very true. He climbed to the bastions of the lofty castle, and looked round him east and west. To the blue Highland hills in the distance—to Demeyet and his brother Ochils, glooming in brown shadows over the country at his feet—to the silvery maze of the Forth, wantoning in and out between those verdant banks as if he were fain of a pretext to linger at every corner, because he loved the way so well—and to the broad strath of Bannockburn, stealing away into those great lines of cloud, which seemed to carry its gently sloping plain into the distant sky. Harry looked upon them all, and mused and lingered, thinking pleasant thoughts. Then he saw the lights begin to gleam, one after another, in the town below, and he sauntered down to walk through the streets with their pleasant, quiet, leisurely stir, and then to return to his hotel.

But it was very late when Harry returned to his hotel—and he was “indisposed,” and would not see the wondering Lindsay, who only left his papers for the supper he had ordered, when he heard that Mr. Muir had already gone to his room, and was “indisposed.” Lindsay was puzzled and offended. He could not make out what this sudden indisposition could mean.

Poor Harry! next morning he rose late, with an aching head and a pained heart. He forgot at first when he woke how he had concluded the last evening; but as the remembrance dawned upon him, he wrung his hands and groaned aloud. What could he do? how could he defend himself against this overpowering weakness? He threw himself upon his face, and prayed in an agony of self-reproach and shame, for strength, for deliverance. Alas! this great inheritance, this fair new life—had he put the stain of his infirmity upon its promise already.

Lindsay had breakfasted some time before Harry made his appearance in their sitting-room; and now sat at a window, reading a newspaper, and looking very grave and stately. A ceremonious salutation passed between them; and Harry, sick, despondent, and miserable, sat down at the table. As he loitered over his coffee, and pushed his plate away from him with loathing, there was perfect silence in the room, except for the rustling of Lindsay’s paper, and his own restless motions.

Poor Harry was utterly cast down, but his humiliation struggled with a fierce irritability; and Lindsay never moved his paper, but his companion felt the strongest impulse to snatch it from his hand, and trample on it, as if the indifference, which could content itself with a newspaper, while he was suffering thus, was a positive injury to him.

When he had finished breakfast, he remained still leaning his head upon his hand, and idly brooding over the disordered table. He did not feel any inclination to go out, he had indeed nothing present before him, but a diseased image of himself overspread with blank despondency, and clouded with rising ill-humour. He had never felt this so much before; for always before he had to justify himself, or to melt in sympathy with those tears of yearning love and pity which had been wept over him so often. He scarcely had known till now how bitterly and harshly the soul can condemn itself, alone.

“When you are at leisure, Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, coldly, “I shall be glad if you will accompany me to call on Dr. Allenders. He was here last night, having received a note I wrote him from Edinburgh; and as he did not see you then—”

“Of course, I am ready—of course,” said Harry, starting up hastily. “It was impossible I could know when Dr. Allenders intended to call. But I am quite at your command, Mr. Lindsay. Does this man mean to dispute my claim?”

“This man is a person of the highest character,” said Lindsay, with his stiff gravity. “Having seen the documents, he does not intend to put any obstacle in your way, Mr. Muir. By the bye, I do not know whether you mean to assume the name of the family which you succeed. It is not a condition of the will certainly, but it was implied. Shall I present you to the Doctor as Mr. Allenders?”

“No, no, not yet,” said the conscience-stricken Harry. “Not yet—not to-day. No, no—let it be a better time.”

These words were spoken incoherently, but Lindsay understood them, and his heart was softened.

They went out, and the conversation gradually became less constrained and more familiar; but Harry painfully recognised the places which he had passed during the ramble of the previous night, and vowed in his heart, as the bright day without restored in some degree his failing spirit and courage, that never more, never again, should these inanimate things remind him of temptations yielded to, and resolutions broken. Poor Harry! a very short time makes him as confident as ever; and when they have reached the doctor’s door, he has again begun to look forward fearlessly into the future, and to bring no self-distrust or trembling out of the past.

The doctor’s house is on the outskirts of the town, a square, comfortable habitation, with a radiant glimpse from its windows of the mazes of the river and the far-off hills. Upon the door glitters a brass plate, bearing the name of John Allenders, M.D.; and Dr. John Allenders seems to be in comfortable circumstances, for a spruce boy in buttons opens the door, and they are shown into a handsome library, which a strong, peculiar fragrance, and a suspicious glass door with little red curtains, proclaims to be near the surgery; but Dr. John has a good collection of books, and altogether appears to Harry an exceedingly creditable relation, and one with whom even the heir of Allenders may be sufficiently well pleased to count kin.

It is some time before Dr. John makes his appearance; but Lindsay, who stands opposite the glass door, catches a glimpse of a dissipated-looking head, in great shirt collars, stealthily peeping through the red curtains at Harry, and making faces with an expression of unmitigated disgust. But he has scarcely time to notice this, when a shadow falls upon the door, and, with a solemn step, Dr. Allenders enters the library.

He is a common-place looking man, with great dark eyes, which project almost their whole round from under the puckered eyelid. It is curious to notice how those eyes move, as if they were touched by strings or wires behind; but the rest of his face is very tolerable, and he looks what he is, a thoroughly respectable person, driving his gig, and having money in the bank; and understanding himself to be a responsible man, owing society, in right of his position in it, ever so many observances and proprieties.

Close behind Dr. Allenders, comes the dissipated head and the shirt collars, which just now made faces at Harry Muir. The owner of the head stumbles up the two steps which connect the lower level of the surgery with that of this more dignified apartment, and enters the room with a swagger. He has eyes like the doctor’s, and a long, sallow face, encircled by the luxuriant brushwood which repeats under his chin the shaggy forest of hair which is the crown and glory on his head. He wears a very short grey coat, a coloured shirt, and an immense neck-cloth; and there enters with him into the room an atmosphere of smoke, tinted with many harmonizing odours, which envelopes his whole person like a separate world.

Harry turned round with slightly nervous haste as the doctor made his appearance. The Doctor bowed, and held out his hand with a frankness half real, half assumed; but Harry’s hand fell as it advanced to meet that of Dr. Allenders, while Dr. Allenders’ son uttered a coarse exclamation of surprise and recognition. Poor Harry! his face became purple with very shame and anger—for this coarse prodigal had been one of his boon companions on the previous night.

“Met before?” said the doctor, inquiringly, as Harry stimulated by the rude laugh of young Allenders, and the serious wonder of Lindsay, made a strong effort to recover himself. “Seen my son in some other place, Mr. Muir? I am glad of that, for blood is thicker than water; and though we have lost an estate through your means, my young friend, I hope we’ll have grace given us not to be envious, but to rejoice in your exaltation as if it were our own; besides that, it would have been very inconvenient to me—extremely inconvenient for my professional duties—to have lived five miles out of town; and then the house is such an old tumble-down affair. So I wish you joy, most heartily, Mr. Muir. The income of Allenders’ estate would have been small compensation to me, and Gilbert here has not settled to the harness yet; so we’ve no reason to complain—not a shadow. Pray sit down—or will you come up-stairs and see my wife and my daughters? Oh, we’ll not disturb them; and being relations, they have heard of you, Mr. Muir—I told them myself yesterday—and would like to see the new heir.”

“I say Muir, my boy, I’m delighted it’s you,” said Mr. Gilbert Allenders, thrusting forward a great bony, tanned hand, ornamented with a large ring. “Pleasant night, last night, wasn’t it? Glad to see we’ve got another good fellow among us. Come along up-stairs and see the girls.”

Mr. Gilbert Allenders had a rough voice, with the coarsest of provincial accents; and to mend the matter, Mr. Gilbert put himself to quite extraordinary pains to speak English, omitting his r’s with painful distinctness, and now and then dropping a necessary h. It had been a matter of considerable study to him, and he was very complacent about his success.

