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Copyrighted in 1881 by Br:an AND ADAMS. August 30. 1881.

 

 

 

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“WHAT IS THE MATTER?” ASKED RANDALL.

The Quiet Heart.

B Y MRS. OLIPHANT.

 

PART L—CHXPTER I.

“ YE’LL no ken, Jenny, it Miss Menie’s in?”

“And what for should I no ken?” exclaimed the hot and impatient
Jenny Durwood, sole servant, house-keeper, and self-constituted guar-
dian of Mrs. Laurie, of Burnside, and her fatherless daughter. “DO
you think onyane comes or gangs in the house out of my knowledge?
And where should Miss Menie be, butin, sitting at her seam in the
mistress’s rarlor, at this hour of the day?”

“I was meaning nae oflt‘ense,” said meek Nelly Panton; “ I’m sure
ve ken, Jenny. Woman, I Wouldna disturb the very cat by the fire it it
was just me; but my mOEhEI‘,.YOU see, has men an ill turn, and there’s
nae peace Wi’ her. day 0" mght, 21’ for naething. but because she’s
anxious in her mind—and if you would just let me get a word of Miss
M n'e—”

(E‘hm I hindering ye?”‘cried the indignant Jenny; “she’s no ill to be
seen in her wilful way, even on. wandering about the garden, damp
roads or dry; but for a’ the whims I’ve kent .in her head, as time
anither, I never heard of her setting up for either skill or wisdom
past the common. I reckon Ishe never had a salr head hersel’-what

 

“HAVE YOU CEASED 'ro TRUST ME, mum?”

 

  

 

 

kind of a helper could she be to your mother? and if she‘s heard of :5
sair heart that’s a’ the length her knowledge gangs~what good is
Miss Menie to do to you?”

“ I’m sure I‘m no meaning ony ill,” said Nelly, diswonsolately, slttin‘g
down on a. wooden stool with passive resignation; “ and it’s aye kent
of me that I never provokit onybody a’ my born days. I’m just wants
ing to speak a word to the young lady, that’s 11’.”

NOW, Nelly Penton, meekly passiw as she was, had an eminent gift
in the way of provncation, and kept in a perpetual fever the warmer
tempers in her neighborhood, Jenny virtuously resolved to command
herself, went out with sufficient abruptness to her kitchen door, to
“ futf,” as she herself called it, her incipient passion away. The visitor
took no notice of Jenny’s withdrawal from the field. Slow pertinacity
sure of ultimate success, calmed away all excitement from Nelly. She
had taken her place with perfect composure, to wait, though it might
be for hours, till the person she wished to see came to her call.

It was a day of early spring, and had rained plentilully in 1119 morn—
ing. Light white clouds, tossed and b10wn about by a fantastic wind,
threw their soft shadow on a clear deep sky of blue; and raindrops
glittering in the sunshine, hung upon flowers and branches, and fell '
now and then in a gleam from the shaken hedge or garden fruit-treo
The garden paths were wet—the road Without had a flowing rivnle'u V-
accumulated rain,which almost made as much ringing with its hasty foot-
steps as the burn itself under the little bridge which crossed the way, and
the blue-slated roof of this house of Burnside blazed like aslanted mirror.

1

signs dignified this house of Burnside. Four sub-

stantial‘walls of rough grey stone, a slated roof,

\ ‘ With’but’one projecting attic window to break its
slope-La door in the gable where one would least
have expected a door to be—eand windows

brcaking ‘thswall just where the builder found,

it ‘ convenient that the wall should be broken.

The house stood, upon a little knoll, the ground

 all sides ’ sloping downward—-at one hand

togthe’cOur’s'e of the burn-at the other, to the

, edge of the fplantation which benevolently threw

up it line 0 tall firs to screen its human neigh-

. .  . from the unfriendly east. Close upon

L ,  ' thevery edge of the walls pressed the Soft grass

 r -of the lawn; some spring flowers looked out

’ from little bits of’ border soil here and there;

, a and a fairy larch stood half way up the ascent on

, *  the sunniest side, shaking itself free of the encum-

. w rain with a pretty, coquettish grace, and

"1‘ g b 'throwfing a glistening flash of little diamonds, now

" ’- and then, as if in sport, over the fluttering hair

"i, ‘ " _ . landsunuy face, which seem to have a‘ natural sis-

  ..terhood and companionship with the free and
 g ,, 7 graceful tree. ‘

  Hair that was smoothly shaded this morning

H ' oyer the young, clear, youthful brow—the wind has

" found out scores of little curls hidden in the braids,

‘ i and. turns them out with 'a child’s laughter, full

' '  cf meet triumph and delight—a. face that looks

' sip/full and clearly to answer the brave smile

- , . upon the Sky. Twenty years old, with warm blood

 y  « gushing-in her cheeks, a fearless, innocent courage

. .r, 1 -  I ' earning from her eyes, and never acloud over her

  rail her life long, save some such soft, white,

;’ '7’ rounded shadow as floats yonder in our sight

"   over the undiscouraged heavens—for it is very true

' "" '_, .that neither headache nor heartache has yet been

 known to, Menie Laurie by any surer knowledge

 3 than the hearing of the ear. '

 7 I _' Maiden meditation—No. There is little of this

"   .: in theistir of life that makes an unconscious atmos-

‘\ f;  ;  . here about her, here where she stands in the fear-

“   7 Kiss safety of her natural home. Not that Menie

_ V is notably thOughtles‘s either, or poor in the quail-

 " -{ ties of mind which produce thought-but her mind

exiles still, like a charmed sea under the sunshine.

if More has here!- a ship of hope gone down yet un-

i .der thosedazziingf waters, never a storm arisen up-

 ..  Itochafe the waves against the rocks;

:  f gnothingbutfiecks of summer clouds, quiet shadows

-.  ,offisummer nights, darkness all lit and glorified

‘ with mellowmoonbcams—and how her heart would

“‘9; be if home strange ghost of tempest rose upon the

_   ck , her heart neither knows nor fears.
 'i‘hcwindow is open behind you, Manic; Mrs.
 fears no draughts, and it is well; but our

  
  
 
  
   
 

 
     
   
 
   
 
 
  
  
  
   
   
    
  
  
   
  
    
   

1' :V-smotbcr’s patience, likeother good things has a
.jrl‘imit, an’d‘liavin called you vainly three times
 guitar, the closes d you this mode of return.

as

. grail matter. See what a little sparkling
banal-his poor brownococted sparrow has shaken
 the thorny branch he has just perched upon;
paid,» your eyes wander in this "direction, your
 j  es aware of a certain sound, a quick
‘ glimpflicntnbreath sent hard through the expanded
 n trils,’ which lathe well-known token in the house
 Burnside ‘of Jenny’s “fuff;” and straightway
 cs brig ten, Manic Lauriewone could not
' i','.‘havéggancied l was possible a. minute ago—~and
'   smiles half hidden'bceak over all your face, flush-
flifiin’g  and there in such a kindly sufiusion of
“phyfn'lness and mirth, that even J enny herself is
"not angry when she,sees how this full of hers
ml: excellent sport for you. 
1 but ails our Jenny new ?" said Menie, turn-
,  angle/of the wall to enter by the kitchen
. ;"~  dinna drive folk doited,” answered
,  9‘ I’m thrang at my work—gang in yonder
 and speak to her yoursel.”

 '_ Panto): sits mournfully upon the wooden
3, (took? If you take her own word for it, no one is
i 7 more contem of “ fyking ” and “making a
gawk,” than my of Burnside; but the kitchen,
L «cabs to the hapless stranger who ventures to
{commend it—e-isquitc resplendent with brightness
good order. The fire, cheerfully burning in
'  v  finds a whole array of brilliant surfaces
amigo!

:

V inpand dances to its heart’s content.
r~ ‘ g' '35“; and earthenware, Jenny’s lookin -
   and the on pond: at semis
.f'I/r ‘- f' ‘ , , , '

Not‘thelfaiutest shade of architectural preten-i

 

-THE QUIET HEART.“ -

1“

T

oak table with its, folding" leaf at the other, line
all the walls with warmth and light; and the fire,
repulsed and defeated only by this one obstinately
opaque body before it, besots the dark outline of
Nelly Panton with a very tremble of eagerness,
seeking in vain for something, if it were but the
pin of her shawl, or the lifting of her eye, to re-
peat its kindly glimmer in. There is no pin visi-
ble in Nelly’s doleful shawl, so closely wrapped
about her person, and Nelly’s pensive glances seek
the floor, and the light falls off from her figure
foiled and baffled, finding nothing congenial there,
Come you hither, Menie Laurie, that the friendly
fireside spirit may be consoled—«playin in warm
rays upon your hair, which the wind has blown
about so pleasantly thatthe bright threads hang
a hundred diiferent ways, and catch a various glow
of reflection in every curl—leaping up trium-
phantly under the raised lids of these sunny eyes
———catching a. little ring upon your finger, a little
golden clasp at your white neck. No wonder
Nelly draws her shawl closer, and turns her back

upon the light, as she rises to speak to you.

“My mother’s ill and anxious in her mind, Miss
Mellie; and no to say that its lane, but thrawn and
periie'rse as onybody could conceive. I’m sure ye’ll
hear nae character of me in the haill countryside
for onything but being as harmless a person as
could gang about quiet wark in any house; but
she’s ta’en a turn that she came. bide even me;
and aye forever, night and morning, keeping up a
constant wark about her son. I like Johnnie weel
enough myself—but what’s the guid of seeking
letters as long as we ken he’s weel? and that’s
what I’m aye saying, but she’ll no hearken to me.”

“Does Johnnie write so seldom? but I’m sure
nothing ails him, or We should have heard,” said
Menie. “Tell her she’s to keep up her heart-—
he’ll do very well yonder. You should make her
cheery, Nelly, now when you’re at home the whole
dav.”

"“I do what I can, Miss Menie,” said Nelly,
shaking her head mournfully. “I tell her a lad’s
just as safe in the toun as in the country, and
that it’s a real unbelievlng-like thing to be aye
groaning even on about Johnnie, and her has mair
balms. But someway she gets nae satisfaction,
and I think she would be mair pleased if you
could get a line from Mr. Randall saying when he
saw him, and whether he’s doing well or no, than
a’ the reason I could gie her if I was preaching
frae this to Martin'mas. I came away from my
work ance errant to bid ye. Will you ask Mr.
Randall about Johnnie, Miss Mcnie, that I may
get some peace with my mother?”

The breath comes quickly over Menie Laurie’s
lip—~a little flutter of‘ added color—a momentary
falling of the eyelids—a shy, conscious smile
hovering about the mouth—and then Menie nods
her head assentingly and says: “Yes, Nelly, I
will." A .

“Yes, Nelly, I will,” repeated Menie, after a lit-
tle pause of blushing self-communion. “ Tell her
I’ll come and let her hear as soon as there is any
news; and say I think she should be cheery, Nelly,
new she has you at home.”

Making a meek inclination of her person, nei-
ther a bow nor a curtsy, but something half-
way between them, in answer to this spEech,
Nellyr goes away; and almost encountering her
on her outward passage over the threshold
enters Jenny fufiing at a furious rate, and casting
her head up into the air with wrathful contempt,
like some little shaggy Highland pony, whose pride
has been wounded. For Jenny’s wrath has nothing
of the dignity conferred by superior stature or
commanding person, and it is hard to restrain a
smile at the ,vigor of her “ full.”

“Twent years auld, and nae mair sense than
that-—the assie’s daft! I would like to ken how

. it’s possible for mortal woman to be cheery with

Nelly Panton within half a mile of her! If they
flit to the Brlgend at the next term, as they’re aye
thlrgatening, l’ll gi’e the mistress her leave my-
se.

“ I think I’ll run away if you’re aye so crabbed,
Jenny,” said her young mistress. “What has
everybody done i”

“ Everybody’s done just a’ the mischief they
could do,” said Jenny, pathetically; “ there’s no an
article ever happens in this house that mightna be
needed if some ither body had the guiding o’t.

 

 

,\, v'

.,

Y

There’s a’ the gangrels of the countryside‘couiing

and gaun with their stories—there’s the mistress '

hersel, that might have malr sense, ta’en a cauld in
her head, and a host fit to woken a’ the too»,
standing at the door hearing Bessy Edgar’s clavers
about noweel wean—and there’s yoursel the warst
of a’. Do you think if onybody had ever askit me,
that I would have gi’en my consent to let, a lussie
of your years plight her truth to a wandering lad
away to seek his fortune, like Randall Home ‘2'-

But you’ll never ken the guid friend you’ve last in ' ‘

Jenny till the pair body’s out of the gate and in
her grave; and I wouldna say how soon that might
be if there’s nae end of on-gauns like thir.” .
And with a 10ud long sigh, Jenny sallied out
through the paved passage, from which you could
catch a gleam of sunshine playing in Chequers on

the strip of colored matting and the margin of

stones, to deliver just such another lecture to the
mistress in the parlor.

While Menie stands alone, her head thrown for-
ward a little, her hair playing lightly on her cheek,
in a pause of pleasant fancy—yes, it is true,-Menie ,
is betrothed. Calm as her heart lies in her pure
girl’s breast, Menie has seen the sky flush out of
its natural summer beauty with the warmer pas-
sionate hues of this new love; and many a tint of
joyous changeful color plays about the bright hori-
zon of Menie’s fancy, and throws a charm of specu!
lation into the future, which never spectre has v
risen yet to obscure. It would need a sermon
heavier than Jenny’s to throw a single ~vapor of
doubtpr distrust upon Menie Laurie’s quiet heart.

 

CHAPTER II.

Mas. LAURIE of Burnside sits alone in her sunny
parlor. The fire in the grate, quite discountenanc-
ed and overborne by the light which pours in from
the west window, keeps up a persevering crackle,
intent to catch the car, and keep itself in notice by
that means if by no other. It is the only sound
you can hear, except the hum of the eight-day
clock in the passage without, and Jenny’s distant
step upon the kitchen floor; Menie is out again on
some further explorations about the garden—Mrs.
Laurie sits and works alone. , \

You might call the room a drawing-room if you
ambitiously disposed—it is only the parlor in
Burnside; every piece of wood about it is .dark
with age and careful preservation; rich an-
cient mahogany glimmering clear in the polish of -
many a year’s labor; little tables with twisted '
spiral legs and fantastic ornaments almost as black
as ebony, and here in the corner a fine old cabinet

‘of oak, with its carved projections of, flower and

berry burnished bright and standing out in clear
relief from the dark background. .011 the table
lies some fancy work, which it irks the soul of
Mrs. Laurie to see her daughter employed on; but
What is to be done with Menie’s fingers, when cur

mother feels the household necessities of sewing ,j‘

scarcely enough to supply herself? , r ', ,
Go lightly over the rich colors of this well-pro, '

served carpet, which is older than! yourself most

probably, though it wears its age so well, and we

can look out and see what lies beyond the Burn— '

side garden before Mrs. Laurie is aware. The
west window is all fringed and glittering with rain;
drops lying lightlyon the light green buds of those
honeysuckle boughs, and now and then one or
them falls pattering down upon the grass like a
sigh. Do not believe in it; it is but a mock of
nature; the counterfeit wherewithal alight hemt
enhances to itself its own calm joy; forin reality’
and truth there is no such thing as sighing here."
Some thatched houses in a cluster, just where
green mossed wall of the bridge breaks out of the
shelter of these guarding finances; one triumphant
slated roof lifting itself’a story higher than the“ '

 

 

gossipry of those good neighbors who lay their ’ " I I

brown heads together ina perpetual, quiet discus:
sion of what goes on below. The lightlies quiet.
ly, half caressing, upon the thatched roofs, but
gleams of the wet slates, and flashes from the tiles “
yonder in asudden glow-
ing firs about, to thrust their outline on the in—.

closing sky, and a hazy background of baretpeeg ;
fluttering and glistening 1n the light, all conscious ; ' ' ‘

of the new budded leaves, which at thisdlstance
we can see. Beyond the Brigend your eye loses

. ‘(V

There? are sonic loner? "

itself on a lineal road'trmfcling away lawman  

./

 

 

f. If; ' I

 .

A
f



/

A  5an emirates-Ami;

.3,

 

.: ‘ ,hillsgwith two heavy ash trees holding! their gaunt

arms over it for aportal and a gateway; on a level

, line of fields, broken hedges, scattered trees, with
the blue tints of distance, and here and there the
abrupt ,brown dash of a new-ploughed field to di-
versify the soft universal greenvand on the hills
themselves a bold semicircular sweep stealing ofi
frintly to the sky on one hand—while at the other,
Crifel, bluff and burly, slopes his great shoulder
down upon the unseen sea.

Nearer at hand the burn itself looks through the
~garden‘s thorny boundery with glints and sunny
glances, interchanging merrily with Menie on the
lawn, who pays its smiles with interest. This is
almost all we have to look at from the west win-

< ’dow of Burnside.

'And now, if you turn within to our mother, in

' her easy chair. It is not quite what you call
benign, this broad, full, well-developed brow; and
I the eyes under it so brown, and liquid, and dewy,
one fancies they could flash with impatience now
and then, and laugh out the warm  mirth, as well
as smile that smile of kindness, which few eyes ex-
press so well; and it is best to say at the begin-
ning that our mother is not benign, and that it no
abstract being of a superior class lifted on the
height of patience, experience and years, who sits
before us in this cushioned chair, bending her brow
a little over the letter in her hand. Sorrow and
’ experience she has had in her day; but still our
mother, with warm human hands, and breast as
full of hope and energy as it was twenty years ago,
takes a full grasp of life.

a The linen she has been mending lies on the ta-
ble beside her, more than half concealing Menie’s
I lighter Occupation; and, with her elbow leant up-
' on it, Mrs. Laurie holds a letter with a half-puz-
zle of amusement, a half-abstraction of thought.
Strangely averse to all her moods and habits is the
proposal it makes, yet Mrs. Laurie lingers over it
hesitates, almost thinks she will accept. Such a
,multitude of things are possible to be done when

, one does them “for Menie’s sake.” ,
'For Menie3s sake—but, in the meantime it is
best that Mcnie should be called in to .shmithe
“ the deliberation, and here she comes accordingly
with such an odor of fresh air about her as makes
the parlor fragrant. Menie has a restless way of
wandering about on sunny afternoons; there is
something in her that will not compose into quiet-
, ness, and very poor speed, when it is sunshine,
i comes Menie’s “fancyowork ;” so there is nothing
more common than this fragrance of fresh air in
. the parlor when Menie’s presence is needed in

v , “there.

' r ‘tYourfather‘s aunt has written mo 3 letter. I

_I_ want your wisest thought about it. Read it,
Morris,” said Mrs. Laurie, leaning back in her chair,

- , ' with an air of exhaustion. Menie read: .

' “ Mr. nun Mas. Lama—I find I really have
forgoten your Christian name; and whether I have
quite a right to call you my dear niece, or whether
you might not think it an uncalled—for thing in me

' - ', Irwho have not the privilege of years, or if, one way

,or‘: another, you would be pleased,l cannot tell,
:. , having so little acquaintance with your mental hab-

 "I ,itsor _ways of thinking. Indeed, I confessI had
' “I. nearly for tten, my dear, that John Laurie had a

4 a wife so little girl in Kirklands still, till just a

* chance recalled it to me;and I really have no means

I -, of finding out wheather I should condole with you
for living so much out of the world, or wish you
joy of: pretty little house like Burnside, with its
nice neighborhood and good air. I am sometimes

- alittledullmyself’; living alone; and as I have
positively made up my mind never to marry,
and am so particular in my society that I never
“have above half a. dozen friends whom I care to
visit, it has occured to me, since you were re-

v caged to my recollection, that we might do
" ' worse than join our incomes together, and live as
one hensehold. Ihavea pretty reception-room in
 my house, audio. sleeping room more than I need...
a, very good apartment; and the advantage of

 3 yr" being near LondOn is very great for a little girl,

    

f :for masters. and all that: besides that,l flatter “my-

V '  ‘ fself the attention I should make a point of paying

her Would be of great importance to your,cl}il‘d;
' find Wt of what we'could put together of our Joint

 ,, “:Sfiihgs, we might make a very pretty marriage~

 too

 for her when her time comes; for I have

cution I may be expelled to on the subject, never
to marry. ‘, I have one tblerably good servann‘Who
ris my own maid, and another very bad one, who
has charge of all the household matters; the grief
and annoyance this woman is to me are beyond de-
scription; and if you should happen to have an at-
tached and faithful person in your house bring her
[with you; of course you will require an attendant
of your own.

“I shall be glad to have aletter from you soon,
letting me know what you will do. You would
have a cheerful life with me, I think. I am myself
a person of uncommonly lively disposition, though
I have known so many of the more refined sor-
rows of life; and the freshness of youth is a de-
lightful study. I feel I shall grow quite achild in
sympathy with your little girl. Pray come—Hamp-
stead is a delightful locality; so near London, too,
and within reach of society so very excellent—and
Iam sure you would find the change greatly for
your daughter’s good.

w“ With much regard and kind feeling to both her
and you, I am afl'ectionatelyyours,
r ANNIE LAURIE."

“ To Hampsteadl to London!” Menie says no-
thing more, but her eyes shine upon her mother’s
with a restless glow of appeal. London holds
many a wonder to the young curious heart which
yet knows nothing of the world, and London holds
Randall Home.

“ You would like to go, Menie? But how we
should like this aunt of yours is a different story,"
said Mrs. Laurie ; and for my part, I am very well
content with Burnside.”

“ It is true she calls me a little girl,” said Menie,
turning to her own particular grievance; but I
think she means everything very kindly for all
that." ”

‘f Fantastic old wife !” said Mrs. Laurie, with a
little impatient derision, not unlike Jenny’s fufi‘.
“ She was older than your father, Manic—a woman
near sixty, I'll warrant; and she has made up
her mind never to marry—did ever anybody
hear the like? But you need not look so dis-
appointed either. Put away the letter-«we’ll
taken night’s rest on it, and then we’ll decide.”

But Mcnie read it over once more before she
laid it aside, and Mcnie betrayed her anxiety about
the decision in a hundred questions which her
mother could not answer. Mrs. Laurie had only
once been in London, and could tell nothing
of Hampstead, the only reminiscence remaining
with her being of a verdant stretch of turf, all

in green fern and farm, which the benighted na-
tives called a heath. Born within sight of Lochar
Moss, Mrs. Laurie laughed the pretensions of this
metropolitan heath to scorn. ' ‘

 

CHAPTER' III.

Tm: wind sweeps freshly down from among the
hills, a busy knave, drying up the gleaming pools
along the road as he hurries forward for a mo-
ment’s pause and boisterous gossip with these two
ash-trees. Very solemn and abstradted as they
stand, these elders of the wood, looking as if ses.
sion or synod were the least convention they could
stoop to, it is wonderful how tolerant they are of
every breath of gossip, and with what ready in-
terest they rustle over all their twigs to see a new
unwonted stranger face pass under them. Menie
Laurie, pausing to look up through the hear
branches to the full blue sky, is too well-known
and familiar to receive more than the friendly wave
of recognition accorded to every cotter neighbor
ni h. 

gAnd clear and fresh as your own life, Manic, is
the blue bright sky which stoops above you.
White clouds, all streaked and broken, fly over
it at a ' headlong pace, now and then throwing
' from their hasty hands a. sprinkling of rain that
flashes in the sunshine. April is on the fields,
moving in that quiet stir with which you can hear
the young corn—blades rustle as they strike through
the softened soil. April sits throned upon the
hills, weeping as she smiles in the blue distance,
and trying on her veil of misty sunshineafter a

 

Mammy youknommd hm,

sodium,  Madman}. fearless,

 

very decidedly [made up rhymind, whatever pet‘s-2r;

dinted over with little mounds and hollows, rich.

hundred fantastic fashions, like a spoilt child;

 

springingr forward on the futuregg , g , all “"
this bright to-day with a breath of 
commotion, which dimples “all the surface we,
but never disturbs the deeper waters at their foun-

tain-head—is in year youthful heart. _ :

Hurrying to many a bright conclusion are the 4
speculations that possess it now—not extremely -
reasonable, or owning any curb of logic— not , ,
even very consequent, 'full of joyous irrelevanoies ‘
—digressions at which. yourself would laugh aloud
if this running stream of fancy were but audiblexr '
and expressede-notwithstanding, full of pleasure,
and keeping time With their rapid pace to the fly:
ing progress of the clouds. V

And the road glides away merrily under these
st "ng footsteps ; now hastening, now loiteri ' as
t ' omentary mood suggests. Old hawthbrns, , i:
dered and crabbed, stand, here and  forlorn - ’
upon the edges of the way; and where the  is ,
younger and less broken, there are warm banksof ‘ ‘
turf, and clear bits of gleaming water, which it .
would be an insult to call ditches, looking up '
through tangled grass, and a wilderness of delicate , '
stem and leaf, half weeds, half flowers ; but now we
have a stile to cross, mounting up from the high;
road; and now it is a sunny hill~side path, narrow  p
and hemmed in between a low stonewall, frém" -/ A
which all manner of mosses and tufts of stain '
ing herbage have taken away the rudenesgaud I
field of young green corn; innocent enou" , 
now are these soft plants low upon the'fragrant   .7
in the blade; but you shall see how the bearded ’
spikes will push you to the wall, and the  ,pf'v
pies mock you, lying safe, under the shelter op  r r
tall corn-forest, if you try to pass in semester 
where you can pass so easily’in Spring. _ -,  

A soft incline, at first sloping smoothly under ,.
the full sunshinej—bymnd-by. more   
broken, with something ' that looks fiketho ’ i
ancient channel of a hill~spn'ng, breaking all  x _‘
soft pasturegrass into a rough projecting outlin - ,,
like a miuature coast—and now a low hedge 
with thorns and brambles, instead of the dytis;
for, after all, this is no gentle southland Minibus ,
one of the warders of the Secttish Border, waving 
his plumed cap proudly in the fresh spring air,  v I
he looks over the lowaing debatable  , 
the other side, and defies the fella of  
If this were June, as it is ‘April, you would see for“ ’ 
liage clustering richly about the'bold brow which  
he lifts to the clouds; just now theh’anches  . “:5;
down, like long light brown .ringlets,  r ’
elled with the 'spring rain and morning dew,  u"
droop upon his falling shoulders as low ardhh ' 23:
green nest here, so, slieltered‘and   “'

- «I» _.

 
 

 
 
   

he holds in his expanded anus. -, ;- \;

Itis no’easy task tocomeat the  ,  f
and principal gate 'of the   " p};
But now that you. have . '  .._.’ita.%ia« 
walls and slated roof, hold on  L' r i ' .4,
in the hedge, no rude hone-stair «projecting   ‘,

the grey limestone dy‘and two or three 
and stumbles will bring you to the ‘ V y par”  .
and to some possible entmncedoor. ’ If   53;;
no one about—a very improbable  
seeing that some curious eye ataWindofimlifi
have ere now found out a. passenger  '
or some quick ear heard the dry hedgerow ‘f‘ ‘  ,
crash under the coming foot—4t is impossibly?
describe the strange feeling of isolatioq‘ifiieh
falls upon you, here at the door of as" 
little home as is on all the Border. it your 
hand those warder hills, in many a   
long-worn livery, .hold the ‘vigihmt line as   i
Crilfel, whose post is on the sea;‘on‘.the  r,” -’
side they disappear‘like a file of grey-headed  ‘ 
shaLmen, into the clondy distance; u , _  ' "
remote, and still, breaking softly into the 
daylight, mapped out with gleaming, 
long lines of winding road, lies the level: 
we have left; and Burnside yonder, with assets
silvery glimmer of attendant water, its (Sabbath?
ground of trees, and theBrigend 13an gram,
it is patrician and superior, lies quiet  7t  7
under the full sun. I '  " ‘~ 13;: j
The farmhouse of Crofthill is but 
high, and, with a strange triangular slope; of 
den before it, fronts sideways, ,iudififimt. 
landscape, though there is one glorious 
dew which makes amends. ' .llenie    
for the Grofthill farmhouse:    “

  

 

     
    
 
   
   
  
   
 
  
  
   
    

 

 

 

 

  

 
  

3%} «as; ‘ '

a \ '7

. 1/,

.{g .y I I _ , ’3

my QUIET grant". /

 

 

, omeet this welcoming figure which already
 ‘ calls tether, running down the garden to the little
r “ ,, mossy wicket in the paling of the lower end.
‘7" v a V “July! July! you might» have come to meet
'  / me,” said Menie. The air is so quiet that her soft
 _ girl’s voice rings'over all the hill.
‘ July—abut you must not look for anything like
the gorgeous summer month, in this little timid
.- slight figure running down the sloping way, with
" her light brown hair so soft and silky that it is al-
7 most impossible to retain it in braid or curl, float-
’ ing en the air behind her, and her gentle pale face
7 faintly glowing with a little flush of pleasure. I If
there had been anything symbolic in the name, they
hsd‘better called her February, this poorgfittle
 July'Homo; but there is nothing symbolic iii the
' name; only John Home of Crofthill, many a long
» '- year ago, had the hap to find somewhere, and bring
' , triumphantly to his house on the hill, a pretty lit-
. » tie, sentimental wife, with some real refinement in
 hersoft nature, and a good deal of the fantastic
, , girl-rommice, which passes muster for it among
‘   the unlearned. Mrs. Home, who called her son
. ‘ Randall, called her ‘little daughter J ulia—Mrs.
Home’s husband, who" knew of nothing better
than‘Johns and Janets, being quiescent, and kind-
” 1y submissive. But, by-and~by, gentle Mrs. Home
‘droopedlike the pale little flower she was, and fell
, :. “with the cold spring’showers into her grave. Then
"  big Muss 'Janet Home from Mid-Lothian,
, -’ where she had spent her younger days, to be mis-
‘ tresstof her brother’s southland farm; and Miss
‘ Janet’s one name for the flush of summer, and for
 her brother’s liitle motherlcss petted girl, was J u-
r -' icy; so July came to be the child’s acknowledged
“ 'g'name. 1‘
(.5 ,' 13% July. springs half into Menie Laurie’s arms,
1 .v"nnd.;they' go ifp’ through the garden together, to
r v “where Miss Janet stands waiting on the threshold.
3  flu-simple- stature, Miss Janet would make two of
‘ 'i hex-little niece;‘and though there is no other su-
perfluous bulk about her, her strong and massive
‘ ‘gfraineWork would not misbecome a man; though
“\a verlerwoman’s heart never beat within the dain-
" first beddice, than this one which Sometimes
 “ithuds‘”? rather tumultuously, under the large
printed dark'cotton gown of Miss Janet Home.
v' “Eh bairu, l’m‘glad to see you,” said Miss Ja-
=  be ing in her own large brown band the soft
7 " gorsof Menle. “Come in, b’y, and et yoursel
.' j ‘ You see there’s a letter from andy this
', fmorning.” ‘
3' ’With many a fit of indignation had Menie re-
 this Randy, which contracted so uncerimo-
Iniously her hero’s name; but the penitent Miss
 3.1mm 5pc ually forgot, and immediately attri-
:Wliflhfi 'ttle cloud on her favorite’s brow to
‘ fine" ’ busy of this same letter of Randy’s—-
 pique that it should come to Randy’s humble
 ltmtead‘of to his lady-love.
,, , VEPm aye eae uplifted about a letter,” continued
, ,  as she led her visitor in, “ though you
athat “them every day mayna think—eh, Miss
” ‘o‘nie, my'dear! I mind noo it’s a’ me; but you
i‘he’édna'gloom 'at what was just a forget. I’ll
 'war'c’a’him Randy again; but, you see, I mind
7,; fiso; wool in his wee coatie—a bit smout of a
‘ 5 ’ 9‘7

‘12,?  but, lightly gtepplng tiger the 1&1; st’e, is
  readyt

 

 

 

 
   
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
    
    
   
  
   
  
    
   
  
   
   
   
   
  
   
   

 

 

:   did not exactly mend matters ; but Menie
{hidi‘taksnoflher bonnet by this time, and found
 usual seat in the dim farm parlor, with its
 windows and low-roofed green-stained walls.
“it"gwasoue of the articles of Miss Janet’s creed,
blinds looked well from without; so, although
 emu never ,a mortal look in through the
» thick panes to spy the housch'old economies of Croft.
 narrow strip of the unveiled casement
 between the little muslin curtain and the
blindigi'fhegnble window, commanding as it did
tantamount country of Dumfrisshire, was less
protected;“[but “the front " one cast a positive
,nauos upon“ the dark thrifty colored carpet, the
hair-cloth chairs, the mahogany table, with its
sornhre cover, and gave to the room such an at-
mayhem ‘ of shrouded shadowed quiet, that the
’lifti‘ebouquet of daffodils and wallflowers on the
use table hung their heads with languid melan-

“lfirfind‘ an unaccustomed spectator scarcely ven-
" with more than a whisper to break the calm.

 

    
 
 

Monie-  was not unaccustomed, and
' '  wharam-the‘ brightest corner, 

l

  

 

had much hesitatiOn in drawing up the blind. But
Menie had grown very busywith the “fancy”
work she had brought with her, when Miss Janet
approached with Randall’s letter in her hand.
Randall said that Menie Laurie’s pretty fingers
were never so industrious at home as they found
it agreeable to be abroad, and Menie was coy and
occupied, and put Randall’s letter aside.

“My dear, if you’re busy I’ll read it to you
mysel,” said Miss Janet, who had no apprecia-
tion of coyness, “and you can tell your father,
July, that Miss Menie’s come, and that the tea’s just
ready; and ye can gi’e a look bou to the kitchen as
you’re passing, and see that Tibbie’s no forgetting
the time; and now gang about quiet, like a good
helm, and dinna disturb me. I’m gaun to read the
letter.”

And Miss Janet smoothed down her apron, to

lay this prized epistle safely on her knee, and

wiped her glasses with affectionate eagerness. “ My
dear, I’m no a grand reader of Randall’s write
mysel,” said Miss Janet, clearing her voice, “ and
he’s getting an awfu’ Crabbed hand, as you k ;
butnl’ve good will, and you’ll just put up With
me. '
It would have been hard for anyone gifted with
a heart to fail of putting up with Miss Janet as
she conned her nephew’s letter. True, she had
to pause now and then for a word—true, that she did
not much assist Randall’s punctuation; but it was
worth even a better letter than Randall’s to see the
absorbed face, the affectionate care upon her brow,
the anxiety that pondered over all these crabbed
corners, and would not lose a word. Meuie Laurie
had soul enough not to be impatient—even to look
up at the abstracted Miss Janet with a little dew in
lilcr eye, though her process of reading was very
S 0W. .
But now came Tibbie, the household servant of
Crofthill, with the tea; and now a little stir in the
passage intimated that the master, fresh from
his hillside fields, was hanging up his broad-
bri'mmed hat in the passage. Miss Janet seated
herself at the tray—Meme drew her chair away
from the window, and a little nearer to the table,
and, heralded by July, who came in again like a
quiet shadow, her little pale face appearing in the
midst of a stream of soft hair once more blown
out of its fastenings by the wind—John Home of

Crofthill made his appearance, stooping under his ‘

low parlor door. 7

And perhaps it was these low portals which gave
to the lofty figure of the hillside farmer its habit.
ual stoop; but John Home might have been a
moss trooping Chieftain for his strength—a. baron
of romance, for the unconscious dignity and even
grace of his bearing. He was older than you
would have expected July’s father to be, and had
a magnificent mass of white hair, towering into a
natural crest of curls over his forehead. The eyes
were blue,something cold by natural color,but warm-
th and kindly in their shining—the face full of
shrewd intelligence, humor, and good judgment.
He had been nothing all his life but the farmer of
Crofthill—and Crofthill was anything but a con-
siderable farm , nevertheless John Home stood in
the countryside distinct as his own hill-—and not
unlike. A genius son does not fall to the lot of
every southland farmer, and Randall’s aspirations
had elevated, unawares, the whole tone of the
family. Randall’s engagement, too, and the magic
which made Mrs. Laurie of Burnside’s young ludy~
daughter, and not any farmhouse beauty near, so
kindly and intimate a visitor in CrOfthill, was not
without its additional influence; but the house
lost nothing of its perfectly unpretending sim-
plicity in the nigher aims to which it unconsciously
opened its breast.

“And what is this I hear of going to London?”
said John Home, as no took a seat at table. Self-
respect hinders familiarity—Abe good farmer did
not like to call his daughter-in-law elect by her
own simple Christian name; so, half in joke and
half to cover the shy, constitutional hesitation, of
whicheven age had not recovered him, Menie bore
in Crofthill, in contrast with the other name of

July, habitual there, the pretty nick-name of May

—-—“ Is it, true. that Burnside is to flit bodily, as
July says? I ken ane that will like the change;
but I must say that I ken some more, that will not
be quite so thankful."

- i “ Yancy say that,» John,”xsaid  Jau‘ct,~withl

N...

 

 

a sigh; “I’m sure, for his sin part, Miss Menie,
he’llno thinkthe place is like itsel, and you aWay; .
for if ever I saw a man” , I

“Whist,” said Crofthill, hurriedly. The good
man did not like his partiality spoken of; in pres.
ence of its object. “But I would like 'to hear
when this terrible flitting is to be.”

“My mother has not made up her mind yet,"
said Menie. “It was yesterday the letter came,
and I left her still as undecided as ever; for she
is only half inclined to go, Mr. Home, and as for
Jenny ”

“It will be worth while to. hear what Jenny
says of London,” saidJobn Home, with a smile ;

“but the countryside will gather a cloud when
we think May’s gone from Burnside. Well, July, ,
speak out, woman; what is’t your whispering
now ll” . ,

“I was saying that Randall would be glad,”
said July, softly. July had a fashion of whisper-
ing her sham,,of the conversation to her next
neighbor, to  peated fur the general benefit.

“Eh, puir’ laddiel” exclaimed Miss Janet, with
glistening eye. “I could find it in my heart to be
glad too, Miss Menie, though we are to lose you,
for his sake. I think I see the glint in.his eye
when he hears the good news.”