Harry submitted with a bad grace to shake hands, and unconsciously drew nearer to Lindsay.

But Lindsay, who only smiled at the vulgar Mr. Gilbert, instinctively drew himself up, and turned his face from Harry. Harry Muir for himself was nothing to the young lawyer; but Lindsay felt personal offence mingle in the contempt with which he perceived how his client chose his company—leaving himself solitary in their inn, to go and seek out a party which could admit this Gilbert Allenders. Henceforth, Mr. Lindsay might be man of business to the new heir—friend he could never be.

“I must be in Edinburgh this afternoon,” said Lindsay coldly. “Do you accompany me Mr. Muir? for if you do not, I have accomplished all that is necessary here, I fancy, and may take my leave.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, his better feelings struggling with false shame and pride; but lifting his eyes suddenly, he encountered the derisive smile of Gilbert Allenders, and took in with one rapid glance all the characteristics of his new-found kinsman. These had more effect on his susceptibility than either reason or repentance. He did not decide on returning in the lawyer’s respectable society, because he feared for his own weakness, if he permitted himself to remain here alone. No, often though Harry’s weakness had been demonstrated even to his own conviction, it was not this; but what a knowledge of himself could not do, disgust with Gilbert Allenders did. He answered hastily that he too would return at once, and persuading Lindsay to remain and accompany him up-stairs to the drawing-room where Mrs. Allenders and her daughters sat in state expecting their visit, they at length left the house together, declining the preferred escort of Mr. Gilbert.

But Harry did not escape without a galling punishment for the previous night’s folly. Gilbert Allenders, seeing how he winced under it, plied him with allusion after allusion. “Last night, you recollect?” and with the most malicious perseverance recalled its speeches, its laughter, its jokes and its noise, assuming too an ostentation of familiarity and good-fellowship which Harry could scarcely restrain his fury at. The effect was good and bad; on the one hand, Harry vowed to himself fiercely that he never would put himself in the power of such a man again: on the other, he forgot how he himself had wasted the fair summer night begun with pleasant thoughts and blessings; how he had desecrated and polluted what should have been its pure and healthful close. He forgot his repentance. He felt himself an ill-used man.

But he left Stirling that night with the half-mollified Lindsay. So much at least was gained.

CHAPTER III.

Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair!

CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the parlour at Port Dundas the window is open, the little muslin blind waves in the soft air, and sounds steal in drowsily through the sunshine from without. At the table sits Agnes, in her best gown, writing a letter to Harry. Violet, in a corner, stands erect with her hands behind her, defying Rose, who sits with great dignity in the arm-chair to puzzle her with that spelling-book. Little Harry, now beginning to walk, creeps about the floor at his own sweet will; and indeed they are all idling but Martha, who still works at the “opening,” though you perceive she does it slowly, and has not the keen interest in “getting on” which she had a week ago.

Agnes writes rather laboriously—she is no penwoman; and what she writes is just about nothing at all—a domestic letter, full of implied tenderness and exuberant hopes, through which you can scarcely see the sober and solemn solicitude which has made Harry’s wife a woman deeper than her nature, and elder than her years. But the heart of the young wife is very light now, and she looks at the sleeve of her best gown with a smile, as she pauses to arrange the next sentence, and beats upon her hand with the feather of her pen. Little Harry seated at her feet, which he makes a half-way house between two corners, tears away with appetite at a great orange, refreshing himself, before, on hands and knees, he starts upon another circumnavigation.

Looking down upon him lovingly, the young mother concocts her next sentence with triumphant success; and you can guess, without looking over her shoulder, what a pretty outline grows upon her paper, under that inspired pen, which can write so quickly now. It is not a daguerreotype of little Harry which his mother will send to his father; but indeed one cannot tell what height of excellence and warm expression this very daguerreotype can attain to, when the sunshine which makes the portraiture is not the light of common day, but of love.

Nor are you working either, little dark-haired Violet! Alas, it is no sensible educational purpose which has carried you into the corner, with one defiant foot planted firmly before the other, and those restless hands crossed demurely behind. Not a respectable lesson gravely administered and received, as lessons should be, but a challenge proudly given to Rose to “fickle” you, who are very confident in this particular of spelling, that you cannot be “fickled.” A slight curve upon the brow of Rose, as she hunts up and down through all those pages for hard words, intimates that she is a little “fickled” herself; and Violet raises her head more proudly, and Rose laughs with greater mirth as each successive word is achieved, though now and then the elder trifler discovers that she is idle, and wonders why it is, and remembers the cause which has made their industry less urgent, with new smiles and joy.

But Martha still works at her “opening.” This, the last which they are ever to do, Harry says, is a collar very elaborately embroidered, which Martha resolves shall be bestowed on Agnes, as one memorial of those toilsome days when they are past. The sterner lines in Martha’s face have relaxed, and her eyelids droop softly with a grateful pleasant weariness over her subdued eyes. Sometimes the curves about her mouth move with a momentary quiver, as though a few tears were about to fall; but the tears never fall. And sometimes she lays down her work on her knee, and droops her head forward, and looks up under her eyelashes with a smile at the young mother, or at the two household flowers. These are long, loving, lingering glances, not bright but dim with the unusual gentleness of this unusual rest.

The sounds without do not strike upon your ear harshly, as sounds do in winter, for this April day is warm and genial, like a day in June, and has in it a natural hush and calm, which softens every distant voice. Chief of all passing voices come gaily through the sunshine and the open window, the song of Maggie McGillivray. She is sitting again on her mother’s step, with the full sunshine, which she does not at all heed, streaming upon her brown, wholesome, comely face. Her scissors flash in the sun, her yellow hair burns; but Maggie only throws over her head the finished end of her web, and clips and sings with unfailing cheerfulness. This time it is not the “Lea Rig,” but “Kelvin Grove,” to which the shears march and keep time; but it is impossible to tell what a zest it gives to idleness, when one can look out upon industry so sunshiny and alert as this.

“Perfunctory—p, e, r, f, u, n, c, t—Eh! Rose, yonder’s Postie, with a letter,” cried Violet, out of breath.

“It’s sure to be from Harry, he’s always so thoughtful,” said the young wife; “run and get it, Violet. I wonder if he has seen the house yet—I wonder if he has settled when we’re all to go—I wonder—but to think of him writing again to-day! Poor Harry! he would think we would be anxious, Martha.”

“Here’s three; everybody but me gets a letter,” cried Violet, entering with her hands full. “Martha, Postie says this should have come yesterday, but it had no number; and here’s one from my uncle. May I open Uncle Sandy’s letter, Martha?”

But Violet’s question was not answered. Harry’s letter was a large one, a family epistle addressed to Martha, enclosed within the love-letter which Harry’s still fresh and delicate affection sent to his wife. But while Agnes ran over her’s alone, a flush of delight and expectation making her smile radiant, Rose looking over Martha’s shoulder, and Violet standing at her knee, possessed themselves of the contents of the larger letter; so that Agnes, roused at the end of her own to kindred eagerness about this, started up to join them, as Rose exclaimed: “A boat on the water,” and Violet cried “Eh, Agnes, a wee burn,” in the same breath.

And then Martha smilingly commanded the little crowd which pressed around her to sit down quietly, and hear her read; and Violet added with authority:

“Agnes, Rose, you’re to go away. Martha will read it out loud;” but, notwithstanding still obtruded her own small head between the letter of Harry and the eyes of her elder sister.

And Martha did read “out loud,” all the others still continuing to bend over her shoulder, and to utter suppressed exclamations as their eyes ran, faster than Martha’s voice, over the full page. The mall, the boat, the burn, the partitions to be thrown down, the windows to be opened, the painting and gilding and furnishing which filled Harry’s mind with occupation, produced the pleasantest excitement in the family. Those two girls, Agnes and Rose—for the wife was little more mature than her young sister—paused at the end of every sentence to clap their hands, and exclaim with pleasure; but Violet’s small head remained steady under shadow of Martha’s shoulder, and she read on.

“I have the accumulated rents of two years—nine hundred pounds—to begin with,” wrote Harry; “you may fancy how much improvement we may get out of such a sum as that; and I am resolved that the house shall be a pleasant house to us all, and like what a home should be, if anything I can do, will make it so. We must have a new boat, instead of this old crazy one, and will be obliged to have a vehicle of some kind. Violet must go to Stirling to school, so we’ll need a pony for her (Violet laughed aloud), and Agnes and Rose and you, my dear Martha, must have some kind of carriage; however, you shall decide yourselves about that. But this thousand pounds, you see, will enable us to begin in proper style, and that is a great matter.

I have just seen a family of Allenders in Stirling, respectable vulgar people, with a dissipated son, who took upon him to be more intimate with me than I was at all disposed for. I am afraid I shall be rude to this Gilbert Allenders, if he continues to press himself upon me; however, when you are all yonder, everything will go well.”

Poor Harry! It was a consolation to him to condemn Gilbert Allenders: it seemed to take a weight from his own conscience; disgust for his dissipated kinsman stood Harry in stead as disgust for dissipation itself, and he took the salve to his heart, and was comforted.

“Martha, will a pony carry two folk?” asked Violet, anxiously. “Yes, I mind—for ladies rode upon a pillion langsyne.”

“And what two folk would you have it carry, Lettie?” asked Rose.

“Me and Katie Calder. Martha, will you let Katie come?—for Auntie Jean’s ill to her; my uncle told Harry that, Martha.”

“Ask Agnes,” said Martha, with a smile; “I am only Harry’s sister and your sister, Lettie; but Agnes is lady of Allenders now; you must ask Agnes.”

The little wife grew red and white, and laughed hysterically; then she sank down on the floor at Martha’s feet, and clasped her arms round the elder sister’s waist, and wept quietly with her face hidden. It was too much for them all.

“And it’s an enchanted castle, and there’s a Dragon in it,” cried Violet joyously; “but, Rosie, Rosie, there should be a knight. Oh! I ken who it is—I ken who it is; it’s Mr. Charteris!”

“Lettie, what nonsense!” exclaimed Rose, who at that moment became extremely upright and proper.

“I ken; you’re the princess, Rosie, and Mr. Charteris is the knight; and maybe there’s fairies about the burn! Oh! I wish I was there!—me and little Katie Calder!”

Martha lifted the other letters from the table; they had been forgotten in the interest of this. One of them was from Uncle Sandy; the other was a note from Cuthbert, enclosing his sketch—an extremely brief note, saying little—yet Rose examined it over her sister’s shoulder stealthily, while the others looked at the drawing. There was nothing peculiar about the hand; and Rose did not understand the art of gleaning traits of character out of hair-strokes—yet her eyes went over it slowly, tracing the form of every letter. Poor Cuthbert! he thought this same Rose would be very much interested about his drawing; it seemed for the moment that these plain characters occupied her more.

CHAPTER IV.

A pair of friends—though I was young

And Matthew seventy-three.

WORDSWORTH.

“Eh, wee Hairy!” cried Miss Aggie Rodger, “your faither’s a muckle man noo; do you ken that, my pet? and you’ll ride in a coach, and get a grand powney o’ your ain, and eat grossets and pu’ flowers a’ the simmer through; do you hear that, my wee boy? But ye’ll have to gang away, Hairy, and what’ll we a’ do wanting ye?”

“It’s me that’s to get the pony,” said Violet. “I’m to ride into Stirling to the school every day, and I want Martha to buy a pillion for Katie Calder, and then, Miss Aggie, I can sit before, and Katie behind, like the lady in Lochinvar; but it’s me that’s to get the pony.”

“Preserve me, what a grand lady!” said Miss Aggie, throwing up little Harry in her arms; “but the wee boy’s the heir for a’ that—are ye no, Hairy?”

“But I want to ken how we’re to get to Stirling,” said Violet. “I ken about the Castle and the Ladies’ Rock, and all the places where the Douglas played, and where Lufra chased the deer, and King James coming down the High Street, too; but Mr. John, will you tell me how we’re to get to Stirling?”

“I never was there myself, Lettie,” said the idle man; “but there’s a map of Scotland in that auld book—see, down yonder in the corner, behind ‘Hervey’s Meditations’—that’s it—and we’ll look and see.”

The book was a dingy and tattered one, and beside it lay a very old copy of Young’s “Night Thoughts,” which Violet brought with her in her hand.

“See now, this is the road,” said the poor, good-natured Johnnie, with whom Lettie was an especial favourite, as he spread out the worn map on his knee, and taking a pin from the lappel of his coat, traced with it the route. “But your brother, you know, Lettie, went to Edinburgh first, and then sailed up here—and this is Stirling.”

“Eh, how the water runs out and in!” exclaimed Violet; “and we have a boat all to ourselves. Mr. John, will you tell me what this book is—is it good for reading?” and Violet contemplated, with a slightly puzzled expression, the dense pages of blank verse in which there appeared no story to catch her eye, or interest.

“Very good for reading,” answered the oracular Mr. John; “but now, Lettie, put the books back, and run down to Mrs. McGarvie’s like a good girl, and bring me a new pipe—run, Lettie!”

There was a strange alliance between the child and the man. Lettie, not always very tolerant of messages, put down the books without a murmur, and obeyed.

It was now May, and the day was hot and slumbrous. Miss Jeanie Rodger was at the warehouse, carrying back the work; Miss Aggie making boisterous fun with little Harry at the window; while proud, pensive, faded Miss Rodger sat very unpresentable in another room, repairing worn finery, which never could have been suitable for her, and was suitable for no one now.

The mother, worn out by two or three successive encounters with tax-gatherers, whose visits she bitterly resented at all times, and among whom she classed the collectors of those innocent water and gas accounts, which lay upon the “bunker” in the kitchen, was sleeping away her wrath and fatigue; everything was still in the house, except the crowing of little Harry. And little Harry’s mother and aunts were making a new frock for him in the parlour—a work which, for very joy, made slow progress: they had so many other things to think and talk about.

Looking into this pleasant work-room to see that all was right, before she obeyed the command of Mr. John, Violet went bounding down the stair, and out into the street.

Mrs. McGarvie’s Tiger sat painfully on the very narrow step of the door, where he could be shaded from the sun; sat very upright and prim, poor fellow, compelled by this circumscribed space. Mrs. McGarvie’s pretty Helen, with her beautiful hair and her bare feet, on short time at the mill, lovingly clipped with Maggie McGillivray across the way, but was very languid under the full sunshine, and grew quite ashamed of herself as she watched with awe and admiration the vigorous shears of her companion; while Mrs. McGarvie in the easy dishabille of a loose short gown, shook her clenched hand at her daughter from the threshold, and called her an idle cuttie at the top of her voice.

It was a drowsy day, and some one looking very brown and dusty, came toiling down the sunny, unshaded road,

“Eh, it’s Harry!” cried Violet Muir—and affectionately grasping the pipe in one hand, she ran up the road to secure Harry with the other.

“Who’s to smoke the pipe? Lettie, you must go no more messages like this, for you’re a young lady now,” said Harry, drawing himself up. “Is it for that idle fellow, John Rodger? What a shame, Lettie!”

“He’s my friend; I like him best,” said Violet, decidedly.

“He’s a mean fellow!” said Harry. “See that you don’t go anywhere for him again!”