And Miss Janet’s own eyes shone with loving,
unselfish sympathy, as she repeated, “Randy, puir I
callantl and no a creature heeding about him,
mair than he was a common young man, in a’ you
muckle town 1”

“ We’ll let Randall say his pleasure himsel,”
said his father, who was more delicately careful of -
embarrassing Menie than either sister or daughter -
——perhaps more, indeed, than the occasion requir-
ed. “For my part, I’m no glad, and never
would pretend to be; and if Mrs. Laurie makes .
up her mind to sta ” '

“ What then ‘2” said Menic, looking up quickly,
with a flush of displeasure. I

“ I’ll say she’s a very sensible woman,” said the
farmer. “ Ay, May, my lassie, truly will I, for a".
that bonnie gloom of yours—or whatever my son
W may have to say.” , g ‘ I

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER Iv.

“ Iva BEEN hearing something from Miss Menie,’ ’
mom,” said Jenny, entering the parlor of Burnside
with a determined air, and planting herself firmly ,
behind the door. Jenny was very short, very much -
of one thickness, from the shoulders to the edge of
the full round skirts under which pattered her
hasty feet—and had a slight deformity; variously,
estimated by herself and her rustic equals according
to the humor of the moment—being no more than“

“a high shouther ” in Jenny’s sunshiny weather,but: *
reaching the length of a desperate “ thraw "when
Jenny’s temper had cbme to be as “thrawu ” as
her frame. A full circle, bunchy, substantial, and *
comfortable, were Jenny’s woollen skirts, stripEd

in cheerful colors; and you had no warrant for
supposing that any slovcnly, superfluous bulk in»
creased the natural dimensions of the round, cont
siderable waist, or stiff, well—tightened boddloe, v

of which Jenny’s clean short-gown and firmly tied,
apron-strings defined the shape so well. Very V " ., .
scanty was Jenny’s hair, and very little of it up I .
peared under her white muslin cap; and Jenny’s
complexion was nothing to boast of, though some
withered bloom remained upon her cheeks. ' Her
lips closed upon each other firmly; her brow was
marked with sundry horizontal lines, which it was,
by no means difficult to deepen into a frown ; and ‘
Jenny’s eyes, grey, keen, and active, werent this ..
present moment set in the fierce steadinessyand /
gravity; while the little snort of her “ fut,” and
the little nod of her cap, with its’full, well-ironed
borders, gave~ timely intimation of the mood in
which Jenny came. "  

“Yes, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, laying down  ..
her work on her knee, and sitting back into her. ‘
chair. Mrs. Laurie knew the signs and, premoui.
tions well, and lost no time in setting her back’
against the rock, and taking up her weapous’of ,.
defence. , ,  I " , ,

“I say I’ve been hearing something from Mir-:3  a 
Menie, mean”, repeated Jenny, still more emphati-' ‘
cally; “ things have come a gay 14211531, to mypuit; , , 1

 

thought, when it’s, thoryouu’gestoi

._/

 

 

',l

 brings word of a great change to, me! and I’m

thinking the best thing we can do is to part friends
as lang as we can keep up decent appearances; so
maybe ye’ll take the trouble, mom, if it’s no owre

’ " muckle freedom of me asking you, to look out for

a new lass store the term.”
“ Indeed, Jenny, I’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs.

V , Laurie,quietly. , Jenny heeded not, but went on

with a little nervous ,motion of her head, half—
shake, half-nod, and many a snort and half-drawn
breath interposed between them.

_ “ There’s been waur folk than Jenny, serving in
this house, I reckon. I’ve kent women mysel that
did less wark with mair slaistry, and aye as muckle
concerned for the creditof the house; but I’m no
gauu to sound my ain praise; and I would like to

I _ ken whether I’m to be held to the six months’
' warning, or if I may put up my kist and make my

flitting like other folk at the term ?”

“ You can make your flitting, Jenny, when we
make ours; that is soon enough, surely,” said
Mrs. Laurie, with a half-smile. Jenny had not
roused her mistress yet to anythiiig but defence, so
with a louder fuif than ever she rushed to the at.

tack again.

“Fora smooth-spoken lass—believe hersel, she
wouldna raise the stour without pardon craved—I
would recommend Nelly Panton. There’s no

'mucklelove lost atween her and me—but she’ll say
any ill of Jenny—and aye have a curtsy ready for
a lady’s ca,’ and her een on the gruud, and neither
mind nor heart 0’ her aiu, if the mistress says no.
Na, I wouldna say but Nelly Panton’s the very aue
to answer, for she’ll never take twa thoughts of

, casting off father and mother, kin and country,

whenever ye like to biduthough ye’ll mind, mem,
it’s for sake of thewage, and no for sake of
you.”  f

“Dear me, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, impatient-

, ' , ly, “‘ When did I ask for such a sacrifice ? What
"makes ye such a crabbed body, woman? Did I

ever bid a servant of mine give up father or moth-
er for me? You have been about Burnside ten
years now, Jenny, when did you know me do any-
thing like that?”

“A lady mayna mean ony ill—I’m no saying

’ ’t,” said Jenny; “but ane may make a borinic

lock of mischief without kenniug. I’ve been ten
v years about Burnside—21y, and mair sillcr !—-—
and to think the mistress should be laying her odds

 and) ends thegither—a woman at her time of
v ,lifewto flit away to a strange country, and never

letting on a word toJenny, till the puir body’s either

I . ~forcedinto-the ship upon the sea, or thrown on

the cauld world, to find her drap parritch' at ony

/‘ doorstep where there’s charity! Eh, sirs, what’s

A a ,the favor of this world to trust to!

But I’m no
gaun to breakmy heart about it, for Jenny has

, ttwa guid hands of her ain—nae thanks to some

folk—to make her bread by yet.”

._ “Jenny’s an unreasonable body,” said her mis-
tress, with halfoamused annoyance; “and if you
were not spoken to before, it was just because my

‘ ,uhiind'Was unsettled, and it’s only sinceyesterday

’ [have thought of it at all. If I make up my

mind to go, it's for anything but pleasure to my-

’-selfe-so you have no occasion to upbraid me, J en-

ny} for doing this at my time of life.” .
“ Me!” exclaimed Jenny, lifting her hands in ap-
peal, “me upbraid thermistress! Eh, sirs, the like

‘ of that! ' But, mom, will you tell me, if it’s no for

your sin pleasure, you that’s an independent lady,

 : ,what for would you leave Burnside ?"

Mrs. Laurie hesitated; but Mrs. Laurie knew
very well that nothing could be more unprofitable
than any resentment of Jenny’s fuif-nand her own
transitory displeasure had already died away.

' V ‘ .e, ‘ You may say we’re independent at the present

 time,” she said, with a little sigh; “but did it
. . never occur to you, Jenny—1t anything happened

 5': l .

 

m ‘megmy poor lassiel—wnat’s to become of
Meniethen 9” . - ,
35‘Havers!" cried Jenny, loudly. “I mean—J

. ask your pardon—bit. what’s gaun to happen to
Idu‘this twenty years and man ?”

m“ Twenty years is a lifetime of itself,” said her

-  ,,mi,3ll'955; “ it might not be twenty days nor twenty
’ 5 .hmffii The like of us have no right to reckon our
to . .

time

‘T' .jfiiit’sf” for-,me  buckle my‘shoon to my:

19“, Ind nay cloak to my shouthers, if you’re

' , ' upon yourjcall,” said Jenny.  no to

   

‘_

.day,” said Jenny, impatiently.

 

t .733 glimmer-44,121:

be ill~mannered, putting my, forbears in as word

with you-rs, we’re baith come of alanglived race—'-
and you’re just in your prime, as weel as ever ye
was; and ’deed, I canna think it onything but a
reflection upon myself, that maybe might get to
the. kirk mair constant if I was to try, when I hear
ye speaking like that to puir auld wizeued Jenny,
that’s six-and-fifty guid, no to speak of the thraw
she’s had 21’ her days.” .

And a single hot tear of petulent distress fell
upon Jenny’s arm.

“Well, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, “one thing
we‘ll agree in, I know—you could not wish so ill a
wish to Menie, poor thing, as that she might leave
this world before her mother. You would think
it in the course of nature, that Menie should see
both you and me in our graves. Now, if I was
taken away next week, or next year—what is my
poor bairn to do ?”

And Jenny vainly fuifed to conceal the little
fit of sobbing which this idea brought upon her.

“Do! she’ll be married upon her ain gudeman
laug years afore that time comes; and Randall
Home’s a decent lad, though I’ll no say he would
have just taken my fancy, if onybody had askit
me; and she’ll hae a hunder pound or twa to keep
her pocket, of what you’re aye saving for her; and
I have two-three bawbecs laid up in the bank
mysel.”

“Ay, Jenny, so have I,” said her mistress; “but

two or three hundred pounds is a poor provision
for a young friendleSs thing like Mcnic; and I
have nothing but a life-rent in Burnside; and my
annuity, you know, ends with me. No doubt
there’s Randall Home to take into consideration;
but the two of them are very young, Jenny, and

[many a thing may come in the way..- I would like

Menie to have something else to depend on than
Randall Home.”

“Bless me, mom, ye’ve a mote in yer cen the
“What’s the puir
callant dune now? They tell me he’s as weel-
doing a lad as can be, and what would onybody
have mair ?” i ‘

“Hush, Jenny,” said Mrs. Laurie, “ and hear me
toan end. This lady has a better income than I
have, and she says we mav lay our savings together
for Menie—a very good offer; and Menie can get
better education, whatever may happen to her;
and we can see with our own eyes how Randall
Home is coming on in the world; for you see,
Jenny, I have a kind of right to be selfish on Me-
nie’s account. I’ve tried poverty myself in my
day; and Mania is my only bairu.”

The tears came into the mother’s eyes. Menie
had not always been her only balm; and visions
of a bold brother, two years older than her little
girl, and natural protector and champion of Menie,
flashed up before her in the bright air of this home
room,where ten years ago her firstrborn paled and
sickened to his early death. I

“I wadna gang—no a fit,” exclaimed Jenny,
breaking into a little passion of anger and tears.
“ Wha’s trusting in Providence now—wha’s leav-
ing the ane out of the question that has a’ in his
hands—and making plans like as if He didna re-
main when we were a’ away? I didna think there
had been sae little mense—I couldna have believed
there was see little grace in a house like this—-
and I wadna gang 9. fit-no me—as if I thought
Providence was owre puir an inheritance for the
bairn l”

And Jenny hurried away to her kitchen, to ex-
pend both tears and anger; but Jenny’s opposition
to the London “flitting,” in spite of her indignant
protest, died from that hour.

 

CHAPTER V.

THE sun is dipping 13w into the burning sea far
away, which Crifiel’s envious shoulder hides from
us; and the last sheaf of rays, like a handful of
golden arrows, strike down into the plain, grazing
this same strong shoulder with ineffectual fire as
they P1188. TOUCMS 38 0f rosy fingers are on all

’the clouds, and here and there one hangs upon

the sky in an ecstacy, suspended not upon the
common air, but on Some special atmosphere
of light.' The long attendant shadows have

faded. from the trees, _the roadside pools have

lost their brilliant. glimmer, and a wakeful whis-

 hush about the hedgerows  Egg my...

0 ' * «

 

.5:

thorns stir all those curious budded watdherswto

hear the slow lounging steps of rustic laborers on

the road, and wait for the delicate gleamout of '
the east which shall herald the new-risen moon.

And light are your home-going steps, May ,
Marion, upon this quiet road, which breathes, out ‘ ‘ ‘
fresh evening odors from all its dewy'neighbor
fields-hot slow, but lingering—arrestgd by a bun.
dred fanciful delays. Before you is no great.
range of prospect—-—the two ash-trees, holding up
their united arms, verywmuch as the children of
the Brigend, playing under them, hold- up their
small, clasped hands arched over the merry troop
who are rushing yonder “ through the needle e’e”
—the hamlet’s meditative houses, standing'about _ y
the road here and there, in the pleasand vacancy 
of the slowlalling gloaming, the burn rum, ‘ ,
drowsin under the bridge, the kye coming home ‘ '
along the further way, and furthest 03 of all, m '
grave plantation firs, making a dark background 
for your own pleasant home. The purple shadows .
are fading into palmer gray upon the hills behind, '
and the hills themselves you could almost fancy
contract their circle, and grasp each other’s hands
in closer rank, with a manful tenderness for this
still country, child-like and unfearing, which byi ‘
and-by will fall asleep at their feet. Your heart I 
scarcely sings in the hush, though you carry it So , v "
lightly; its day’s song is over, Menie Laurifiand 
the 'quiet heart comes down with a little flutter oft: " 
sweet thought into the calm of its kindly nest. , 1

The light is fading when Meniet reaches the, _: C
Brigend; and by the door of one of the cottagea. 1
Nelly Pantou, in her close bonnet and, humble eu- : 
veloping shawl, stands beside the stone   
which an older woman, who holds lierh’ use, 
with pertinacity, has seated herself to "   ' 7‘

“She’ll no take heart whatever I can " ” any: . 
the slow, steady voice of Nelly,'from' which  I 
elastic evening air seems to droop away,  r 
it down heavily upon the darkening earth. 5,51%: .. V 
sure I couldna say mair, auntie, nor do mural:  L
please her than I aye try, in my quiet way;bnt
morning and night she mums after Johnnie,“mak. 
ing nae mair acoount of me than if I Werea ‘~
stranger in the house. And what should ail John; I
nie? for I dinna ken what'would come of font in. 
our condition if we were aye write-writing from-:19  ’
hand to anither, like them that have naething chin. 
to do. If onythiug was wrang, we would hear 
fast enough. I’m saying, mother 1” , ‘l-  ’ V 

“ If you would but let me be i” groaned theolde. V_ ,5
er woman; “I’m no complaining to you. “If I  "
anxious in my mind,'l’m no wantingto", '_' 
afore a’ the parish. I’m meaning use -  ,
you, Margot, but I think this lnssie’sfftongisejwm -'
drive me out of, my ‘ ’" “ ’   l“ "3"

  

 

  
  
   
   
    
   
   
   

wits.” . _- .
“That’s just her way,” said Nelly,with5 
ful complacency. “ Instead of takingit
I try to ease her, ye would think I was, 
somebody an injury; and I’m sure 'it’s a  7 ' “l
temper, indeed, that canna put up with loafer 
aye been counted as quiet a lass as there 
haill countryside, and never did, ill to pay; W
my days. From morning till nightllm  I
my endeavor to get comfortto her—hearingpi  ‘ 
lads that have done weel in London, and ayevstahda 
ing up for Johnnie that he’s no so ill «she’s 
though he mayna write as often as some do;an
just yesterday I gaed mysel mleumside, 
mile of gate from our house, to ask Mkfijfien’
Laurie to write to Randall Home for wordsboat
Johnnie, and I sure what ony mortalmld 
mair, I canna tell.” ' . , . 1 j
“What business has Miss :Men‘ie  [mi
Randall Home either, with my trouble ll”  '
the mother, indignantly. “Am I no to causing . 
a tear in my Ell" house, 1m”, the tonn’l‘tol'wv '7 *
o’t? Yes, Miss Menie, I see it's you, but I 
help it. I’m no meaning disrespect  
or any of your friends; but naebodybould'
to have their private thoughts turned  forfng’tlssv
world to see, and she’ll put me daft if  
couragement to gang on at this‘ratel” .. flu; " v 
f‘ Must} not ask about Johnniefirs. 
said Meme; “Nelly said it would contort  ,- '
I “Kelly’s aye saying something to aggravate {It
puir woman out of both life and Patience,”ssi¢
Nelly’s mother; “and. 11,615,, 393$" her battame
you magma the hearts the midfield!) him
mlshthsve ,l’m. sure I sauna tell. how. as cases;
id. he. s slaughter of? mints-cautioned ’ the

 

  

 

   
   
   
   
  

cl,

. 1-  up)

‘6

4 ,“V Woman, rising and turning away to address her-
' self, rapidly and low, to Menie’s particular ear.
9‘ I would domony a; thing afore I would have my,
, l V ’ ain'trOubled thoughts, Or so muckle as-a breath on
‘ i yr.  "J’ohnnie’s credit, kent-in the countrystde; and I’m
' ' ‘ no so anxious, no near so anxious as that cuttie
says; but Miss Merrie, you’re 9n innocent lassie,
I’ll trust You. I have a tremble in my heart
afor my young son, awayyonder his lane. No that
l   Johnny has ony ill ways—far from that—and a
a "better son to his mother never was the world
. om“; but an innocent thing like you disna ken
, how a-puir laddie’s tempted; and there’s no a
creature near hand to mind him of his duty,
 ”  and Nothing but a wheen careless English that
j diam ken 'our kirk nor 'our ways, at every side
of him, and I charged him he was to gang to
‘” Jigs kirk but cur ain. I’m sure I dinna ken
' 4—whiles things folk mean for guid counsel
, "turn out snares—and I’m sair bewildered in
" a 7-, fniy mind. If yOu’ll just write, Miss Menie~just
 , like as it was out of your sin head, and bid the
, ' young gentleman-71 hear he’s turned a grand
 . (scholar, and awfu’ clever—take the pains to ask
how Johnnie’s winning on--but no to say you
have heard any ill of him. I wouldna have him
 think'his mother was doubtful of him, no for
a! _ “- ,a’fKirkland’s parish—and he’s aye in the office of
 j that'muokle paper that a’body’s heard about—at
'  ledst as far as I ken. Eh, Miss Menie, it’s a sair
_ thing tot-have so many weary miles of land and
_ water, and ass muckle uncertainty between ain’s

 'gne’heart, and them one likes best.”
 "gravity and concern Menie received this
 eunfidence, and gave her promise; but Menie did
L’; 'notknow how “sair” and terrible this uncertainty
-.  was—40am not cemprehend the wavering paleness
ff ‘ufqtermr, the sickly gleams of anxiety which shot
 over the poor mother’s face—and a'wistful mur-
  of inquiry, a pity which was almost awe, were
‘all’thsechoes this voice of real human suffering

 awoke in’Menie’s quiet heart.

‘ _,,A’nd when she had soothed, and comforted, and
“:‘proinised, this gentle heart went on its way—its
i *flntter of sweet thoughts subdued, but only into a
" fresh reposing calm, like stillness all bedewed
. ;  starry which gathered on the dim home-coun-
Ltry' round. ’IWisdom of the world-Experience
. - V.vehflland'sober—Knowledge of human kind—grim

sisterhood, amid your twilight way—and by your-
- use}!  {fearless and undaunted, hoping all things,
 all things, thinking no evil, you are
' breve‘enough to go forth, Menie Laurie, upon the
world without a tremble; _by~and-by will come the
 to‘ forth—and Heaven send the lion to
 th quiet heart upon its way.
j<::jia an, own chamber, when the night had fully
jue‘nie wrote her letter. Many a mile of
j  "  water,‘many a new-developed thought on
 lay between Menie Laurie and Randall
 butuncertainty had never sickened the
, thej'éhild’s hope within her; an‘ample country,
61"‘mountain peaks and rocks of dan er—
};urniiig’with hidden breaks of desert, with wells
golf‘lfir’ah treacherous, and insecure, Was the scul
ai‘biliielt fate had linked so’early to 'Menie Laurie’s
  She knew the sunny plains that were init—
resultant: of vision, the glans of drea‘iny sweet
 but all besides, and all that lay deepest
 an- own unexplored mind, remained to be dis.
 'But what she did not know she could
was. . ' ‘

  

 

 

  
   
  
   
   
  
   
  
    
   
     
      
  
   
     
 
   
   
 

 

 

     
 
 
 
     

 

PART Il—vcflAPTER VI.
__Jenny, sauna ye open the’door—it’s just

"3‘11 W30“, mischief and mischief-maker, as
g ,  Jenny, in answer to Nelly Pan-
‘ total-Isak appeal ;_ “ and what are ye wanting here ‘2”
_ ffiti‘ffififl could, not be so inhospitable as to
 out with i closed door the applicant for ad-
 espoclally as a rapid April shower was just
H thantilashing out of the morning skies. Nelly came
in breathless, shaking some bright raindrops off her
dingyvshawl ; but neither the rain upon her cheeks,»
thirties}: wind that carried it, "um- even the
 j_‘f,he,r own errand, sufficed ’to bring any 
’ caloric Nelly Pantou’s face. _ ~
“‘I’mnegtoflstaya minute”. she said, breathless.
, also;  hem Put/here; and "mine
which“ to gie and your, ice and

 

 
   
   
 
   
  
 
  
  
 
  
   

 

   

(THE QUIET HEART,

I

let inc rin—-—‘I maun be hame before my mother
kens.”

“ I have use will to keep ye; ye needna be
afe'ard,” retorted Jenny. “And what’s your pleas-
ure now, that you’ve got so early out to Burnside ?"

“Nane of the ladies ’ll be stirring yet,” said
Nelly, looking round cautiously. “It was just a
thing I wanted to ask you, Jenny—I ken you’re
aye guid friend.”

“ Sorrow l” muttered Jenny between her teeth—-
but the end of the sentence died away ; and whether
the word was used as an epithet, or whether it was
“ Sorrow take you l” Jenny’s favorite ban, Nelly,
innocently confiding, did not pause to inquire.

“For I heard in the Brigend that you had been
kent to say that you wouldna gang a‘ the gate to
London if the mistress ga'e you triple your wage,"
said Nelly, “ and that you'would recommend her
to a younger lass. My auntie, Marget Panton,
even gaed the length to say that ye had been heard
to mention my name; but I wouldna have the face
to believe that, though mony thanks to you for the
thought; and I just ran out whenever I rose this
morning to say, do ye think I might put in an ap-
plication, Jenny, aye counting on you as guid
friend 1'" '

“Wha ever gave ye warrant to believe that I
was a guid friend ?” exclaimed Jenny. “ My pa?
tiencel you taking upon you to offer yoursel for
my place. My place! And who. daured to say I
wanted to leave the mistress ? Do ye think wage,
or triple wage, counts with me ? Do ye think. I’m
like yoursel, you pitiful, selfisceking creature ?‘ Do
ye think ony mortal would ever be the better of
you in ony strait, frae a sair finger to a family mis-
fortune? Gae way wi’ ye ! My place, my certy!
Would naething serve ye but that ?”

“,You see I’m no taking well wi‘ heme,” said the
undismayed Nelly. “ My mother and me canna put
up right, and me being sae lang away before,‘she’s
got out of the use of my attentions, and canna
understand them. But I’m real attentive for a’
that, Jenny, and handy in mony a thing that
wouldna be expected frae the like of you;
and I could wait on Miss ‘Menie, ye ken, being mair
like her ain years, and fleech up'the mistress grand.
I ken I could-besides greeting with the stranger
servants, which it’s no to be expected you would
do,,being aye uSed to your sin way. But for my part,
I’m real quiet and inofensive—folk never ken me
in a house; and I have my ain reasons for want-
ing to gang to London, baith to , look after John-
nie, and ither concerns of my aim—and I would
aye stand your friend constant, and be thankful to
you for recommending me, and I’m sure afore the
year was done the mistress would be thankful too

for a guid 19.35, and I could recommend you to a
real fine wee cottage atveeu Kirklands and the

Brigend, with a very cheery window looking to the
road, that would do grand for a single woman ; or
my mother would be blithe to take you in for a
ledger, and she’s guid company when she’s no
thra'wn—and Jenny, woman ”-—-- ,

“ Gang out of this house,” said Jenny, with
quiet fury, holding the'door wide open in her hand,
and setting down her right foot upon the floor of
her own domain, with a stamp of absolute suprem-
acy. “No ahither word; gang out of this door,
and let me ’see your face again if ye daurl Gang
to London, fleech up the mistress—wait upon Miss
Menie! My patience ! and you’ll ca’ a decent wo-
man thrawn to me! Gang out of this house, ye
shadow l the sight of you’s enough to throw ony mor.
'tal temper. Your mother, honest woman l—but
I canua forgive her for being art or part in bringing
the like of you to this world. Are you gaun away
peaceably, or I’ll put ye out by the shouthers with
my sin twa hands.”

“ Eh, sic a temper!” said Nelly Panton, vanish-
ing from the threshold as Jennie made one rapid
step forward. “ I’m sure I forgive you, Jenny,
though I’m sure as weel, that if 'the rain hadna’
laid a’ the stour, many 9. ans has shaken the dust
off their feet for a testimony against less ill usage
than you’ve gi’en me; but I’m thankful for
my guid disposition. I’m thankful there’s nae
crook in me, and I leave you to your ain
thoughts, Jenny Durward; it’s weel‘ kent what a
life thae twa puir ladies lead with ye, through a’
the coup side.” :  _
~ The kite 'en-doo’r violently- shut, bygood'fortigne

 

, i,,,

 

and Nelly Panton, unexcited, drew her shawl again
close ever her elbows, and went with stealthy
steps upon her way—a veritable shadow falling
dark across the sunshine, and without 'a spot of
brightness in her, within or without, to throw
back reflection, or answer to the sunny morning,
light which flashed upon all the glistening Way.
But no such quietness posessed the soul of Jen-
ny of Burnside; over the fresh sanded floor of her
bright kitchen her short vigorous steps pattered
like hail. Cups and saucers came ringing down
from her hands upon the tray, which she was
crowding with breakfast “things.” The bread-
basket quivered upon the table where her excited
hands had set it down. She turned to the hearth,
and the poor little copper kettle rang upon the

grate—the poker assaulted the startled fire—the L
very chain quaked and trembled, hanging from,

the old-fashioned crook far back in the abyss of

the chimney. Very conspicuous in this state of I
the mental atmosphere became Jenny’s high shoulw’
It seemed to develop and increase with every .

der.
additional Eufi, and the most liberal and kindly
commentator could not have denied this morning
the existence of the “ thraw.”

And not without audible expression, over and
above the hard-drawn breath of the “ fufi",” was
Jenny’s indignation. “ My place, my certy ! less
wouldna serve her l”—-—“ Handler than could. be ex'4

pected frae the like of me l”—-“ Stand my’ friend '

constant l”——“ A cothouse atWeen Kirklands and
the Brigcndl” A snort of rage punctuated and
separated every successive quotation, “till, as Jenny
cooled down a little, there came to her relief a
variety of extremely complimentary titles, all very
eloquent and expressive, conveying in the clearest
language, Jenny’s opinion of the good qualities of
Nelly Panton, which last, by—and-by, however, sof-
tened still further into the milder chorus of “a
bonnie ane l” with which Jenny’s wrath gradually
wore itself away.

All this time the sunshine lay silent and un».
broken upon the paved passage, with its strip of ,

matting, and the light shone quiet in Mrs. Laurie’s
parlor. The petulant rain had ceased to ring upon
the panes, though some large drops hung there

still, clinging to the frame-work of the window,  ,

and» gradually shrinking and drying up before the
light. The branches without made a sheen through

the air, almost as dazzling as if every tree were a _,

Highland dancer with a drawn claymore in his
right hand, and the larch flung its spray of rain.
upon Menie Laurie’s chamber window, bidding her
down to the new life and the new day which
brightened all the watching hills. -

And now comes Mrs. Laurie steadily down the v '

stairs with her little shawl in her hand, and traces
of a mind made up and determined in her face;

and now comes Menie, with ahalf song on her lips; ‘

and a little light of amusement and expectation in
her eyes, for Meuie has heard afar ed the sound of
Jenn y‘s excitement.
invade the dignity of the breakfast table, says
nothing when she brings in the kettle, and does
not even add to its fqu the sound of her own, and
Menie has time to grow composed and grave, and
to bear with a more serious emotion Mrs. Laurie‘s
decision. Not without a sigh Mrs. Laurie inti‘

But Jenny, too decorous to '

mates it, though her daughter knows nothin vof  (I

the one reason which has "overweighed ,all ot era.
But the ruling mind of the household, having dc;
cided, loses no time in secondary healtations.
“We will try to let Burnside as it is, Menie,”‘said
Mrs. Laurie, looking round upon the'familiar room,
“ If we can get a careful tenant, it will he fargbet-r
ter not ‘to remove the furniture. “If we mahe’it

known at once, the house maybe taken beforethe “

term; and I will write to your aunt and say that
we accept her; offer.
and expensive; I think we will go to Edinbur h’
first, Menie.
line at Whitsunday ; then to London by sea.”

Menicldid not trust herself to express in words,
the excitement of hope and pleasure with which '

she heard this great and momentous change brought

down into a matter of sober, everyday “range. 4
ment; but it was not difficult to understand and  I _
t‘ranslate'the varying color on hervcheek, amith /- ' ’ ~
sudden gleam of her sunny eyes. Ad/it happened, ;
however, witha natural caprice, the one . objection?" .
which'hnr "matherifwill scald not get. 

'19? Jenay'thiflast. vindictive utterance, “richly ‘Iuggdst‘cditulf to Monte.   A

\

 

 

It is a. long journey-by land, 3

The weatheris settled and should, 3 I  

~  “is.”

 

 

our: .m in...“ .. , v.

i  i: n.4,...“

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  

 

 

nie Laurie could not realize the
ing Jenny behind.

Mrs. Laurie’s hand had not left the bell. Jenny,
m; the .door caught the words with satisfaction.
But Jenny did not choose to acknowledge herself

1 subject to any influence exercised by the “ young-
’ eat of the house ;” and Jenny, moreover, had come
prepared, and had no time to lose in preliminaries.

I “There’s twa or three things to be done about
LL the house before anybody can stir out of this,"
said Jenny, emphatically, pausing when she had
half-cleared the breakfast-table. “I want to ken,
mem, if it’s your pleasure, what time we’re to gang

‘ away.” ,

“ I have just been thinking—about the term,
Jenny,” said her mistress, accepting Jenny’s ad-
hesion quietly and without remark; “if we can get
atenant to Burnside.”

“I thought you would be wanting a tenant to
Burnside,” muttered Jenny, “ to make every table
and chair in the house a shame to be seen, and the
place no fit to live in when we come back ; but it’s

. nane 0’ Jenny’s business if the things maun be
spoiled. I have had a woman at me this morning
with an ofier to gang in my place. I’ve nae busi-
ness to keep it out of your knowledge, so you may

,’ get Nelly Panton yet, if it’s your pleasure, instead

ofme. I’m speaking to your mother, Miss Menie;

the like of you has nae call to put in your word.

Am I to tell Nelly you would like to speak to her,
mom—or what am I to say ?”

And Jenny again planted her right foot firmly

before her, again expanded her irascible nostril,

, and, with comic perversity and defiance, stood and

Waited for her mistress’s answer. '
 ‘ 'V“ Away you go, Jenny, and put your work, in or-
derf’said Mrs. Laurie; “get somebody in from
Ithe-lBri'gend to help you, and let everything be
ready for the flitting—you know I don’t want
Nelly Panton-no, you need not interrupt inc-—
nor anybody else. We‘ll all go to London to-
gether, and we’ll all come back again sometime if
we’re spared. I don’t know how you would man-
age without us, Jenny; but see, there’s Menie with
open eyes, wondering what we should do without
you.” ',
, “ Na, the bairn has discrimination,” said Jenny,

, steadily; “that’s just whatI say to myscl. Nae

, L deubt it’s a great change to a woman at my

'  ,time of' life, but I just say what could the two

, ladies do, mair especially a young lassie like Miss
Mania, and that’s enough to reconcile one to mony
sgthing. 'Weel, I’ll see‘ the work puttcn in hands;

but if you take my advice, mem, ye’ll see: baith

g ' mistress and maid afore ye let fremd folk into

\ ~  Burnside. ‘ltls no ilka hand that can keep up a

room like this, for I ken mysel the things were nae
*m’air like what they are now, when I came first,

. than fir wood’s. like oak; and what, the-matter of

-. m or three pounds, by the month, for rent, in

comparison with ruining ahaill house of furniture?

' ‘-——-though, to be sure, its nae business of mine;

and if folk winna take guid counsel when it’s

L  naebody can blame Jenny.” ,

, ' ‘ saying, Jenny went briskly to her kitchen, to
‘ 9‘" ,- set on foot immediate preparations for the removal,
leaving her ‘3 guid' counsel ”u for Mrs. Laurie’s con.
"sideration. Mrs, Laurie found little time to de-

 . liberate. She had few distant friends, and no

great range of correspondents at any time, and
another perusal of Miss Annie Laurie’s epistle set

her down to answer it with a puzzled face. A

little amusement, a little impatience, a little annoy-

ance, draw together. the incipient curve on Mrs.

W ‘ Laurie’s brow, and Jenny’s advice got no such

. ; “justice at her hands as would have satisfied Jenny,
' and was summarily dismissed when its time of
" ‘ consideration came.

possibility of leav-

l

 

. ti CHAPTER v11. , ‘_
 ' ..:1' .'“*Jonaxm ernoow exists no longer.” The
.j / r ,. words chased the color from Menie Laurie’s check,
' fund'de apitying exclamation from her lips- Alas,
foidohnnic Lithgow’s. mourning mother! But
“will  on and laughed and was consoled.
‘- - L limit! no such person known about the office
f ‘. :j‘of the per; but Mr. Lithgow, the rising
 3. ; "fll'mcgtlie'lcader ofpopular judgmentaandwriter,
~', 0‘ Mains articles, is fast growing into fame and
’ “Wm”- ! Th. divs of: the complicit“ are over, and

 

. l

  
  
   

‘ with a slight alarm—“ But Jenny, mother, 1”? 318..

' young printer’s heart.

 

THE,QUIET,HEAR£ _
I fear the anther must be a little troubled about
the plebeian family who once rejoiced the poor
Yet the heart remains a
very good heart, my dear Manic-vain, perhaps,
and a little fickle and wavering, not quite knowing
its own mind, but a very simple kindly heart in the
main, and sure to come back to all the natural
duties and loves. I give you full warrant to com-
fort the mother. Johnnie has been somewhat
feted and lionized of late dad is I not, per-
haps, at present exactly what our sober unexcit-
able friends call steady. His head is turned with
the unusal attention he has been receiving, and
perhaps a little salutary humiliation may be neces-
sary to bring him down again; but I have no fear
of him in the end. He is very clever, writes ex-
tremely well, and is one of the most wise and sen-
sible of men—in print. I almost wonder that I
have not mentioned him to you sooner, for he and
I have seen a good deal of each other of late, and
Johnnie is a very good fellow, I assure you—not
without natural refinement, and very fresh, and
hearty, and genial; moreover, a rising man, as the
common slang goes, and one who has made 9. won-
derful leap in a very short time; so we must par-
don him in his first elation if he seems a little
negligent of his friends." I

A slight flush of color ran wavering over Menie’s
check as “ a little salutary humiliation may be
necessary,” she repeated under her breath, and,
starting at the sound of her own voice, looked
around guiltily, as if in terror lest she had been
overheard. But there was no one to overhear—no
one but her own heart, which, suddenly 'startled
out of its quiet, looks around too with a timid,
troubled glance, as if a ghost had crossed its line
of Vision, and hears these words echoing softly
among all the trees. Well, there is no harm in
the words, but Menie feels as if, in whispering
them, she had betrayed some secret of her betroth-
ed, and with an uneasystep and clouded face she
turns away.

Why-or what has Randall done to call this
shadow up on Menie Laurie’s way? But Menie
Laurie neither could or would tell, and only feels a
cloud of vague vexation and unexplainable dis-
pleasure rise slowly up upon her heart.

Yet it is not very long time till Mrs. Laurie hears
the news, unshadowed by any dissatisfaction, and
verysoon after Menie is speeding along the Kirk-
lands road restored to all her usual cloudlessness,
though it happens somehow, that, after a. second
bold plunge at it in the stillness of her own room,
which reddened Menie’s check again with involun-
tary anger, she skips this objectionable paragra h
in Randall’s letter, and asking herself half audib y,
what Johnnie Lithgow is to her, solaces herself out
of her uneasiness by Randall’s exultation over her
own last letter. For Randall is most heartin and
cordially rejoiced to think of having his betrothed
so near him, there can be no doubt of that.

And here upon the hillside path, almost like one
of those same deliCaté beechen boughs which
wave over its summit, July Home comes fluttering
down before the wind, her soft uncertain feet
scarcely touching the ground, as you can think,
her brown dress waving, her silky hair betraying
itself as usual, astray upon her shoulders. Down
comes July, not without a stumble now and then,
over boulder or bramble, but looking very much
as if she floatedon the sweet atmosphere which
streams down fresh and full from the top of the
hill, and the elastic spring air could bear her well
enough upon its sunny current for all the Weight
she has. Very simple are the girlish salutations
exchanged when the friends meet. “Eh, Manic,
where are you going?” and “Is that you, July?
you can come with me.” .

And now the road has two shadows upon it in-
stead of one, and a murmur of low-toned voices
running like a hidden tinkle of water along the
hedgerow‘s side. “ Johnnie Lithgow, ch? I’m
glad he’s turned clever,” said little July; “ he used
to come up the hill at nights when nobody ever
played with me; and I think, Manic, you’ll not be
angry—he had more patience than Randall, for I

mind him once carrying me, when I was just a
little thing, all the way round the wood to the
Beating Stone, to see the sunset, pad mindingiwhat

' sale,

I saidtoo, though I wasso wee. m glad,
I’msure I’mrvery glad; but Randall,  clover,

 

....._....__..-.._ .n.. .,

A221.

J

himself, might have told us about , _ ' “Lith—  ‘ .
gow before.” L L . r  ,
“ Yen never can think that Johnnie Lithgow’ is,”
as clever as Randall,” said Menie, indignantly. I ,
“ That’s not what Imean either. Randall’s not ' 

clever, July. ' You need not look so strange at me. ,
Clever! Jenny’s clever; I’m clever myself at a r
some things; but Randall, I call Randall a genius, .-
J uly." ' , ,
And Menie raised loftin the face which was now ' ,
glowing with a flush of affectionate pride. With a r "
little awe July assented ; but July still in her in- " ‘
most heart asserted Randall to be clever, and 
rather avoided a discussion of this perplexing word
genius, which July did notfeel herself quite come »
petent to define or understand. ‘   "“
And now the road begins to slope upwardia the f - /
hedgerow breaks and opens upon braes of close L
grass, marked here and there bybars and streaks ‘
of brown, like stationary shadows, and rich with
little nests of low-growing heather and  ,
flowers. An amphitheatre of low hills opens now}, ' L
from the summit of this one, which the  L
mounts. Bare. unwooded slopes, falling away, at , 
their base into cultivated fields, and rising upward
in stretches of close-cropped pasture land; son, 4
luxurious grass, sweet with its thyme and  .' j 
with small eyes of flowers piercing up from  L .
its close~w0ven blades, soft as summer couch 
be, and elastic as ever repelled the foot of passing , .. *
herdsman; but looking somewhat bare in its pica” .
bald livery, as it breaks upon the bright spring sky
above. I » ‘ ' , 7,
And the road dives down—down into
lows of the circle, where gleams a winding b _L
and rises a village, its roofs of tileand thumb-bank»;
ing serenely in the sun. A little church, u
up the little open belfry against the hillsideasig
emreating to be lifted higher, stands at  ens
trance of the village; and you can already see this ‘ J ‘
little span~broad bridges that cross the bum,  "I 
sign boards which hang ab0ve the doors of ,‘Lgf
cottage shops in the main street. Here,  keep;  
ing the road almost like an official of equal an?  ‘-
thority, the smithy glows with its 'fiery eye   L‘
the kirk; for the kirk, you will perceive, is almost'lti .-
new one, and has little pretelisionstothc heretlitalj .7 f "
reverence of its small dependency, standing  ,,
bare and alone, without a single Lgraveto' 
watch upon; whereas the smiddy’s antique mafia" V -. 
heavy with lichens; and plows and barrows,  L ,,
splendent in primitive red and blue, obtrude  ‘,
selves a little way beyond the door, with  L.
faction of conscious wealth.- L .' L ‘ L‘L
And here is a cottage turning‘its sack 
burn, and modestly setting down its white 
step upon the rude causeway;  door is“ L  _ '1,
and some one sits at work by the, fireside withing .  
but in a corner stands a sack of meal, anda little  ‘
humble counter interposes sideways between: 
fire and the .. threshold. Some humble A L  .
lie on the window-shelves, and the counter  l"  
has a small miscellany—dim glasses,  . ~_  
“ sweeties ;” dimmer still with balls of   4
and white, with stii’fly twisted sticks 5f L’L
worsted, and red and yellow stalks of 
scarcely to be distinguished from the  ‘L
together the counter, with its d A   ,
half-filled shelves, that break tile , t’ 
window, and a few drawers  t out: 
lags shop where Mrs. Lithgow does a little   '
business, enough to keep herself, alonejandxjy ‘ “ 
owed, in daily bread. “ p , ' ', ' 7w _ 
For Nelly Panton, sittingbchind at theme-ts s " ‘ f
mantua—maker, and maintains herself, By  I
fortune, this maintenance is very cheap]  ' ‘ ‘ . 
plished; and Kelly’s “(imp parritchwmdeufifl‘
tea are by much the smallest burden which i 
ciety entails upon her mother.   ’
Nelly is, she has come through no man 
vicissitudes, and, swayed between  L‘ L ‘-
vice, and this same disconsolate   LL  “ L
hers, like the discontentea pendulumihi ' ' ..
of two orthree occasions past, when  ‘ ‘  
just on the eve of being married, conned “    ‘
which even! the devout desire of: Mrs.  L 
has not yet succeeded in bringing- peacsfnlly L45 L
pass—Jar Nelly and her leveralas‘ rs. Lithgow is, ‘
meats pathetically, “can never gree’ 
and some kind fairy‘alwa interposes ’me,_ :2;-
prcvent any yoimg man u 
plishingrrto'lilmself such state. i   ' ‘ i

5, .. .
w. . .

  

(.t_
l ..
.A.

 

    
  
    
   
   
  
 
  
  
    
   
 

 

 
  

 
 

  
 
   
   

 

S, 

 Mrs. Eithgow’s dress isscarcely less doleful than
', her. daughter; a petticoatvvof some dark w00len
., stud", and" a clean white short gown, are scarcely

' '» enlivened by, the check apron, bright blue and
. _ white as it is, which girds in the upper garment;
;3 . I butthe close cap which marks her second widow~
‘ hood encloses a, face fresh, though careworn, with
, lines of anxious thought something too clearly de-
, fined about the brow and cheeks. A little per-

. ‘ plexity'adds just now to the care upon the widow’s
 , -’ 1 face; for upon her counter stands a square
) ' woodenbox, strongly corded and sealed, over which,
A wan much bewil erment, the good woman ponders.
r , .' ' Veryn-ue, it is directed to Mrs. Litligow, Kirklands,

and'Kirklands knows no Mrs. Lithgow but herself;
 but; with a knife in her hand to cut the cord, and
a. little broken hammer beside her on the counter,
 with which she proposes to “prise” open the se-
 , Mel,er nailed lid, the widow still hangs marvelling

 

 

  

 

 

   
   
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
    
 
  
   
   
 
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
  
   
  
 
    
 
     

' ' wonders once again who it can be that sends this
  mystery to her. ‘ I 1
5’:»“I’ve heard of folk getting what lookit like a
  grand present, and it turning out naething but a
. “dip of straw, or a Weight of stanes,” said the per-
‘ '1 plexed Mrs. Lithgow, as her young visitors saluted
' Liter; “ but" this is neither to ca’ very heavy nor very
' Viich‘t; and it’s no directed in a hand of write that
.‘pne'might have kenned, but in muckle printed let-
;  like abnok; and I’m sure I canna divine, if I
  thinking on a’body I ever kent a’ my days,
 con-1,1 send such a thing to me.”
" H , "»‘?;Bnt if you open the box you’ll see,” cried July
 '- Home: a 1“ Eh! I wish you would open it the time
'  we’re here; for I think I ken it’s from Johnnie,
andMenie Laurie has grand news 'of Johnnie in
' _,,"her letter. I was as glad as if it was me. He’s
’- 2 ' .turned‘clever,,Mrs. Lithgow; he’s growing to be a
v ‘  j t‘ ma‘n‘like our Randall. Eh! Menie what ails
'. 81‘?” H' " '
 ' j’ Something ailed her that July did not know—a
 trembling thrill of apprehensive joy, an intense
 ifeiiizatiou for“ the moment of all her terrors and
; ' limowsfsuddenly inspired, and flooded over with
 thé'light of a new hope.‘ The color. fled from Mrs.
a fitllgovr’s very lips; the little broken hammer
; " folljwith a heavyr‘olaug upon the flobr at her feet.
1 ‘  eyes" turned wistfully, eagerly, upon Menie; the
, light strain in them, " and yet they could read so
' tlie‘expresaion of this face. ‘
1 ind Menie, conquering her blush and hesitation,
' took out her letter and read bravely so much of it
,, 'ds‘Was suitable for the mother’s ear. The mother
forgot all about the mysterious box, even though
vit‘Tseemed so likely now to come from Johnnie.
{vp’at do'Wn abruptly on the wooden chair behind
 team; she‘lifted up her checked apron, and
'  it With both hands into the corners of her
 ,‘f My’puir laddie! my puir laddie!” You
‘ dalmost hayefancied it was some misfortune
 'mii‘e‘ which caused this swelling of his
-» mother’s heart. ' ’ ’ ' '
“Add he's in among grand folk, and turning a

 

it?

»’ ‘Kleimanj’himselfi said Mrs. Lithgow, softly,
.  {considerable pause. “Was that what the
l  said ‘l-s—was that what the folk tolled me ?—
"he’s my son ‘ for a’ that-Johnnie Lithgow, my
sinilittle,youi1g bah-n.”
,. %“1‘*~’thinlt,‘motlier, ye may just as weel let me
 box,” said Nelly, coming forward with
{Liter/noiseless step. “We’ll ken by what’s in’t if
» vib‘e’sté‘eping thought of us; though I’m sure it’s
fickle-like as if he was, keeping folks anxious
gi’and him prospering. I’ll just open the
 y  would'na be ane to hang at his tails if
thought Shame of his poor friends; but
. ill considerate lad would mind that there’s

 

 

 

   
  
 
  
  
  
    
 
   
  
 
  
  
  
  

 
  

.  sane thing might be useful to Kirklands.
. .fIl-llfiope'ti‘the box and see.”

$he"ipother rose to thrust her away angrily.
M 13“ it Whathe sends I’m heediug about, think ye ‘3”
she exclaimed, with momentary passion. “ I’m his
;‘ I’m seeking; uaetl‘iing but his ain welfare
fldrwell doing. WaS’t gifts I wanted, or profit by
mason"! “Butane needna speak to you." ‘
(“Elli Brit there‘s maybe a letter,” said July

“Mrs. Lith~

would open it and see.” ,  r' , -
«tyre: Lith' ow, with this hope, cut‘rthe Janis
“Walkman; with a trembling hand—«eject.

i, flours; with alittle natural artifice.

 

3..

   
  

i .4 ~;‘/' 1',

 

ever the address, and the broad red office-seal, and

 anger,- the offered assistance“.
_*lsi’oity,'~khonow crossed her hands demurer either
I ll ? My" 7  11' if i _ I .‘ ' ‘ ‘-

 

.x‘,

’ K'THE comm Harman 

apron, and stood, virtuous and resigned, looking
"Oil.

Little July, very eager and curious, could not
restrain her restless fingers, but helped to loose
the knots involuntarily with a zealous aid, which
the widow did not refuse; and Menie, not quite
sure that it was right to intrude upon the mother’s
joy, but very certain that she would greatly like to
see what J ohnnic Lithgow sent home, lingered
with shyer and less visible curiosity, between the
counter and the door.

But Mrs. Lithgow’s hands trembled with anxie-
ty, and excitement of great joy, and the little thin
fingers of July, never very nervous at any time,
made but slow progress in their work; and poor
July even achieved a scratch here and there from
refractory nails before it was concluded. When
the lid had been fairly lifted off, a solemn pause
ensued. No letter appeared; but a brilliant grown
piece of cotton lay uppermost, the cover and wrap-
per of various grandcurs below. Mrs. Lithgow
pulled out these hidden glories hurriedly, laying
them aside with only a passing glance; a piece of
silk, too grand by far for anybody within a mile of
Kirklands ; ribbons which even Menie Laurie beheld
with a flutter of admiration; and a host of other
articles of feminine adornment, so indisputably put
together by masculine hands that the more indif-
erent spectators were tempted to laughter at last.

But Mrs. Lithng had no leisure to ‘laugh; no

time to admire the somewhat coarse shawl which
she could wear, nor the gay gowns which she
could not. Down to the very depths, and, conclusion
of all, to the white paper lying in the bottom of the
box; but not a scrap of written paper bade his moth-
er receive all these i'rom Johnnie. The gift came un-
accompanied by a single word to identify the giver.
Mrs. Lithgow sat down again in her chair, subdued
and silent, and Menie had discernment enough to
see the bitter tears of disappointed hope that gath-
ered in the mother’s eyes ; but she said nothing,eith-
er of comment or complaint, till the slow business-
like examination with which Nelly began to turn
over these anonymous gifts, startled into sudden
provocation and anger the excitement which, but for
pride and jealous regard that no one should have
a word to say against her son, would 'fain have
found another channel.

“Eh! Mrs. Lithgrow, isn’t it bonnie?” cried
simple Little July Home, as she smoothed down
with her hands the glittering folds of silk. Mrs.
Lithgow had laid violent hands upon it, to thrust
it back into the box out of Nelly’s way; but as Ju-
l y spoke her own womanish interest was roused, and
now, when the first shock had passed, the tears
in the widows eyes grew less salt and bitter; she
looked at the beautiful fabric glistening in the

light; she looked at the little pile of bright rib-

bons; at the warm comfortable shawl, and her
heart returned to its first flush of thankfulness
and content. ' -v

“It’s far owre grand for the like of me,” she
said at last; “it would be mair becoming some of
you young ladies ; but a young lad is no to be ex-
pected to ken about such things; and he’s bought
it for the finest he could get, and spent a lock of
siller on’t to pleasure his mother. I’m no sur-
prised mysel ; it’s just like his kind heart; but
there's few folks fit to judge my Johnnie; he was
never like other callants a’ his days.”

But still Mrs. Lithgow could not bear Nelly’s
slow'matter of fact perusal and comment on her
new treasures. She put them up, one by one, re-
stored them to the box, and carried it away to her
own room in her own arms, to be privately wept
and rejoiced over there. i /

“Randall never sent home anything like yon,”
said July, softly, to herself, as they returned to
Bhrnside, “ and Randall was clever before John-
nie Lithgow. I wonder he never had the
thought.” 

“Randall knows better,” said Menie. “When
Randall sends things, he sends becoming things;
its only you, July, who have not the thought, if
Johnnie Lithgow had been wise, he would not
have sent such a present to Kirklands.” 7

'But just 'then a line of a certain favorite song
crossed Menie’s mind against her will. “Wisdom

sae caul ;” and July looked down upon her own

rint’ed’ifrock, and, thought a silken gown, like
 ohnnie’ Lithgow’s present, might beja (very be
coming thing. ; A}: seventeeMren a. twenty—a

I

 

 

one appreciates a piece ofkindly  fully better

than an act of wisdom.

 

CHAPTER VIII.

BUT Menie Laurie was by no means satisfied that
even simple little July should make comparison so
frequent between Randall,her own hero,and the alto-
gether new and sudden elevation of Johnnie Lith-
gow. J ohnie Lithgow might ‘ be very clever,
might be a newspaper conductor, and a rising man ;
but Randall—~Randall in spite of the little chilluess

of that assumed superiority which could think liu- r

miliation necessary to bring his youthful country
man down in spite of Menie’s consciousness'that
there lacked something of the frank and generous
with tone which oneihigh spirit should acknowledge

the excellence of anotlieruRandall was still the '

ideal genius, the something so far above “clever ”

that Menie felt him insulted by praise so mean as

this word implied.

There was little time for speculation on the
subject, yet many a mood of Menie’s was tinged by
its passing gleam, for Menie sometimes thought her
bethrothed unappreciated, and was lofty and seem.
ful, and disposed in his behalf to defy all the
world. Sometimes impatient of the estimation,
which, great though it was, was not great enough,
Menie felt not without a consoling self-satisfac—
tion that she alone did Randall perfect justice.

Johnnie Lithgowl what though he did write an .
ticles! Menie was very glad to believe, condo-r

scendingly, that he might be clever, but he never
could be Randall Home.

“You’ll hae heard the news,” said, Miss Janet,

sitting very upright in one of the Burnside easy-
chairs, with her hands crossed on her knee;
“they say that you and our Randall, Miss Mmie,
my dear, were the first, between you, to carry
word» of it to his mother, and her breaking her
heart about her son. But Mrs. Lithgow’s got:
ten a letter from Johnnie noo,‘a’ about how
grand he is, and Ihear he’s paying a, 'haill
guinea by the‘ week for his twa rooms, and see-
ing a’ the great folk in. the land, no to say he’s
writing now the paper he once printed,_and

is great friends with our Randy. , Randy Was safe”,

awfu’ particular of his company. I was {saying
mysel it was the best sign I heard of Jolinnie'Lith-

gow that Randall Home was taking him by the 

hand; I’m no meaning pride, Mrs. Laurie. I’m
sure I ken so weel it’s a’ his ain doing, and the

fine nature his Maker gave him, that I aye say '
we‘ve nae right to be proud; but it would be sin- 

ning folks’ mercies no lo ken—and I never sewn
lad like Randall Home a’my days.” . ‘, 
Menie said nothing in this presence. Shy at all

times to speak of Randall, before her own mother j
and his aunt it was athng impossible, but 8116 4

glanced up hastily With glowing eyes, and a flush

of sudden colOr, to meet Miss Janet’s look. ’Miss 

Janet’s face was full or affectionate. pride and ten.
derness, but the good simple features had always a.
little cloud of humility anddeprecation hovering
over them. Miss Janet knew herself liable to at-
tack on many points, knew herself very homely,

and not at all worthy of the honor of being Ran— .7 ‘

dall’s aunt, and had been snubbed and put down a , '

great many times in the course of her kindly life-—
so Miss Janet was wont to deliver her modest sen-
timents with a little air of half-troubled propitio-
tory fear. - . ‘

Mrs. Laurie made little response. She was bpsy “K .7 I . g.

with her work at the moment, and, not without
little angles of temper for her own share,did not.

always join in this devout admiration. of, Randall. ,

Home. Menie, “thinking shame,” said nothing-
either, and, in the " momentary silencewhich ear
sued, Miss Janet’s heart rose with a flutter of rap-
prehcnsion; she feared she had said something

amiss—too much or too little; and Miss Janet’s ,

cheeks grew red under the abashed eyes which she‘d '

bent so anxiously orer the well-known pattern of . '

Mrs. Laurie’s carpet. , _ a _ g ,

“ I’m afeard you’re thinking it’s a vain glory.
that gars me Speak," said Miss Janet, tracing the
outline With her large foot; “and it’s very true

thatane deceive ane’sosel in a thing like this; bag; 1»: , > a '
it’s no just because he’s our Randall, MrsLauI-ie; “ 
and/it’s no'that I’m grudgingat- Johnnie Lithgow, ; .
for being clever—abut! canna think. he’s  ‘

minim"; . .

 

 

‘ x

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘ A“

new cum 13432

J
I

 

“ A merry little whiteheadedfellew, with awisp

- of curls,” said Mrs. Laurie, good-humoredly—“ No,
he’s not like Randall, Miss J anet——I think I’ll an-
, swer’for that as well as you; but we’ll see them
both, very likely, when we get to London. Strange
things happen in this world," continued Menie’s
mother, drawing herself up with a little conscious
pride and pique, which the accompanying smile
showed her own half amusement with. “ There’s
young Walter Wellwood, of Kirkland will never be
anything but a dull country gentleman, though he
comes of a clever family, and has had every ad-
vantage; and here is a boy out of Kirkland’s par-
ish-school, taking up literature and learning at his

‘ V. ' own hand!”

Miss Janet was slightly disturbed, and looked
uneasy. Randall, too, had begun his career in
the parish-school at Kirklands ; there was a
suspicion in this speech of something derogatory
to him.

“But the maister in Kirklands is very clever,
Mrs. Laurie,” said Miss Janet anxiously; “he
makes grand scholars. When our Randall gaed
to the grammar school in Dumfries, the gentlemen
a’ made a wonder of him; and fora’ his natural
parts he couldna have gotten on so fast without a
guide teacher; and it’s no every man could maistcr
Randy. I mind at the time the gentlemen couldna
say enough to commend the Dominic. I’ll warrant
they a’ think weel of him still on account of his
guid success, and the like of him deserves to get
credit with his laddies. I’m sure Johnnie Lithgow,
having had nae other instructions, should be very
grateful to the maister.

“ The maister will be very proud of him,” said
Menie; ‘f though they say in Kirklands that ever
so many ministers have been brought up in the
school. But never mind J onnnie Lithgow—every.
body speaks of him now; and, mother, you were
to tell Miss Janet about when we are going away.”
' “I think John will never look out of the end
window mair,” said Miss Janet. “I can see he’s
shifting his éhair already—him that used to be so
fond of the view; and I’m sure I’ll be very dreary

' mysel, thinking there’s naebody I ken in Burnside;
‘ but what if you dinna like London, Mrs. Laurie?

' It’s very grand I believe, and you’ve lived in great
towns before, and ken the ways of the world bet-

* .  ter than the like of me; but after a country life,

’ I would think one would weary of the toun; and
if you do, will youcome hamc ?"

Mrs. Laurie shook her head. “ I was very Well
content in Burnside,” she said. “With my own
will I never would have left it, Miss Janet; but I
go for good reasons, and not for/pleasure ; and mv
reasons Will last, whether I weary or no. There’s
Menie must get masters, you know, and learn to
be accomplished—or Miss Annie Laurie will put
her to shame.”

“ I dinna ken what she could learn, for my
part," said Miss Janet, affectionately, “ nor howshe
could weel be better or bonnier, for a’body can see
the. gouty lady-breeding Miss Menie’s got; and
there’s naebody atween this and the hills needs to
betelt of the kind heart and pleasant tongue, and

ythc  that every creature’s blithe to see; and
I’m sure I never heard a voice like her for singing;
and ' c' the grand tunes she can play, and draw
landscapes, and work any kind of bonnie things
you liketo mention. Dinna you draw a likeness of
Jenny, Miss Menie, my dear? And I’m sure you
View you took from the tap of our hill is just the
'very place itselwas natural as can be; and for my
part, Mrs. Laurie, I dinna ken what mortal could

, desire for" her mair.”

I'Mrs. Laurie smiled; but the mother was not dis-
pleased, though she did think it possible still to
add to Menie’s acquirements, if not to her excel-

. lance; and Mcnie herself‘ went oi! laughing and

. blushing, fully resolved in her own mind to de.

' stray forthwith that likeness wherein poor Jenny’s

"thigh shouther ” figured with an emphasis and dis-_

_ tinctness" extremely annoying to the bufiied'artist,
“Whose pencil ran away with her very often in these
“like much-commended drawings, and who was

/ ’Wypuzzled in most cases how to make two sides
of ‘myflling alike. And Menie knew her tunes

~ 7W9“! anything but grand, her landscapes not at all

v 'rgmmablfi for truth—~yet Menie was by no means,
‘ ‘ , ~ ' WW by Has J onetis simple-hearted praise.

\ .

 was spent in uch talkof thede~
~ can... « .  

 

m3. Ma’s   was

sat in rcvacntial silence, listening to  conver-

sation, and making a hundred little confidential
communications of her own opinion to Menie,
which Menie had some trouble in reporting for the

general good. It was nine o’clock of the moon-

light April night when the farmer of Crofthill
came to escort his “ wornankind ” home. The
clear silent radiance darkened the distant hills,
even while it lent a silver outline to their wakeful
guardian range, and Menie came in a little sad-
dened from the gate where the father of her be-
trothed had grasped her hand so closely in his
goodnight. “ No mony mair good—nights now,”
said John Home; “I’ll no get up my heart the
mom, though it is the first day of summer. You
should have slipped up the hill the night to gather
the dew in the morning, May; but I’ll learn to
think the May mornings darker than they used to
be, when your ain month takes my bonnie lassie
from Burnside. Weel, weel, anc’s loss is anoth-
er’s gain; but I grudge you to London smoke, and
London crowds. You must mind, May, my woman,
and keep your hame heart.”

Your home heart, Menie—your heart of simple
trust and untried quiet. Is it a good wish think
you, kind and loving though the wisher be? But
Menie looks up at the sky, with something tremb—
ling faintly in her mind, like the quiver of this
charmed air under the flood of light—— and has
note of unknown voices, faces, visions, coming in
upon the calm of her fair youth, unknown, un.
feared ; and so she turns to the home-lights again,
with nothing but the sweet thrill of innocent ex-
pectation to rouse her, secure in the peace and
tranquil serenity of this home heart of here, which
goes away softly, through the moonlight and the
shadow, through, the familiar gloom of the little
hall, and into the comforts of the mother’s parlor,
singing its song of conscious happiness, under its
breath.

 

CHAPTER IX.

Lnr'r behind! July Home has dried her eyes at
last; and out of many a childi' fit of tears and
sobbing, suddenly becomes silent like a child, and
standing on the road, looks wistfully after them,
with her lips apart, and her breast now and then
trembling with the swell of her half-subsided grief.
The gentle May wind has taken out of its-braid
July’s brown silky hair, and toys with it upon
July’s neck with a half derisive sympathy, as a big
brother plays with the transitory sorrow of a child.
But the faint color has fled from July’s cheek, ex.
cept just on this one flushed spot where it had
been resting on her hand; and with a wistful long-
ing, her young innocent eyes travel along the va-
cant road. No one is there to catch this lingering
look; and even the far-off sound which she bends
forward to hear, has died away in the distance.
Another sob comes trembling ugh—another faint
swell of her breast, and quiver of her lip—and
July turns sadly away into the forsaken house, to
which such a sudden air of emptiness and desola-

tion has come; and sitting down on the carpet by

the window, once more bends down her face into
her hands and cries to her heart’s content.

There is no change in the parlor at Burnside—-
not a little table, not a single chair has been moved
out of its place; yet it is strange to see the for.
lorn, deserted look which everything has learned
to wear. Mrs. Laurie’s chair gapes with its open
empty arms—-Menie’s stool turns drearily towards
the walla—and the centre-table stands out chill and
prominent, cleared of all kindly litter, idle and
presumptuous, the principal object in the room, no
longer submitting to be drawn about here and
there, to be covered or uncovered for anybody’s
pleasure. And, seated close into the window
which commands the road, very silent and upright,
shawled and bonneted, sits Miss Janet Home,
who, perchance, since she neither rebukes nor oom-
forts poor little weeping July, may possibly be cry.
lug too.

And Jenny’s busy feet waken no , home-like
echoes now in the bright kitchen, where no scru-
tiny, however keen, could find speck or spot todis
credit Jenny. v Instead of the usual genius of the

place, a “ strange Woman ” rests with some apparent

fatigue upon the chair .bythe wall which flariks
'08

 

.K

she takes of her bonnet, eyes at a respectful fis-
tance the fire, which is just now making cyclones
attempt to keep up some heartiness and spirit in
the bereaved domain which misses Jenny. The
strange bonnet with its gay ribbons, makes adnll
reflection in the dark polish of the oak, but the
warm moist hand of its owner'leaves such a mark
as no one ever saw there during the reign of
Jenny; and Jenny would know all her forebodings
of destruction to the furniture in a fair way of ac-
complishment, could she see how the new tenant’s
maid, sent forward before her mistress to take pos-
session, spends her first hour in Burnside. ‘
But Jenny, far off and unwitting, full ofa child’s
simplicity of wonder and admiration—~yet some-
times remembering, with her natural impatience,
that this delight and interest does not quite boa
come her dignity—travels away, to Dominica, to
Edinburgh, to the new world, of which she 
as little as any child. And Menie Laurie, tulle!

vigorous youthful spirits, and natural excitonan ’

forgets in half an hour, the heaviness of the leave-

taking, and manages, with many a laugh and, . j

wreathed smile, to veil much wonder and curiosity
of her own, under the unveilable exuberance of
Jenny’s. Mrs. Laurie herself clouded and cam
worn though she looks, and dreary as are her
backward glances to the familiar hills other own
country, clears into amusement by and by;

and the fresh Mayday has done its work upon ‘
them all, and brightened the little party into 7

universal smiles and cheerfulness, before
the journey draws towards its end, andwearinesa
comes in to restore the quiet, if not to restore the
tears and sadness, with which
of home.

“And this is the main street, m warrant,” and 

Jenny, as Menie led her on the following '

over the bright pavement of Princes Streak“ :3
I would just like to ken, MisslMenie, what ’0. the
folks doingout-by at this time of the day 2 Basic.
ness 17 havers! I’m no that great a  that I
dinna ken the odds between a decentwoman gens

an errand, and idle folks wandering about the I ‘

street. Eh! but they are even-down temptations
than windows ! The like of that now for a grand
gown to gang to parties! And I reckon ye’ll be
seeing big folks yonder-away—and the Englisth
are awfu’ hands for grand claes.‘ I. dinna think
ye‘re anything noo ye could see greateompmy 
but that blue thing you got a twelvemonth since,
and twa-three bits of muslin.
bairn, just you look at that!” , r V

And Home paused, well pleased to lock, m

admire, if not so loudly, at least with 

they took their leave _

stratum/7

quite as genuine as Jenny’s own.- Bnt “in,” 

passed on, Jenny’s captivated eyes .found'ci'cij, , '

shop more glorious than the other,  Jenny‘s "

eager hands had fished out of the net-113w little '
basket she carried, a long narrow purse of chamoix ‘ '

leather, in which, lay safe a little bundle, of one-
pound notes, prisoned in the extreme corners at
either end. Jenny’s fingers grew nervous as they
fumbled at the strait enclosure wherein he:- hum?

ble treasures was almost too sccurg’ 3nd {my I. ,k  .

tremulously anxious to ascertain which of all m
splendors, Menie liked best, a sublime 
dawning upon her own .mind the while. MM?

it is extremely difficult to draw Jenny uptlllmz

ascent of the Calton Hill, and fix, he! ’ ,
thoughts upon the scene below. It. is Very 
Jenny fancies; but after all Jenny, who has 
on terms of daily intimacy with Crilfel, sees, with.
ing startling about Arthur's SCGMhiCh is

like its outhland brother, “ a muckle hilll‘é-whcreu
as not even the high Street of Dumfn'ee holds any

faintest shadowing of the glory of these Princes  h

1‘

“31’s “

Streets shops; and Jenny’s mind is unearned}; “

elaborate calculations, and her lips move in

abstraction of mentkl arithmetic, while my  j‘_ ~ '

fingers pinch the straitened corners of them
leather purse. ‘ ,  ‘

“ l’ll can find the house grand mysel.”  
street, and I ken the stair, as weelu if. I had
lived lift a’ my days,” says J enny'eagerly. V I
bairul cunna ye let folks abee ? I would like ‘to
hear wha would fash their heads with Jeimywsnd

I saw a thing I liked grand in me of, than '

“Touts, ‘. \

muckle shops. Just yougang your ways-home to 

you: xnarnma, Miss Monte; time‘s-nae’IQupfi » 
~  “modernism 

 

' l,’ L, house better than you.

oio

_r rim cam imam:

 

 

~5uy,”, said Menie. “ I would like to see into that

great shop myself.”
“ Ye’ll see’t another time,” said Jenny, coaxing-
ly. ,“Just you gang your ain gate, like a- good
, bairn, and let Jenny gang hers ance in her life.
, I’ll let you see what it is after I’ve bought it—but
I’m gann my lane the now. Now, Miss Menie,
I’m just as positive as you. My patience——as if
.folk couldna be trusted to ware their sin siller——
and the mistress waiting on you, and me kens the
Now you’ll just be a good
balm, and I’ll take my ain time, and be in in half
' an hour.”
Thus dismissed, Menie had no resource but to
betake herself with some laughing wonder to the
~ lodging where Mrs. Laurie rested after the journey
“of yesterday; while Jenny, looking jealously be-

* ». Lhind her to make sure that she was not observed,

 returned to a long and loving contemplation of the
* brilliant silk gown which had caught her fancy
first

“I never bought her onything a’ her days, if it

y- , wasna auce that bit wee coral necklace, that she

, 2/.

«l

\

‘. flour as the first. .
; dared with curved brow and closed llpS, two or
, :three very fine gentlemen, looking on with unre-

WOre when she was a little bairn—and she aye has
it in her drawer yet, for pair auld Jenny’s sake,”
mused Jenny at the’ shop window, “and I’m no
like to need muckle siller mysel, unless there’s some
sair downcome at hand. I wouldna say but' I’ll be
. ' feared at the price, wi’ 21’ this grand shop to keep
sip—but I think I never saw onything sae bonnie,
and I’ll just get up a stout heart, and gang in and
”

~ but many difficulties beset this daring enter-
\se of Jenny’s. First, the impossibility of hav-
r mg brought to her the one magnificent gown of

‘ gowns—then a fainting of horror at the price—-

then a sudden bewilderment and wavering, conse-
. quent upon the sight of a hundred others as glo-
While Jenny uiusedand pen-

I. strained amusement awoke her out of her deliber-
- fleas, and out of her first awe of themselves, into
aver distinct and emphatic fuffof resentment,
and enny’s decision was made at last somewhat

 ' abruptly, in the midst of a smothered explosion
V ,3. of laughter, which sent her hasty short steps pat-

 teriug out of the shop, in intense wrath. But in

spitevof Jenny’s expanded nostrils, and scarcely
restrainable vituperation, Jenny carried off tri-
umphantly, in her arms, the gown of gowns; and

 _ Jenny’s’iudignation did notlesseu - the swell of ad-

 

  'ny for a full hour thereafter.

2 ,

‘ ; wherein her gift lay hid.
 "‘Ye’ll let me ken how you
 said Jenny, peremptorily thrusting the par-
; eel into Menie’s hand, at the door of her mother’s
"groom; “and
v mantau.
~ ., a as ye migh wear ony place.
-' ">-wanting ya to look at it here.”
” '  1". But whatis it i” asked Menie, wonderingly.
 » ; "You'havenaething ado but open it and see,”
 I kyas'theanewer; “and ye cauput it on on your
' ,' birthday if you like-what’s the tenth of next
' ? month-thers’s plenty of time to get it made—and
‘ I’ll gang and ask thas strange folk about the din-
- ner’mysell’.

miring pride with which she contemplated, pressed
do her bosom tenderly, the white paper parcel

like this, Miss Me-

soe if some of your grand London
ers canna' make such a gown out of it
Take it ben--—I’m no

But neither message nor voice could reach J en-
Jenny was a little

 afraid of thanks, and could not be discovered in

;~ parlor'or kitchen, thou h the whole“flat” grew
*  with her name.
, depths of the dark closet where Jenny slept, Menie
 found her seated on her. trunk, with her fingers
; in: her ears; but this precaution had evidently
  quite ineffectual so far as Jenny’s sharp sense

enetrating at last into the

 of hearing was concerned. Menie Laurie put her

I A own mrwithin the projected arm of the follow-

I A {or of the family, and drew her away to hgr moth-

,,,

 

 

 
 

Tournament I V

er’s room. Like a culprit faintly resisting, Jenny

 “van 1

g, .
. i “I’m sure if I had kent ye would have been as

pleased,” said Jenny, when she had in some de-
‘ / gree recovered herself, f‘ ye might have gotten one

 o 0; but ye’ll mind Jenny when you put it
" «on an
 I  may be lung to the fore, when Jenny’s gane

' ; rand forgotten out 0’ mad. ’Deed ay, it is way

I’m sure it’s my heart’s wish baith it and

inmate. 1 heat I was a 363’ said judge mind. and
ham “were '

, l

 



out of the house ten minutes-~it’s been timing in.

head ever since then.” , .

‘.‘ But, Jenny, it must have been very expensive,”
said Mrs. Laurie, quickly.

“I warrant it was nea cheaper than they could
help,” said Jenny. “Eh! mem, the manners of
them, and a’ dressed out like gentlemen, too. I
the first ane that came to me was it placed minis-
ter, at the very least; and to see the breeding of
them, nae better than as many hinds 1 Na, I would
like to see the cottar lad in a’ Kirklands that
would have cleared to make his laugh of me I”

A few day’s delay in Edinburgh gave Mrs. Lau-
rie space and opportunity of settling various little
matters of business, which were necessary for the
comfort of their removal ; and then the little fam-
ily embarked in the new steamer, which had but
lately superseded the smack, with some such feel-
ings of forlornness and excitement as Australian
emigrants might have in these days. Jenny set
herself down firmly in a corner of the deck, with
her back against the bulwark of the ship, and her
eyes tenaciously fixed upon a coil of rope near at
hand. Jenny had a vague idea that this might be
something serviceable in the case of shipwreck,
and with jealous care she watched it; a boat, too,
swayed gently in its place above her—there was a
certain security in being near it; but Jenny’s soul
was troubled to see Menie wandering hither and
thither upon the sunny deck, and her mother quiet-
ly reading by the cabin door. Jenny thought it
something like a tempting of Providence to read a
book securely in this frail ark,which a sudden cap-
rice of uncertain wind and sea might throw in a
moment into mortal peril.

But calm and fair as ever May-day shone, this
quiet morning brightened into noon, and their ves-
sel rustled bravely through the Firth, skirting the
southern shore. Past every lingering suburban

roof, past the seabathing-houses, quiet on these

sands, gliding by the foot of green N orth-Berwick
Law, passing like a shadow across the gloomy
Bass, where it broods upon the sea, like the cairn
of memorial stones over its martyrs dead, past the
mouldering might of old Tantallou, sending a roll
of white foam up upon those little coves of Ber-
wickshire, which here and there open up a momen-
tary glimpse of red-roofed fisher-houses, and fisher
cobbles resting on the beach under shelter of- the
high braes and fretted rocks of the coast. Menie
Laurie, leaning over the side, looks. almost wist-
fully sometimes at those rude little houses, lying
serene among the rocks like a sea-bird’s nest.
Many a smugglcr’s romance, many a story of ship-
wreck and daring bravery must dwell about this
shore; the young traveler only sees how the tiled
roof glows against the rock which lends its friendly
support behind, how the stony path leads down-
ward to the boat, how the wife at the cottage door
looks out, shading her eyes with her hands, and
the fisher bairns shOut along the sea margin,where
only feet amphibious could find footing, and clap
their hands in honor of the new wonder, still unfa.
miliar to their coast. Something chill comes over
Menie as her eye lingers on these wild rock-cradled
hamlets, so far apart from all the world. Stronger
waves of the ocean are breaking here upon the
beach, and scarcely a house among them has not
lost a father or son at sea; yet there steals a thrill
of envy upon the young voyagers as one by one
they disappear out of her sight. So many homes,
rude though their kind is, and wild their place—
but as for Menie Laurie, and Menie Laurie’s moth-
er, they are leaving home behind.

And now the wide sea sweeps into the sky be.
fore them, the northern line of hills receding far
away among the clouds, and fishing-boats and
passing vessels speck the great breadth of water
faintly, with long distances between, and an air of
forlorn solitude upon the whole. And the day
wanes, and darkness steals apace over the sky and
sea. Landward born and landward bred, Jenny
sets her back more firmly against the bulwark, and
will not be persuaded to descend, though the night
air is chill upon her face. Jenny feels some secu-
rity in her own vigilant unwavering Watch upon
those great folds of sea-water, those dark cliffs of
N orthumberland, those fierce castles glooming
here and there out from the gathering night. If
a sudden squall or tempest should fall upon this
quiet sea, J enny at least will have earliest note of

c\"

 

9‘ 

ness, she maintains her outlook; while Mrs. Lau-
rie and Meals, reluctlantly leaving her, lie down,
not without some kindred misgivings, to their first
night’s rest at sea.

 

CHAPTER X.

A SECOND night upon these untrusted waters
found the travelers a little less nervous and timid,
but the hearts of all lightened when the early sun.
shine showed them the green flat river banks on
either side of their cabin windows. Meuie, hur.
rying on deck, was the first to see over the flat
margin and glimmering’reach the towers of Green~
wich rising against its verdant hill. The sun

was dancing on the busy Thames; wherries, .

which Menie’s eyes followed with wonder—so
slight and frail they looked—shot across the river
like so many flying arrows; great hay barges,
heavy with their fragrant freight, and gay with
brilliant color, blundered up the stream midway,
like peasants on a holiday; and high and dark,
with their lines of little prison-windows, these
great dismasted wooden castles frowned upon the
sunny waters, dreary cages of punishment and con-
vict crime. Then came the houses, straggling to the,
river’s edge—then a passing glimpse of the great
strong-ribbed bony skeletons which by-and-by
should breast the sea-waves proudly, men-o’-war,
then the grand placid breath of the river palace,
with the light lying quiet in its green quadrangle,
and glimpses of blue sky relieving its cloistered
fair arcade. Further on and further, and Jenny
rubs her-wide awake but very weary eyes, and
shakes her clenched hand at the clumsy colliers
and enterprising sloops, which begin to shoot /
across “our boat’s” encumbered way; and now
we strike into the very heart of , a maze of ships,
built in rank and file against the river’s side, and
straying about here and there, even in the mid
course of the stream; almost impossible, Menie,

to catch anything but an uncertain glimpse of _

these quaint little wharfs, and strange small old.
world gables, which grow like so many fungi at
the water’s edge; but yonder glow the golden ball
and cross—yonder rises the world-fame dome,
guardian of the world’s chiefest city—and there it

fumes and frets before us, stretching upward far ‘
away—far beyond the baffled horizon line, which '

fades into the distance, all chafed and broken with
crowded spires and roofs—London—Babylow'
great battleground of vexed humanity—the Crisis
scene of Menie Laurie’s fate.