For Harry had just now been a little irritated. Some one had met him, who did not know his new dignity, and who in the old days had been the superior of Mr. Buchanan’s clerk; but having extinguished his wrath by this condemnation of poor John Rodger, and highly amused to notice the violent flush of anger which rose upon the little defiant face of Lettie, Harry entered the house in great spirits.

“He’s turning steady, that lad,” said Mrs. McGarvie, looking after him with a sigh. “I’m sure it’s a great blessing; and a’ body mends o’ their ill courses but our guid man.”

Harry had come by the coach; the economic tardiness of the canal was not necessary to Harry now; and except that he was sunburnt, and hot, and dusty, the quick inquisitive eye of Rose decided in a moment that there was nothing in his appearance to-day to rouse Martha’s suspicions.

“Don’t let Lettie run about so,” said Harry, when their first greetings were over. “It is great presumption of those Rodgers; don’t let her go errands for them. Lettie is clever, Martha; we must make something of her. And now, when will you all go home?”

“Is that all that remains now, Harry?” exclaimed Agnes, clapping her hands. “May we go at once? Is it so near as that?”

“Well, I don’t think you should,” said Harry. “Let me get all the alterations made, and the place furnished, and then you can come. But Charteris said he was sure you would like better to be there at once, and have a hand in the improvements; so I promised him to give you your choice.”

“Oh, surely! Let us go now,” said Agnes.

“Eh, I would like!” echoed little Violet.

“But I should not like,” said Harry. “I want you to go when the place is complete and worthy of you. If you saw it now, you would think it a dingy, melancholy desert; but just wait for a month or so! There is a good deal of wood to be cut down, and they tell me the estate may be much improved; and to have a thousand pounds to begin with, you know, is great good fortune. There is a new church building close by—I think of giving them a hundred pounds, Martha.”

“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Agnes and Rose.

The eyes of both were wet. It was so great a gladness to be able to give such a gift, and then to propose it was so good of Harry! They were both overpowered with his liberality.

“A Syrian ready to perish was my father,” said Martha, slowly. “Yes, it is very fit you should bring the handful of first-fruits; but bring it justly, Harry. Spare it. Do not give it to the church and spend it too.”

“Martha is thinking of our old fifteen pounds a quarter,” said Harry, gaily. “Martha forgets that you don’t need to put off an account to pay your seat-rent now, Agnes. Why, only think of a thousand pounds—what a sum it is! It seems to me as if we could never spend it. Look here, Lettie.”

And Harry triumphantly exhibited a hundred-pound note. No one present had ever seen such a one before; and simple Harry, with a touch of most innocent pride, had preferred this one piece of paper to the more useful smaller notes, simply to let them see it, and to dazzle their eyes with a whole hundred pounds of their own.

“Eh, Harry!” exclaimed Violet, with reverential eyes fixed on Harry’s new pocket-book, “is’t a’ there?”

Harry laughed, and closed the book; but they all looked at it a little curiously, and even Agnes felt a momentary doubt as to whether a thousand—ay, or even a hundred—pounds were very safe in Harry’s keeping.

“No, it’s not all here,” answered the heir; “it’s all in the bank but this. Now, Agnes, am I not to have any tea? And we must consult about it all. The improvements will cost some two hundred pounds; then we’ll say a hundred and fifty to furnish the drawing-room—that’s very moderate. Then—there are already some things in the dining-room—say a hundred for that, and another hundred for the rest of the house. How much is that, Lettie?”

Lettie was counting it up on her fingers.

“Eh, Harry, what a heap of siller!”

“Five hundred and fifty; and this,” said Harry, complacently laying his finger on his pocket-book, “six; and a hundred to the kirk, seven hundred and fifty; and say fifty pounds for a good horse and Lettie’s pony, and somewhere near a hundred for a carriage, and then—whew! there’s nothing left. I must begin to calculate again—a thousand pounds—”

“But, Harry, you said it was only nine hundred,” said Rose.

“Well, so it is—it’s all the same. What’s a hundred here or there?” said Harry the Magnificent. “I must just make my calculations over again—that’s all.”

“But can people encumbered as you are afford to keep a carriage on four hundred and fifty pounds a-year?” asked Martha.

“Oh, not in the town, of course; but the country is quite different. Besides, Allenders will improve to any extent; and I suppose I may double my income very soon. Don’t fear, Martha, we’ll be very careful—oh, don’t be afraid.”

And Harry sincerely believing that no one need be afraid, went on in his joyous calculations—beginning always, not a whit discouraged, when he discovered again and again that he was calculating on a greater sum than he possessed; but it soon became very apparent, even with Harry’s sanguine arithmetic, that it was by no means a difficult thing to spend a thousand pounds, and a slight feeling of discontent that it was not another thousand suddenly crossed the minds of all.

“I see,” said Harry, slowly, “it’ll have to be fifty to the church, Martha. Fifty is as much as I can afford. It would not be just, to myself and to you all, to give more.”

Poor Harry! The magnificence of liberality was easier to give up than the other magnificences on which he had set his heart.

CHAPTER V.

But hark you, Kate,

Whither I go, thither shall you go too;

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.

HENRY IV.

“What could you do in Allenders? one never knows how to deal with you capricious women. Stay at home, Agnes, and manage your own department—it is impossible you could assist me, and you would only be a hindrance to work. Stay at home, I say, till the place is ready for you.”

Agnes laid down the child softly upon the sofa where she was sitting, and answered nothing; but her face wore a look of resignation which Harry thought ostentatious, and which irritated him greatly, as indeed his little wife partly knew.

He started hastily from his seat with a contracted brow, and began to walk about the room, muttering something to himself about the impossibility of pleasing everybody. Poor little Agnes was desperately exerting herself to swallow a sob; she did feel a little fretful and peevish, it was very true, but at the same time she honestly struggled to keep it down.

“Martha, say something,” whispered Rose. “Harry is angry—speak to him, Martha.”

But Martha sat still and said nothing—for Harry’s magnificent intentions troubled his sister with an uneasy sense of dependence. It is oftentimes a greater exercise of generosity to receive than to bestow. Labouring for Harry would have seemed to Martha a thing so natural as never to disturb her every-day life for a moment; to be supported by Harry, called for a stronger exertion. But Harry’s sister was of a stouter spirit than Harry’s wife. She preferred, even at a risk of great pain, to make trial quietly of this new life, rather than to say how irksome to her was the prospect of burdening her brother, and to undergo a scene of indignation, and grief, and reconcilement. Nevertheless, Martha felt her influence abridged, and was silent—for this fortune did not change her own position or that of her sisters. Harry and his wife alone were rightful sharers of this unexpected elevation, and Martha stepped down from the elder sister’s place, not without a struggle, and endeavoured to turn her eyes, which had so long expressed the distinct decisions of a separate will, towards the young irresolute pair beside her as to the heads of the house.

“Why don’t you speak, Martha?” exclaimed Harry at last, noticing her silence with a renewed burst of impatience. “Why don’t you say what you think at once, instead of sitting glooming at us all?”

“I do not speak because I begin now to be your dependant, Harry,” said Martha, with harsh emphasis; “and especially in a matter where I and these bairns may restrict and hinder you, must now choose to listen to your decision, and not try to influence it. That is why I do not speak. But what I think is, that Agnes, since she wishes it, should go with you, and that we can remain to do all that is necessary here. Or I can take them home to Ayr—anywhere—and Agnes will like to be with you in your plannings and alterations, Harry. Why should she not go?”

“A dependant!” Harry looked very indignant and injured.

“Stay,” said Martha. “Nothing more of this. A woman needs to be so. I am willing; but I prefer that nothing should be said of it, Harry, especially now, when I am scarcely accustomed to the change.”