But without a thought or fear of anything like
fate—~only with some fluttering expectations, tre-.
mors, and hopes, Menie Laurie stood upon the
steamer’s deck as it came to anchor slowly and
cumbrously before the vocieferous pier. In ‘ pres-

ence of all this din and commotion, a silence of ab- A

straction and reverie wrapt her, and Meals looked
up unconsciously upon the flitting panorama. which
moved before her dreamy eyes. Mrs. Laurie’s
brow had grown into curves of care again, and
Jenny, jealous and alert, kept watch over the
mountain of luggage which she had piled together
by many a strenuous tug and lift-for Jenny al-
ready meditated kilting up her best gown round
her waist, and throwing off her shawl to leave her
sturdy arms unfettered, for the task of carrying
some of these trunks and lighter boxes to the
shore. ,
“Keep me, what’s a’ the folk wanting yonder ?”
said Jenny; “they canna be a’ waiting for friends,
in the boat; and I reckon the captain durstna
break the mail-bags open, so it canna be for let-
tors. Eh, Miss Menie, just you look up there at

that open in the liousesuwhat an awfu’ crowd’s I

in you street. What’ll’ be ado? I’ve, heard say
there’s aye a great fire somegate in London, and
folk aye troop to see a fire~but then they never ,
happened but at night. My patiencel, what can
it be ?” «
Whatever it is, Menie’s eye has. caught "some.
thing less distant, which wakes up her dreaming
face like aspell.
ders at the thronging passengers of the distant
street, Menie’s face floods over with a flush of

ruddy light like the morning sky. Her shy eye, I
lids droop a moment over the warm glow which *

sparkles over them—her lips move, breaking'into

a’_host of wavering smiles—her very figure, sli ht -'
«sailfish   

 

While Jenny gazes and won- I

E.
i
i

 

‘ :, ms, QUIET 1mm

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' pleasure. Your mother there looks gravely at the

‘ . shore—a strange alien, unkindly place to her—

and already anticipates, with some care and an-
noyance, the trouble of landing, and the delay and
farther fatigue to be encountered. before her little
family can reach their new home; and Jenny is
uttering a child’s wonders and surmises by your
side—what is this, Menie Laurie, “ what makes the
vulgar pier a charmed spot to you ‘2”

Only another eager face looking down, another
alert animated figure pressing to the very edge,
impatient hands thrusting interposiug porters and
cabmen by, and eyes all aglow with loving expecta-
tion, searching over all the deck for the little
party, which they have not yet descried. In-
voluntarin Menie raises ' her hand, her breath
comes quick over her parted lips, and in her heart
she calls to him with shy joy. He must have
heard the call, surely, by some art magic, though
the common air got no notes of it, for see how he
bends, with that sudden flush upon his face; and
Meiiie meets the welcoming look, and keen gaze
of delight and satisfaction, and lays her hand upon
her mother’s arm, timidly, to point out where Ran-
dall Home waits for them; but he does something
more than wait, and there is scarcely possibility of
communication with the crowded quay, as these
unaccustomed eyes are inclined to fancy, when a
quick step rings upon the deck beside them, and
he is here.

But Menie does not need to blush for her be-
trothed, though those shy bright eyes of hers,
wavering up and down with such quick, unsteady
- glances, seem to light into richer color every mo-
ment the glow upon her cheeks—for Randall is a
true son of John Home, of Croftliill, inheriting the
stately figure, the high crested head, with its mass
of rich curls, the blue, clear, penetrating eyes.
And Randall bears these natural honors with a
grace of greater refinement, though a perfectly cool
spectator might think, percliance, that even the
more conscious dignity of the gentleman son did
- not make up for the kindly gleam which takes
from the farmer father’s blue eyes all suspicion of
coldness. But it is impossible to suspect coldness
in Randall’s glance now—his whole face sparkles
with the glow of true feeling and genuine joy. The
one of them did not think the other beautiful a
’few days—a few hours—ago, even with all the
charm of memory and absence to make them fair
—.—and neither are beautiful, nor near it, to everyday
I eyes;but with this warm light on the happy, and
true, and pure, they are beautiful to each other now.

“ Weel, I wadiia say there was mony like him,
’specially among tliae English, after a’," said Jen-
ny, under her breath. _ I

“ What do you say, Jenny?” Mrs. Laurie, who
has already had her share of Randall’s greetings,
and being satisfied therewith, thinks it is some-
thing about the luggage, which luggage, to her
careful eyes, comes quite in the way of Randall
Home.

“I was saying—wee], ’deed it’s nae matter,”
said Jenny, hastily recollecting that her advice had
, not been asked before Meiiie’s engagement, and
' that she» had never neigiied to acknowledge any

satisfaction with the same, “ but just it’s my hope
there’s to be seine safer gate ashore than you.
, Eh, my patience! if it‘s no like adrove of wild
‘ Irish a pouring down on us! But I would scarce
’ like to cross the burn on that bit plank, and me a’
the boxes tocarry. I needna speak; the mistress
pays nae mair heed to me; but pity me! we’re no
out of peril yet—they’ll sink the boat E"

And Jenny watched with utter dismay the flood
‘of invading porters and idle loungers on the quay,
and with indignation looked up to, and apostro.

phised, the careless captain on the paddle-box, who

could coolly look on and tolerate this last chance
‘ of “ sinking the boat.” From these terrors, how-
._ “of, Jenny was suddenly awakened into more ac-
tive warfare. .
1 mercenaries assailed her own particular pile of
w trunks, and boxes, and Jenny, furious and alarmed,
- . flew to the defence. ~
‘ But bv-andbv—oa tedious time to Mrs. Laurie,
though it flew like an arrow over the heads of
Randall and Menie, and over Jenny’s fierce conten—

tiou-etlie'y were all safely established at last in a.

. London haekuey coach, with so much of ' the
lighter baggage as it could or would convey. / Ran-

i

1

 

A parcel of these same thronging,

 

night, so nothing further was possible; he went
away after he had lingered till he could linger no
longer. Mrs. Laurie leaned back in her corner
with a long-drawn sigh, Jenny, on the front seat,
muttered out the conclusion of her fufl’, while
Menie looked out with dazzled eyes, catching every
now and then among the stranger passengers a
distant figure, quick and graceful; nor till they
were miles away did Meuie recollect that this vis-
ion of her fancy could not be Randall Home.
Miles away-—-it was hard to fancy that through
these thronged and noisy streets one could travel
miles. Always a long array of shops and ware-
houses and dingy hOuses, always a pavement full
and crowded, always a stream of vehicles besides
their own in the centre of the way, now and then
a break into some wider space—-—a square, or cross,
or junction of streets—here and there a great
public building, or an old characteristic house,
which Menie feels sure must .be something nota-
ble, if anybody were by to point it out. Jenny,
interested and curious at first, is by this time
quite stunned and dizzy, and. now and then can-
tiously glances from the window, with a. strong
suspicion that she has been singled out for a mys-
tei'ious destiny, and that the cab-driver has some
desperate intention of maddening his passengers,
by driving them round and round in a circle of
doom through these bewildering streets. Nothing
but the hum of other locomotion, the jolting din
of their own, the jar over the stones of the
causeway, the stream of passengers left behind,
andhouses gliding past them, give evidence of
progress, till, by-and-by, the stream slackens, the
noises decrease, the trees break in here and there
among the houses, dusty suburban shrubberies,
villakins standing apart, planted in bits of garden
ground, and then, at last, the tired horse labors up
a steep ascent; long palings, trees, and green
slopes of land, reveal themselves to the eyes of
the weary travelers, and under the full forenoon
sun, pretty Hampstead, eagerly looked-for, appears
through the shabby cab-windows, with London in
a veil of mist lying far off at its feet.
Instinctiver Mrs. Laurie puts up her hands to
draw her veil forward, and straighted the edge of
her traveling-bonnet; instinctively Menie looses
the ribbons of hers, to shed back the hair from
her flushed cheek. Jenny, not much caring what
the inhabitants of Heathbank Cottage maythink
of her, only gathers up upon her knee 9. full arm-

ful, of bags and baskets, and draws her breath -

hard—a. note of anticipatory disdain and defiance
as she nods her head backward, with a toss of im-
patience upon the glass behind her. And now the
driver looks back to point with his whip to a low
house on the ascent before him, and demands if he
is right in thinking this ’Eathbank. Nobody can
answer; but, after a brief dialogue with the pro-
prietor of a passing donkey, the cabman stirs his
horse with a chirrup and a. touch of, the lash. It
is ’Eatlibank, and they are at their jburncy’s end.

' Home—well, one has seen places that look less
like home. You can just see the low roof, the lit-
tle bits of pointed gable, the small latticeéwindows
of the upper story, above the thick green haw.
thorn hedge that closes round. A tall yew-tree
looks out inquisitiiely over the liawtlioriis, pinched
and meagre, and of vigilant aspect, not quite sat-
isfied, as it would seem, with the calm enjoyment
of the cows upon this band of grass without; but
Jenny’s heart warms to the familiar key, which
might be in Dumfriesshire—Jhey’ look so home-
like. Jenny’s lips form into the involuntary
“ pruh.” Jenny’s senses are refreshed by the
balmy breath of the milky mothers, and Meiiie‘s
eyes rejoice over a glorious promise of roses and
jasmine on you sunny wall, and a whole world of
clear, unclouded sky and sunny air embracing yon-
der group of elmtrees. Even Mrs. Laurie’s
curved brow sometime and softens; there is good
promise in the first glance of Heathbank.

At the little gate in the hedge, Miss Annie
Laurie’s favorite serving-maid, in a little
smart cap, collar, and embroidered apron, which
completely overpower and bewilder Jenny, stands
waiting to receive them. Everything looks so
neat, so fresh, so unsullied, that the travelers grow
flushed and heated witha sudden sense of contrast,
and remember their own travel-soiled garments

and fatigued faces painfully [but Manic has only.
m,m. very.  dupes bed, and bright

as

,

 

lawn which shrines the: yewotree, made 

mp
upon the well-kept gravel path, and still has her
hand upon the carriage-door, half turning round to

assist her mother, when a sudden voice comes round .

the projecting bowmindow of Heathbank Cot-
tage—a footstep rings on the walk, an appear-
ance reveals itself in the bright air. Do you think

it is some young companion whom your good aunt’s .

kindness has provided for you, Meme—some one
light of heart and young of life, like your own

Maytime? Look again, as it comes tripping along, -

the path in its flowing muslin and streaming ring~
lets. Look, and cast down your head, shy Menie,
abashed you know not why-for what is this 2

Something in a very pretty muslin gom'with
very delicate lace about its throat and hands, and

curls waving out from its checks. Look, too, what ,

a thin slipper, what a dainty silken. stocking re-
veals itself under the half-transparent drapery!
Look at these ringing metallic toys suspended from
its slender waist, at the laced kerchief in its hand,
at its jubilant pace—anywhere but at the smile that
fnin would make sunshine on you—the features
which wear their most cordial look of welcome.
Menie Laurie’s eyes seek the gravel-path once
more, abashed and irreSponsive. '
youthful cheek reddens with a brighter color; her
hand is slow to detatch itself from the carriage-

door, though Menie Laurie’s grand—aunt flutters I

i

Menie Laurie’s r

befere her with outstretched arms of gracious has. ‘

pitality, inviting her embrace.

“ My pretty little darling, welcome to Heath-

bank," says the voice; and the voice is not um '

pleasant, though it is pitched somewhat too high.
“Kiss me, love; don’t let us be strangers. I ex-
pect you to make yourself quite at home.” . _
And Menie passively, and with humility, submits
to be kissed—a process of which she has had little
experience hitherto—and stands aside suddenly I
very much subdued and silent, while the sis-aufir
flutters into the earri e window to tender t a
same sign of regard to r enie‘s mother.

equaniniity; but Menie herself has been struck
dumb, and cannot find a word to say, as she fol-
lows with a subdued stepintc the sacred fostnesses'
of Heathbank.

Menie listens to the voice as if it were all a dream.

m

mar III.-:-CHAPTER XI.

“ Mr patience! but ya?“ no tell me, not 
nie, that you auld antick is the doctor’s, aunt i”

“She was no older than my father,  i

was his aunt, Jenny,“ said Menie Laurie, with an.
mility. Menie was something ashamed,  had
not yet recovered herself of the first salute. M ‘

“Nae aulder than the doctor! I wouldna say;
your momma hersel is no see young “£130, has.
been; but the like of you 2”- , . 

“ Look, Jenny, what a pleasant place,”,. said the
evasive Manic; “ though wheretlie heath
I suppose as they call this Heathbank, wepr

The muslin floats, the ringlets ‘
wave before the fascinated eyes of Mania, and '

Richie’s 
mother, better prepared, maintains a tolerable.

near it. Look, Jenny, down yonder, atthe *

in the smoke, and how clear the air is  ‘

this room so pleasant and lightsome. Are not?
pleased, Jenny i?" ' '

“Yon‘s my lady’s maids? said Jenny, wanna;  r i
They ca’ her Maria, nae  I ' 

tle snort of disdain.
set her up like a lady’s sel in one of your ,
novelles; and as muckle dresson anilkadayas I?“
seen mony a young lady gang to the kirk wi’ Miss
Menie; no, to say your sin very sel’s been plain
mony a day. Am I no pleased ? It‘s like to p

folk to come this far to an outlandish mangled

win to a house at last with a head owre'tukg  *

you ?”

window softly, with a consciousness of being]. use
a stranger, and in a stranger's house. The. retty.
White muslin curtains half hide her from; fishy,

and Jenny stands before the glasslagxdlit515§¢§hgy  i 9

table, ,_takirig up sundry pietty things that, orna-
ment, it, With mingled admiration and disdain,,surg,
musing what this, and this, is for, and uoudering

indignaiitly whether the lady of the» house if“ , ;

“ Whisht, Jennyl"~ Mellie Laurie has  her i

think that Menie stands in need of such perfumes ‘

and cosmetics to which she herself resorts. But"
,thaz‘ooin‘ is every pretty room, with

its lightly,

ed" .1"

 

 

’ /.

‘ r
7

v \

 

 “  conferred a

.2

‘ light to veil’the Titan withal.
, ' her soft cheek, her hair plays on it lightly, the
' winddingering its loosened curls like achild, and



m: com. um

 

' TI?

tloewindow. Looking round, Jenny may still full,
but has no reason to complain. ,
And Menie, leaning out, feels the soft summer
air cool down the flush upon her cheeks, and lets
her-thoughts stray away over the great city you-
der, where the sunshine weaves itself among the
smoke, and makes a strange, yellow tissue, fine and
The heat is leaving

T y 1

Menie’s eyes have wandered far away with her
thoughts and with her heart.

Conscious of the sunshine here, lying steadily on
the quiet burn, the meagre yew-tree, the distinct
garden path—conscious of the soft bank of
turf, where these calm cattle repose luxuri-
ously; of the broad, yellow, sandy road which
skirts it; of the little gleam of water yonder in
a distant hollow; but buoyed upon joyous wings,
hovering like a bird over an indistinct vision
of yonder pier, and deck, and crowded street
 little circle enclosing one lofty figure;
out of which rises this head, with its natural state
andgrsce, out of which shine those glowing, ardent

‘ eyes; and Meals charmed and silent, looks on and

watches, seeing him come and go through all the

. ignoble crowd-—-the crowd which has ceasedto be
ign'oble when it encloses him.

And voices of children ringing through the sun-

 and a sweet, soft, universal tinkle, as of

. “ some fairy music in the air, flow into Menie
V ‘ Laurie's meditation, but never fret its golden

My ,
’\

3)

thread; for every joy of sight and sound finds some

 kindred in this musing; and the voices grow into

i. in. sweet all-hail, and the hum of distant life lingers
on her eat like the silver tone of fame. Fame that
is coming-woming nearer every day, throwing the

” glow of its purple royal, .the sheen of its diamond

crown upon his head and on his path, and the

Ed’s heart, overflooded with a light more glorious

an the sunshine, forgets itself, its own identity
and fate, in" dreaming of the nobler fate to which
its own is bound. '

' “A young friend of yours—you may depend upon

y warmest welcome for him, my dear Mrs.
uric,” says a voice just emerging into the air be-

low, which sends Menie back in great haste, and

with violent, .-nnconscious blushes, from the win~
dew. “{Mr. Randall Homo—quite a remarkable
name, I am sure. Something in an oflice Y Indeed!

‘ But then, really, an office means so many very

‘ ,diflerent thingy—may be of any class, in fact—and
a literary man ? I am delighted. He must be a
- fiery intimate friend to have seen you already.”
I Manic waits breathless for the answer, but in
 truth Mrs. Laurie is very little more inclined to be-

.  i”  . trayher secret than she is herself.
L ‘ V ‘ ., > “We have known him for many years—a neigh-

bor’s son," said Mrs. Laurie, with hesitation; “ yet

indeed it is foolish to put 08 what I must tell you

if x ' when you'see them together. Randall and my

’ Home are—J suppose I must say, though both so

._ Mug—«med, and of course it is natural he

should be anxious. I have no doubt you will be

,,  W with him; but I was hurried and nervous as

' I

'4 tle this morning, or I should have postponed his
- first yisit a day or two, till we ourselves were less

It Peg-{m strangers to you. Miss Annie.”

* ""1 bag...” said Miss Annie Laurie, lifting with

courteous deprecation her thin and half-barecl arm.

' ‘ f “I felt‘quitersure, when I got your letter, that we
, [mid not be strangers half an hour, and this is
V   quite a delightful addition; true love—-
 ’1 73"»? yonn‘glove-«ah, my dear Mrs. Laurie, where can
I 7"“ a greater pleasure than to watch two un-
-  hearts expanding themselves .’ I am

', suite charmed, amen of talent, too, and your pretty
" (little‘daughter, so , young and so fresh, and so

beautifully simple. ‘ I am sure you could not have
eater privilege upon me; I shall feel

   ' quiteadoli tin their young love. Dear little

creature, she must be so happy; and I am sure
' a  mother like, you must be as much devoted

to him "as your darling Menie.”

 Mrs. Laurie, who was not used to speak of dar-

  -' . Mug Monies, nor to think it at all essential that she

 

I

should he devoted to Randall Home, was consider-

' ably confused by this, appeahand could only an-

. use: in a veryquiet tone, which quite acted as a

 ' , 7, 'shagiowto Miss Annie’s glow, of enthusiasm, that

; a  L Randall- «ass very $0047“ JP“: “a M 5110-
"-‘ w.vatorhim ’  r /  '-

rm
v‘r

.mflf‘fi. y, a.
. V I

 

“ The course of true love never did run smooth,”
said the greatly interested Miss Annie. “ My dear
Mrs. Laurie, I am afraid you must have had some
other, perhaps more ambitious views,‘ or you
could not possibly, with your experience, too,
speak with so little interest of your dear child’s
happiness.”

Here Minie ventured to glance out. The lady
of the house swayed lightly back and forward, with
one foot on the ground and another on the close
turf of the little lawn, switching the yew-tree play-
fully with a wand of hawthorn; and the wind blew
Miss Annie’s long ringlets against her withered
cheek, and fluttered the lace upon her arm, with a
strange contempt for her airy grace, and for the
levity so decayed and out of date which Menie felt
herself blush to see. Opposite, upon the grass
stood Mrs. Laurie, the sun beating down upon her
snowy matron-cap, her healthful check, her sober
household dignity. But the sun revealed to Menie
something more than the natural good looks
of that familiar face. Mrs. Laurie’s cheek was
flushed a little. Mrs. Laurie’s fine, clear, dark eye
wandered uneasily over the garden, and Mrs. Lau-
rie’s foot patted the grass with considerable im-
patience. Half angry, disconcerted, abashed, an-
noyed, Menie’s mother could but half conceal an
involuntary smile of amusement too.

“ Yes, my child’s happiness is very dear to me,”
said Mrs. Laurie, with half a shade of offence in
her tone. “ But Menie is very young—I am in no
haste to part with her.”

“Ah, my dear, youth is the time,” said Miss
Annie, pathetically; “ the first freshness, you
know, and that dear, sweet, early susceptibility, of
which one might say so many charming things. For
my part, I am quite delighted to think that she has
given her heart so early, so many experiences are
,lost otherwise. I remember—ah, I remember—-
but really, Mrs. Laurie, you surprise me. ' I see I
must give my confidence to Menie. Poor little dar-
ling; I am afraid you have not encouraged her
to confide all her little romantic distresscs to
you.”

“ I have always respected Menie’s good sense,”
said Mrs. Laurie’s, hastily. Then she made a
somewhat abrupt pause, and then glanced up with
her look of disconcertment and confusion, half
cayered- with a smile. “ I am Menie’s mother,and
an old wife now, Miss Annie, I am afraid l have
lost a great deal of that early susceptibility you
spoke of, and I scarcely think mv daughter would
care to find it in me, but weare very good friends
for all that.”

And Mrs. Laurie’s eye, glistening with mother
pride, and quite a different order of sentiment
from Miss Annie’s, glanced up involuntarily to
Menie’s window. Menie had but time to answer
with a shy child’s look of love out of her downcast
eyes—for Menie shrank back timidly from the
more enthusiastic sympathy with which her grand-
aunt waited to Overpower her—and disappeared in.
to the quiet of her room to sit down in a shady
corner a little, and wind her maze of thoughts in~
to some good order. The sun was drawing towards
the west—it was time to descend to the shady
drawing-room of Heathbank, where Randall by-
and-bye should be received for the first time as
Miss Annie Laurie’s guest.

 

CHAPTER x11.

Ir is very pleasant here, in the shady drawing-
room of Heathbank. Out of doors, these grassy
slopes which Menie Laurie cannot believe to be the
heath, are all glowing sunshine; but within here,
the light falls cool and green, the breezevplays
through the open window, and golden streaks of
sunbeams come in faintly at one end, through the
bars of the venetian blind, upon the pleasant shade,
touching it into character and consciousness. It
is a long room with a window at either end, a
round table in the middle, an open piano in a re-
cess, and pretty bits of feminine-looking furniture
straying about in confusion not too studied. The
walls are full of gilt frames, too, and look bright,
though one need not be unnecessarily critical about
the scraps of canvas, and broad-margined water-
color drawings which repose quietly within these
gilded squares. They are Miss Annie Laurie’s pic-
tures, and Miss Annie Laurie feels herself af’oon-
Wood a  at them. while it

/

 

so: is W " an unis

cannot be denied that the frames do excellent sob
vice upon the shady drawing-room wall.

Mrs. Laurie has found refuge in the corner of
a sofa, and with a very fine picture‘book'in'her
hand, escapes from the conversation of Miss An-
nie, which has been so very much in the style of
the picture-book that Menie’s mother still keeps
her flush of abashed annoyance upon her cheek,
and Menie herself lingers shyly at the door, half
afraid to enter. There is something very formid-
able to Menie in the enthusiasm and sympathy of
her aunt. '

“My pretty darling!” said Miss Annie—and
Miss Annie lifted her dainty perfumed fingers to
tap Menie’s cheeks with playful grace. Menie
shrank back into a comer, blushing and discon-
certed, and drooped her head after a shy, girlish
fashion, quite unable to make any response. “ Don’t
be afraid, my love,” said the mistress of the house.
with a little laugh. “ Don’t fear any jesting from
me ! no, no, I hope I understand better these sen-
sitive, youthful feelings; and we shall say nothing
on the subject, my dear Menie, not a word; only
you must trust me as a friend, you know, and we
must wait tea till he comes—ah! till he comes,
Menie.”

Poor Menie for the moment could have wished

him a thousand miles away; but she only sat down,
very suddenly and quietly, on a low seat by the
wall, while Miss Annie tripped away to arrange some
ornamental matters on the tea-table, where her lit-
tle china cups already sparkled, and her silver, tea-
pot shone. Menie took courage to look at he?
kinswoman’s face as this duty was being perform-
ed. Withered and fantastic in its decayed graces,
there was yet a something of kindness in the

smile. The face had been pretty once in its youth: '

ful days—a sad misfortune to it now, for if it were
not for this long-departed, dearly remembered
beauty, there might have been a natural sunshine
in Miss Annie Laurie’s face.

As it was, the wintry light in it played about
gaily, and Miss Annie made very undeniable [exer-
tions to please her visitors. She told Menie of her
own pursuits, as a girl might have done in expect~

ation of a Sharer in them ; and to Mrs. Laurieshe

gave a sketch of her “ society,” the few_ friends
who, Menie thought, made up a very respectable
list in point of numbers. Mrs. Laurie from her
sofa, and Menie on her seat by the wall, looking
slightly prim and very quiet in her shy confusion,
made brief answers as they could. Their enter-
tainer did not much want their assistance; and
by-and-by Menie woke with a great flush to hear
the little gate swing open, to discern a lofty figure

passing the window, and the sound of a quick step ,

on the gravel path. Randall was at the door.

And Randall, looking very stately, very gracious
and deferential, came though the shower of “de-
lighteds ” and “ most liappys ” with which. Miss
Annie saluted him, with a bow of proud grace and
much dignity of manner, to Mrs. Laurie’s extreme
surprise, and Menie’s shy exultation.
hour passed over very well. The strangers grew
familiar with Miss Annie; then by-and-by they
strayed out, all of them, into the sweet evening air,
so full of charmed distant voices, the hum and
breath of far-oi! life; and Mcnie found herself,
before she was aware, alone under a sky slowly
softening into twilight, in a pretty stretch of slop-
ing turf, where some young birch—trees stood
about gracefully, like so many children resting in
a game, with Randall Home by her side.

And they'liad found time for various pieces of
talk, quite .individual and peculiar to themselves,
before Meme lifted her face, with its flush of full
unshadowed pleasure, and glancing up to the other

countenance above her, asked, “When is the next ’

book coming, Randall r"

“ What next book, May Marion 2”

This was his caressing name for her, as May alone
was his father’s. . ‘

“ The next book-wonr next book,” said Merrie.
“ I do not know much, nor maybe care much, about
anybody elsc’s.

“ hat if it should never come at all .9” ,
Randall drew her fingers through his‘hand was

playful tenderness, half as he might have'dons , V I

with a child. , _ .
a Yes—shut I know it is to crime; at so, so that

 

Another .

- Randall-our own-when is it "
comm .9" - . , .

“ In“ to {

 

‘ “and. name as Sly,

 

I, .. Slavesfsaémwf . A,

r- somewhat evasively given.

1
l

 ’0 mar ,HMIZT.

18

 

' when-mot if. Tell me~for you need not be coy,
'or think of keeping such a secret from me.”

“Did you never hear that it is dangerous to
hurry one work upon another ?” was the answer
“I am to be prudent
this timHhere is peril in it.”

“Peril to what ?” Menic Laurie looked up with
simple eyes into a face where there began to rise
some faint mists. Looking into them, she did not
comprehend at all these floating vapors, nor the
curve of fastidious discontent which they brought
to Randall’s lip and brow.

“ My simple Menie, you do not know how every-
thing gets shaped into a trade,” said Randall, with
a certain condesention. “Peril to reputation—risk
of looaing what one has gained—that is what we
all tremble for in London.”

“ Randall l” Menie looked up again with aflush
of innocent scorn. He might speak it, indeed, but
sheknew he could mean nothing like this.

There was a slight pause—it might be of mm
barrassment~on Randall‘s part; certainly he
made no 'eflort to break the silence. .

“ But a great gift was not given for than". said
Menie, rapidly, in her unwitting enthuSiasm.
“People do not have unusual endowments given
them to be curbed by such things as that; and

‘you never meant it, Randall, it could not move

on.”
But Randall only drew his hand fondly over the

. fin ers he held and smiled——smiled with pleasure

an pride, natural and becoming. He had not
been sophisticated out of regard for the warm ap-
preciation and praise of those most dear to him.
He might distrust it—-might think the colder
world a better judge, and the verdict of strangers
a safer rule, but in his heart he loved the other
still.

Butllenie’s thoughts were disturbed, and moved
into a Sudden ferment. Her hand trembled a. little
on Randall’s arm; her eyes forsook his face, and

cast long glances instead over the bright air before

them; and when she spoke, her voice was as low

" as her words were quick and hurried.

-- dall, Randall, you used to think otherwise.

 

“ It does not become me to teach you, but, Ran-
Do
you mind what you used to say about throwing

5 away the scabbord, putting on the harness-uRan-
, dall, do you mind?”

“ I mind many a delightful hour up on the hill-
side yonder,” said Randall, affectionately, “when
my May, Marion began to enter into all my dreams

’ v and hopes; and ,I mind about the scabbard and

the harness no less,” he continued, laughing, “ and
how I meditated‘flashing my sword in the eyes of

all the world, like a school-boy with his first en-

dowment of gunpowder; but one learns to know
that the .world cares so wonderfully little about
one’s sword, Henie; and moreover—you must find
out forms the reason why——this same world seems
to creep round one’s-self strangely, and by-andby
one begins to feelit more decorous to hide the
glittgpr of the trenchaut steel. What a coxcomb
you make of me,” said Randall, abruptly breaking
off, with a short laugh; “one would fancy this
same weapon of mine was the sword of Wallace
wight.” '

Manic made no answer, and the discontent of
Randall’s face wavered into various shades of scorn,
--o. strange scorn, such as Manic Laurie had never
seen before on any face—scorn half of himself,
wholly of the World.

“ When I know I had succeeded,” said Randall,

_ at length, with a still tone of condescensiou in his
confidence, “ I was a little elated, I confess, Menie,

foolish as it seems, and. thought of nothing but
getting to work again, and producing something

'WOrthy t6 live. Well, that is just the first im-

pulseg; by-and-by I came“ to see what a poor afi'air
this applause was after all, and to think I had bet-

‘ ter keep what I had, without running the risk of
‘ ‘_ losing my advantage by a less successful stroke.
‘ After all, this tide of popularity depends on noth.

ingless than real" merit,’ as the critics call it; so

’ Ila prehend we will have no new book, Menic; we
. wil be content with what we have gamed.”

“If applause is such a poor stair, why be afraid

‘ - ofthe chance of losing it i" said Manic; but she

addeda, hastily, “I want to know about Johnnie
'Lithsé’r. Randall; is a possible that he has come
tabs ,8 great writer, too?” _ u

' 1 Phi you ml in «start

 

L

writer too,” said Randall, with a smile. “Johnnie Flynn have a fair prospect, as fair as women could,

:Lithgow is quite a popular man, Meme—one of the

oracles: of the press.” -

“ Is it a derogation, then, to be a popular man i”
said the“ puzzled Menie; “or is he afraid to risk
his fame, like you ?” '

The lofty head elevated itself slightly. “No;
Johnnie Lithgow is not a man for fame,” said Ran-
dall, with some pride. “Johnnie does his literary
work like any other day’s work; and, indeed, why
should he not ?” -

Menie looked up with a blank look, surprised,
and not comprehending. Even the stronger emo-
tions of life, the passions and anguishes, had never
yet taken hold of Menie; still less had the subtle
refining, the artificial stoicism of mere mind and
intellect, living and feeding on itself; and Menie’s
eye followed his slight unconscious gestures with
wistful wonderment as Randall went on.

“ After all, what does it signify—what does any-
thing of this kind signify? One time or another
appreciation comes; and if appreciation never
should come, what then? So . much as is good
will remain. I do not care a straw for applause
myself. I rate it at its own value; and that is
nothing.”

It began to grow somewhat dark, and Menie
drew her shawl closer, “I think it is time to go
home,” she said, softly; and as she spoke, a vision
of the kindly home she had loft—of the brave
protecting bills, the broad fair country, the sky
and atmosphere, all too humble for this self-ab-
straction, which answered in clouds and tears, in
glorious laughter and sunshine, to every daily
change—rose up before her; some tears, uncalled
for, against her will, stole into Menie’s eyes. With
a little awe in her innocence, she took Randall’s
arm again. He must be right, she supposed; and
something very grand and superior was in Randall‘s
indifference, yet somehow the night air crept into
Meuie’s heart, as she never felt it do before.
Many an hour, this soft night air had blown about
her uncovered head, and tossed her hair in curls
about her cheeks—to-night she felt it cold, she
knew not why—tonight she was almost glad to
hurry home.

CHAPTER XIII.

“RANDALL HOME is avery superior young man,”
said Mrs. Laurie, with quiet approbation. “Do
you know, Menie, I had begun to have serious
thoughts about permitting your engagement so
early ?-——if my brain should leave me—-—leave me,
and get estranged into another house and home,
with a man that was a stranger in his heart to me.
Whisht, Menie—my darling, what makes you
cry l”

But Menie could not tell; the night air was still
cold at her heart, and she could not keep back these
unseusonable tears.

“But I am better pleased to-night than I have
been for many a day,” said Mrs. Laurie. “I never
saw him so kindly, so like what I would desire. I
was a little proud of him, tonight, if it were for
nothing but letting Miss Annie see that we are
not at all such common folk as she thinks down
in the south country—though, I suppose, I should
say the north country here. Menie! he will lose

'my good opinion again if I think he has vexed

you. What ails you buirn! Menie, my dear f”

“I don’t know what it is, mother—mo, no, he
did not vex me. I suppose I am glad to hear you
speak of him so,” said the shy Menie, ashamed of
her tears. The mother and daughter were in their
own room preparing for rest, and Menie let down
her hair over her face, and played with it in her
fingers, that there might be no more remark or no-
tice of this unwilling emotion. It was strange—
never all her life before had Monie wept for any-
thing indefinite; for childish provocations—for
little vexations of early youth—for pity—she had
shed bright transitory tears, but she had never
“cried for nothing” until now.

“Yes, I am pleased,” said Mrs. Laurie, as she
tied her muslin cap over her ears; what did you
say, Manic? I thought this (arming to London
would satisfy me on the one point which is likely
to be more important than all others, and I was
right. Yes, Merrie, lls down,,like agood girl; you

 fiétriodf—snd lie down with f  heart,

 

wish. I am quite satisfied’myself."

But how it came about that Menie only slept. 

broken snatches—that Menie dreamt uncomfort-
able dreams of harassment and annoyance—dan-
gers in which Randall forsook her—cares of which
he had no part—Manic did not know. A day ugo,
and Mrs. Laurie’s unsolicited avowal of “satisfac-
tion ” had lifted Menie into the purest glow of joy,
but tonight she cannot tell what makes her so
restless and uneasy—what prompts her‘now and
then to fall a-weeping, all unwillingly, and “for
nothing.” Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart 2—-
something has come to trouble the waters, but in
other guise than an angel’s. V
The grass is soft and mossy under the elm trees,
and the morning air—a world of sweetness-mean—
tifies every branch and stem. Down yonder'intlm
hollow, low at your feet, Menie Laurie, the
slave, Titan has awakened to his daily toil. Is that
the sweep of his mighty arm stirring the heavy
mist which hangs above him? Is this the clung
of his ponderous tools ringing up faintly into the
quiet skies? The children are not astir yet, to
seek their pleasure in these precincts. Nothing
seems awake in this composed and sober place;

but yonder, with many a conflict in his heart, with ‘

many a throbbing purpose in his brain, vain life
and strength tingling to his finger-points, with
sighs and laughter swelling in his breathmyom‘ler
great vessel of the world is up and doing, holding
}the fate of a new day undeveloped in his busy
rand.

And you, young wandering heart, look out up.
on him, innocent, ignorant, wistful, like an angel
on the threshold of the world—nothing "knowing
the wiles and snares, the tortures and delirium.
that live yonder under the battle-cloud, unacquuian:

ted with those prodigious penalties of social life, 7
which yonder are paid and borne every hour ;, but,
looking out, with your head bent forward, and .

your innocent eyes piercing. far in thedreamy

vision of reverie, making wistful investigations in. ‘

to the new marvels round you, pondered and be.
wildered in your own secret soul.

Randall—looking out thus through the morning _ "

light upon the city, one can see him in so man

aspects ; the light shines upon his lofty hea ,
reaching almost the skies, like theIhill of his quiet
home—and Menie lifts her eyes to follow that noble
daring look of his, piercing up through mortal
clouds and vapors to do homage with the gifts God
has given him, at his Master’s throne and foot-
stool; but anon there steals a cloud around the
hero of Menie’s vision-11. dim background,,which
still reveals him not less clearly, norwith 
cination, but with a sadder wonder of 

for Randall’s eyes are bent earthward, 
lofty head is bowed, and Manic, though she "

watches him with yearning curiosity, can never
meet his downcast look to read what is them
never fathom what lies within the veiled heart and.
self-abstracted soul. You would: think now that

her eyes are caught by the sunshine yonder  i

such mischievmus confusion among the city

vapours. Not so; for Menie‘s eyes,runder“tiitt
troubled curve of her forehead, are studying
Randall, and see only and incomprehensible corne-
thing in him, overshadowing all the earth  all

the skies.

was her. little basket in her, hand, unkind

dainty step, and fluttering muslin gowmgifie'
Annie brushes the dew from thegraos,“ slit
draws near the elm trees. But though Miss Anni.

has been very confidential with her grandmmoo; f '  ‘5

the subject of her own juvenile occupations, on.

little piece of daily business lliss Annie has for: , 

home to tell of, and that is a morning) can

she pays to a poor pensioner or two in the village"

where, if perhaps her charity may be 
intrusive, it is always real.
heart, though it figures so much in herwmmon
talk, and is overlaid with so many false ma,
mentalitics, has a true little fountain of 
kindness in it, spite of the fantastic »
hide it from common view. A i ’ “withiher
new thoughts, 'Menie neither heard nos saw her

For poor Hing night; ,

that .

aunt’s approach, till she awoke with a start to ,

hear a gay laugh behind her. and to feel the pres; 1‘"

sure of those long, this fingers upon her eyelids.

“ Dreaming. Home l sh, my love! but not 7

in "maiden meditation fancy

rs;

n ,

‘/

m cum HEAR?! ,

’\

 

,Startled and abashed, Menie drew back, but Miss
lanie’sriugiets had already touched her forehead,
as Miss Annie bestowed the morning salutation

' . upon Menie’s cheek; and now they are seated side

V 7‘by side under shadow of the greatest elm.

 .“My dear, I am afraid your mamma does not
encourage you to confide in her; you must tell
me all your little trials. Menie,” said Miss Annie,
fluttering with her finger-points upon Menie’s
hand; “ and now, my darling. speak to me freely
—you were delighted to meet him last night.”

But Mellie had no voice to answer, and could

" Tonly bend down her flushed face, and pluck up the

I

" grass with her disengaged hand.

“Don’t be shy, love. I am so much interested;
and tell me, Menie, you found him quite unchanged ?
——just as » devoted as he used to be? I am
sure one only needed to look at him‘v-and how de~
'lightful to find him quite unchanged.”

“ How far is it to London, Aunt?” said Menie,

‘ g with confusion.

“80 near that your thoughts have traveled
there this morning to find him out, I know,” said
Miss Annie, “so near that he can come out every

'_ "night, so we need not talk of London; but come,
1 slow darling; have you nothing to tell me ?”

“You are too good," said Menie, with a slight

{altar in her voice. “I~—I should like very. well

n to take Jenny, if you please, to see some of the
great sights."

[Miss Annie shook her head. “ Ah, Menie, how

. mischievous! Don’t you think I deserve your con-

) ' fidence ?”

“But, indeed, I have no confidence to give,”
sa’id Menie, almost under her breath. *-

«‘" My dear, I was just like you; the Scotch sys~
ram is so restrictive—I was afraid to speak to any-
one,” said Miss Annie; “and so you see I had a

' little misunderstanding; and he was angry, and I

‘ *_ was angry; and first we quarrelled, and then we
, milked at each other, and so at last it came about

that we Were parted.‘ Yes, Menie, dear, just now you

”, are happy; you do not care for a sympathizing

heart; but if you should chance to be disap-

j r ~ {aimed—.1 trust not, my love, but such things will
u A up

. x

1

pew-you will then remember thatI too have
been blighted-oh, my dear child l”
And with a wave of her hand, expressing unut-

* tenable things, Miss Annie arranged her liwht silken

' mantle over this same blighted heart of hers, as if

T , to hide the wound. _
3 ' But Merrie, whose mind already had recovered
'v , ~ its tone-Menie, who now only remembered Ran-

‘ sky, and all

,. dull unchanged, unchangeable, towering high above

V all vulga’r quarrels and sullenness, a very fortress
for a generous heart to dwell in—Menie Sprang
lightly up from the elastic turf, and stood with her
slight youngI figure relieved against the morning

er frame vibrating with pride and joy

in her worthy choice. What chance that she

-  'muld ever give this wished-for confidence—~should

7.791“ turn to seek such sympathy-—should ever find

3 ‘ comfort or solace in hearing of Miss Annie Lau-
‘g, ‘r rie’s  woe?

 

'cnarrsn xrv.

‘ L ’- ‘“ n is two years now since Randall came to Lon-

' x  don. Bram Dumfriesshire we send out a great

 

nanyoadets into the world, Miss Annie; and

 some one who knew his father found a situation

here fer Randall Home. He brought his book

- With him, and it was published, and very success-

ful; then he came home, and sought my consent
' told: engagement with Menie. That is all Ran-

 ddll’s history in connection with us. The other
/  man you expect to-night, Miss Annie, is

only'a oottager’s son—very clever, I bear, but not
in any-w: ,, I fancy, to be put in comparison with
,Ban‘dall Hyome‘.”

And Mrs. Laurie took up her work with a little

 - .iuiet pride, resolved to be very kind to Johnnie

 

ithgow, but by no means pleased to have him

/ mentioned in the same breath with her future son-

in-law. _
» 2'“! adore talent,” said Miss Annie, opening her

" work-table to take out a tiny bit of “ fancy ” work.

.“I could not describe the delight I have in the

 ,V -303“, of peep}, pf genius—self-taught genius too

9—» charming; and both of these delightful young

 ' * man he self-taught.”

w

. 4.22m ‘ ,.

 

Mrs. Laurie drew herself up with a little hau«
teur. .

“Mr. Home has had an excellent education;
his father is a very superior man. Johnnie Lith-
gow as I have said before, is only a cottager’s son.”

But Miss Annie could not see the distinction,
and ran on in such a flutter of delight in anticipa-
tion of her guests, that Mrs. Laurie quietly re-
turned to the intricaciesof her work, and con.
tented herself with a resolution to be very kind
and condescending to the popular editor, the cot-
tager’s son. '

The drawing-room is in special glory—the pin-
af0res discarded from the chairs, the little tables
crowded with gay books and toys and flowers, and
everything in its company dress. Mrs. Laurie—who
never can be anything but Mrs. Laurie a matron, of
sober years, and Menie’s mother—sits, in her
grave-colored gown and snowy cap, upon the sofa;
while on a stool low down by her side, in a little
tremor of expectation, Miss Annie perches like a
bird, waiting the arrival of her visitors. Mrs. Lau-
rie, with her Dumfriesshire uses, quite believes
what Miss Annie says, that only a “few friends ”
are coming to-night, and has not the slightest idea

that the lady of the house will be greatly mortified

if her rooms are not filled in an hour or two with
a little crowd.

And up stairs, resplendent in Jenny‘s gown,
Menie Laurie stands before the glass, fastening on
one or two simple ornaments, and admiring, with
innocent enjoyment, her unusually elegant dress.
You may guess by this glimpse of these well-
known striped skirts, full and round, revealing
themselves under cover of the curtains, that J enny
too has been admiring her own magnificent pur-
chase. But Jenny by this time has grown impa-
tient, and jealous that Menie’s admiration prolongs
itself only to please her, Jenny; so, giving pre-
monition by sundry restless gestures of the advent
of a “ fuff,” she has turned to look out from the
window upon the sandy road which leads to ’Eath-
bank.

“Eh, Miss Menie! that brockit ane’s abonnie
cow,” said Jenny, “I never see onythiug else in
this outlandish place that minds me of home, if it
binna the mistress and yoursel. I’ll just bide and
look out for the young lads, Miss Menie. Ye
needna clap your hands, as if Jenny was turning
glaikit; if they werena lads frae our sin country-
side, they micht come and gang 0. twelvemonth
for me.” _ ,

“But the ladies and the gentlemen will see you
from the window, Jenny,” said Menie Laurie.

“ Ise warrant they’ve seen waur sichts,” said
Jenny, briskly; “I’m no gaun to let down my
ainsel, for a’ I have athraw; and I would just like
to ken, if folk wanted to see a purpose-like lass,
fit for her wark, wha they could come to in this
house but me? There’s my lady’s maid—~set her
up !-—-in her grand gown, as braw as my lady; and
there’s the tither slaving creature put off a’ this
morning clavering to somebody, and no fit to be
seen now ; for a’ they scoff at my short-gown and
good linsey coats. But they may scoff till they’re
tired, for Jenny; I’m no gaun to change, at my
time of life, fora’ the giggling in London town.”

“ But you’ll put on your gown tO-night, Jenny,”
said Menie persuasively, patting her shoulder.
“ There’s Randall did not see you last time he
was here; and Johnnie Lithgow, you would like to
see him. Come Jenny, and. put on your gown.”

“ It’s no muckle Randall Home heeds about me,"
and you ken that" said Jenny; “and for a’ he
didna see me, I saw him the last time he was here.
I’ll just tell you, Miss Menie, yon lad, to be a richt
lad, is ower heeding about himsel.”

“ You’re not to say that, Jenny; it vexes me,”
said Meals, with‘ simple gravity; “ besides, it is not
true. You mistake Randall—and then Johnnie
Lithgow.”

“ I wadna say but what I micht be pleased to
get a glint of him,” said Jenny. “Eh, my patience!
to think of Betty Armstrong’s son sitting down
with our mistress. But I’ll be sure to ca’ them by
their richt names afore the folk. I canna get my
tongue about the maisters. Maister Lithgow ! and
me minds him a wee white—headed laddie, handing
up his penny for cakes on the Hogmana'y, and
pu’ing John Glending’s kailstocks at Hallowe’en.
What would I put on my gown for, bairn? As
sure as I gas; into the room. I’ll ca’ him Johnnie.”

 

 

But Jenny’s scruples at last yielded, and Jenny .
came forth from her chamber gloriOus in, a blue.
and-yellow gown, printed in great stripes and, fig-
ures, and made after an antediluvian fashion,
which utterly shocked and horrified the pretty
Maria, Miss Annie Laurie’s favorite maid. Nor
was Miss Annie Laurie herself less disconcerted,
when honest Jenny, the high shoulder largely de~
veloped by her tight-fitting gown, and carrying a
cake-basket in her brown hands, made her appear--
ance in the partially filled drawing-room, threading '
her way leisurely through the guests, and g exam- '
ining, with keen glances and much attention, the
faces of the masculine portion of them. Miss
Annie made a pause in her own lively and juve-
nile talk, to watch the strange figure and the keen '
inquiring face, over which a shade of bewilderm
ment gradually crept. But Miss Annie no longer
thought it amusing, when Jenny made an abrupt
pause before her young mistress, then shyly en~
deavoring to make acquaintance with some very ,
fine young ladies, daughters of Miss Annie’s lofti—
est and most aristocratic friends, and said in a
startling whiSper, which the whole room could
hear: “ Miss Menie 1 ye micht tell folks which is
him, if he’s here; but I canna see a creature that’s
like Johnnie Lithgow of Kirklands, nor ouy be-
longing to him, in the haill room.”

Miss Annie Laurie, much horrified, rose from her
seat somewhat hastily; but at the same moment
up sprang by her side the guest to whom her most
particular attentions had been devoted—“And
Burnside Jenny has- forgotten me i” .

Burnside Jenny, quite forgetful of “ all the
folk,” turned round upon him in an instant. Not
quite Johnnie Lithgow, the merriest mischief-doer
in Kirklands parish, but a face that prompted re-
collections of his without dispute—blue eyes, danc-
ing and running over with the light of a happy
spirit——and a wisp of close curls, not many shades
darker in color than those of the “white—headed
laddie,” whose merry tricks Jenny had not forget.
ten.

“ Eh, man 1 is this you ?” said Jenny, with a sigh
of satisfaction. “I aye likit the callant for a’ his A
mischief, and it’s the same blythe face after a’.”

Randall Home stood leaning his fine figure
against the mantelpiece, and took no notice of
Jenny. Randall was somewhat afraid of a simii-
lar recognition; but Johnnie Lithgow, who did not
affect attitudes—Johnnie Lithgow, who was neith-
er proud nor ashamed of being a cottager’s‘ son,
and who had a habit of doing such kindly things
as occurred to him without consideration of ‘pru- '
deuce—drew her aside by both her brown hands,
out of which Jenny had laid the cakebasket,
to talk to her of home. A slight smile curled on
the lip of Randall Home. How well he looked,
leaning upon his arm, his lofty head towering over
every other head in Miss Annie’s drawing-room,
with his look of conscious dignity, his intellectual
face! Menie Laurie and Menie Laurie’s mother did
not find it possible to be other than proud of him;
yet the eyes of both turned somewhat wistfully to
the corner, to dwell upon a face which for itself
could have charmed no one, but which beamed and
shone like sunshine upon Jenny, greeting her as an
old friend. ,

“Your friend is a literary man i” said some-
body inquiringly, taking up a respectful position
by Randall’s side.

“Yes, poor fellow; he spins himself out into -
daily portions for the press,” said Randall. ‘

“A high vocation, sir; leader of public opinion-
and movements,” said the somebody, who professed
to'be an intellectual person, a man of progress.

“Say rather the follower,” said Randall, “and
well for those who have the happy knack of fol-
lowing wisely~chiming in, before itself is fully
aware of it, with the humor of the time.” ‘

'Menie Laurie, who was close at hand, and heard  '

all this, ventured a whisper, while Randall’s com.
panion had for the moment turned away. :

“ Your words sound as if you slighted him,
Randall, and you to call yourself a literary man."

“ Good Johnnie Lithgrow, I like him extremely,”
said Randall, with the half-scomful smile, which
puzzled Menie; “ but he is onlya literary workman
after all. He does his literature as his day’s labor

-—he will tell you so himself-a mere craft, for
daily bread.”
And just then Lithgow turned round with H?

 

 

I ,. » 5",

27120071922? Hanan j.  '

1

ll

‘4‘ L . ~"7

 

radiant face-ulna who had" no fame to lose, and

 did an honest day’s work in every day, not think-

ing that the nature of his craft excused him from
the natural amount of toil—and again Menie felt a

’ little pang at her heart, a she thought of Ran-

dall’s jealous guardianship of Randall’s youthful
fame. V

 

CHAPTER XV.

‘VI nave been thinking of bringing up mY

. mother to live with me," said the Mr. Lithgow in

 

keeper for you.”

whom MrS. Laurie and her daughter were begin-
ning to forget the humble Johnnie: “ I see no
reason why she should live in poverty in Kirklands,
while I am comfortable here.”

His face flushed slightly as he concluded, and he

began to drum with his fingers in mere shyness

and embarrassment upon Miss Annie Laurie’s
work-table. Randall, a little distance from him,
was turning over with infinite scorn Miss Annie’s
picture-books. The two young men had grown
familiar in the house, though it was not yet a
month Since they entered it first.

“And I think you are very right," said Mrs.
Laurie cordially, “though whether Mrs. Lithgow
might be pleased with a townclife, or whether”

She paused; it was not very easy to say
“ whether your mother would be a suitable house-
Mrs. Laurie could not do vio-
lence either to her own feelings or his by suggest-
ing such a doubt.

“I think it would be a great risk,” said Ran-
dall, “and if you consulted me, would certainly
warn you against it'. You mother knows nothing
of London—she would not like it; besides, a
young man seeking his fortune should be alone."

“Cold doctrine,” said Lithgow, smiling, “and to

 

.come from you.”

His eye fell unconsciously upon Menie; then as
he met a quick upward glance from her, he stam-
mered, blushed, and stopped short—~for Johnnie
Lithgow was as shy and sensitive as a‘ girl, and
had all the reverence of youthful genius for
womanhood and love. With compunction, and an
idea that he had been jestiug profanely, Lithgow
hurriedly began again:

“I am so vain as to think I myself would be

" London to my mother—old ground long known

and well explored. If she would not like the
change, of course—but I fancy she might.”
“I advise you against it, Lithgow,” said Ran-

 dall; “ in'your case I should never entertain such

an idea. Therejs my father—no one can have a
greater respect for him than I—-but to bring him
to live with me—-to bring him to London—I should
think it the merest folly, injurious to us both.”

“ Your wisdom is very safe at least,” said Mrs.

* Laurie, with a little asperity, “ since there is no

chance of your good father leaving his own re-
spectacle house for an unknown and strange place
iu‘any case; but I think your wish a very natural
one, and a very creditable one to you, Mr. Lith-
gow; and whether she comes or not, the knowledge
that you wish for her will be joy to your mother’s
heart.” . '

' With his usual half-disdainful smile Randall had

. turned away, and there was a slight flush of anger

upon Mrs. Laurie’s face. Indignation and scorn—
there was not much hope of friendliness where
such unpromising elements had flashed into and-

“den existence. Menle, looking on with terror, and

perceiving a new obstacle thrown into her way,
hastily endeaVOred to make a diversion.

“ Do you know, Mr. Lithgow, that July Home is
coming up to London to see me i” .

There came a sudden brightening to all th”
kindly lines of the young man‘s face. “ July
Home! if I am too familiar, forgive me, Randall——

- but I have so many boyish recollections of her.
She was such a sweet little timid simple Womanly
, child too.
iher.”

I wonder if July minds me as I mind

' Randall stood apart still, with his smile upon

“his lips. True, there had been a momentary curve

“P011 his brow at Lithgow’s first mention of his
"Ste?! name, but his face cleared immediately.
It” Hitle'J‘ulyl Randall might know her suffi-

rmntly timid and simple—Amt July was a baby, a

W, a good-hearted kindly little foolto he: inn,
kft‘m Web—and any higher qualities sweet or

 

womanly about her remained to be found out by
other eyes than his.

“And Miss Annie has promised us’ all the sight-
seeing in the worl ,” said Menie with forced gaiety,
anxious to talk, and to conciliatea—to remove all
traces of the little breaking of lances which had
just passed. “July and Jenny, and 'I, we are to
see all manner of lions; and though they ' will
be very dull at Crofthill when she is gone, Mr.
Home and Miss Janet have consented—~50 next
week July is to come.” _

“Poor July! she will have enough to talk of
all her life after,” said her brother.

“Yes; our kindly country seems such a waste
and desert to you London gentlemen,” said Mrs.
Laurie; “and it is wonderful, after all, how we
manage to exist—aye, even to flourish and enjoy
ourselves, in these regions out of the world.”

But Randall made no response. A shivering
chill came over Menie Laurie; this half-derisive
silence on one side, this eager impulse of contra-
diction and opposition on the other, smote her to
the heart. It had been rising gradually for some
days past, and Menie, without being quite aware
of it, had noticed the bias with which her mother
and her betrothed listened and replied to each
other; the unconscious inclination of each to give
an unfavorable turn to the other’s words, a harsh-
ness to the other’s judgment, an air of personal
offence to a differing opinion, of grave misdemea-
nor to a piece of blameless jesting. Lithgow,
stranger as he was, discovered in a moment, so
quick and sensitive was his nature, the incipient
estrangement, and grew embarrassed and annoyed
in spite of himself—annoyed, embarrassed, it
looked so much like the last ebullition of some
domestic quarrel; but Lithgow was astranger, and
had no interest farther than for the harmony of
the moment in any strife of these-conflicting
minds.

But here sits one whose brow must own no curve
of displeasure, whose voice -mu‘st falter with no
embarrassment. She is sitting by the little work-
table in the window, her eyes, so wistful as they
have grown, so large and full, and eloquent with
many meanings, turning from one to the other
with quick earnest glances, which are indeed whis-
pers of deprecation and peace-making. “He
means something else than he says ; he is not cold-
hearted nor insincere; you mistake Randall,” say
Menie’s eyes, as they labor to meet her mother’s,
and gaze with eager perturbation in her face, de-
ciphering every line and wrinkle there. “ Do not
speak so—you vex my mother; but she does not
mean to be angry,” say the same strained and ever-
changing eyes, as they turn their anxious regards
to Randall’s face. She sits between us and the
light—you can see her girlish figure outlined
against the window—her face falling from light
to shadow, brightening up again from shadow
to light, as she turns from one to the other;
you can see how eagerly she listens, prompt to
rush forward with her own softening, gentle
speech upon the very border of the harsher words,
whose utterance she cannot prevent. The very
stoop of her head, the changeful expression of her
face, which already interprets theend of the sen-
tence ere it is well begun, her sudden introduction
of one subject after another, foreign to their former
talk, her sudden interest in things indifferent, and
all the wiles and artificeslwith which she hedges
off all matters of personal or individual interest,
and abstracts the conversation into the channel of
mere curiosity, of careless and every-day talk, are
all sufficiently visible exponents of Menie’s new
position and new trials. She is talking to Lithgow

=now so rapidly, and with so much demonstration

of interest, you w0uld almost fancy this poor, lov-
ing“ Menie had caught a contagious enthusiasm
from Miss Annie Laurie’s juvenile delights, talking
of these sights of the great unknown London,
which has grown so indifferent and paltry to this
suddenly enlightened and experienced mind of
hers; but in the midst of all,eyou can see how
steadily her wakeful eyes keep watch upon Ran-
dall yonder by Miss Annie’s minature book-cases,
and Mrs. Laurie here, with that little angry flush
upon her brow. :

So slow the hours seem, so full of opportuni-
ties of discussion, so over-brimming with subjects
on which thev are sure to differ; till Merrie, in her
gradually increasing excitement, forgets to m

 

the progress of time; but is so glad—oh, so 
and joyful—to see the evening fall darle

them, to hear Maria’s step drawing near tbedoor,

while the lights she carries already throwtheir"

glimmer on the wall. It is late; and now the vis-

itors take leave, somewhat reluctantly, for Lith ow -
begins to like his new friends greatly; and an- ~

dall, though something of irritation is in the face,

where his smile of disdain still holds sway, is MC‘,

nie’s ardent wooer still, and feels a charm in her '

presence, simple though he has discovered nor to
be. But at last they are gone, safely gone; and
Menie, when she has Watched them from the door,
and listened to their steps till they die away a dis-
tant echo upon the silent air, Steals away in the
dark to her own room—not for. ,

simply to rest herself a little; and her manner of.

rest is, sitting down upon a low stool close by the ‘

window, where some pale moonlight comes in
faintly, and bending down her face into her clasped
hands to weep a little, silently and alone.‘

Is it but to refresh the wistful eyes which this
night have been so busy? Is it but to wash and
flood away the pain than has been in their eager

deprecating looks, their speeches of anxious ten~. ,

derness? But Menie does not say, even to her} ‘

self, what it is for, nor why. For some w’eeks
now, Menie has been sadly given to “crying for
nothing,” as she herself calls it. She thinks she
ought to be ashamed of her weakness, and would
be afraid to acknowledge it to any living creature;
but some how, for these few days, Menie has
come away about the same hour every night into
the solitude here, to cry, with sometimes a little

impatient sob bursting out among her tears, though .

she cannot tell you, will not tell you, would not

whisper even to her own very secret heart, the rea

son why.

 

CHAPTER  _
Mas. LAURIE sits by the table with her work;

but it is still an easy thing to perceive the irrita-Q

tion on Mrs. Laurie’s brow; her hand moves with

an aditional rapidity, her breath comes a little fast." '

er; and if you will watch you will see the color
gradually receding from her cheek, like an ebbing

tide and her foot ceasing to playso impatiently .

upon its supporting stool. , .

Very humbly, like a culprit, Menie draws for-
ward her chair to the light. She is admonished,
ere long, by a hasty answer, an abrupt speech, 0.

slight pushing back from the table, and , erection  
of her figure, that Mrs. Laurie is still angry. It is- v r >

strange how this cowes and subdues Medic;  ‘

eager she is to say something; how humble he! '

tone is; and how difficult she feels it tofind  , if

thing to say. , ,
Poor heart! like many another bewilme

Menie flutters about the subject it believes ha ,

most to avoid, and cannot help makingtimid all!»
sions to their future life in London; their future

life which begins to darken before her own  V

under a cloudy horizon of doubt and dread. It hi!
ceased to be aspeculation now, this future; for,

even within these few days there has been tail: of ‘ ‘ 

Menie’s marriage.
“ We will Speak of some other thing ;»

said Mrs. Laurie, with a sigh.

But Menie,with trembling temerity, ‘3
Why P what concerns her con. ~
cerns her mothor also. Very timid, yet too hold;

the reason why.

Manic insists, and will be satisfiedwwliy l’ I , _
“Because it is hard to lose, myonlyehild,“ 3954

§ am is; ‘ ~
no very great charm in the future for me, , Manic}? \

Mrs. Laurie. “Let us not deceive ourselves; it .

is easy to say we will not be separated, that they.
shall be no change. I know bettter, Merrie; we "
well ; '
lot.”‘Vb is l h ,  --
“ at on y t e natural lot? '01:, mother
mother! tell me.” Menie is still pertin ’ ’
mister"- M ' m m
“ w te_ you, enie,” said Mrs. Laurie ‘.
ly. f‘ Randall Home and I cannot swan adage“;ng
roof in peace. I foresee a, wretched life for you,
if we tried. it; acoustant Struggle—~11 constant fails
ure. Meme,I will try to be content; but your
mother feels it hard to yield up you and your love:

to a stranger, very hard. I, ought to be content-

and submissive. I ought to remember that it is the

“WWW! RWSlty, an everydaytrial; but in my...  .

do not cry—say it is only the natu ', 'V

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. ss- ’
' ' j y - 1.
been more to each other than mere mother and
daughter. I cannot hide it‘from yOu, Mania; this
trial is very grievous to me.”
“ Mother! mother 1” It is not for nothing now

that Menie Laurie weeps.
‘.‘ You have been the light of my eyes for twenty

years, my baby, my only bairnl I have noth-
' Menie,‘

in the world when you are gone.
have patience with your mother. I thought we
might have been one household still. I never
thought I could have hurt my bairn by clinging
\to her with all my heart. I see through an-
other medium now. Menie, this that I say is bet-
ter for us both. I would lose my proper place; I
would lose even my own esteem, if Iinsisted, or if
I permitted you to insist, upon our first plan. I do
not mean to insist with Randall,” said Mrs. Laurie,
with a sudden flush of color, “ but with ourselves.
It is not for your credit, any more than mine that
your mother should be humiliated; and I choose
to make this decision myself, Menie, not to have
it forced upon me.”
“If you think so, if I have nothing to hope but
this; mother, mother!” cried Menie in her sobs,

A “there is yet time; we can change it all.”

But Menie’s voice was choked; her head bowed

1 down upon her folded arms; her strength and her

I _ her own eyes.
nor was it in her to be inflexible and stem; and

heart were overcome. The room was only partial-

- ly lighted. So vacant, only these two figures, with

their little table and a lamp at the end, it looked
lonely, silent, desolate; and you could hear so
plainly the great struggle which Menie had with
these strong sobs and tears.

.Mrs. Laurie wiped a few hot hasty drops from
She was not much used to contest;

the mother could not see her child’s distress. “ Me-
niel” Menie can make no answer; and Mrs.

HLaurie rises to go to her side, to pass a tender

v caressing hand over the bowed head, to shed back

“ Menie, my dear balm, I did
I will do anything—any-

the disordered hair.
not mean to vex you.

thing Menie‘; only do not let me see you in such

grief as this.” .

‘ “ He is not what you think, mother, he is not
what you think,” cried Meuie; “ it is not like this
.wltat he says of you. Oh, mother! I do not ask

‘  you to'do him justice, to think well of. him. I ask

a _ ter thing of you—mother hear me——I ask you
to 'likehim for Menic’s sake.”

And it will not do to evade this petition by ca-
mascaby soothing words, by gentle motherly ten-
derness. . “ Yes, Manic, my darling, I’ll try,” said

SHIN. Laurie, at last, with tearful eyes. “Do you

I , think it is pleasant to me to be at strife with Ran-

dall ? God forbid! and him my dear bairn’s
chaise; but do not look at me with such a pitiful
face. Menie, we’ll begin again.”

' ‘ ‘~ "-I-WasMenle content ? for the moment more than

content, springing up into a wild exhilaration, a

“j, y  burst or confidence and hope. But by-and-by the
I ' Conversation slackened-by-and~by the “ room he-

 quite silent, with its dim corners, its little
spook ofvlight, and the We figures at its further

‘ “ end. A heavy stillness brooded over them, they
,V  jargot that they had been talking, they forgot, each

of them, that she was not alone. The leaves stirred
faintly on the windows, the night wind rustled past

3  yamtree on the lawn. From the other end of
,   house came sometimes a stir of voices, the
' i, fecundof' a closed or opened door; but here every-

V thing was "silent, as if there were weird sisters,

weaving, with their monotonous moving fingers,

I eomecharm and spell; while, down to the depths,

.mernig

.r .‘-

~ Which lays all these troub

, Mn, down, as far into the chill and dark of sad

‘ ' tituent as the heart unlearned‘ could go,
, uttering, with its wings close upon its breast, its
song changed into a mournful cry, down out of the
serene heavens, where it had its natural dwelling,
came KenieLaurie’s quiet heart.

 

CHAPTER xvn.

i maven the depth and darkness of the sum-

ht, you can hear Mrs. Lauri-ie‘s quiet breath-
ing as she lies asleep. r With a pain at her heart

she lay down, and when she wakes she will feel it,

or ever she is aware that she has awaked; but

still she sleeps; blessing on the kind oblivion
so for a time to rest.

list that is this white figure Whig“:le

i h

  ‘1  Pillow, sitting motionless and

 

ms QUIET Hum

the night l’ It is tears that keep these gentle eye.
lids (apart, tears that banish from them the sleep
of youth. Still, that she may not wake the sleep-
er by her side, scarcely daring to move her hand to
wipe away this heavy dew which blinds her eyes.
Menie Laurie, Menie Laurie, can this sad watcher
be you?

And Menie’s soul is vexing itself with plans and

schemes, and Menie’s heart is rising up to God in
broken snatches of prayer, constantly interrupted,
and merging into the , bewilderment of her
thoughts. Startled once for all out of the early
calm, the serene, untroubled, youthful life which
lies behind her in the past, Meuie feels the change
very hard and sore as she realizes it; from doing
nought for her own comfort—from the loving,
sweet dependence upon others, to which her child‘s
heart has been accustomed—suddenly, without
pause or preparation, to learn that all must depend
upon herself, to have the ghost of strife or dis-
cord, where such full harmony was wont to be, to
feel the twa great loves of her nature, the loves
which heretofore, in her own innocent and unsus-
picious apprehension, have strengthened and deep-
ened each the other, set forth in antagonism, love
against love, and her own heart the battle-ground.
Shrinking and failing one moment, longing vainly
to flee away, away anywhere into the utmost deso-
lation, if only it were out of this conflict, the
next, resolving, with such strong throbs and belit-
ings of her heart, to take up her burden cordially,
to be ever awake and alert, to subdue this giant
difficulty with the force of her own strong love
and ceaseless tenderness, praying now for escape,
then for endurance, and anon breaking into silent
tears over all. Alas for Meuie Laurie in her unac-
customed solitude! and Menie thinks, like every
other Menie, that she could have borne anything
but this.
,. But by-andby, in spite of tears and trouble, the
natural rest steals upon Menie, steals upon her un-
awares, though she feels, in the sadness of her
heart, as if she could never rest again; throws
back her drooping head upon her pillow, folds her
arms meekly on her breast, closes her eyelids over
the unshed tears ; and thus it is that the dawn
finds her out, like a flower overcharged and droop-
ing with its weight of evening dew, but wrapt
in sleep as deep and dreamless and unbroken as if
her youth had never known a tear. .

The sun is full in the room when Menie wakes,
and Mrs. Laurie has but a moment since closed
the door softly behind her, that the sleeper might
not be disturbed. Even this tender, precaution,
when she finds it out, chills Menie to the heart;
for heretofore her mother’s voice has roused her,
and even her mother’s impatience of her lingering
would be joy to her today ; but Mrs. Laurie is not
impatient. Mrs. Laurie thinks it better, for all
the sun’s unceasing proclamation that night and
sleep are past, to let the young heart refresh itself
a little longer, to lens the young form at rest.

Ay, Meme Laurie, kneel down by your bedside
--kneel down and pray; it is not often that your
supplications testify themselves in outward atti-
tud'e. N ow there is a murmur of an audible voice
speaking words to which no mortal ear has any
right to listen; and your dowucast face is buried
in your hands, and your tears plead with your

prayers. For you never thought but to be happy,

Mania, and the gentle youthful nature longs and
yearns for happiness, and with the strength of a
rebel fights against the pain foreseen—poor heartl

“Eh, Jenny, you’re no keeping ill-will?” said a
doleful voice upon the lawn below; very distinct,
through the open window, it quickened Menie’s
morning toilette considerably, and drew her for.
ward, with a wondering face, to make sure. “ I’m
sure it’s no in me to be unfriends with onybody;
and after ane coming a’ this gate for naething but
to ask a civil question, how you a’ was. I’m say.
ing, Jenny, you're no needing to hand ony corres-
poudence with me except ye like; it’s the mistress
and Miss Menie I’m wanting to see.”

“Am I to let in a’ the gaun-about vagabons that
want to see the mistress and Miss Meuie 1'” said
Jenny’s gruff voice in reply. “ I trow no; and how
ye can have the face to look at Jenny after your
last errand till fiber, I canua tell; ye’ll be for un-
dertaking my service ance mair; but ye may just
as wool take my word anoe for a’, the mistress can-
uhflsnwmm.m'{ 

 

“Eh, woman, Jenny, yer’re a thrawn' creature!"
said Nelly Panton. “ I’m sure I never did” ye an
ill turn a’ my days. But ye needna even the like
of your service to me; I’m gaun to live with our
Johnnie, and keep his house, and Johnnie’s com-
pany are grander folk than the mistress; but I’m

no forgetting auld friends, so I came to ask for '

Miss Menie, because I aye llklt her, and because
she’s ayoung lass like mysel; and I’ll gang and
speak to that ithcr servant-woman if you’ll no tell
Miss Menie I’m here.”

“Jenny’s fury—for very furious was Jenny’s
suppressed fuff at the presumptuous notion of
equality or friendship between Menie Laurie and
Nelly Panton, was checked by this threat; and fear-
ful lest the dignity of her young mistress should
be injured in the eyes of the household by the new-
eomer’s pretentious, Jenny, who had held this col-
loquy out of doors, turned hastily round and pat-
tered away by the back entrance to open the door
for the visitor, muttering repeated adjurations.

“ My patience !” and Jenny’s patience had indeed
much reason to be called to her aid.

Menie’s curiosity was a little roused. Her mind
withdrawn from herSelf, lightened somewhat of its
load, and she hastened down stairs less unwilling-
ly than she would have done without this, inter-
ruption. Jenny stood by the drawing-room door,
holding it open; and Jenny’s sturdy little form vi-
brated, every inch of it, with anger and indigna-
tion. “ Ane to speak to you, Miss Menie ; ane
used with grand society, and owre high forthe like
of me. You’ll have to speak to her yoursel.”

And Menie suddenly found herself thrust into :

the room, while Jenny, with an audible snort and
fuff, remained in possession of the door. '

Nelly Panton had too newly entered on her dig-
nities to be able to restrain the ancient curtsey
of her humility. Yes, undoubtedly, it was Nelly
Panton, with the same faded gown, the same dole-
ful shawl, the same wrapped-up and gloomy figure.
Against the well-lighted, well-pictured wall of Miss

Annie Laurie’s drawing-room, she stood in dingy ‘

individuality, dropping her curtsey, while Menie,
much surprised and silent, stood before her wait-
ing to be addressed.

“ Can nane of ye speak?” said the impatient
Jenny, from the door. “Miss Menie, are ye no
gaun to ask what is her business here? A fule
micht hae kent this was nae place to come back to,
after her last errand to Burnside; and when she

kens I canna hide her, and the mistress canna bide , ’

her, to come and set up for a frienship with you i”

“She’s just as caukered as she aye was, Miss
Menie,” said Nelly Panton, compassionately, shak-
ing her head. “It shows an ill disposition, indeed,
when folk canna keep at peace with me, as many
a time I’ve telt my mother. But ye. see, Miss
Menie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklands'when
ye were a’ away, so I just took my fit in my'hand,

and came on to London to see after Johnnie with ,

my ain een. He needs somebody to keep him
gaun, and set him richt, puir callaut; and, he’s in.
a grand way for himsel, and should be attended
to—so I think I’ll just stay on, Miss Menie; and

the first thing I did was to come and ask for you.” '

“ You are very kind, Nelly,” said Menie Laurie;
but Menie paused with a suppressed laugh when
she saw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken at her from
the door.

“ And ye’ll maybe think I’m no just in condition
to set up for friends with the like of you,” said
Nelly, glancing down upon her dress; “ but I only
came into London the day before yesterday, and
I’ve naething yet but my traveling things. I’m
hearing that little July Home of Braecroft’s coming.
too; and between you and me, Miss Meals," no to
let it gang ony further, I think it was real richt
and prudent of you to show us the first example,
in): draw us a’ up to London to take care of thae

a s.” ‘

“What do you mean, Nelly 1'” exclaimed Menie,
somewhat angrily. , '

“Ye may weel say what does she mean,” said
Jenny, making a sudden inroad from the door.
“ Do ye hear, ye evil speaker? The mistress is
out, and there is naebody to take care of this pair
bairn but me; whatever malice and venom ye have
to say, out wi’t, and I’ll tell the young lady what
kind of character'yo are when a’s gdunc.” r

_“I wadna keep such a meddling body in my

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, torted Nelly, with calm superiority; “ and I’ve nae
call to speak my mind afore Jenny, and her aye
misca’in me; but it’s nae secret of mine. I was just
gaun to say, that for a’ our Johnnie’s a very de-

’ cent lad, and minds upon ins friends, I never saw
ane, gentle or simple, sac awfu’ muckle tooken up
about himsel as Randy Home. He’s anither lad
altogether to What he used to be ; and it’s no to be
thocht but what he’s wanting a grand wife like a’
the rest. Now, ye’ll just see.”

Menie Laurie put down Jenny’s passionate dis-
claimer by a motion of her hand. “If this was
what you came to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shall
scarcely be grateful for your visit. Do you know
that it‘ is an impertinence to say this to me ?
Whisht, Jenny, that is enough; and I came here
to look after no one. Whatever you may have
thought before, you will believe this now, since I
say it. Jenny will see that you are comfortable
while you stay out here; but I think, Nelly, you
have said enough to me this morning, and I to you
-—Jenny, whisht.”

“I’ll no whisht,” cried Jenny, at last, freed by
Menie’s pause. “ Eh, ye evil spirit! will ye
tell me what cause of illiwill ye ever could
have against this innocent bairn? I’m no gaun to

~whisht, Miss Menie—to think of her cOming up
here ance errand to put out her malice on you!
My patience! how any mortal can thole the sicht
0’ her, I dinna ken.”

“,I can forgive ye, Jenny,” said the meek Nelly
Panton, “for a’ your passions, and your glooms,
and your ill words-—I’m thankful to say Ican for-
give ye; but, eh, sirs, this is a weary world ;
wherever I gang. at hame, or away frae hame, I‘m
aye miskent—naebody has the heart to take a
gnid turn frae me, though I’m sure, I aye mean
a’thing for the best, and it was richt Miss Menie
sholild ken. I thocht I would just come up this
far to, give ye an advice, Miss Menie, when we were
'our lanes ; and I’m,no gaun to blaze up into a fuff
like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en. I’m just as guid
fl'iends as ever. The next time I come I’ll come
with our Johnnie, so I bid you a very good morn-
ing, Miss Menie Laurie, and mony thanks for your
kind welcome. Jenny, fare-ye-well.”