A long silence followed, and each individual heart there was busy with its own proper thoughts. Martha, ever proud and harsh, repeated to herself the many necessities which compelled her to remain an inmate of Harry’s house, and to relinquish the work by which she had hitherto supported herself—she, who, small as her opportunities were, had always conferred, but never received, the benefits of ordinary life; and there came vividly upon her memory those old dreams of youth, in which she had imagined herself the support, the guardian, the protector of the orphan children who were her charge in the world. Now she was Harry’s dependant sister, curbing and burdening his hands, and restraining the harmless indulgences he longed for. Martha was not content, not willing, not ready, like a gentler woman, to take upon herself this gracious yoke of love, and receive with sweet and becoming humility the gifts which she could not refuse; but she bent her stubborn neck to them, and reminded herself of her new position, with a strong resolve to do all its duties—chiefest of all to cover over in her own heart, so that no one could discern it, the bitterness she felt.

Harry, pleased to find himself not only the most important person in the household, but the maintainer and the acknowledged head of all, and only half angry that Martha should speak of herself as his dependant: Agnes, thinking solely that now she had gained her point, and should go with him to Allenders; Rose, full of new fears and new hopes, unwilling to realize all that was in her mind; and little Lettie, last of all, chivalrously determined to win, by some unknown means, a fortune and fame for her sisters, far better than Harry’s, surrounded this centre figure of the family group. In all minds there was a vague dissatisfaction. This great inheritance, after all, like everything else which deeply disturbs a life, brought new troubles, no less than new pleasures, in its train.

But Harry made no further resistance to Agnes’s desire. An involuntary consciousness that it would be ungracious and unkind to decide contrary to Martha’s opinion, after she had acknowledged his authority, had greater effect upon his impulsive mind than the reasonable wish of his wife; for Harry came to do much of what was really right in his conduct by side motives and impulses, and oftener made a start in his direct course by an impetus from some diverging way, than kept steadily on, because he knew that his path was the straight one. But Agnes did not pause to consider the motive. It was enough to her that her point was gained.

CHAPTER VI.

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockle shells,

And pretty maids all of a row.

NURSERY RHYME.

It is a bright May day, and the home-garden at Ayr is as bright as the season. Upon the fresh soft breeze the falling petals of the apple blossoms sweep down, fluttering like snowflakes to the ground; and the great pear tree trained against the wall is flushed to the extremity of every bough, and has its leaves smothered in its wealth of bloom. By the door here, in the sunshine, is the chair in which Alexander Muir presides over his little flock of workers, and a book held open by his spectacles still rests upon it; but the old man himself is not here. Neither are the girls here, you would say at the first glance; but look closer into the shady corners, and listen only five minutes—it is all you need to discover your mistake. There are pleasant sounds in the air; softened young voices and light-hearted laughter; and at the foot of Uncle Sandy’s chair lies a heap of muslin, ballasted with stones, to keep it safe and preserve it from being blown away; for Beatie and her sisterhood are idle, extremely idle, and idle even, it must be confessed, is Rose, the viceroy, to whom Uncle Sandy has delegated his charge. They are whispering together, little groups of bright heads, which here and there, the sunshine, stretching over the boughs of the great plane tree, finds out and seizes on, tracing a single curl or braid of hair with delicate gold, and throwing wavy shadows over brow and face. They are dispersed in all the corners of the garden; but here, leaning against the trunk of the plane tree, flushed with natural gratification, confidential and yet dignified, stands Rose Muir, the centre of the most important group.

Once these girls were little Rosie’s playmates; now, though Rose is not proud, she feels no less than they do, that there is a difference, and quite acquiesces when they call her Miss Rose, and are respectful as well as friendly. She is standing, with a little of a patroness air, listening while Mary Burness tells of Maggie Crawford’s “lad,” and Maggie retaliates by a rumour that Mary is to be “cried” in the kirk the very next Sabbath day. Rose laughs a little, blushes a little, and looks so happy and light-hearted, that you perceive at once she could not tell you why—but that there is some unconscious reason of still greater might than the family good fortune which brings back the natural joy so freshly to her heart.

By this open window you hear the sound of voices graver and less youthful. Within, with her hand wandering among the old man’s books, sits Martha Muir. Her other hand holds a piece of her accustomed work, but it lies on her knee listlessly; and with the unconsciousness of pre-occupation she turns over and over the books upon the window-shelf—old familiar books, friends which nurtured and strengthened her own youth—but her hand wanders over them as though they were strangers, and she could not tell you what she looks at with those fixed eyes.

“I hope it is all over, uncle,” said Martha, slowly; “I trust it is—I trust it is. He has had hard lessons, many of them, and a great and sudden deliverance. The news of it came to me like an angel from heaven—for I felt that it might save Harry; and so, I hope, I trust it will.”

“You hope, you trust? we all do that, Martha, my woman,” said the old man, anxiously. “I never kent an evil-doing stranger yet that I would not have given all the strength of my good wishes to; but, Martha, God has given you a clearer judgment than many. What think ye? what does your ain mind decide as the most likely end?”

“God knows!” said Martha, solemnly. “I think nothing, uncle; I only trust and hope. I see no sin in him now—poor Harry! poor Harry! and God send the evil may pass away like the fearful dream, I sometimes believe it is. Do you mind him, uncle—do you mind the pure, grand boy he was? Oh, my Harry! my poor Harry!—but I speak as if I was despairing, when, indeed, I am full of hope,” said Martha, looking up with a faint smile, through the unusual tears which only moistened her dried eyelids, but did not fall.

The old man looked at her doubtfully, with serious and earnest anxiety. She did not lift her eyes, neither did she seem inclined to say more; but her hand went wandering, wandering, over the books she knew so well, opening and closing them with such unconscious fingers, and mind so intently preoccupied, that he shook his head as he turned away, with a prayer, and a pang in his heart. For experience, alas! spoke to him as it spoke to her—sadly, hopelessly; and with Martha he turned from the subject, and would not think—would only trust and hope.

“And the other bairns,” said the old man, half questioning her, half consoling himself, “the other bairns; they at least bring us nothing but comfort.”

“Uncle,” said Martha, looking up with quick curiosity, “what brings this Mr. Charteris to Ayr? what is his business here? We meet him wherever we go; what does he want in your house or with us?”

“What is it ye say, Martha?”

Alexander Muir looked up with an awakened face, and glanced out through the framework of leaves and blossoms round the window to where his niece Rose stood under the great plane tree.

“Hush! look at them!” said Martha, grasping her uncle’s arm with her hand, and bending forward eagerly, as if the gesture made her hear as well as see.

There is a stranger in the garden, lingering beside the vacant chair on the threshold, looking wistfully into the shaded corner, with its waving boughs and pursuing sunshine. Just now they are talking rather loud yonder, and laughing with unrestrained glee; and still it is stories of courtship and mirthful wooing which are told to Rose, and still she stands listening, well pleased, with smiles on her face, and in her heart. Rose could not tell you what it is that makes her step so light, her heart so free. It is something which touches duller pleasures into life, and kindles them all with a touch of its passing wing. But it has passed in the night this angel, when she only felt its plumes, and heard its sweet unrecognised voice; and as yet she has not seen the face of this new affection, nor blushes as she lifts her own, frankly to all kindly eyes; yet with the greater zest she listens to these girlish romances, and smiles, and asks questions—questions which the blushing subject of the story does not always refuse to answer; but just now the narrator has become rather loud, and there is a burst of laughter which good Uncle Sandy would reprove from his window, if he were not more seriously engaged.