‘ Menie sat down in the window when the dark
figure of her unwelcome visitor was gone. The
sun came in upon her gaily—the genial August
sun—Land the leaves which fluttered in a happy
wind and a. maze of morning sounds, broken with

’ shriller shouts of children, and rings of silvery
laughter floated up and floated round her, of them-
selves an atmosphere fresh and sweet; but Menie
bowed her face between her hands, and looked out
with wistffil eyes into the future, where so many

fears and wonders had come to dwell; and vigilant,
and stern the meagre yew-tree looked in upon her,
like an unkindly fate.

 

PART IV.——CHAPTER XVIII.

“EH, Menie, are you sure yon’s London 2’”

,So askedlittle July Home, standing lunder the
shadow of the elm-trees, and looking out upon the
sea or city smoke, with great St. Paul’s looming

. through its dimness. July did not quite understand
how she could be said to be near London, so long
as she stood upon the green sod, and saw above her
the kindly sky. “There’s no very mony houses
hereaWay," said the innocent July; “ there’s mair
in Dumfries, Menie—and this is just a line green
park, and here's trees—are you sure you'll Lon-
don l”

“ Yes, it's London," Very differently they looked
at it‘s—the one with the marveling eyes of a child
ready to believe all wonders of that mysterious
' place, supreme among the nations, which was
i rather a superb individual personage from among
the Arabian gehii than a collection of human
streets and houses full of the usual weaknesses of

' humankind; the other with the dreamy gaze of a
Woman, pondering in her heart over the scene of

‘er fate. ' . .

I“ And Randall’s yonder, and J ohnme Lithgow ?"

I ’said/ July, “I would just like to ken where;
Mellie, You’ve been down yonder in the town-—
Where; Will Johnnie and our Randall be? Mrs.
Wellwood down in Kirklands bade me ask Randall

  he knew a cousin of hers, Peter Scott. that lives
41‘ 140351011; but nobody eculd has a’ theplfol‘k,

 ,  " “Ilia Isolde town.”

 

 

“My dear Miss J uly,‘mdckle is an ugly word,”
said Miss Annie Laurie, “and you must observe
how nicely your brother and his friend speak—
quite marvellous for self-educated young men——
and even Menie here is very well. You must not
say muckle, my love.”

“It was because I meant to say very big,” said
July, with a great blush, holding down her head
and speaking in a whisper. July had thrown many
a wandering glance already at Miss Annie, specu-
lating whether to call her the old lady or the young
lady, and listening with reverential curiosity to all
she said; for July thought “ She—the lady,” was
very kind to call her my dear and my love so soon,
and to kiss her when she went away wearied, on
her first evening at Heathbank, to rest; though
July could never be sure about Miss Annie, and
marvelled much that Menie Laurie should dare
to call anyone in such ringlets and such gowns,
aunt.

“ You will soon learn better, my dear little girl,”
said the graciOus Miss Annie, “and you must
just be content to continue a little girl while you
are here, and take a lesson now and then, you
know; and above all, my darling, you must take
care not to fall in love with this young man whom
you speak of so familiarly, He must not be J ohn-
nie any more, but only Mr. Lithgow, your brother’s
friend and ours—for I cannot have both my young
ladies falling in love.”

“ Me ! ” J uly’s little frame trembled all over,
her soft hair fell down upon her neck. “It’ll
never stay up,” murmured July, with eager depre-
cnt-ion. as Miss Annie’s eye fell upon the silky un-
curled locks; but it was only shamefacedness and
embarrassment which made July notice the descent
of her hair, for July was trembling with a little
thrill of fear, and wonder, and Clll'lOSlty.__ Was it
possible, then, that little July had come to sulfi-
cient years to be capable of falling in love ?—-—and
in spite of herself, July thought again upon John-
nie Lithgow, and marvelled innocently, though with
a blush, whether he “minded ” her as she minded
him.

But July could not understand the strange ab-
straction which had fallen upon her friend—the
dreamy eye, the vacant look, the long intervals of
silence; Menie Laurie of Burnside had known
nothing of all this new-come gravity, and July’s
wistful look had already begun to follow those
wandering eyes of hers—to follow them away
through the daylight, andinto the dark, wondering
—wondering-—what it was that Menie sought to
see.

Jenny is busied in the remote regions of the
kitchen at this present moment, delivering a leo-
ture, very sharp, and marked with some excite-
ment, to Miss Annie Laurie’s kitchen maid, who
is by no means an ornamental person, and for that
many other reasons is a perpetual grief to Miss
Annie’s heart—so Jenny is happily spared the
provocation of beholding the new visitor who has
entered the portals of Heathbank. For a porten-
tous shawl, heavy as a thundercloud, a gown lurid
as the lightning escaping from under its shade, and
a new bonnet grim with gentility, are making their
way round the little lawn, concealing from expec-
tant eyes the slight person and small, welLformed
head, with its short matted crop- of curls, which
distinguished Johnnie Lithgow. Johnnie, good
fellow, does not think his sister the most suitable
visitor in the world to the Laurie household ; but
Johnnie would not, for more wealth than he can
reckon, put slight upon ‘his sister even in idea-50
Miss Annie Laurie’s Maria announces Miss Panton
at the door of Miss Annie Laurie's drawing-room,
and Nelly, where she failed to come as a servant,
is introduced as a guest. ,

“ Thank’ye, mem, ” said Nelly. “ I like
London very weel so far as I‘ve seen n.4,,“
it’s a muckle place, I dinna doubt, no to be
lookit through in a day-and I’m aye fieyed to
lose mysel in thae weary streets; but you " see I
didna come here once errand to see the town,
but rather came with an object, mom—and now
I’m to bide on to take care of Johnnie. My
mother down by at hame has had many thochts
about him being left his lane, with naebody but
himself to care about in a strange place—and it’s
sure to be a comfort to her me stopping with John-
nie, for she keno I’m a weel—meaning person, what-

'lwe one, to ya; ud I would be mt We

\

 

if ye could recommend me to a shop for good linen,

for Ihave a’ his shirts to mend. To be sure, he
has plenty of siller—but he’s turning- the twist
extravagant lad I ever saw.”

“ Good soul! and you have come to do all those ,
kind things for him,” said Miss Annie Laurie; “it ’

is so delightful to me to find these fine homely
natural feelings in operation—so primitive and un-
sophisticated. I can’t tell you what pleasure I
have in watching the natural action of a kind
heart.”

“I am much obliged to ye, mem,” said Nelly,
wavering on her seat with a half intention of rismg

to acknowledge with a courtsey this complimentary

declaration. “ I was aye kent for a weel-meaning
lass, though I have my faults—but I’m sure
Johnnie ought to ken how weel he can depend on
me.”

July Home was standing by the window—stand. g

ing very timid and demure, pretending to look .

out, but in reality lost in conjectures concerning
Johnnie Lithgow, whose image had never left

her mind since Miss Annie took the pains to ad- ‘

vise her not to think of him.. July, innocent
heart, would never have thought of him had this
warning been withheld; but the fascination and
thrill of conscious danger filled July’s mind with
one continual recollection of his presence, though
she did not dare to turn round frankly and own
herself his own acquaintance.

and July’s silky hair already begins to droop out
of the braid in which she had confined it with so
much care. A silk gown—the first and only one
of its race belonging to J uly—has been put on in

honor of this, her first day at .Heathbank; and, ’
July, to tell the truth, is somewhat fluttered on 

account of it, and is a little afraid of herself _ and
the unaccustomed splendor of her dress.» ,.
Menie Laurie, a good way apart, sits on a stool

at her mother’s feet, looking round upon all these -

faces, from July’s innocent tremble of shy pleasure,
to Johnnie Lithgow’s well-pleased recognition of his
childish friend. There is something touching in
the contrast when you turn to Menie Laurie, look-
ing up, with all these new-awakened thoughts in
her eyes, into her mother’s face. For dutiful and

loving as Menie has always been, you can tell by a 

glance that she never clung before as she clings.

now—that never in her most trustful childish'timet. I

was she so humble in her helplessness as her ten-
der woman’s love is to-day. Deprecating, anxious,

full of so many wistful beseechingways~do you) I " 
think the mother does not know why it is that idea I x».
nie’s silent devotion thus pleads and kneels and?

clings to her very feet ?

And there is a shadow on Mrs. Laurie’s bromva v '1

certain something glittering under Mrs. Laurie-’1
eyelid.

will you try to like him '2” sounding in her heart,
and resolves that she will indeed try‘to like him
for Menie’s sake. '

“Mr. Home, of course, will come to see us tou’
“ My dear _

night,” said the sprightly Miss Annie.

No, she needs no interpreter—and the '
mother hears Menie’s prayer, “ Will. you like him, ;

With a slight treme, ,
ble in her little figure, July stands by the window .,

i

Mrs. Laurie, how can I sufficiently thank you for  I:
bringing such a delightful circle of young people '

to Heathbank? It quite renews my heart 
You can’t think how soon one gets worn out and
weary in this commonplace London world; but so
fresh—so full of young spirits and life—s1 assure

you, Mr. Lithgow, yourself and your friend, and .

my sweet girls here, are quite like a spring to me.”

Johnnie, bowing in response, gradually drew 
near the window. You will begin to/ think there-

is something very simply pretty and graceful in
this little figure standing here wrtlun shadow of

the curtain, the evening sun just missing it as it-

steals timidly into the shade, and this brown hair,
so silky soft, has slidden down at last upon July’s
shoulder, and the breath comes something fast on}

J ulyis small full nether lip and a little changefui.
flush of color hovers about, coming and goingnpo’h ..

J uly’s‘ face. Listen—for now a sweet, little 

voice, fragrant with the low.spoken border 3mg,

softened out of all its harshness, steals upon .

Johnnie Lithgow’s car. He knows what the Words

are. for he draws very near to listen—but we, a"

little further ofi’, hear nothing but the voices—a

,very unassurred, shy, 'rlishvoice; and July rests

a furtive look around er, to  it is not, M

able to get Mania Laurie to whisper hermwerte; . '

 

 

, 18f

Tim QUIET HEART. =

 

 

but when she does trust the ear with these few
’words of "hers, July feels less afraid.

Johnnie Lithgowl no, doubt it is the same J ohn-
nie Lithgow who carried her, through the wood,
half a mile about, to see the sunset from the Rest-
ing Stone; but whether this can be the Mr. Lith—
g0w who is very clever and a great writer, July 
puzzled to know. For he begins to ask so kindly
about the old Kirkland people; he “minds” every
“nook and corner so well, and has such a joyous
' recollection of all the I-Iogmauays and Hallowe’ens,
thevboyish pranks and frolics, the boyish friends.
July, simple and perplexed, thinks within herself
that Randall never did so, and doubts whether

"Johnnie Lithgow can be clever, after all.

 

CHAPTER XIX.

“ AND July, little girl—you are glad to see Menie
Laurie again ‘3” _ '

But July makes along pause—July is always
timid of Speaking to her brother. '

, “ Menie is not Menie now,” said July, thought-
fully. .“ She never looks like what she used to
look at Burnside.”

f‘ What has changed her ‘1’” At last Randall be-
gan to look interested.’ ’ _
Another long pause, and then July startled him
withn burst of tears. “She never looks like what
she used to look at Burnside,” repeated Menie’s
little friend, with timid sobs; “ but aye thinks,
thinks, and has trouble in her face night and
' 7)

i The brother and sister were in the room alone.
Randall turned round with impatience. “What a
foolish little creature you are, July. Menie does

" not cry like you for every little matter; Menie has
nothing to trouble her."

“ It’s no me, Randall, ” said little July, meekly.

“If I cry, I just cannahclp it, and it’s nae matter,

' but, oh, I do wish you would speak to Meme—for
something’s vexing ll‘er.”

“I'am sure you will excuse me for leaving you

so long,” said the sprightly voice of Miss Annie
, L, Laurie, entering the room. “ What lucrying, July
. darling? have we not used her well, Mr. Home?

\ l ” but my poor friend Mrs. Laurie has just got a very

unpleasant letter, and I have been sitting with her
to" comfort her.”

Randall made no reply, unless the'smile of in-
difference which came to his lips, the careless
turning away of his head, might be supposed to
answer; for Randall did not think it necessary to

‘ , pretend any interest in Mrs. Laurie.

But just then he caught a momentary glimpse
of some one stealing across the farthest corner of
‘i the lawn, behind a couple of shrubs. Randall
could not mistake the figure; and it seemed to
' pause there,‘where it was completely hidden, ex-
cept to the keen eye which had watched it thither,
’ andvstill saw a' flutter of the drapery through
the desires. ‘
‘_“Mem, if you please, Miss Menie is out,” smd
Jenny, entering suddenly, “and the mistress sent
me with word that she wasna very weel hersel, and
Would keep up the stair if you’ve nae objections.
.As I said,» ‘ I trow no, you would have nae objec~
' "JtionsL—no to say there’s company in the house to
i be a divert-41nd the mistress is far frae weel.”
“But, Jenny, you must tell my darling Menie to
come in,” said Miss Annie. “ I cannot want her,
youknow; and I am‘sure she cannot know who
is here, or She w0uld never bid you'say she was
out. Tell her I want her, Jenny.”
“Mem, I have told you,” said Jenny, somewhat
-* fiercely, “if she was ane given to leasing-making
she would have-to get another lass to gang her er-
rands than Jenny, and I canna tell what for Miss
Mellie should heed, or do aught but her ain pleas-
.ure, for any company that’s here ’enow. I’m no
' fit mysel, an auld lass like me, to gang away" after
Miss Menie’s licht fit ; but she’s out-by, puir bairn
‘ ——and it’s little onyone kens Jenny that would
blame me wi’ a lee.” ‘ ’
She had reached the door before Randall could
prevail with himself to follow her; but at last he
‘ did hurry after Jenny, making a hasty apology as
he went. Randall had by no means paid lo Jenny
‘ the respectto which she held herself entitled ; her

" L Quick sense, had either heard r his step behind, or,

‘ surmised thathe would .,,.follow her; ano Jenny,“
, in a violent fad, strongly suppressing herself; but

 

quivering all over with the effort it cost her, turn-
ed sharp round upon him, and came to a dead pause
facing him, as he closed the door. '

“Where is Miss Menie Laurie? I wish to see
her,” said Randall. Randall did not choose to be
familiar even now.

“ Miss Mcnie Laurie takes her ain will common-
ly,” said Jenny, making a satirical courtsey.
“She’s been used wi’t this lang while; and she
hasna done what Jenny bade her this mony a weary
day. Atweel, if she had, some things wouldna
have been to undo that are—and mony an hour’s
mark and hour’s peace the haill house micht ha’e
gotten, if she had aye had the sense to advise with
the like of me ; but she’s young, and she takes her
ain gate. Poor thing, she’ll have to do somebody
else’s will soon enough if there’s nae deliverance;
what for should I grudge her: her ain the noo ?”

“ What do you mean ? I want to see Menie l”
exclaimed Randall, with considerable haste and
eagerness. “ Do you mean to say she does not
want to see me? I have never been avoided be-
fore. What does she mean ‘9"

“Ay, my lad, that’s right,” said Jenny; think of
yoursel, just like a man, afore ye gie a kindly
thought to her, and her in trouble. It’s like
you a’; it’s like the haill race and lineage of
ye, father and son. No that I’m meaning ony
ill to auld Crofthill; but nae doubt he’s a man
like the lave.”

Randall lifted his hand impatiently, waving her
awa .

“I wouldna wonder l” cried Jenny. “ I Wouldna
wonder—no me. She’s ower mony about th it
like her, has Shea—it’ll be my turn to gang my
ways, and no trouble the maister. You would
like to get her, now she’s in her flower; you
would like to take her up and carry her away and
put her in a cage like a puir bit singing-hurdle,
to be a pleasure to you. What are you courting
my bairn for? It’s a’ for your ain delight and
pleasure, because ye canna help but be glad at the
sight of her, adarling as she is ; because you would
like to get her to yoursel, like a piece of land {be-
cause she would be something to you to be mais-
ter and lord of to make yc the mair esteemed in
ither folk’s een, and happier for yourscl. Man,

mine. I’ve watched her grow year to year, till
there’s no ane like her in a’ the country-side. Is’t
for mysel Y—she canna be Jenny’s wife—she canna
be Jenny’s ain‘ born bairn? But Jenny would
put down her neck under the darling’s foot, if it
was to give her pleasure—and here’s a strange
lad comes that would set away me.”

But Jenny’s vehemence was touched with such
depth of higher feeling as to exalt itentirely out of
the region of the “ full'." With a hasty and trem-
bling hand she dashed away some tears out of her
eyes. “ I’m no to make a fule of mysel afore him,”
muttered Jenny, drawing a hard breath through
her dilated nostrils. .

Randall, with some passion, and much scorn in
his face, had drawn back a little to listen. Now
he took up his hat hurriedly.

haps,” he said, angrily. “ This is absurd, you
know; let me pass. I warn you I Will not quarrel
with Menie for all the old women in the world."

“ If it’s me, you’re welcome to ca’ me names,”
said Jenny, fiercely. “I dare ye to say a word of
the mistress—on your peril. Miss Menie pfeases
to be her lane. I tell you Miss Menie’s out-by;
and I would like to ken what call any mortal has
to disturb the poor lassie in her distress, wnen she
wants to keep it to hersel. He doesna hear me—
he’s gane the very way she gaed,” said Jenny,
softening, as he burst past her out of sight. “I’ll
no say I think any waur of him for that: but waes
me, waes me—what’s to come out o t a", but dis-
may and distress to my puir nairn ?”

Distress and dismay—it is not hard to see them
both in Menie Laurie’s face, so pale and full of
thought, as she leans upon the wali here among
the wet leaves, looking out. Yes, she is looking out
fixedly and long, but not up0n the misty far-away
London, not upon the pleasant slope of green, the
retired and quiet houses, the whispering neighbor
trees. Something has brought the dreamy distant
future, the unknown country, bright and far away
«brought it close, upon her, laid it at her; feet.

 

liter-row living-breath this moment stirs the at;

o

I’ve carried her miles o’gute in time very arms of .

“ if you are done, you will let me pass, per-i

mosphere of this still unaccomplished world; her
foot is stayed upon its threshold. No more vague
fears—no more more clouds upon the joyous firmn-

crisis and decision—the turning-point of heart and
hope. Before her wistful eyes lie two clear paths,

but the spectre of a third comes in upon her—a li l'o
distraught and barren of all comfort-a fate ir:-<-~
vocable, not to be changed or softened; and Mona-‘5
heart is deadly sick in her poor breast, and Hints
for fear. Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart 1
She was sad yesterday. Yesterday she saw a
cloudy sword suspended in the skies, wavering and
threatening above her unguarded head; to—day
she looks no longer at this imaginative menace.

real blow.

 

CHAPTER XX.

face, Randall Home made his way across the glis-

there had been ruin—to that corner of the garden
where he had seen Menie disappear. Impatiently
his foot rung upon the gravel path, and crushed,
the fallen branches; something of an angry glow
was in his eye, and heated and passionate was the
color on his cheek. ‘
“ You are here, Menie,” he exclaimed. “ I
think you might have had sufficient respect for
me, to do what you could to prevant this last pas-
sage of arms.” -
“ Respect l” Menie looked at him with doubt-
ful apprehension. She thought the distress of her

and repeated the word vacantly, scarcely knowing
what it meant.

“I said respect. Is it so presumptuous an
idea?” said Randall, with his cold,
smile.

But Menie made no answer. Drawing back
with a timid frightened motion, which did not be-.
long to her natural character, she stood so very
pale, and chill, and tearful, that you could have
found nowhere a more complete and emphatic con.-
trast than she made to her betrothed. The one so

glowing resentment—the other with all her life
gone out of her, as it seemed, quenched and sub-
dued in her tears.

not speak to me now,” said Randall.
Menie, what does this mean 5’"

For Menie had not been able to conceal from
him that she was weeping.

no matter.”

Randall grew more and more excited. “ What is

What do you mean?” ’

did,” said Meniehsadly. “I’m not very old yet,
butI never grieved anybody, of my own will, all
my days.
nobody ever blamed it on me. I wish you would
not mind me,” she said, looking up suddenly. “I
came out here, because my mind was not fit to
speak to anybody—because I wanted to complain
thankfulness. I would not have said a word to
thinking within my own heart." , » ,

“There is harm in hiding your thoughts from
me,” said Randall. “Come, Menie, you are not
to cheat me of my rights. I was angry—forgive
me; but I am not angry now.
sorrowful girl, what ails you? Has sumething
happened? Menie, you must tell me.” '

“It is Just you I must not tell,” ,said Menie,‘
under her breath, Then she wavered a moment,
as if the wind swayed her light figure and held her
in hesitating uncertainty and then, with a sud.
den effort, she stood firm, apart from the Wall she
had been leaning on, and apart, too from Randall‘s
extended arm.

you mind what we did and what was“; they,“ -
[‘Foreyer and forever.’ " 7 , . “ 

 

 

ment—but close before her, dark and tangible, the ,

winding before her into the evening sky. Two; *

From another unfeared quarter there has fallen a ,

WITH the heat and flush of excitement upon his ’

toning lawn, and through the wet shrubs—fer , .

mind must have dulled and blunted her nerves; »

sarcastic 3

full of strength and yigor, stout independence and 

 

“You have avoided me in the house—~you will r,
“ Menie,

 

“It is no matter, Randall,” said Menie; “it is

the matter P Have you ceased to trust me, Menie ? r

“ I mean nothing to make you angry—I never

Ill never came long ago; or, if it came, ‘

to myself where nobody should hear of my un—" '

anybody—not a word. There was no harm in I

 

Menie, my poor, ‘

...._.M.s.._a..reas~ . u. an . v a V “3“” 

“Yes, I will tell you,” said Meme, serious},  ‘
“You mind what happened a year ago, 11de h, ,

 

 

 

THE permeation 

l

19'

 

Randall took I her hand tenderly into his own,

“forever and forever." It was the words of their

' . truth-plight.

_ “I wm'keep it" in my heart,” said poor Menie.

I . “I will'never change in that, but keep it night and

day in my heart. Randall, we are far apart al-
ready. I have a little world you do not chose to
share: you are entering a greater world, where I
can never have any place. God speed you, and
God go, with you, Randall Home. You will be a
great man; you will prosper and increase; and

; what would you do with poor Southland Menie,

who cannot help you in your race? Randall, we
will be good friends; we will part now, and say
farewell.”

Abrupt as her speech was Menie’s manner of
speaking, She had to hurry over these disjointed

_,.words,‘ lest her sobs should overtake and choke

her utterance ere they were done.

Randall shook his head with displeased impa-
tience. “ This is ’mere folly, Menie. What does
it mean ? Cannot you tell me simply and frankly
what is the matter, without such a preface as this?
But indeed I know very well what it means. ‘ It
means that I am to yield something, to undertake
something, to'reconcile myself to some necessity or
other, distasteful to me. But why commence so
tragically f—the threat should come at the end,

5 f, not at the beginning.”

Q“ I make no threat,” said Menie, growing colder
and colder, more and more upright and rigid; “ I

'mean to say nothing that can make you angry.
Already I have been very unhappy. I dare not

I venture, with our changed fortunes, to makealife-

long trial—I dare not.”

“ Your changed fortunes i” interrupted Randall.
“ Are your fortunes to-day different from what they
were. yesterday ‘2" '

Menie paused. “It is only a very poor pride

i which would conceal it from you," she said, at

. length.

“ Yes, they are different. Yesterday we
had enough for all we needed, to-day we have not
anything. You will see how entirely our circum-
stances are changed ; and I hope you will see too,

' Randall, without giving either of us the pain of

‘ betten

mentioning them, all the reasons which make it
prudent for us, without prolonging the conflict
longer, to say good-bye. Good-bye; I can ask no-
thing of you but to forget me, Randall.”

' And Menie held out her hand, but could not lift
her eyes. Her voice had sunk very low, and her
'slight shiver of extreme self-constraint passed over
her—her head dropped lower and lower on her
breast—her fingers played vacantly with the glis-
tening leaves; and"when he did not take it, her
hand gradually dropped and fell by her side.

There was a moment’s silence—no answer, no re-
sponse, no ‘remonstrance. Perhaps, after all, the
poor perverse heart had hoped to be overwhelmed
with love, which would take no denial; as it was,
standing before him motionless, a great faintness
came upon Menie. She could vaguely see the
path ather feet, the trees on either hand. “I had
0, then,” she said, very low and softly;
and the light had faded suddenly upon Menie’s sight
into a strange ringing of twilight, full of floating

" meats and darkness, and those few paces across

.{.

the lawn filled all her mind like a life journey, so
full of difficulty they seemed, so weak was she. .

7 Go quickly, Menie, quickly, ere those growmg
shadows darken into a blind, unguided night——
swiftly, ere these faltering feet grow powerless,

I ‘ and refuse to Obey the imperative, eager will. To

 

reach home—4.0 reach home—~home, such a one as

it is, lies only half a dozen steps away; press for-

‘ Ward, Menie, are those years or hours that pass in
’ the, journey? But the hiding-place and shelter is

l.
 :4 y

j . I’Would‘ receive you less joyfully,
- have less need of me.

= Supports her, and how she leans on him.

elm t lined. ‘
4 ’ Vtgieug‘ suddenly this hand, which he would not

193‘ng grasped in his vigorous hold—suddenly

makes Menie feel how he
“ I am
going home," said Menie, faintly. . Still he made
nQans‘wer, but heldmher strongly, Wilfully; not re-
sistinv, but unaware of her efforts to escape. . n
“ {have wherewith to work for you, Meme,
said’ the man’s voice in her ear. “ What are your
changed fortunes to me? If you were a princess,
V I for you would
Menie, Menie, why have you

this violent trouble

tried yearself so sorely—41nd why should this be a

I; ‘  aim of separating us? I wanted only Y°“-" "

 
 

 

 

And Menie’s pride had failed her. She hid her
face in .her hands and cried, “ My mother, my
mother 3” in a passion of tears.

“Your mother, your mother? But you have a
duty to me,” said Randall, more coldly. “ Your
mother must not bid you give me up: you have no
right to obey. Ah! I see; I am dull and stupid;
forgive me, Menie. You mean that your mother’s
fortunes are changed. She has the more need of
a son then ; and my May Marion knows well, that
to be her mother is enough for line—you under-
stand me, Menie. This does not change our at-
tachment, does not change our plans, our prospects
in the slightest degree. It may make it more im-
perative that your mother should live with us, but
you will think that no misfortune. Well, are we
to have no more heroics nowwnothing tragical—
but only a little good sense and patience on all
sides, and my Menie what she always is ‘2 Come,
look up, and tell me.”

“I meant nothing heroic—nothing. What I said
was not false, Randall,” said Menie, looking up
with some fire. “If you think it was unreal, that
I did not mean it "-—

“ If you do not mean it now, is not that enough ?”
said Randall, smiling. “ Let us talk of something
less weighty. July says you do not look as you
used to do; has this been weighing on your mind,
Menie? But, indeed, you have not told me what
the misfortune is.” ~

“ We knew it only to-day,” said Menie. Menie
spoke very low, and was very much saddened and
humbled, quite unable to make any defence against
Randall’s lordly manner of setting her emotion
aside. “My father’s successors were young men,
and the price they paid for entering on his practice
was my mother’s annuity. But now they are both
gone; one died two years ago, the otheronly last
week—and he has died very poor and in debt, the
lawyer writes; so that there is neither hope nor
chance of having anything from those he leaves
behind. So we have no longer an income; nothing
now but my mother’s life-rent in Burnside.”

Menie Laurie did not know what poverty was.
It was not any appprehension of this which drew
from her eyes those few large tears.

“Well, that will be enough for your mother,”
said Randall. It was impossible for Menic to say
a word or make an objection, so completely had he
put her aside,,and taken it for granted that his
will should decide it all. “Or if it was not
enough, what then ? Provision for the future lies
with m‘e—and you need not fear for me, Menie. I
am not quarrelsome. You need not look so depre-
cating and frightened; you will find no disappoint-

' ment in me.”

Was Menie reassured? It was not easy to tell ;
for very new to Menie Laurie was this trembling
humility of tone and look—this faltering and wav-
ering as if she knew not to which side to turn.
But Randall began to speak as he knew how of her
own self, and of their bethrothing, “ forever and
forever ;” and the time these words were said came
back upon her with new power. Her mind was
not satisfied, her heart was not convinced, and
very trembling and insecure now was her secret re-
sponse to Randall’s declaration that she should
find no disappointment in him; but her heart was
young, and all unwilling to give up its blithe ex-
istence. Instinctiver she fled from her own pain,
and accepted the returning hope and pleasantness.
Bright pictures rose before Menie, of a future
household harmonious and-full of peace—of the
new love growing greater, fuller, day by day——the
old love sacred and strong, as when it stood alone.
Why did she fear? why didalurking terror in her
heart, cry No, no! with a sob and pang? After all,
this was no vain impracticable hope; many a one
had realized it—-—it was right and true forever under
the skies; and Menie put her hand upon the arm
of her bethrothed, and closed her eyes for a. mo.
ment with a softening sense of relief and comfort,
and gentle tears under the lids. Let him lead for-
ward; who can tell the precious stores of love and
tenderness, and supreme regard that wait him as
his guerdon ? Let him lead forward-03: to those
bright visionary days—in to this peaceful heme.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

PEBHAPS next to the pleasure of doing all for
thosoiwe love best; the joy of receiving all, ranks

 

\

highest. With her heart elate, Meniewent in

again to the house she had left so sadly—went in] 

again, looking up to Randall, rejoicing in the
thought that from him every daily gift—all that
lay in the future-should henceforth come. And
if it were well to be Menie’s mother—chief over
one child’s heart which could but love—how much
greater joy to be Randall’s mother, high in the
reverent thought of such a mind as his! Now
there remained but one difficulty—40 bring the
mother and the son lovingly together; to let no

misconception, no false understanding, /blind the _

one’s sight of the other; to clear aWay all evil

judgment of the past; to show each how worthy '

of esteem and high appreciation the other was.
She thought so in her own simple soul, poor heart!
Through her own great affection she looked at
both—to either of them she would have yielded
without a murmur her own little prides and resents
ments; and the light of her eyes suiqued them
with a circle of mingling radiance; and sweet was
the fellowship and kindness, pure the love and
good offices, harmonious and noble the life of
home and every day, which blossomed out of
Menie Laurie’s heart and fancy, in the reaction of
her hopeless grief. '

Mrs. Laurie sits very thoughtful and still by the ‘

window. Menie’s mother. in her undisturbed and
quiet life, had never found out before how proud

she was. Now she feels it in her nervous shrink— .

ing from speech of her misfortune—in the in-
voluntary haughtiness with which she starts
and recoils from sympathy. Without‘m wind
of comment or lamentation the mere bare
facts, and nothing more, she has communi-
cated to Miss Annie; and Mrs. Laurie had

much difficulty in restraining outward evidence 

of the burst of indignant impatience with which,
in her heart, she received Miss Annie’s efiusive/
pity and real kindness.

mood of her mind, has very discreetly carried her
pity to some one who will receive it better, and
waits till “poor dear Mrs. Laurie " shall recover
her composure; while even July, repelled by the
absorbed look, and indeed by an abrupt short an-

Miss Annie, thinking it ,
best not to trouble her kinswoman in the present '

swer, too, withdraws, and hangs about the other ~ ” L i I

end of the room, like a little shadow, ever and t
anon gliding across the window with her noiseless

step, and her streams of falling hair. , :
Mrs. Laurie’s face is full of thought—what is
she to do? But, harder far than that, what is

Menie to do ?—-—Menie, who vows never to leave‘.‘_’"

her—who will not permit her to meet the chill fel»
lowship of poverty alone.
Dumfriesshire cottage, with its kailyard and its one

apartment, is not a very pleasant anticipation to,
Mrs. Laurie herself, who has lived most part of ,

her life, and had her share of the gifts of fortune;
but what will it be to Menie, whose life has to be
made yet, and whose noontime and’prime must all
be influenced by such a cloud upon her dawning
day? The mother’s brow is knitted with heavy
thought—the mother’s heart is pondering with
strong anxiety. Herself must suffer largely from
this change of fortune, but she cannot see herself
for Menie—Menie: what is Menie to do if j
Will it be better to see her married to Randall
Home, and then to go away solitary to the cot;
house in Kirklands, to spend out this weary life-
these lingering days? ,
swells at the thought. Perhaps it will be best;
perhaps it is what we must make up our mindsto,
and even urge upon her; but alas and alas! how,

heavily the words, the very thought,.rings into  ‘ \

Mrs. Laurie’s heart. .
And now here they are coming, their youth upon

them like a mantle and a crewn-coming, but not ‘ ‘

with downcast looks; not despondent, nor afraid,

nor touched at allwith the heaviness which bows . ' I

down the mother’s spirit to thevcry dust, Mania

will go, then. Close your eyes, mother, frem'the“
light, and try to think you are glad; .try to rejoice 
that she will be content to part from you. It is ‘-

“ for her good "—is there anything you Would not
do “ for her good," mother? It has come to the
decision now; and look how she comes with her
hand upon his arm, her eyes turning to his, her
heart elate. She will be his wife, them—his Me-

nie first, and not her mother’s; but have we not. '

schooled our mind to be Content? - ’

“Yes, she is coming, poor beartl 90mins~ .

A little earthen floored

But Mrs. Laurie’s heart I

 

‘ :55“.

 

 

 

 

I

{we cum:- 3ng

 

her new hope glorious in her eyes; coming to
bring the son to his mother; coming herself with
such a great embracing love as is indeed enough
of its own might and strength to unite them
forever; and Menie thinks that now she cannot
fail.

And now they are seated all of them about the
window, July‘ venturing forward to join the party;
and as nothing better can be done, there commences
an indifferent conversation, as far removed as
possible from the real subject of their thoughts.
There sits Mrs. Laurie, sick with her heavy mus-

. ings, believing that she now stands alone, that her
, dearest child has made up her mind to forsake her,
, ,and that in solitude and meagre poverty she will
‘N'j have to wait for slow-coming age and death. Here.
is Randall, looking for once out of himself, with a
real will and anxiety to soften, by every means in
his power, the misfortunes of Menie’s mother, and
rousing himself withal to the joy of carrying Menie
home; to the sterner necessity of doing a man’s
work to provide for her, and for the new house-
hold; and all the wonder you can summon—no
Small portion in those days—flutters about the same
subject, little July Home; and you think in your
heart if you but could, what marvellous things you
would do for Menie Laurie and Menie Laurie’s moth-
er; while Menie herself, with a wistful, new-grown
habit of observation, reads everybody’s face and
’  knows not whether to be most afraid of the obstinate
gloom upon her mother’s brow, or exultant in the
delicate attention, the sudden respectfuluess and
regard, of Randall’s bearing. But the little com-
pany, all so earnestly engrossed—all surrounding
a matter of the vitalest importance to each—turn
aside,to talk of Miss Annie Laurie’s toys—Miss
Annie Laurie’s party—and only when they divide
and separate dare speak of what lies at their
heart.
-_ And Mrs. Laurie is something hard to be concil-
. - iated. Mrs. Laurie is much inclined to resent this
Softening of manner as half an insult to her
change of fortune. Patience, Meniel though your
mother rebuffs him, he bears it nobly. The cloud
Will not lighten upon her brow—cannot lighten-—
for you do not know how heavily this wistful look
,of yours, this very anxiety to please her, and all
i, ,yOur transparent wiles and artifices, your sup-
.pressed and trembling hope, strikes upon your
mother’s heart. ‘.‘ She will go away; she will leave
me.” Your mother says so, Menie, within herself;
and it is so hard, so very hard to persuade unwill-
ing content with that sad argument, “ It is for her
good.” Now, draw your breath softly, lest she
: hear how your heart beats, for Randall has asked
her to go to the garden with him, to speak of this ;
and Mrs. Laurie rises with a sort of desolate state.
. linessmrises—accepts his offered arm, and turns
«array—moor Meniel with an averted face, and with-
out aglance at you.
, .ui’And now there follows a heavy time; a little
“ ~ space of curious, restless suspense. Wandering
_ from window to window, from table to table;
_ striking a few notes on the ever-open piano;
opening a book now, taking up a piece of work
then, Menie strays about, in an excitement of
. anxiety which she can neither suppress nor con-
}, ceal. ' Will they be friends? such friends, such
, ‘ ' loving friends as they might be, being as they are
" in Menie’s regard so noble and generous 'both?
Will they join heartily and cordially? will they
‘ clasp hands upon a kindly bargain? But Menie
shrinks, and closes her eyes; she dares not look
upon the alternative.
_ “Manic, will you not sit down 2” Little July
Home follows Menie with her eyes almost as wist-
fifily as Menie follows Randall and her mother.
. ‘  are is no answer, for Menie is so fully occupied
“,that "the little timid voice fails to break through
the trance of intense abstraction in which her
heart is separated from this present scene. “ Me-
. niel” Speak louder, little girl: Menie cannot
 'l’iear you, for other voices speaking in her heart.
SO’July steals across the room with her noiseless

A I ‘ step, and has her arm twined through Menie’s be-

‘ fore she is aware. “Come and sit down. What

’ are they speaking about, Merrie? Do you no hear

wine? 0h,;.Menie, is it our Randall? is it his
blame?”

, ' ' July is so near crying that she must be an-

. ewered. “ Nobody is to blame; there is no harm,”

‘ 2? said nonhuman. loading hr back in her “at

 

-——'-quickly with an imperative hush and haste,

which throws July back into timid silence, and
sets all her faculties astir to listen, too. But
there comes no sound into this quiet room, not ev-
en the footsteps which have passed éut of hearing
upon the garden path, nor ‘so much as an echo of
the voices which Menie knows to be engaged in
converse which must decide her fate. But this

restless and visible solicitude will not do; it is best

to take up her work resolutely, and sit down with
her intent face turned towards the window, from
which at least the first glance of them may be seen
as they return.

“ N o—no need to start and blush and tremble;
this step, ringing light upon the path, is not the
stately step of Randall—not our mother’s sober
tread. “It’s no them, Menic—it’s just Miss Lau»
rie,” whispers little startled July from the corner
of the window. 80 long away—so long away—and
Menie cannot tell whether it is a good or evil omen
—but still they do not come.

“My sweet children, are you here alone?” said
Miss Annie, setting down her little basket.
“ Menie, love, I have just surprised your mamma
and Mr. Randall, looking very wise, I assure you;
you ought to be quite thankful that you are too
young to share such deliberations. July, dear, you
must come and have your lesson; but I cannot
teach you to play that favorite tune; oh, no, it
would be quite improper—though he has very good
taste, has he not, darling? But somebody will say
I have designs upon Mr. Lithgow, if I always play
his favorite tune.”

So saying, Miss Annie sat down before the piano,
and began to sing, “For bonnie Annie Laurie
I’ll lay down my head and dee.” Poor Johnnie
Lithgow had no idea, when be praised the pretty
little graceful melody and delicate verses, that he
was paying a compliment to the lady of Heath-
bank. ,

-‘ And July, with a blush, and a little timid eager-
ness, stole away to Miss Annie’s side. July had
never before touched any instrument except Mcnie
Laurie’s old piano at Burnside, and with a good
deal of awe had submitted to Miss Annie’s lessons.
It did seem a very delightful prospect to be able
to play this favorite tune, though July would have
thought very little of it, but for Miss Annie’s con-
stant warnings. Thanks to these, however, and
thanks to his own kindly half-shy regards, John-
nie Lithgow’s favorite tunes, favorite books, favor-
ite things and places, began to grow of great in-
terest to little July Home. She thought it was
very foolish to remember them all, and blushed in
secret when Johnnie Lithgow’s name came into her
mind as an authority; but nevertheless, in spite of
shame and blushing, a great authority Johnnie Lith-
gow had grown, and July stood by the piano, eager
and afraid, longing very much to be as accomplish-
ed as Miss Annie, to be able to play his favorite
tune.

While Menie Laurie still sits by the window, in-
tent and silent, hearing nothing of song or music,
but only aware of a hum of inarticulate voices,

which her heart longs and strains to understand, but -

cannot hear.

 

CHAPTER XXII.

Tnn music is over, the lesson concluded, and July
sits timidly before the piano, striking faint notes
with one finger and marvelling greatly how it is
possible to extract anything like an intelligible
strain from this waste of {unknown chords. Miss
Annie is about in the room once more, giving
dainty touches to its somewhat defective arrange-
ment—throwing down a book here, and there al-
tering an ornament. Patience, Menie Laurie!

many another one before you has sat in resolute

outward calm, with a heart all a-throb and trem-
bling, even as yours is. Patience; though it is
hard to bear the rustlin of Miss Annie’s dress-—
the faint discards of J u y’s music. It must have
been one time or another, this most momentous in-
terview—all will be over when it‘ls over. Patience,
we must wait.

But it is a strange piece of provocation on Miss
Annie’s part, that she should choose this time and
no other for looking over that little heap of Menie’s
drawings upon the table. Menie is not ambitious

u an artist—rfew ideas or romances are in these
little works of here; they, am only some-tau»—

n

   

 

 

not very well executed—the faces of those two or
three people whom Menielcalls her own.

“ Come and show them to me, my low.“ Mcnie
must not disobey, though her first impulse is to
spring out of the low opened window, and rush
away somewhere out of reach of all interruption
till this long suspenSe is done. But Menie does
not rush away; she only rises slowlye—comes to
Miss Annie’s side-feels the pressure of Miss Au-
nic’s embracing arm round her—and turns over
the drawings; strangely aware of every line in
them, yet all the while in a maze of abstraction
listening for their return.

Here is Menie’s mother—and here again another,
and yet another, sketch of her; and this is Randall
Home. ‘

“Do you know, I think they are very like,” said
Miss Annie; “you must do my portrait, Menie,
darling, you must indeed. I shall take no denial;
you shall do me in my white muslin, among my
flowers; and we will put Mr.. Home’s sweet book
on the table, and open it at that scene—that scene,
you know, I pointed out to you the other day. I
know what inspired him when he wrote that.

Come, my love, it will divert you from thinking of ' i

this trouble; your mamma should not have told
you ; shall we begin now ? But Menie, dear, don’t
you think you have put a strange look in this face
of Mr. Randall ?

that.” ,

Half wild with her suspense, Menie by this time
scarcely heard the words that rang into her ears,
scarcely saw the face she looked upon; but sud-
denly, as Miss Annie spoke, a new light seemed to
burst upon this picture, and there before her, looking
into her eyes, with a smile of cold‘supervision which
she always feared to see, with the incipient curl of
contempt upon his lip, the pride of self-estimation
in his eye, was Randall’s face, glowing with con-
tradiction to all her sudden hopes. Her own work,

and she has never had any will to look at him, in ,

this aspect; but the little picture blazes out upon
her like a sudden enlightenment. Here is an.
other one done by the loving hand of memory a

year ago; but, alas! there is no enchantment '
to bring back this ideal glory, this glow of genial ‘
love and life that makes it bright—a face of the _
imagination, taking all its wealth of expression '-

from the heart which suffused these Well-remem-
bered features with a radiance of its own; but
the reality looks out on Menie darkly; theface of
a man not to be moved by womanish influences—
not to be changed by a burst of strong emotion-—

not to be softened, mellowed, won, by any tender. ;
ness-—-a heart that can love, indeed ; but never can; .

forget itself; a mind sufficient for'its own rule,

a. soul which knows no generous abandon, Which '

holds its own will and manner firm and strong
above all other earthly things. This is the face

which looks on Menie Laurie out of her own pic-f

ture, startling her heart, half distraught with fond

hopes and dreams into the chill day-light ageing ‘

full awake. ,
“I will make portraits,” said Menic, hastily, in
a flood of sudden bitterness, “when we go away,

when we go home; I can do it; this shall be my a -

trade.”

And Menie closed the little portfolio abruptly V V

and went back to her seat without another word;
went back with the blood tingling/ through her
veins, with all her pride and all her strength astir;
with a vague impetuous excitement about her-—
an impulse of defiance. So long; so long; what
keeps them abroad lingering among these ,isten-
ing trees? Perhaps because they are afrai to tell

her that her fate is sealed; and starting‘to 

feet, the thought is strong on Menie toga forth

and meet them, to bid them have no fear for her,

to tell them her delusion is gone forever, and that
there is no more light remaining under the skies.

Hushl there are footsteps on the path‘.‘ Whoa '
arethese that come together, leanmg,‘:the‘elder on .
the younger, the mother 'on,lthe son? With such '

a grace this lofty head stoops to'our mother; "trim
such a kindly glance she lifts her eyes to him; and
they are busy still with the consultation which has

occupied so long a time. While she stands ar. .

rested, looking at them as they draw near, grow—

ing aware of their full amity and union—~23. Slliyet“ 

of great emotion comes upon Menie, then, or ever

abatement”, a burst of tours. In (lanthanum  2

we

It is like him, but I, “7011111 not '
choose you to do me with such an expression as ,

 

 

 

 

 

 

iii

 

I

,  QUIET HEART.

21 

 

" meat all has sudden enlightenment is gone,

quenched out other eyes, out of her heart, and

’ ’Menie puts the tears away with a faltering hand,

’_ her lips softly to Menie’s brow.

' stances too.

and stands still to meet them in a quiet tremor of

joy,"thez same loving Menie as of old.

“My bairnl” Mrs. Laurie says nothing more
as she draws her daughter close to her,rand puts
It is the seal of
the new bond. The mother and the son have
been brought together;-the past is gone forever
like adream of the night; and into the blessed

daylight, full of the peaceful rays God sends us
out ofheaven, we open our eyes as to another

life. Peace and sweet harmony to Menie Laurie’s
heart!

Put away the picture; lay it by where no one
again shall believe its slander true, put away this
false-reporting face; put away the strange clear-

sightedness which came upon us like a curse. N 0
need to inquire how much was false; it is past,

and we begin anew.

 

CHAPTER. XXIII.

- “ YES, Menie, I am quite satisfied.” It is Mrs.
Laurie herself who volunteers this declaration,
while Menie, on the little stool at her feet, looks up
wistfully, eager to hear, but not venturing to ask
what her conversation with Randall was. “We
said a great many things, my dear—a great deal
about you, Menie, and something about our circum-
The rant of Burnside will be suffi-
cient income for me. I took it kind of Randall to
say so, for it shows that he knew I would not be de-
pendent; and as for you, Menie, I fancy you will
be very well and comfortable, according to what
he says. So you will have to prepare my dear—

to prepare for your new life.”

Menie hid her face in her mother’s lap. Prepare
--not the bridal garments, the household supplies
esomething more momentous, and of greater deli-

' cacy—the mind and heart; and if this must al-

ways be something solemn and important, what-
ever the circumstances, how much more so to

r Menie, whose path had been crossed already by

73

such a spectre! She sat there, her eyes covered
with her hands, her head bowing down upon her
mother’s knee; but the heavy doubt had flown

‘ from her, leaving nothing but lighter cloudy shad-

, o'ws—maidenly fears and tremblings—in her way.

Few hearts were more honest than Menie’s, few
more wistfully desirous of doing well; and now it
is with no serious anticipations of evil, but only

I with the natural thrill of ti‘emor, the natural ex-

citement of so great an epoch drawing close at
hand, that Menie’s fingers close with a startled
pressure on her mother’s hand, as she is hidden to

re are.

What is this that has befallen little July Home ?
There never was such throngs of unaccountable
blushes, such a sufiusion of simple surprise.
Something is on her lips perpetually which she

‘ dues not venture to speak-«some rare piece of in-

. I more.

,tclligcnce, which July cannot but marvel at her-
self in silent wonder, and which she trembles to

think Menie, and “ a’body else ” will manel at still
Withdrawing silently into dark corners,
sitting there doing nothing, in long fits of reverie,

’ quiteunusual with July; coming forward so con-

scious and guilty, when called upon; and now, at
this earliest opportunity, throwing her arms
round Manic Laurie’s neck, and hiding her little
flushed andragitated face on Menic’s shoulder.

I What has befallen July Home 2 .

“ Do you think it’s a’ true, Manic? Ile wouldna
say what he-dinna mean; but I think it’s for our

' Randall’s Sake—it canna be for me 1”

‘For‘ July has not the faintest idea, as she lets
this softsilken hair of ,hers fall down on her

' cheek without an effort to restrain it, that John-

nie Lithgow would not barter one smile upon that

,tremblingvchild's lip of hers for all the Randalls

"hams," said July.

in‘the: world. I * _
“ He says he’ll go to the Hill, and tell them a’ at

“Eh, Meuie, what will they

If,“ ; _‘ any? ~ And he’s to tell Randall first of all. I wish
 I‘Was away, no to see RandaiL Meme; he,“ Jam

laugh, and think it’s no true—for I see mysol it

, ‘cpnnabe for me!” ' r

  

“It is for you, July; you must not think any-

;  thing else}. there is nobody in the world like.» on

to Johnnie Lithgow." '  sown July’s 5,. 5’

  

’levities of her unreverent age.

 

raised—a bright shy look, of wonder gradually
growing into conviction, a sudden waking of high-
er thought anddeeper feeling in the open simple
face; a sudden flush of crimson—the woman’s
blush-—-and July withdrew herself from herffriend’s
embrace, and stole a little apart into the shadow,
and wept a few tears. Was it true? For her,
and not for another! But it is a long time before
this grand discovery can look a. truth and real, to
July’s humble eyes. ‘

But, nevertheless, it is very true. Randall’s
little sister, Menie’s childiriend, the little July of
Crofthill, has suddenly been startled into woman-
hood by this unexpected voice. After a severer
fashion than has ever confined it before, July
hastily fastens up her silky hair, hastily wipes off
all traces of the tears upon her check, and is com-
posed and calm, after a. sweet shy manner of com-
posure, lifting up her little gentle head with a
newborn pride, eager to bring no discredit on her
wooer’s choice. And already July objects to he
laughed at, and feels a slight offence when she is
treated as a child—not for herself, but for him,
whom now she does not quite care to have called
Johnnie Lithgow, but is covetous of respect and
honor for, as she never was for Randall, though
secretly in her own heart July still doubts of his
genius, and cannot choose but think Randall must
be clevercr than his less assuming friend.

And in this singular little company, where all
these feelings are astir, it is hardly possible to
preserve equanimity of manners. _ M Annie her-
self, the lady of the house, sits at her little work-
table, in great delight, running over now and then
in little outbursts of enthusiasm, discours'ing of
Mr. Home’s sweet book, of Mr. Lithgow’s charm-
ing articles, and occasionally making ademonstra-
tiOn of joy and sympathy in the happiness of her
darling girls, which throws Menie—Menie, always
conscious of Randall’s eye upon her, the eye of a
lover, it is true, but something critical withal, into

grave and painful embarrassment, and covers July’s

stooping face with bluShcs. ‘ Mrs. Laurie, busy
with her work, does what she can to keep the con-
versation “sensible,” but with no great success.
The younger portion of the company are too com-
pletely occupied, all of them, to think of ordinary
intercourse. Miss Annie’s room was never so
bright, never so rich with youthful hopes and in-
terests before. Look at them, so full of individual
character, unconsb-ious as they are of any observa~
tion,.though Nelly Panton, very grim in the stifi
coat armor of her new assumed gentility, sits at
the table sternly upright, watching them all ask-
ance, with vigilant unloving eye.

Lithgow, good fellow, sits by Miss Annie.
Though he laughs now and then, he still does not
scorn the natural goodness, the natural tender-
ness of heart, which make their appearance under
these habitual affections-the juvenile tricks and
PoOr Miss Annie
Laurie has been content to resign the reverence, in
a vain attempt at equality; but Lithgow, who is no
critic by nature, remembers gratefully her true
kindness, and smiles only as little as possible at
the fictitious youthfulness which Miss Annie her-
self has come to believe in. So he sits and bears
with her little follies and weaknesses, and, in his
unconscious humility, is magnanimous, and does
honor to his manhood. Within reach of his kindly
eye, July bends her head over her work, glancing
up now and then furtively to see who is looking at
him—to see, in the second place, who is noticing
or laughing at her; and July, with all her inno-
cent heart, is grateful to Miss .Annie. So many
kind things she says—and in July’s guileless ap-
prehension they are all so true.

Graver, but not less happy, Menie Laurie pur-
sues her occupation by July’s side, rarely looking
up at all, pondering in her own heart the many
weighty things that are to come, with her tremor
of fear, her joy of deliverance scarcely yet quieted,
and all lier heart and all her mind engageduin
dreams no longer, but in sober thought;. sober
thought—~tlioughts of great devotion, of lifelong
love and service, 'of something nobler than the
common life. Very serious are these ponderings,
coming down to common labors, the course of
every day; “d Menie does net know the nature
of .her dreamings—they look to her so real, so so-

..bcrrnnd so tine—and would scorn your-warning,

if you told her that not theth story of Ara-

 

,Meuie Laurie’s face. You can lot that

bian genii was more romance than those, he:- sober
plans and thoughts.

Apart, and watching all, stands Randall Home.
There is love in his eye—you cannot doubt it———
love, and the impulse of protection, the strong ap-
propriating grasp. There is something more. Look '
how his head rises in "the dimmer background _
above the table and the lights, above the little com-
pany assembled there. With something like laugh—
ter, his eye turns upon July, upon J uly’s wooer,
his own friend, kindly, yet with a sense of superi—
ority, an involuntary elevation of himself above
them both. And his glance upon Miss Annie is,
mere scorn, nothing higher; and his eye has scarce- ‘
ly had time to recover itself, when its look falls, _ *
bright and softened, upon his bethrothed; a look 
of love, question it not, simple Menie, but it is
calm, superior, above you stil‘

\.

 

CHAPTER XXIV. 3 .

“ THEY tell me it’s a haill month since it Was a’ ‘ .‘
settled, but I hear naething of the house or the ’
plenishing, and no a word of what Jenny’s to do.

If they’re no wanting me, I’m no wanting them, _
ne’er a bit. It’s aye the way gui'd service is red ‘““
warded; and what for should there be ony odds
with Jenny? I might have kent that muckle, if I
had regarded counsel, or thought of my ainsel; but ,
aye Jenny’s foremost thought was of them, for a’
such an ill’body as she is now.” x

And a. tear was in Jenny’s eye, as she smoothed
down the folds of Monie’s dress—Menie’s finest
dress, her own present, which Menie was to wear
to-night. And Menie’s ornaments are all laid out
carefully upon the table, everything she is likely
to need, before Jenny’s lingering step leaves the
room. “I canna weel tell, for my pairt, what ,
life’ll be without her,” muttered Jenny, as” she
went away. “ I reckon no very muckle worth the
mindng about; but I’m no gaun to burden ony— V
body that doesna want me—no, if I should never ' V
hae anither hour’s comfort a’ my days.”

And slowly, with many a backward glance and
pause, Jenny withdrew. Neglect is always hard
to bear. Jenny believed herself to be left out of
their calculations—forgotten (if those to whomst
had devoted so many years of her life; and Jenny,
though she tried to be angry could not manage it, .,
but felt her indignant eyes startled with strange ,1 
tears. It made a singular cloud upon her face, 
this unusual emotion; the native impatience only _  ‘ «;
struggles through it fitfully in angry glimpses, '
though Jenny was furious at herself for feeling so
desolate, and very fain would have thrown ofl’ her _ _
discomfort in a fuif—but far past the region of.  ,l >
the fuff was this her new-come solitude of heart.

Her friends were dead or scattered, her life was all
bound up in her mistress and her mistress’s Child, , ,
and it was no small trial for Jenny, to find herself .
thus cast off and thrown aside. . _

The next who enters this room has a little heat *‘
about her, a certain atmosphere of annoyance
and displeasure. “I will be a burden ”--una~
wares the same words steal over Mrs. Laurie’s lip, L
but the sound of her. voice checks her. Two ’
or three steps back and forward through the h
a long pause before the window, and then her , i
brow is cleared. You can see the shadows gradua- " 
nally melting away, as clouds melt from the sky, ”  

l

i

 

 

 

and in another moment she has left the room to 
resume her place down stairs. 7,» t” ' . a,
This vacant room—nothing can you learn from ”
its calm good order, its windows open to the sun, 
its undisturbed and home-like quiet, of what pass- ‘ : "3
es within its walls. There is Menie’s little Bibla‘ . « -337
on the table; it is here ‘where Menie brings hes , ‘ i
doubts and troubles, to, resolve them, if they may 7‘ ' f
be resolved. But there is no whisper here .
tell you what happens to Menie, when, as has 11- “ ‘- '» 
ready chanced, some ti‘Ollble comes upon her which . l 
it is not easy to put away. Hugh 1 This  '   ,‘n
the door opens slowly, gravely—this time " 1mg”;- 1  
footstep, very sober, something languid, which , 
comes 1n; and Meals Laurie puts up herha‘nd to.
he“ forehead, as if a. pain was there; but not a
word says Menie Laurie’s reverie—not a word. _ If
she is sad, or if she is merry, there is no way to .
know. She goes about her toilette liken piece of g. '
busmess, and gives no sign. ‘ I ' " '  ‘
But this month has passed almost like

    
  
  
 

Ilse???“f .. '
cm?! .L

 

 

 

 

 

 

. , mether, Miss Menie.

(1-4.: 2';

«22

THE 7 QUIET HEART.

 

 

thoughts are common now, everyday guests and
friends in her sobered life, and that she has be-
gun to part with her romances of joy and noble
life; has begun to realize more truly what manner
of future it, is which lies before her. Nothing
'evil, perhaps—little hardship in it; no great share
of labor, of poverty, or care—but no longer the
grand ideal life, the dream of youthful smile.
And now“ she stands before the window, wearing
Jenny’s gown. It is only to look out if anyone
I is visible upon the road-«but there is no passen-
" ger yet approaching Heathbank, and Mcnie goes
calmly down stairs. As it happens, the drawing-
room is quite vacant of all but Nelly Panton, who
sits prim by the wall in one corner. Nelly is not
uninvited guest, but has come as a volunteer, in
right of her brother’s invitation, and Miss Annie
shows her sense of, the intrusion by leaving her
alone. ‘

' “ Na, I’m no aun to’bidc very lung in London,”

said Nelly; “- e see, Miss Meuie, you’re an auld
friend. I’m no so blate but I may tell
you“ I didna. come up here ance errand for my
"ain pleasure, but mostly to see Johnnie, and to try

' if I could no get any word of a very dacent lad,

ane Peter Drumlie, that belangs about our own
tryside. We were great friends, him and me,
and then we had an outcast—you’ll ken by your-
sel—but we’ve made it up again since I came to
London, and I’m gaun home to get my providing,
and comfort my mother a wee while, afore I leave
her a’thegither. It’s a real duty, comforting folk’s
I’m sure I wouldna forget
that'for a’ the lads in the world.”

“And where are you to live, Nelly?” Nelly’s
moralizing scarcely called for an answer.

“We havena just made up our minds; they say
no marriage aye makes mair,” said Nelly, with a
grim smile. “ Miss Menie, you set us a gaun.”

Perhaps Mcnie did not care to be classed with
Nelly Panton, “July Home will be a very young
wife,” shesaid; “ I think your brother should be

- very happy with her, N elly.”

5‘ I wouldna wonder,” said Nellv, shortly; “ but
you see, Miss Mcnie, our Johnnie’s a well-doing
lad, and micht ha’e looked higher, meaning nae
offence to you; though nae doubt it’s true what
Randall Home said when he was speaking about
this. ‘ Lithgow,’ says he (for he ca’s Johnnie by
xhis last name—it’s a kind 0’ fashion hereaway), ‘if

“ you get naething with your wife, I will take care to

see you’re no cumbered with onybody but hersel ;’
which nae doubt is a great comfort, seeing there
micht ha’e been a haill troop of friends, now that

, Johnnie’s- getting up in.the world.”

“ What was that Randall Home said ‘3” Menie
asked, the question in a very clear, distinct tone,
cold and steady, and unfaltering. “What do you
hay? he said; tell me again.”

.“ He said Johnnie wouldna. be troubled with
name of her friends,” said Nelly; “ though he has
, her to keep, a wee bit silly thing, that can do nae-

. Z "r ; thing in a house-—-and nae doubt a. maid, to keep to

, her forby—that he wouldna have ony of her friends

«a burden on him ; and a very wise thing to say, and

a great comfort. I aye said he was a sensible lad,
Randall Home. Eh, preserve me I”
" For Randall Home stands before her, his eyes
, glowing on her with haughty rage. He has heard
',it, every single, deliberate word, and Randall is no
coward; he comes in person to answer for what he
"has said.
. Rise, Meme Laurie! Slowly. they gather over
us, these kind shadows of the coming night; no

' one can see the momentary faltering which inclines

you to throw yourself down there upon the very
ground, and weep your heart out. Rise; it is you
who are stately now.

“This is true ?”
, She is so sure (if it, that there needs no other
form of question, and Menie lavs her hand upon

 the table to support herself, and. stands firmly be-

fore him waiting for his answer. Why is' it that
gnaw, at this moment, when she should be most
strong, the passing wind brings to her, as in mock-
ery, an echo of whispering, mingled voices—the
«timid happiness of July Home? But Menie
draws up her light figure, draws herself apart
. from the touch of her companions, and stands, as

.' she fancies she must do henceforth, all her life,

alone. , ,
- .,,.:«“.1‘hsiarrei”. ,

 

at; .

“I would disdain myself if I tried to escape by i

any subterfuge,” said Randall, proudly; “ I might
answer that I never said the words this woman at-
tributes to me; but that I donot need to tell you.
I would not deceive you, Menie. I never can deny
what I have given expression to; and you are
right—it is true.”

And Randall thinks he hears a voice, wavering
somewhere, far off, and distant like an echo, not
coming from these pale lips which move and form
the words, but falling out upon the air, faint, yet
distinct, not to be mistaken.

“I am glad you have told me. I thank you for
making no difficulty about it; this is very well.”

“ Menie! you are not moved by this gossip’s
story ? This that I said has no effect on you?
Menie! Is a woman like this to make a breach
between you and me? ”

In stolid malice, Nelly Panton sits still, and lis-
tens with a certain melancholy enjoyment of the
mischief she has made, protesting, under her
breath, that “she meant nae ill; she aye did a’
things for the best ; while Randall, forgetful of his
own acknowledgment, repeats again and again his
indignant remonstrance, “ a woman like this ! ”

“ No, she has no such power,” said Menie, firm-
ly; “ no such power. Pardon me, I am wanted
to-night. My strength is not my own to be
wasted now; we can conclude this matter another
time.”

Before he could say a word, the door had closed
upon her. There was a bustle without, a glimmer
of coming lights upon the wall. In a few minutes
the room was lighted up, the lady of the house in
her presiding place, and Randall started with angry
pride from the place where he stood, by the side
of Nelly Panton, whose gloomy unrelieved figure
suddenly stood out in bold relief upon the bright-
ened wall.

Another timel Menie Laurie has not gone to
ponder upon what this other conference shall be—-—
she is not by her own window; she is not out of
doors; she has gone to no such refuge. Where
she never went before, into the heart of Miss An-
nie’s preparations, into the bustle of Miss Annie’s
hospitality, shunning even Jenny, far more shun-
ning her mother, and waiting only till the room is
full enough, to give her a chance of escaping every
familiar eye. This is the first device of Menie’s
mazed, bewildered mind. These many days she
has lived in hourly expectation of some such blow;
but it stuns her when it comes.

Forlorn! forlorn! wondering if it is possible to
hide this misery from every eye, pondering plans
and schemes of concealment, trying to invent—do
not wonder, it is a natural impulse——some generous
lie. Menie’s nature, more truthful than her will,
fails in the effort. The time goes on, the lingering
moments swell into an hour. Music is in her ears,
and smiling faces glide before her, and about her,
till she feels this dreadful pressure at her heart no
longer tolerable, and bursts away in a sudden pas-
sion, craving to be alone.

Another heart, restless by reason of a gnawing
unhappiness, wanders out and in of these unlight-
ed chambers—oftenest coming back to this one,
where the treasures of its life rest night by night.
This wandering shadow is not a graceful one;
these pattering, hasty footsteps have nothing
in them of the softened lingering tread of medita-
tion. N 0, poor Jenny, little of sentiment or grace
embellishes your melancholy; yet it is hard to
find any poem so full of pathos as a desolate heart,
even such a one as beats in your homely breast
to-night.

Softly—the room is n." vacant now, as it was
when you last entered here.‘ Some one Stands by
the window, stooping forward to look at the stars;
and while you linger by the door, a low cry, half a
sigh, half a moan, breaks the silence faintly, not
the same voice which just now bore its part so
well below; not the same, for that voice came from
the lips only; this is out of the heart.

“ Bairn, you’re no weel; they’ve a’ wearied you,”
said Jenny, stealing upon her in the darkness; “lie
down and sleep; it’s nae matter for the like of me,
but when you sigh, it breaks folk’s hearts.”

The familiar voice surprised the watcher into a
sudden burst of childish tears. All the woman
failed in this great trial. “ Oh, Jenny. dinna tell
my mother! ” Menie Laurie was capableof no

“between ,. ., , 

 

.. 9P?!“,.°‘. 

 

mar v.—cnm ER ,xxv.

BUT this Menie Laurie, rising up from her bed
of unrest, when the morning light breaks, cold and .
real, upon a changed world, has wept out all her
child’s tears, and is a woman once again." No one
knows yet a whisper of what has befallen her; not
even poor Jenny, who sobbed over her last night,
and implored her not to weep.

Now, how to tell this; how to signify in the '
fewest and calmest words, the change that has

come upon her. Sitting with her cheek leant on her _

hand, by the window where she heard it, before
any other eyes are awake, Menie ponders this in
her heart. Always before in little difficulties
counsel and help have been within her. reach ; few

troublous things have been to do in Menie’s ex- .‘
perience; and no one ever dreampt that she

should do them, when they chanced to come to
her mother’s door. » v

' But now her mother’s honor is involved«-—she
must not be consulted; she must not know. With
a proud flush Menie draws up herself—herself Who
must work in this alone. Ah, sweet dependence,
dear humility of the old times! we must lay them
by out of our heart, to wait for a happier dawn.
This day it is independence, self-support, a strength
that stands alone; and no one who has not felt
such an abrupt transition can know how hard it ,is
to take these unused weapons up.

“ Will you let me speak to you, aunt?” Menie’s
heart falters within her, as she remembers poor
Miss Annie’s unaccepted sympathy. Has she in-
deed been driv‘en to seek refuge here at last!

“My love! how can you ask such a question,
darling, when I am always ready to speak to you ?"
exclaimed Miss Annie, with enthusiasm.

“ But not here; out of doors, if you will permit
me,” said Menie, in a half whisper. “I—I want
to be out of my mother’s sight; she must not
know.” ’

“ You delightful creature,” said Miss Annie, “ are
you going to give me your confidence at last ‘3”!

Poor Menie, sadly dismayed, was very'ill able ‘

to support this strain of sympathy. She hastened
out, not quite observing howit tasked her emu.
panion to follow her—out to the same green
overgrown corner, where once before she had
spoken of this same subject to'Randnll himself.
With a slight shudder she paused there before the ‘
little rustic seat, from which she had risen at his
approach; but Menie knew that she must harden
herself against the power of associations; enough
of real ill was before her. . ‘ ,
“ I want to tell you, aunt, if you will please to
listen to me, that the engagement of which yen
were told when we came here is dissolved—shro-
ken. I do not know if there is any stronger word,” .
said Menie, a bewildered look growing on her face.
“I mean to say that it is all over, as if it had
never been.” ‘ ~
And Menie folded her hands upon her breast, and
stood patiently to listen, expecting a burst of la-
mentation and condolence; but Menie was not pre-
pared for the laugh which rung shrilly on her ears
—-the words that followed it. ‘ ' r ’
“My sweet, simple child, I have no doubt you
quite believe it; forgive me for laughing, darling;
but I know what lovers’ quarrels are. There,
now, don’t look so grave and angry; my love, you
will make it all up to-morrow.” ‘
And Miss Annie Laurie patted Me'nie’s shrink.
ing shoulder encoungilngly. ’It was a harder task
this than Menie had a ticipated; but she "went on
without flinching. ‘ .

“This is no lovers’ quarrel, aunt; do not think 7 '

so. My mother is in some degree involvedin this. ‘
I cannot consult her, or ask her to help me; it /is a
the first time I have ever been in such a strait ;"
and Menie’s lip quivered as she spoke. “ You are
my only friend. I am serious, as serious as mind
can be, which feels that here itdecides its life.
“Aunt, I apply to you.”  _ ' 1
Miss Annie Laurie looked up very luncheon.
fused and shaken; very seldom had anyone spoken
to her with such sober seriousness of tone; She
could not think it unreal, for neither extravagance
nor despair were in these grave, sad words of , Me.
nie. The poor frivolous hem felt this voice ring
into its depths, past all superficial affecta‘tions and
sentiments. _
W. 3.. red“ “*er at-

w

l

 

 

r“ l  misuse ' a

N0 exuberance . of sympathy, no /" V.

 

 

 

 

a. . nktutrnmatlmsm  , . L-

 

,, , , , U , m,- ,...., ‘ .... ._...

. [answer this appeal; and pool~ Miss Annie faltered
I before this claim? of real service, faltered and

I  ,ahmnk into a very weak old,‘woman,.her self-delu-

sions standing her in no stead in such a strait; and

the only answer she could make was to cry, in a

trembling and strangely altered voice: “ Oh, child,

do not speak. What can I do for you ?” '

' Most true, what, can you do, indeed, poor soul!
Whosegrea‘test object for all these years has been
to shutout and darken the daylight truth, which
mocked your vain pretences ‘3 You could give
charity and gentle words ——be thankful; your
heart is alive in you because of these; but What
' can you do in such a difficulty as this? Where is

your wisdom to counsel, your strength to uphold ?

This grave girl stands before you, Sadly be“-
ing- her burden, without an effort to conceal from

‘ you that she feels it hard to bear; but you, whose
age is not grave, whose heart has rejected expe-
rience, whose mind has refused to learn the kindly
insight of advancing years, shrink into yourSelf,
pOOr aged butterfly; feel that it is presumption
to call yourself her counsellor, and say again——
again, with a tremble in your weakened voice,
“ What can I do for you?”

. “Aunt, lappiy to you,” said Menie Laurie : “I
ask your help, when I resolve to decide my future
life according to my own will and conviction of

' what is best. I have no one else to assist me. I
‘ apply to you.”

Miss Annie melted into a fit of feeble crying;
her hands shook, her ringlets drooped down lauk
abdut her cheeks. “I will do anything, anything

' you like; tell me what to do, Menie, my dear
child.” '

V It was pitiful to see her distress. Menie, whom
no one comforted, felt her heart moved to com-
fort her. I

“I will not grieve you much,” said Menic, gen.
tly; “ only I beg you to give me your countenance
when I see Randall——Mr. Home. I want you to be
as my mother might have been in other circum-
stances; bu‘t I will not trouble you much, aunt, I
will not trouble you."

. Miss Annie could not stop her tears; she was
very timid and afraid, sobbing helplessly. “ What
will I do ?‘,what can I do? Oh, Menie, love, you
will make it up to-morrow ; ” for poor Miss Annie

‘ knew no way of conquering grief except by flying
out of its sight.

' Menie led her back to the house tenderly. Menie
had never known before this necessity of becom-
ing cemforter, when she had so much need to be
comforted. ‘It was best for her, it gave her all
’ the greater command over her own heart. ,

And to hear poor innocent July, in her own

' young unclouded joy, to hear her unsuspicious

we

mother at their breakfast-table, to have Randall’s '

name cross her now and then, like a sudden blow,
Randall, Randall; Mcnie knew nothing of all
these depths, nor how such sorrows come in bat.

’ talions; so, one by one, her inexperienced heart

,: gained acquaintance with them now, gained ac-

;’ uaintance with that sorest of human truths,
'ghat it is possible to love and to condemn, possible
to part, and know that parting is the" best, yet
withal‘ tooling and cling, and hold, with the sad-
deSt gripe of tenderness, the heart/ from which you
part. Poor Mcniel they said she looked very dark
and heavy; that last night’s exertions had wearied

2 her, it was very true.

‘ Miss Annie sent a message that she was not well,
and would breakfast in her own room. In the
forenoon, when she came down stairs again, even
Menie was startled at the change. Miss Annie‘s
ringlets were smoothed out and braided on her
poor thin cheek, braided elaborately with a care

” and study worthy of something more important;

; [her step tottered a little; when anyOne spoke to

‘ her, alittle gush of tears came to her eyes; but,
notwithstanding, there was a solemnity and im-

 ‘ portance in the hush of Miss Annie’s manner,

I Which no one had ever seen in her before.

, ,Halfo-dozen times that day she asked in a start-

,’ ling whisper,“ Meme, when is he to come 1'”. Poor

, Menic, sick at heart, could scarcely bear this slow

' Pmonging of her pain.

'».\.

 

V 1 CHAPTER XXVI.
Y #353792“ “Statue.”  .,

\

V.v_

0 M", 

 

. y . ....

again ; “let us simply conclude that it is best for

 

3; my is at oath ramble "his

/

, ma QUIET HEART. *

pleasant heath, -'where she. cannot lose herself; Mrs.
Laurie has gone out for some private errands of
heresvn. In her first day, Menie has managed
well. r True, they all know that Menie has been
wearied last night; that her eye looks dull and
heavy; that her cheek has lost its slight’ bloom [of
color; that she says something of a headache; but
nobody knows that headache has come to be with
Menie Laurie as with many another, only a softer
word for heartache—no one suspects that the
quiet heart, which feared no evil when this spring
began, is now a battle-ground, and field of con-
test, and that sometimes, when she sits quiet, in
outward seeming, she could leap up with a start
and scream, and feels as if madness would come to
her underneath their unsuspicious eyes.

“Aunt, he has come.”

Miss Annie Laurie is very nervous; she has to
be supported on Menie’s arm as they go down
stairs. “ You will make it all up, Menie; yes, my
darling ;” but Miss Annie’s head nods spasmodic-
ally, and there is a terrified troubled expression
about her face, which looks so meagre in its out-
line under that braided hair.

Slightly disturbed, something haughty, rather
wondering what Menie has got to say for herself,
Randall sits waiting in the drawing-room. It is no
small surprise to him to see‘ Miss Annie—especial-
ly to see her so moved and nervous; and Randall
restrains, with visible displeasure, the words which
rose to his lips on Menie’s entrance, and coldly
makes his bow to the lady of the house.

“My dear Mr. Home, I am very much grieved; 1
hope you are ready to make it all up,” murmurs
Miss Annie; but she tremhlcs so much that it is
not easy to hear what she says, except the last
words, which flush Randall’s cheek with a sudden
disdainful anger. A lover’s quarrel! that he
should be fancied capable of this !

“ My aunt has come with me,” said Menie,
steadily, “to give the weight of her presence to
\vhatI say. Randall, I do not pretend that my
own feelings are changed, or that I have ceased to
care for you. I do not need’ to seem to quarrel, or
to call you by a less familiar name. We know the
reason, both of us; there is no use of discussing it,
and I have come to have it mutually understood
that our engagement is broken. We will go away
very soon. I came to say good-bye.”

Before she concluded, Menie had bent her head,
and cast down her wavering eyes upon Miss Annie’s
hand, which she held firmly in her own. Her
voice was very low, her words quick and hurried ;
she stood beside Miss Annie’s chair, holding fast,
and twining in her own Miss Annie’s nervous fin-
gers; but she did not venture to look up to meet
Randall’s eyes.” '

What does this mean ? it is mere trifling, Menie,"
said Randall, impatiently. “You hear a gossip’s
story of something I said; true or false it did not
affect you, it had no bearing on you; you know
very well that nothing has happened to make you
less precious to me, that nothing can happen which
will ever change my heart. Menie, this is the
second time; is this the conduct I have a right to
expect from you? Deal with me frankly; I have
a title to it. What do you mean ?”

“My darling, he will make it up,” said Miss
Annie, with a little overflow of tears. '

But Menie was very steady—so strange, so
strange—she grew into a startling acquaintance
with herself in these few hours. Who could have
thought there were so many passionate impulses
in Menie Laurie’s quiet heart.

“ We will not discuss it, Randall,” she said,

both of us to withdraw. Perhaps you will be bet-
ter content if I speak more strongly,” she con-
tinued, with a little trembling vehemence, born of
her weakness, “if I say it is impossible ; impossi-
ble; you understand the word; to restore the state
of mind, the hope, the trust, and confidence that
are past. N 0; let us have no explanation; I can-
not bear it, Randall. Do we not understand each
other already? Nothing but parting is possible
for us—for me. I think I am saying what I mean
to say; good—bye.” '

“ Look at me, Menic.”