Suddenly there falls a complete silence on the little group, broken only after the first moment by an indistinct tittering of confusion and bashfulness, as one by one they steal away, leaving Rose alone under the plane tree—and the stranger advances at a singular pace, which seems to be composed of two eager steps and one slow one, towards her, as she stands, half-reluctant, with her head drooped and the light stealing warmly over her cheek, waiting to receive him.

As he advances the colour rises on his forehead. It may be because he is aware of some close scrutiny, but however that is, Cuthbert Charteris, who can pass with the utmost coolness through every corner of the Parliament House, and make his appearance before the Lords who rule her Majesty’s Court of Session without a vestige of shyness, grows very red and lets his glove fall, as he advances to this audience. And the sympathetic Rose blushes too, and hangs down her head, and gives her hand reluctantly, and wishes she were anywhere but here, seeing any other person than Mr. Charteris. Why? For after all, there is nothing formidable about the Edinburgh advocate, and he has been her brother’s friend.

Martha’s hand again tightened on the old man’s arm; then it was slowly withdrawn, and she sat still, looking at them earnestly—looking at them in their fair youth, and with their fresh hopes round them, like a saint’s encircling glory—so great a contrast to herself.

“Well, Martha, well,” said the old man, in a lighter tone, “well, my woman—no doubt neither you nor me have anything to do with the like of this; but it is good, like every ordinance of God. If Rosie, poor thing, gets a good man, she’ll do well; and we need not be vexed for that, Martha.”

“He is a gentleman, uncle, and not a rich one. They’ll want him to have a rich wife,” said Martha.

“Be content—be content; one fear is over much to foster. We’ll have no grief with Rosie,” said Uncle Sandy, cheerfully. “If he turns out well, she’ll do well, Martha; but if he turns out ill, we must leave her now to God’s good care and her ain judgment. And what could we have better for her? But we need not leave them their lane, either. I will go and see after the other bairns myself.”

So saying, the old man rose, and Martha lifted her work—but in a few minutes it again dropped on her knee, and opening the window she bent out, and suffered the pleasant air to bathe her forehead, and smoothe out the wrinkles which care had engraven on it. “Take care of them, take care of them!” said Martha, under her breath. “God help me! I trust more in my own care than in His.”

“Ye’re aye idle—aye idle. Do they never come back to you in your dreams the lees ye tell me, and the broken promises?” said Uncle Sandy. “And Beatie, I had your faithful word that all that flower was to be done before the morn.”

“Eh, but it was the gentleman,” said Beatie, with conscious guilt, labouring at her muslin with great demonstration of industry.

“The gentleman! He came in himsel. He gave you no trouble,” said the old man, shaking his head. “And you’ve been doing naething either, Jessie Laing.”

“Eh! me! I’ve weeded a’ the strawberry beds, though there’s naething on them yet but the blossom,” said the accused, in discontent; “and Mary, and Maggie, and the rest of them, telling Miss Rose about their lads a’ the time—and naebody blamed but me!”

“Miss Rose has gotten a lad o’ her ain—eh! look at the gentleman!” said another of the sisterhood, in an audible whisper.

For Rose had been playing with a sprig of fragrant lilac, which just now, as she started at sight of her uncle, fell upon the path at her foot; and, with a deferential bend, which every girl who saw it took as a personal reverence to herself, and valued accordingly, Mr. Charteris stooped to pick up the fallen blossom, and by and bye quite unobtrusively placed it in his breast.

Uncle Sandy lifted his book, and seated himself, casting a glance of good pleasure towards the plane tree, from which Rose was now approaching the door. Not a girl of all those workers who did not observe intently, and with an interest hardly less than her own “lad” received from her, every look and motion of “the gentleman.” Not one of them who would not have intrigued in his behalf with native skill and perseverance, had any of the stock obstacles of romance stood in Cuthbert’s way. It was pleasant to see the shy, smiling, blushing interest with which they regarded the stranger and his Lady Rose; something resembling the instinctive, half-pathetic tenderness with which women comfort a bride; but with more glee in it than that.

By and bye, when these young labourers were gone, and the shadows were falling over the garden, where little Lettie and Uncle Sandy’s maid scattered pleasant sounds and laughter through the dim walks, as they watered Uncle Sandy’s dearest flowers, Cuthbert Charteris unwillingly rose from the dim seat by the window, whence he could just see Violet at her self-chosen task, and said irresolutely that he must be gone. The window was open. They had been sitting for some time silent, and the wind, which blew in playfully, making a little riot now and then as it lighted unexpectedly upon the fluttering pages of an open book, was sweet with the breath of many glimmering hawthorns, and of that great old lilac bush—a garden and inheritance in itself—which filled the eastern corner, and hid the neighbouring house with its delicate leaves and blossoms. Opposite to him, Cuthbert still saw the white hair of the old man, and something of Martha’s figure withdrawn by his side; but out of a pleasant darkness which his imagination filled very sweetly, had come once or twice the voice of Rose. He could not see her, it had grown so dark, nor could he do more than feel a little soft hand glide into his, when he bade her good-night.

It had a singular charm, this darkness, and Cuthbert grasped the hand firmly and closely before it drew itself away. Then he went out into the soft summer night, with its sweet dews and sounds. A smile was on his face, his very heart was wrapped in this same soft fragrant gloom, and he went on unconsciously till he reached the river, and stood there, looking down upon the gentle water, flowing graciously, with a sweet ripple, under the pensive stars.

His hand upon his breast touched the lilac blossom. He drew it out to look at it, and held it idly in his fingers, for his first thought was to drop the fading flower into those pure cold waters, and let it float away towards that sea which is the great symbol of all depths. But Cuthbert’s second thought, more usual, if not more true, was to restore the drooping blossom, and keep it, though it faded; and then, making an effort to shake off the pleasant mystic darkness which hid him from himself, Cuthbert Charteris roused his dreaming heart, and asked what he did there.

What brought him here? The same question which Martha had put to her uncle. No one saw Cuthbert blush; no one was witness to the conscious smile which rose in spite of himself upon his lip. What brought him here? In fact, the slightest possible piece of business, which, at any other time, a letter might have managed; but, in truth—what was it, Cuthbert?

And straightway the thoughts of Cuthbert Charteris plunged into a long, discursive journey, calculating probabilities, prospects, necessities; but through all wavered this conscious smile, and he felt the warm flush on his face, and looked, as Rose had never looked upon her passing angel, into the very eyes of the fairy guide who had led him thither. The stars were dreaming in the sky, wrapped in soft radiant mist, when he left the river-side. Like them, the young man’s-heart was charmed. Not fervent enough for passion yet, nor manstrong as it would be—charmed, fascinated, dreaming—a spell of magic over him, was this new power—the earliest spring of a life which should weave itself yet into the very strength of his.

CHAPTER VII.

A home to rest, a shelter to defend.

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

The evening sun shines into the drawing-room of Allenders—the drawing-room newly completed and magnificent, through which Harry Muir’s little wife goes merrily, laughing aloud as she pauses to admire again and again those luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, which it is almost impossible to believe are her own. It is a long room occupying the whole breadth of the house, for Harry has taken Cuthbert’s hint, and thrown down the partition which once made two dim bed-chambers, where now is this pretty drawing-room.

From the western window you can see the long light stealing over Bannockburn, tracing bright fines of softened green and yellow along the wide strath, and laying down upon the swelling fields as it passes away such a depth of dewy rest and shadow as never lay in any land of dreams. And the hill-tops are dusty and mazed with the rays which stream over them, a flood of golden streaks, falling out of the fight like drooping hair; while nearer, at our very feet, as we stand by this window, the burn below flashes out through the heavy alder boughs, in such sweet triumph over its crowning sunbeam, that you unconsciously smile in answer to its smiling, as you would to any other childish joy.

From the other window you can look out upon Demeyet, somewhat sullenly receiving the radiance of the sunset. He, stout rebel, loves better the young morning, whose earliest glance is over his head, before her eyelids are fully opened. How she glances up playfully behind him, how she shrinks under his great shoulder, you will see, when you see the sun rise upon the links of Forth. But Demeyet, like many another, does not know when fortune is kindest to him, nor ever guesses that he himself, with those royal purple tints upon his robed shoulders, and the flitting shades which cover his brow, like the waving of a plume, shows his great form to better advantage now, than when the faint morning red, and the rising light behind, darken him with his own shadow. Wherefore Demeyet receives the sunlight sullenly, and glooms upon merry Agnes Muir at the window of Allenders’ drawing-room, till she can almost fancy that he lifts a shadowy arm, and clenches a visionary hand to shake it at her threateningly with defiance and disdain.

A silver tea-service, engraven with the Allenders’ crest, and china the most delicate that Agnes ever saw, glitter on the table, which is covered besides with every rare species of “tea-bread,” known to the ingenious bakers of Stirling. And now Agnes glides round and round the table, endeavouring to recollect some one thing omitted, but cannot find any excuse for ringing the bell and summoning one of her hand-maidens to get another survey of the tout ensemble, which dazzles the eyes of the little wife. Harry has gone to Stirling to meet and bring home his sisters; and Uncle Sandy, their escort and guardian, is with them for a visit; and so is poor little Katie Calder, the oppressed attendant of Miss Jean. It is true that Agnes is very affectionate and very grateful—that, herself motherless, she clings to Martha, and would immediately succumb in any strait to the stronger mind, and character, and will of the eldest member of their little household; but withal, Agnes is mortal, and it is impossible to deny that there is quite a new and delightful pleasure to her in feeling herself, and in having others feel, that it is her house to which the sisters are coming home—that she is the head of the family, the house-mother, and that all the glories of this grandest of palaces are her own.

Now a faint rumbling of distant carriage-wheels strikes on the excited ear of Agnes, but no carriage is visible from the windows—so she runs impatiently up some flights of narrow winding stairs, and emerges, out of breath, upon the gallery, which conducts to the little turret of Allenders. This gallery is very small—three people standing in it would make quite a little crowd; but then it commands a far-off view of the Forth, beyond Alloa in one direction, and of Stirling’s crowned rock, and the Highland hills, and what is still more important at this moment, of the Stirling road, on the other.

And yonder, along the white line of the Stirling road, seen at present only in a glimpse through the trees, comes that pretty open carriage, the price of which Harry is afraid to think of, his latest purchase, with its strong bay horse and its smart groom driver, beside whom Harry himself, still wise enough to acknowledge that he cannot drive, sits leaning back, to point out triumphantly to the crowded company behind him the first glimpse of their new house. Martha and Uncle Sandy, Rose and the two children, fill the coach almost to over-brimming; and though they are all dusty and hot, there are bright looks on every face of them. But Agnes does not pause to look at their faces, but flies down stairs, nearly tripping herself with the wide folds of her muslin gown, to throw the door hospitably open, and stand herself, dignified like a matron and head of a family, on the threshold, to receive the strangers.

At the gate, the innocent Dragon of Allenders twirls his rusty hat feebly on a stick, and laughs to himself with his slow chuckle as he leans upon the opened gate; and half in curiosity, half because the housemaid was once in Sir John Dunlop’s, and has very proper notions of what is due to the “family,” Agnes finds both her servants standing behind her in the hall. The little wife holds her head high, and overflows with dignity and innocent stateliness, all the while feeling an almost irresistible inclination to relieve herself with a burst of incredulous, wondering laughter; for how she ever came to be a great lady, Agnes cannot comprehend.

Now, Lettie, jump! Be first out of the grand carriage—first upon the bright green lawn of Allenders. See, yonder are soft-voiced doves upon the turret; and the spear-head, no longer tarnished, throws gleams about it in the sunshine upon those twinkling, tremulous aspen leaves; and listen here to this child’s tongue singing, calling to you, though the language is not yours—the burn, Lettie! and this brown foliage is the fragrant walnut; and past the grey walls and that dim library window is a broad gleam of silver, all fretted and broken by twining boughs and foliage, for that is the river—the grand Forth—and this is fairy land!

“Oh, Martha, Martha!—Rose!—Uncle!” cried Agnes, running forward to the carriage-door; but as Martha alighted, and took both her hands, the young house-mother forgot her dignity, and instead of the pretty speech she had been meditating, only exclaimed again: “Oh, Martha, Martha!” and burst into a fit of tears.

Laughing, sobbing, smiling, Agnes led them up-stairs, and hurried them through all the rooms. A pretty apartment, looking to the river, had been chosen for Martha and Rose, while a smaller one within it was for the children. They were all perfectly and carefully fitted up—alas! for Harry’s nine hundred pounds.

“Bairns, I will ask a blessing,” said Uncle Sandy, as they gathered round the tea-table.

There was an instant hush, and Rose shrouded little Harry’s head with her hand, and pressed him closer to her side, to still even the child into reverent silence. She was seated close by the old man, and he, too, raised one hand to shade his reverent forehead, and solemnly lifted the other.

“Lord, a blessing on these offered mercies, a blessing on this roof-tree, upon our meeting and our sundering, and upon these Thy bairns, fatherless and motherless, whom Thou hast led hitherto, and brought pitifully unto this day. Give them out of the ark of Thy covenant, comfort them with strength, and succour from all evil, for the Lord’s sake. Amen.”

There was a momentary solemn pause, after the voice ceased—and Rose bent down over the child to hide her face; and Agnes, with the tears still in her eyes, looked wistfully at the old man; and Harry cast down his, and laid his hand softly on Martha’s hand. No one said there were fears and hopes—intensest hopes and fears in this new beginning—nor that its brightness trembled with a solemn peradventure; but at this moment, all had a consciousness of putting themselves and their fate into the hand of God, and of waiting for what He should bring out of those unknown years. “I cannot tell—God knows what is to come,” said Martha’s heart, as it yearned within her over them all; and there came to each a strange humility and trust. God knows! one can look calmly into a future which, step by step, is known to our pitiful, great Father. Day by day—hour by hour—they must each of them come to us out of the heavens, full and rounded with the daily tribulation, the daily gladness which is appointed to their lot. But God knows now the way which we shall learn by single footsteps—knows and appoints it for us out of His great love—God knows—it is very well.

CHAPTER VIII.

Now is the May of life.

ROGERS.

“Eh, Violet! there’s twa men-servants, and twa maids!” said little Katie Calder.

Katie was short and stout, with a plump, good-humoured face, and wealth of long fair hair, and a bright-printed frock, bought for her by Uncle Sandy himself, to replace the faded liveries of Miss Jean. Katie had no turn for literature or poetry, like her little kinswoman; but to make up for that, she was stout-hearted and adventurous, redoubtable in winter slides and summer rambles, and with as honest and “aefauld” a child’s heart as ever looked through blue eyes. Miss Jean Calder and her penurious oppression had subdued Katie, but they had not crushed her; for Katie was not given to solitary thoughts or plaintive resignation. So instead of standing shyly by, as Violet might have done, and looking on with a longing wish to join the plays of happier children, Katie made bold dashes among them, content rather to pay for her play by a good fit of crying, when summoned in to the invariable scold, than to want altogether the wholesome “fun” which was the child’s natural breath. So now, being prepared by a few days’ freedom in Uncle Sandy’s house at Ayr, for the liberty and kindliness, though scarcely for the grandeur of Allenders, Katie’s happy spirit had entirely thrown off the fear and bondage of Miss Jean. She was sitting on a low stool half-dressed, plaiting the long hair which streamed over her plump shoulders, and looking with great admiration at the new chintz frock carefully spread out upon a chair, which she had worn for the first time yesterday.

“Eh, Katie! if you only saw how the sun’s rising behind yon muckle hill!” answered Violet from the window.

“And you never saw such a fine kitchen,” pursued Katie, “a’ the walls glittering with things, and as big as folk could dance in; and such a room with books down the stair. Did you think there was as mony in the world, Lettie?”

“But they’re no for reading,” said Violet disconsolately, “for I tried them last night; and I would rather have Mr. Sim’s library in the Cowcaddens.”

“Were there stories in it? Eh, Violet, do you think there’s ony fairy tales down the stair? for I like them,” said Katie Calder; “but if I put on my new frock the day, it’ll no be clean on Sabbath to gang to the kirk.”

“There’s Rose down in the garden—and there’s the old man that Harry calls Dragon,” cried Violet. “Come, Katie, and see the Forth and our boat.”

“It’s no so bonnie as our ain water at hame, and there’s nae brigs,” said Katie, as she donned her new frock, and anxiously examined it, to see whether yesterday’s journey had left any trace upon its bright folds; for Katie was a thrifty little woman, and knew that she had no other dress worthy of Allenders.

It was still very early. Rose had newly left the house, and now stood alone under the great shadow of the walnut tree, looking up at the windows, beyond which the greater part of the household were still asleep. She had left Martha in a deep, quiet, dreamless slumber which did not begin till the sky was reddening over Demeyet; and Rose who had just been congratulating herself on having a free unoccupied hour to think, stood now endeavouring, with some confusion, to recollect what it was she wanted to think about. Her mind was in a tumult of sweet morning fancies, and the something on which she had resolved to meditate, eluded her, with many a trick and wile, like a playful child. A slight wavering blush came over her face, as now and then she seemed to catch a glimpse of it for a moment; but immediately it was lost again among the thick-coming fancies of her stirred and wakening mind; yet strangely enough, Rose did not pass the library window, nor seek the mall by the water-side. Not very long ago, nothing could have interested her more than the river and the hills beyond; now she only threw herself down on the lawn beneath the walnut tree, and leaning her head on her hand, played with the grass on which her eyes were bent, and mused and pondered with a downcast face. Sometimes indeed, her eyes were closed, and even when she opened them the dreamer saw nothing of Allenders. No; for she was secretly making pictures which could not bear the eye of day, much less the inspection of brother or sister; remembering, with such strange tenacity of recollection, what was done and what was said, on yonder May evening in the garden at Ayr, and in the gloom of the little parlour, and unconsciously creating other scenes like that, in which the same chief actor bore the hero’s part.

Rose! Rose! you would blush and start like guilt, did any home voice at this moment call your name; but the spell of this dreaming clings to you like slumber, and you can no more shake it off, than you could the sweet deep sleep which last night surprised you against your will, and changed those waking musings into the fantastic visions of the night; and your eyes grow heavy, Rose, while your heart wanders in this maze, and a soft uncertainty steals over your fair pictures, though with a sudden start, half of displeasure, you hear the steps of the children hastening to join you, and give up your maiden meditations with a sigh.

Behind the walnut tree, the poor old Dragon feebly bends over the flower-beds, plucking up here and there, with an effort, a solitary weed, but oftenest looking idly towards Rose, whom he would fain go and speak to, were not her preoccupation so evident. The great walnut waves its large fragrant leaves in the soft morning air between them, and the sun burns in the gilded spear on the turret, and the broad light clothes the whole country like a garment. Strongly contrasted in this framework of summer life about them, are the two human creatures who complete the picture. The girl lingering on the threshold of a fair life unknown to her, and peopling all its fairy world with scenes which thrill her to a half-conscious joy; the old man in the torpor of great age, vacantly admiring her fresh youth, and with a strange, dim curiosity about her, who she is, and what she would say if he addressed her. To him a long life has passed like a dream, and appears in a mist to his memory, as in a mist it appears to her imagination; but the time is long past when anything could find out the old faint beating heart of Adam Comrie, to thrill it with emotion. His curiosities, his likings, his thoughts, have all become vague as a child’s; but they lie on the surface, and never move him, as a child’s fancies do.

“See how the old man looks at Rose,” whispered Katie Calder; “but she doesna see him yet; and, Violet, look at her. She’s bonnie.”

“But what way is she sitting there?” said Violet, wonderingly, “when she might be at the water-side. She’s thinking about Harry; but what needs folk think about Harry now? Harry is in his bed and sleeping, Rose; but, oh! I see—you were not thinking about him after all.”

Rose started with a vivid blush. No, indeed, she had not been thinking of Harry; it sounded like an accusation.

“And you’ll be yon birkie’s Lady Rose?” said the Dragon, coming forward. “Aweel I wadna say but he thought ye bonnier than my white bush; but they didna howk up the rose either; that’s ae comfort—though nae thanks to him, nor to this lad, Mr. Hairy, that took his counsel. What do they ca’ this little bairn?”

“My name’s Violet,” said Lettie, with dignity.

“There was a Miss Violet in the last family; but she would have made six o’ that bit creature,” said the old servant. “What way are ye a’ sae wee?”

“Eh! Lettie’s a head higher than me!” exclaimed Katie Calder in amazement.

“Are you gaun to be married upon yon birkie now, if ane might speer?” asked the feeble Dragon. “I’ve lived about this house sixty year, but there hasna been a wedding a’ that time; and now how I’m to do wi’ young wives and weans I canna tell. The last Allenders had a wife ance, folk say, but I never mind of her. He was ninety year auld when he died, and lived a widow three score years and five. I’m eighty mysel, and I never was married. It’s aye best to get ower the like o’ that when folk’s young; but you’re just a lassie yet; you should wait awhile, and be sicker; and yon birkie has nae reverence for the constitution. I’m an awfu’ guid hand for judging a man, and I ken as muckle by what he said about the windows.”

“Eh, Rose, is’t Mr. Charteris that’s the birkie?” cried Violet, with extreme interest.

But Rose had risen from the grass, and now leaned upon the walnut tree, vainly trying to look serious and indifferent. This face which had been eluding her dreams so long, looked in gravely now upon her heart; and Rose trembled and blushed, and could not speak, but had a strong inclination to run away somewhere under cover of the leaves, and weep a few tears out of her dazzled eyes, and soothe her heart into calmer beating. The old man chuckled once more in childish exultation.

“I’ll no tell—ye may trust me—and if ye’ll come in ower, I’ll let you see the white rose bush that garred yon birkie name ye to me. Whaur are ye for, you little anes? is’t the boat the bairns want? I’m saying!—I’ll no hae ony o’ you drowning yoursels in the water; and I gie you fair warning, if you should fa’ in twenty times in a day, I’m no gaun to risk life and limb getting ye out again—it doesna stand to reason that a wean’s life should be as valuable to this witless world as the life of an aged man. And I’ve had muckle experience in my day—muckle experience, Miss Rose; and aye glad to communicate, as the Apostle bids, and ready to give counsel, wi’ nae mair pride than if I had seen but ae score o’ years instead of four. It’s a great age.”

“And do they call you Dragon,” asked Violet, shyly.

“That’s what they ca’ me; for I’ve lang keepit Allenders, and been a carefu’ man of a’ in it, from the master himsel to the berry bushes; but my right name is Edom Comrie, if onybody likes to be so civil as ca’ me that. I’m saying, wee Missie, do ye think I could carry ye? but I’m no so strong as I was forty year ago.”

“You could carry little Harry; but I can rin, and so can Katie Calder,” said Violet.

“Wha’s Katie Calder?”

“It’s me,” answered the little stranger; “and I’m Lettie Muir’s third cousin; and I’m to stay at Allenders, and no to go back to Miss Jean any more.”