It is hard to do it-—hard to lift‘up those eyes.
so full of tours~hard to see his lips quiver—hard
totes the love in his face;g'but Menie’s‘ eyes full

 

when they hare ‘ this  ordeal ;

‘ 88

h

_ m... ....- -- swam—o >7

and again she holds out her hand and says”. “Good; _ 7
” , .

bye.

“ Goodbye—I answer you,’? said Randall, wring.
ing her hand, and throwing it out of his grasp.
“Goodbye; you are disloyal, Menie, disloyal to
Nature and to me; some time you will remember
this; now I bid you fareWell.” _

Something crossed her like an angry breath;
something rang in her ears, confused and echoing»
like the first drops of a thunder-shower; and Me-
nie can see nothing in all the World but Miss An- r
nie weeping upon her hand, and, like a culprit, '
steals away; steals away, not knowing where she
goes; desolate, guilty, forsaken, feeling as if
she had done some grievous wrong, and was for-
ever shut out from peace and comfort in this
weary world. I

Yes, there is no one to see you. Lie down upon
the ground, Menie Laurie, down, down, where you
can be no Miner, and cover your eyes from the
cheerful light. How they pour upon you, these
dreadful doubts and suspicions of yourself! wisely,
wisely, What should make it wise, this thing you
have done?
you took no counsel. If it was not wise, what
then ? It is done, and there is nothing for it now
but to be content. "

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

“ Ir must not be, I cannot permit it,” said Mrs.
Laurie. “ Menie, is this all that your mother dc-
scrves at your hands? to take such a step as this ‘
without even telling me, without giving "me an
opportunity of remonstrance? .Menie! Menie l" -

And with hasty steps Mrs. Laurie paces back-

ward and forward the narrow room. Beside the 7

window, very pale, Menie stands with a half avert: '
ed face, saying nothing, very pale, and there is a
sullen suffering in Menie Laurie’s darkened face. ‘

“ I cannot have it. 'I will not permit it.” Mrs.
Laurie is much excited. “ My own honor is com-
promised; it will be said it is I who have sepa- ,
rated you. Menie, it is strange that you should
show so little regard either to Randall or to me. ‘
Imust do something—I must make an effort——
I cumot have this.” "

“Mother, hear me,” exclaimed Menie. “No
one shall do anything; I will not bear it either.
In everything else you shall make of me what you
will—here I am not to be swayed; I must dc-
cide this for myself—and I have decided it, 1110-.
ther.” ' ‘

With astonished eyes Mrs. Laurie looked upon,
her daughter’s face. Flushed with passion, full of
a fierce unrespecting will—was this Menie Laurie ? .

but her mother turned aside from her. “‘I am I 7

sorry, Menie, I am very sorry, to see you show
such a spirit; another time I will speak of it
again.” . ' » A .
Another time! Menie Laurie laughed slow laugh
when her mother left the room.

You yourself have litttle wisdom, and ‘ ,

Something like  

\ .

a scowl had come to Menie’s brow; a dark abiding: r ' f -
cloud was on her face; and in her heart such bit  r '

terness and universal disappointment as killed 

every gentle feeling in her soul; disloyal to‘the’
one love, disrespectful and disobedient‘ to the
other, bitterly Mcnie’s heart turned upon itself,
she had pleased no one; her life was nothing but,
a. great blot before her. .
host of evil feelings, evil spirits waging war mt
one another in her vexed and troubled mind. Sui-
lenly she sat down once more upon the ground,
not to seek if there was any comfort in the hen-
vens above or the earth beneath, but to brood upon
her grief, and make it darker, till the clouds closed ~
over her, and swallowed her up, and not a star re~ ‘
mained. 7

There is a certain obstinate gloomy satisfaction". I "

in despair. To decide that everything is hopeless,
that nothing can be done for you, that your 1,5."
reached to the pre-eminence of woe—mow
Menie’s face was dark and sullen—she mama to
this point now. . . . 
Like a. thunder-storm this intelligence came up-

She was conscious of a ' ‘

. ‘1

on little July Romeo—she could not comprehend it, : I l

and no one took the trouble to explain to her.
Litthw, knowing but the fact, was. surprised and
grieved, and prophesied their reunion; but now

hope was in Menie’s sullen griivity-y—none in the   ~

haughty resentment of Randall Home.
And fireman cares more 

. ’\

, \

 

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, ' sway.

 

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24 ,

rm" 9 UIET Hum: 

 

, brow comiders of her future—will Menie be best
in the Dumfriesshire cottage, where no one will
' see their poverty, or pursuing some feminine oc-
cupation among the other seamstresses, teachers,

' poor craftsmen of a less solitary place ‘2 For now
that all is done that can be done, there is no hope
of recovering anything of the lost income—and
' Mrs. Laurie will not live on Miss Annie’s bounty.
She is anxious with all her heart to be away.

Miss Annie herself has not recovered her trial :
autumn winds grow cold at night—autumn rains
come down sadly upon the little world which has
had its cheerfulness quenched out of it—-and when

, Randall takes away his little sister to carry her
home, Miss Annie looks a mournful old woman, sit-
ting there wrapped up by the early lighted fire.
These two or three mornings she has even been seen
at the breakfast table with a cap protecting the head
which is so sadly apt to take cold—and Miss

. Anniecries a little to herself, and tells bits of her
own love.story to Menie, absorbed and silent, who
sits unanswering beside her, and moans to herself
sadly sometimes, over this other vessel of youthful
life, cast away.

I But Miss Annie Laurie never wears ringlets

, more. Strangely upon her conscience, like a re-
proach for her unnatural attenuated youth, came
Menie’s appeal to her for help and comfort." Feel-
ing herself so frivolous and feeble, so unable to
sustain or strengthen, Miss Annie made a holo-
caust of her curls, and was satisfied. So much
vanity was relinquished not without a struggle ;
but great comfort came from the sacrifice to the
heroic penitent. _

And Jenny, discontented and angry with them
all, furiously now takes the part of Randall Home,
and wonders, in a fuif and outburst, what Miss
Menie can expect that she “ lightlies ” a bonny lad
like you. A great change has taken place on Me-

.. nie; no one can say it is for the better, and sullen-
ly and sadly this bright year darkens over the house
offleathbank.

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.

. “YOU’RE to bide away, you’re no to come near
this place. Na, you may just fecht; but you’ve
nae pith compared to Jenny, for a’ sac auld and
' thrawn as Jenny has been a’ her days. It’s no me
2,, 5. justoé-it’s your mamma and the doctor. Bairn !
1 will you daur struggle wi’ me ?”
But Menie would dare struggle with anyone—
‘ neither command nor resistance satisfies her.
“Let me in, I want to see my mother.”
. “ You can want your mother for a day—there’s
mair than you wanting her. That puir auld have-
' rel there—~guid forgi‘e me—she’s a dying woman-—
 has sairer lack 0’ her than you. Keep to your ain
, place, Merrie Laurie; muckle made 0’, muckle
. thocht o’,,but you’re only a bairn for a’ that ; you’re
'  no a. woman of judgment like our mamma or me.
,I tell you to gang away; I wil not let you in.”
And, Jenny stood firm, a jealous, incorruptible
.sentinei‘in the passage which led to Miss Annie
, ; Laurie’s room. “Miss Menie, ye’ll no take it ill
“ what I say,” said Jenny; “there’s death in the
' house, or fast earning. I ken what the doctor
‘ means. Gang you hen the house, like a good bairn;
lock in your aid glass, and see if there should be a
face like that in a house where He comes.
, Menie looked silently into the countenance be-
» fore her—-the keen, impatient, iraseiblc face; but
‘ . it was easy to see a hasty tear dashed away from
Jenny’s cheek. ’
a ‘ And without another word, Menie Laurie turned
Some withered leaves are lying on the
‘ windowed“; the‘trees are yielding up their treas-
, tires, dropping them down mournfully to- the dis-
] combine soil; but the meagre yew-tree rustles be-
' fore her, darkly~- green in its perennial gloom.
‘ Rather shed the leaves, the hopes; rather yield
to winter meekly for the sake of Spring; rather be
cut down, and rooted up altogether, than grow
to suéh'a sullen misanthrophy as this.
And Menie Laurie looks into her own face; this
I ‘ gloomy brow, these heavy eyes, are these the day-
‘  ‘ light features of Meals Laurie? the interpretation
" 9f hergheart? Eamestly and long she reads, no

"\

r?

 of Vanity,‘but a stern sermon from that

 "truthful mirror. Hush i listen! what was that? a

‘  :37  leaving we: [Annie/Mia's room;

I

, ings as these.

 

the cry is over, there is only now a feeble sound of
weeping; but a shadow strangely still and sombre
has fallen upon the house, and the descending step
rings like a knell upon the stairs. What is it?
what is coming? and what did it mean, that mel~
ancholy cry?

Alas! avoice out of a startled soul—a cry of
wild and terrified recognition—acknowledgment.
Years ago, age came gently to this dwelling, gently
with light upon his face, and honor upon his
gray hairs. There was no entrance for him
through the jealous door; but now has come an~
other who will not be gainsaid.

Gather the children, Reaper; gather the lilies,
take the corn full in the ear, go to the true souls
where thought of you dwells among thoughts of
other wonders, glories, solemn things to come;
leave this chamber here with all its poor devices.
No such presence has ever stood within its pov-
erty-stricken walls before. Go where great love,
great hope, great faith, great sorrow, sublimer an-
gels, have made you no phantom; leave this soul
to its toys and delusions; it is a poor triumph,
come not here.

Hush, be still. They who have sent him have
charged him with a message;hear it how it ring
slow and solemn into the ear of this hushed
house. “There is a way, and it shall be called
the way of holiness; the Wayfaring man, though a
fool, shall not err therein.” Stay your weeping,
poor fool—~—poor soul; prayers have gone up for
you from the succored hearts of some of God’s
poor. Unawares, in your simplicity, you have lent
to the Lord. Your gracious debtor gives you back
with the grand usury of heaven; gives you back
opportunity, hope, a day to be saved; lays aside
those poor little vanities of yours under the cover
of this, His great magnanimous, divine grace; and
holds open to your feeble steps the way, where

.wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err any

more forever.

“ I’ll let you pass, Miss Menie, if you’ll bide a
moment,” said Jenny, wiping her eyes; “ he says
it’s no thefcver he thought it was, but just anatu-
ral decay. Did you hear yon? she wasna looking
for Him that’s at the door, and He’ll no wait lang
where ance He’s gi’en His summons—pity me! I
would like to see Him coming the road mysel, afore
I just found Him at my door-stane.”

The room is very still; through the quiet you
can only hear the panting of a frightened breath,
and now and then a timid, feeble sob. She has to
go away-knows and feels to the depth of her
heart that she must go upon this solemn road
alone; but, with a sad panic of terror and curios-
ity, she watches her own feelings, wondering if
this and this be death.

And now they sit and read to her while the day-
light flushes in noon; while it fades and wanes
in the night; the night and dark of which she has
a childish terror; read to her this blessed Gospel,
which does not address itself alone to the wise
and noble, but is for the simple and for fools.
Safe ground, poor soul, safe ground—for this is no
scheme of eclecticism, no portal to the pagan
heavens—and you cannot know yourself so low,
so mean, as to escape the range of this great wide
embracing arm.

“ I have not done all that I ought to have done,”
murmurs poor Miss Annie. “ Don’t leave me ;”
for she cannot rest except some one holds her
hand, and has a faint superstitious trust in it, as
if it held her sure.

A little pause—again the fingers close tightly
upon the hand they hold. “I never did any
harm.” The words are so sad—so sad—falling
out slow and feeble upon the hushed air of this
darkened room.

“But I never did any good—never, never.”
The voice grows stronger. “ Does anybody think
I did i’ I—I—-—I never was very wise. I used to
try to be kind sometimes ;” and in a strain of in-
articulate muttering, the sound died away once
more.

And then again the voice of the reader broke
the silence. They scarcely thought the sufferer
listened; forever and anon she broke forth in
such wavering self-jnstifications, self-condemn-
But now there is a long silence;
strange emotions come and go upon this old, old,
whithered face. g f“
 em for bananas the; come  mi

  

The tears have been driedjrom ,p,‘ _ ,

 

dewing all her poor thin cheeks; butia strange ex- L

citement struggles _with her weakness. Looking
about to her right hand and to her left, the dying

woman struggles with an eager defiance—strugé ’ ‘

gles til], at a sudden climax, her broken voice
breaks forth again. ‘

“ Who said it was me——me-——it’s not me! I
never could win anything in this world—410thng
in this world, not a heart to care for me.
think I could win Heaven!
it’s for his sake.” V

“For His sake—for His sake.” If it is aprayer'
that ends thus, or sudden assurance of which she
will not loose her hold forever, no one can know;
for by-and-by her panic returns upon Miss Annie.
Close in her own cold fingers she grasps the hand
of Menie Laurie, and whispers, “Is it dark, is it
so dark to you ‘2” with again a thrill of terror and

I say it is not for me ;

trembling, and awful curiosity, wondering if this, ’

perchance, is the gloom of death.

“It is very dark; it is almost night.” The
lamp is lighted on the table; let some one' go to
her side, and hold this other poor wandering hand.
“Oh! not in the night, not in the night.
afraid to go out in the night,” sobs poor Miss
Annie; and with a dreadful suspicion in her eyes,
as if of some one drawing near to murder her, she
watches the falling of this fated night.

A solemn vigil,“ with ever that tight and rigid
pressure upontheir clasped hands. Mother and
daughter, silent, pale, keep the watch together; and
below, the servants sit awe-stricken, afraid to go to
sleep. Jenny, who is not afraid, goes about the
stairs, up and down, from room to room, sometimes
serving the watchers, sometimes only straying near
them, muttering, after her fashion,words which

may be prayers, and dashing off now and then an,

intrusive tear.

Still, with many a frightened pause, many a
waking up, and little pang of terror, this forlorn
heart wanders back into the life which is ending

now, wanders back to think herself once more 011- '

gaged ill/tile busier scenes of heryouth, in the'lit-
tle occupations, the frivolities and gaiety of her

later years ; but howsoever her mind wanders, she,

never ceases to fix her eyes upon the span of sky
glittering with a single star, which shines paler on
her through the window, from Which, to' please her;

they had drawn the curtain." “I am afraid to go ,:

out in the dark ;” again and again she says it with
a shudder, and a tightened hold upon their hands,
and steadfastly watches the night. .

At last her eyes grow heavy—she has fallen
asleep. Little reverence has MISS Annie won'at
any time of all her life, but the eyes that look on
her are awed and reverent now. Slowly the hours
pass by, slowly the gradual dawn brightens upon
her face, the star has faded out of the heavens, on

her brow, which is the brow of death, the daylight , I

glows in one reviving flush. The night is over for,
evermore.

And now her heavy eyes are opened full, her,

feeble form is raised; and, with a cry of joy, she
throws out her arms to meet the light.

now she no more needs the pressure of your kind-
ly hands. Lay her down, she is afraid no longer ;

for not in the night, or through the darkness, 4

but with the morning and the sun, the traveler
fares upon her way, where fools do not err. By

this time they have taken her in yonder at the 'k

gate. Lay down all that remains of her to its
rest.

——

CHAPTER XXIX. ,
Tun curtains are drawn again in Miss Annie

Laurie’s house of Heathbank, drawn back from.  ‘ I

the Opened windows to let the fresh airand, the

sunshine in once more to all the rooms. 7 With“:

long breath and sigh of relief, [the household
throws off its compelled gloom". With all cheer.

vances of honor, they hav laid her’in her ‘gr‘aver _  _
and a few natural tears-have been wept, a few '

kindly words spoken, a reverentimemeuto. raised
to name the place where she lies. Now she is

passed away and forgotten, her seat empty, her 

house knowing her no more. ‘ . r
In Miss Annie’s desk; a half-written paper—in-
timatin v uely that, in case of g“ anything mp.

  

tom

W131“ 

_ ,, W’Aiéa-u ,

 

Lo, you '

lam-i

Lay her 
down tenderly; her chains are broken in her sleep ;

y to er at any future time, she wished an , \V g :

 

 

 

 

.  ' J

 
 
 
  
 

 

 

,4.’

> 2

.‘L
~m

 immediately after the funeral- But some

‘superstitiOus terror had prevented her from finish-

, ing‘ it, far more from making a will. Menie was

:. her next vofkinait, pleased them to have this
I  sanctiOn of her willingness to the inheritance of
w the natural heir. -,

, Miss Annie had been rather given to speak of
' her savings; but no vestige of these savings was

to be found; She had practised this on herself

. 'likc’ many another delusion; and saving the furnt-‘
flute of Heathbank, and a profusion of ornaments

\‘-.

v, Servant to her indulgent mistress.

9 ‘ "not valuable, there remained little for Menie to in-

herit. . Miss Annie’s maid was her well-known fa-
VOrite, and had, been really attentive, and a good
Her name was

("mentioned in the half~writtcn paper, and Maria’s

‘9‘“! “Port of many conversations, modestly hint-
ad 33 a legacy. Miss Annie’s furniture, pretty and

",Buitttblefor her house as it was, was not valuable

; , in a sale ;. and Mrs. Laurie, acting for her daugh-

, ten, -',bestowed almost the whole amount received
«‘ ffor'it upon, Maria, as carrying out the will of her
mistress. Having done this, they had done all,
f Mrs. Laurie thought, and would now go home to
,"live. as they could upon what remained to them.
I Burnside, with all its plenishiug, brought in no

5..'§I;eater revenue than fifty pounds a year, and Mrs.

uric had two or three hundred pounds “in the
bank.” This was all. She began to calculate
painfully what the home journey would cost them,
and called Jenny to consult about their parking.

“ .‘They were now in a little lodging in the town of

Hmpstead. They had no inducement to stay
here; and Menie’s face looked very pale, verymuch
in‘w'ant’of the fresh gale on the Dumfriesshire
brass. True, they knew not where they were go—
ing, but the kindly soil was home. , *
When her. mother and Jenny began to take

enumeration of the bags and boxes which must go

” with, them, Menie entered the room.

Menie
looked very slight, very pale, and exhausted, almost

 shadowy in‘her mourning dress; but Menie’s n0w

__,._,was a face that looked on Death.

The con-
flict.and sullen warfare were gone out of it. Dead

. ‘ and silent within her lay her chilled heart, like a
' stricken field when the fight is over, with nothing

but moans and sighs, and voices and misery, where

‘1 the music and pomp of war has so lately been.
The contest was over; there was nothing to strug-

glefor’, oestruggie with, in this dull unhappiness
-,-¢-_and aheavy peace lay upon Menie like a cloud.

1‘.‘ There’s a wee kistie wi’ a lock. I set it by
myself for Miss Meals; and there’s the mucklc

' one that}. held the napery at home; but I’m no

' gaunon thema’.

aid them when we came. Miss Menie! gang awa
your Ways, like a good bairn, and read a book;
your mamma’s‘ speaking about the flitting, and I
can only do ac thing at a time.”
’ “Are-we going home, mother ‘3”
“There is nothing else we can do, ,Mcnie,” said
Mrs. Laurief “I suppose none of us have any in-

. " ducernent now to stay in London.”
,  ' A flush of violent color came to Menie‘s cheeks.
i, She, paused and hesitated. _ “Ihave, mother.”
4 r 1 “Bless me, I aye said it,” muttered Jenny
. quickly, under her breath, as she turned round
,v with an eager face, and thrust herself forward to-
‘ , waids’xthe mother and daughter. “The bairn’s

come to horse .”
Mrs. haurie colored scarcely lessthan Menie.

"‘Icannot guess what you mean,” she said hur.

.riedly. “ You did not consult me before-4

 Tam, perhaps, an unsuitable adviser now; but I
‘ . cannot stay in London without havinga reason for

"34/

it.“ This place has nothing but painful associaa

,tions for me.” You are not well, Menie,” contin-

'  themother, softening; “we shall all be better

 

‘ “of hes/heart.

 away; let us go home." V
 ‘ ,,,The color wavered painfully on Meme Laurie’s

‘clieek, and it was hard to keep down a groan out
“I am not come to myself—my

xi "mind is unchanged,” she said, with sudden meek-

  
 
 
 
   
   
  

 ;595'?» \“I'want you to stay for a month or two——
235 works. time as possible—and to let me

_ > ‘ have
 lessons. ‘ Mother, look at these." ' '

“"Efiiiéfh '7 brought her little' portfolio. With

, me .mhment 7 Mrs. Laurie turned over its

  delicately—~almost timidly too—~lest
“fillifimishculd look out upon her as of, old.
‘ “11 the “sketches” off Randall were removed.

 

 

which she folded resolutely into her apron.

I’ll just lay in‘the things as I'

 

 {metd tunes; but Jenny, as be-

 

THF QUIET HEART“
wildered “as Maine’s mother, could only look up
with a‘puzzled face. What did she mean ?

“ Theyare not very well done,” said Menie;
“but, for all that, they are portraits, and like; I
want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long
ago,”—poor Menie, it seemed years ago, “I said
this should be my trade. I will like the trade; let
me only have the means of doing it better, and it
will be good for me to do it. This .is why I ask
you to stay in London.”

Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of
a chair, thrust it suddenly between them at this
point, with a snort of emphatic defiance.

“ Ye’ll no let on ye hear her i” exclaimed Jenny ;
“ you’ll let her get her whimsey out like ony ither
wean !——ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots and
her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I
should live to hear a bairn of ours speak of a
trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore 1”

And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of J en-
ny’s breast—an angry tear glitl'crcd in her eye.
She drew a long breath to recover herself.

“Jenny’s twa hands to the fore, I say, and the
here a’ to shear yet, and the ’taties to gather—no
to say the mistress is to buy me twa kye, to take
butter to the market! I Would just like to ken
where’s the pleasure in working, if it’s no to gi’e
ease to folk’s ain? I’ve a’ my- ain plans putten
down, if folk would just let me-be ; and we’ll can
keep a young lass to wait upon Miss Menie,” cried
Jenny, with a shrill tone in her voice, “and the
first 0’ the cream and the sweetest 0' the milk, and
nae occasion to wet her finger. You’re no gaun to
pay ony heed to her—you’re no gaun to let on
you hear what she says i”

Reaching this point, Jenny broke down, and
permitted, much against her will, a little"shower
of violent hot tears to rain down upon the arms
But
Jenny shook off, with indignation, the caressing
hand which Menie laid upon her shoulder. Jenny
know by experience that it was better to be angry
then to be sad.

“ I would think with you, too, Jenny,” said Mrs.
Laurie, slowly. “I could do anything myself;
but a bairn of mine doing work for money—Me-
nic, we will not need it—we will try first”

“Mother,” said Menie, interrupting her hastily,
“I will need it; I will never be willful again; let
me have my pleasure now.”

It was a thing unknown that Mcuic should not
have her pleasure. Even Jenny yielded to this im-
perative claim. The boxes were piled up again in
Jenny’s little bedchamber. Jenny herself, able to
do nothing else, set to knitting stockings with
great devotion. “I’ll ha’e plenty to do when we

 

get hame, without ever taking wires in my hand,”

said Jenny. “Nae doubt it’s just a providence to
let we lay up as mony as will serve.”

Their parlor was in the first floor, over one of
the trim little ladies’ shops which have their ,par—

ticular abode in little towns of competence and.

gentility. Toys and Berlin wool; a prim,‘neat,
gentle Miss Middleton sitting at work on some
pretty bit of many-colored industry, behind the 0r-
derly counter; gay patterns and specimens about;
little cartsand carriages, and locomotive animals
upon the floor; bats, balls,drums, shining tin breast-
plates, and glorious swords hanging by the door, and
linen awning without, throwing the little shop into
pleasant shade. This was the ground floor; above
it was a very orderly parlor, and the sun came
glistening in upon the little Stand of flowers
through the bright small panes of the old-fash-
ioned window, and fell upon Mrs. Laurie, alWays
at work upon some making or mending; upon
Jenny’s abrupt exits and entrances ; her keen gray
eyes and shining “wires,” the latter of which were
so nobly independent of any guidance from the
former; and upon Menie’s heavy meditations, and
Menies’s daily toil.

For toil it came to be, exalted from theayoung
lady’saccomplishment to the artist’s labor. .She

Worked at this which she harshlycalled liertrade,

with great zeal and perseverance. Even herself

did not know how deficient she was till, now ; . but

Menie worked bravely in her apprenticeship, and
with good hope. I _
_ CHAPTER   , _
“I wouwm he’s come hame as I  awaygif

 

  

“£36 

v—‘m

I had been you, Jenny. The speaker stands at i f

door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, whileJem
ny milks her favorite cow. “Ye see what Nelly
Panton’s done for hersel; there’s naething like
making up folk’s‘ mind to gang through wi’ a’
thing; and you see Nelly’s gotten a man away in
you weary London.” ,

“ I wouldna gang to seek a misfortune—no me,” ,
said Jenny; “ill enough when it comes; and I
wonder how a woman like y u, with twelves balms .
for a handsel, could gie such an advice to ony dc-
cent lass; and weel I wat Nelly Panton’srgotten as
man. Puir laddie! it’s the greatest mercy ever

\

r

was laid to his hands to make him a packmanpw.

he’ll no he so muckle at hame; but you’ll, make—r
nae divert 01 Jenny. If naehody ever speered my
price, I’m no to hang my head for that. I’ve aye,

keepit my fancy free, and nae man can say that, _

Jenny ever lookit owre her shouther after him.

A’ the house is fu’ ’enow, Marget; we’ve scarcely-
done with our flitting; I canna ask you to conic. '
in.”

the byre-door upon Brockie and her black com-
panion. The wind came down keen from the,
hills ; the frosty wintry heavens'had not quite lost ,
the glow of sunset, though the pale East began to
glitter with stars. Sullen Griffel has apurple‘

glory upon his cap of cloud, and securely, shoulder, _
to shoulder, this band of mountain marshals keep j

the border; but the shadows are dark about their
feet, and night falls, clear and cold, upon the
darkened grass, and trees that stir their branches
faintly in the wind. ,
The scene is strangely changed. Heaths of
other nature than the, peaceful heath of Hamp-
stead lic dark under the paling skies, not veryffar-
away; and the heather is brown on the low-lying

pastureohills, standing out in patches from the 
close-cropped grass, Yonderp glow upon they _/ _

road is the glow of fire-light from an open cottage "
door, and on the \vindowulcdge within stand basins '
of comfortable Dumfriesshire “ parritch,” cooling

for the use of those eager urchins, with their fair 

exuberant locks and merry faces, and waiting the: '
milk which their loitering girl sister brings slole

in from the byre. It is cold, and she.brcatbes up; I I
‘on her fingers as she shifts her pail from one hand “
to the other; yet bareheaded Jenny lingers, won- 

dcring vaguely at the “ bonnie” sky and deep airs I, 

ening calm.

Another cottage here is, close at hand,»faintlnyw

throwing out from this back-window a littleli ht

into the gathering gloom. Brockie andBl " ,7  I
are comfortable for thenight; good homely  :23,

they make no account of the key turned.”qu
them in the byre—door'; and Jenny, in her 

dress, her beloved shortgown and warm‘striped 
skirts, stands a moment, drawing in, with keen ’

relish, the sweep of cold air which comes full upon
us over the free countryside. ‘

“ I’m waiting for Nelly’s mother,” says Jenny’s "

, ~

companion, who is Margct Panton from Kirklandgi.
Kelly’s aunt; “ she’s gane in to speak to, years
mistress. You'll be no for ca’ing her mistress-'mfi;
Jenny, and her sae muckle cofne down-infiha
world. i
no be able now to pay you your fee.”

“ Me kind to them! My patience!
because ye dinna ken ony better,” said Sonny,
with a little snort.
would hand by what concerns themsels, and let me

abee. I would like to ken what’s a’the werld’s  

business if Jenny has a good mistress, and nae.
need to seek anitber service frae ac year’s end to
the ither—41nd it «ranna advnntage they like, 0" you
grudging at Jenny’s fee.

gaun home.“
“I wouldna be sac crabbit if I

for’t,” returned Margot, sharply; “ and, ye '

think to gar folk-believe less; it’s weel kent‘your  ,  ,
house is awfu’ come down. . ‘Pride-‘gahgs before-a  .‘ '

fa’,’ the Scripture says. Ye’ll no ca’ that 3; 193;; '
audI hear that Miss Menie’s joe jug; figmligv
and broke-off in time.” » . _

- “ I’m like to be driven daft wi’ane and anither,” 

exclaimed Jenny, furiously, “, If Miss Manic hadna
been a thrawart creature herselfl would”. have

had, to listen to the like ,o’,_thls.é Na, thatch—light 
hale been the teammbut it was nane of the  :-

 

  

aheZkens bat herselwhatiit use. Pin 

.,.

.1

 

 

I’m sure you’re real kind to them; ,tliey'flx “ p '
. ., g»; 
But it’s ' ‘

u I just wish, fermy part, folk  =

It’s gayalark, and the if.  '
road’s lanesome; if .I was-you, .I would. think 0’“ .7

got a  .

So saying, Jenny rose with her pail, and closed ‘ V  

.A s»?

., ./-

  
   
 
  
  
    
 
   
 
 
  
    
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
 



t.» ,

.26

I

THE QUIET smart ,

 

 

wouldha have cast away a bonnie lad like you if

z . it had been me; but the like of her, a young lady.

\

behooves to ha’e her ain way.”

“Weel, it’s aye best to put a guid face on’t,”
said Jenny’s tormentor. “ I’m no saying onything
at'my ain'hand; it’s a’ Nelly’s story, and Johnnie
being to marry July Home, it’s a grand marriage
for acid Crofthill’s daughter, such a bit wee use-
less thing, we’re the likcst to ken. Ye needna
take it ill, Jenny. I’m meaning nae reproach to
you.” ‘

'. f‘ I’m no canny when I’m angered,” said Jenny,
petting down her pail in the. road: “ ye’ll gang
your way hame, if you take my counsel; there’s
naetliing for you here. Pity 'me for Kirklands
parish, grif and sma’! with Nelly at the Broken-
rig, and you at the Brigend? but I canna thole a

,’ lee-it makes my heart sick; andI tell ye I’m

no canny when I’m angered. Guid nicht to you,
Marget Panton; when I want to see you Bil
send you word. You can wait here, if you
maun get yon puir decent woman hame wi’ you.

'_ lvreckon I would get many thanks if I set her free;

 

 

" yboth from without and
With'her never-failing work sat by a little table;

/.

"but I dinna meddle wi’ ither folks’ business; you

canfwait for her here.”
And, taking up her pail again rapidly, Jenny
pattered away, leaving Marget somewhataston-

5' ished, standing in the middle of the road, where
' this energetic speech had been addressed to her.

With many mutterings Jenny pursued her wrath-
»;fu'l way. i

‘ ~“Ye’ve your ainsel to thank, no anither crea-
ture, Menie Laurie ; and now this painting business
is ,begun, they’ll be waur and waur. What for
could she no have kepit in wi’ him? A bonnie

L ans, to he’s a’ her ain way, and slaving and work-

ing a’ day on her feet, as if Jenny wasna worth the
bread she eats; and the next thing I’ll hear is

_' sureto be that she’s painting for siller. Pity
.. y,,me , ,, .
v ,- .Full of her'afflietions, very petulant, and resent-

ful, Jenny entered the cottage door. It was a but
and a hen, that is to say, it had two apartments,
neon each side of the entrance. The larger of the
two was boarded; Mrs Laurie had ventured to do
this at her own expense, and had been furnished in

"  extremely moderate and simple fashion. It was
' It Very humble room; but still it was a kind of

parlor, and,»,with the ruddyfire-light reddening its
further corners, and blinking on. the uncovered
window, it looked comforable, and even cheerful
within. Mrs. Laurie,

Mellie, whose day’s labor was done, bent over the
fire, with her flushed cheeks supported in her

 hands; the conflict and the sullen glow had
f “gone out of Menie’s face, but a heavy cloud op-
'. pressed it still.

Conscious that she is an intruder, divided be-
tween her-old habitual deference, and her new

ivsense‘of‘ equality, as Johnnie Lithgow’s mother,

  any Mrs. Laurie under the sun, Mrs. Lith-

  
  

4

goat, sits upon the edge of a chair, talking of Nelly,

' and Nelly’s marriage.

\' “ Nelly says .you Mere real‘ kind. I’m sure

I naething could be kinder than the like of you tak-

 * ing notice of her, when she was in a strange place,
« 'ber lane, thOugh, nae doubt, being Johnnie’s sis-
 ter, made a great difference.
5 ,iny‘ainsel whiles, the awfu’ odds it’s made on me.
g,- "I have naething ado but look out the best house in
7- K‘rrklands, and I can get it bought for me, and an

I can scarcely believe

,hleome regular, and nae need to do a thing, but be
thankful to Providence and Johnnie.” It’s a. great
likening, a good son."

' Titsthere was only a murmur of assent in answer

surerit’s naething but neighborlike, you’ll

  jams, Mrs. chgow proceeded:

"3“ Pa

 5 ' -{ no take it amiss, being ina kindly spirit, to say if

 onything am can do. There’s Nelly gotten

I , herein  noo, and wonderful well of! in the

world’sahd for me, I’m just a miracle. If there

"was'ought you. wanted“, no being used to a sma’

house, or "nay helpin ae way or anither, from a

  day’s darg wi’ Jenny to-——-—”

 

.iBut Mrs.“Lithgo‘W did not dare to go any further.

“fl‘he slight elevation of'Mrs. Laurie’s head, the
1. sudden wetness of that steeping figure by the
""firesidajwarned the good woman in time; so, after

 

   
  
 
 

 rfi’iiihm’wt «6'47: 1‘“ 1m?- “‘35

  breathless, ause, she resumed:

 

 

“sq-doom be realg , d, it‘Wmtldtb; naethnag but"
,. ow  .y

 

were to me when I was in trouble about Johnnie,
and aye gied me hope. Poor laddie! next month
he’s coming down to be married; and I’m sure'I
hepe he‘ll be weel off in a guid wife, for he canna
but be a guid man, considering what a son he’s
been to me.”

“He will be very well off,” said Mrs. Laurie;

“ and poor little July goes away next month, does
she? Has Jenny come in yet, Menie? We have
scarcely had time to settle in our new house,
Mrs. Lithgow ; but I will remember your kind offer,
and thank you. How dark the night grows, and
it looks like snow.”
‘ “ I’ll have to be gaun my ways,” said the visitor,
rising; it’sa lanesome road, and I’m no heeding
about leaving my house, and a’ the grand new
things Johnnie’s sent me, their lane in the dark.
I’ll bid you good-night, ladies, kindly, and I’m real
blithe to see you in the countryside again.”

She was gone, and the room fell into a sudden
hush of silence, broken by nothing but the faint
rustling of a moved hand, or the full, new and
then, of ashes on the hearth. The bustle and ex-
citementaof the “flitting ” were over—the first
pleasure of being home in their own country was
past. Gray and calm their changed fate came
down upon them, with no ideal softening of its
every day realities. The sliding panel here opens
upon their bed; this little table serves all purposes
of living; these four dim walls, and heavy raftercd
roof, shut in their existence. Now, through the
clear frosty air without, a merry din breaks into
the stillness. It is little Davie from the cotliouse
over the way, who has just escaped from the hands
which were preparing him for rest, and dares
brothers and sisters in a most willing race after
him, their heavy shoes ringing upon the beaten
way. Now you hear them coming back again,
leading the truant home, and by-and-by all the
urchins are asleep, and the mother closes the over
open door. So good-night to life and human fellow~
ship. N ow-—none within sight or hearing of us, save
Jenny humming a broken song, on the other side
of the wooden partition, which, sooth to say, is
Jenny’s bed—we are left alone.

Menie, bending in her despondent attitude, over
the fire, which throws down, now and then, these
ashy flakes upon the hearth ; our mother, pausing
from her work, to bend her weary brow upon her
hand. So very still, so chill and forsaken. Not
one heart in all the world, except the three which
beat under this thatched roof, to give anything but
a passing thought to us or our fate; and nothing
to look to but this even path, winding away over
the desolate lands of poverty into the skies.

Into the skies l woe for us, and our dreary hu-
man ways, if it were not for that blessed, contin-
ual horizon line; so we do what we have not been
used to do before—we read a sad devout chapter
together, and have a faltering prayer; and then
for silence and darkness and rest. *

Say nothing to your child, good mother, of the
bitter thoughts that crowd upon you, as you close
your eyes upon the wavering firefight, and listen,
in this stillness, to all the stealthy steps and touch~
es of the wakelul night. Say nothing to your
mother, Menie, of the tears which steal down be-
tween your cheek and your pillow, as you turn
your face to the wall. What might have been—-
what might’have been; is it not possible to keep
from thinking of that? for even Jenny mutters
to herself, as she lies wakefully contemplating the
glow of her gathered fire—~mutters to herself,
with an indignant fufl’, and harddrawn breath:
“I wish her muckle pleasure of her will; she‘s
gotten her will; andI wadna say but she minds
him now; a'bonnie lad like you l”

 

PART/THE LAST—CHAPTER XXXI.

COUKAGE, Menie Laurie! Heaven does not
sendth’is breeze upon your cheek for naught——
does not raise about you these glorious limits of
hill and cloud in vain. Look through the distance,
look steadily. Yes, it is the white gable of ,Croft-
hill looking down upon the countryside; Well,
never veil_ your eyes; are you not at peace with
them as with all the world ‘1’

Little Jessie here wearies where you have left
her waiting, nd trembles to, move a, fi ger lest
she spoil t e mysteriouspieture at'whielr she

 

 

 
 

Lglaneosfurtively with awe and grander. “ The lady

 

    
 

just looks at me,” says little Jessie; “ no a thing
mair.’ Just looks, and puts ita’ dean like writ-
ing on asclate.” And Jessie cannot understand»
the magic which by-and-by brings out her own
little bright, sun-burnt face, from tbatdull canvas
E'lllcll had not a line upon it when Jessie saw it

rst. i

Come to your work, Menie Laurie; they make
your heart faint, these wistful looks and sighs. My

one doubts it is very heavy, very heaVy, this ,

poor heart; no one doubts it is full of year-hinge,
full of anxious thought and fears, and solitude.
What then ?-—must we leave it to breed upon its
trouble? Come tolittle Jessie here, and her pic-
ture—find out the , very soul in these surprised
sweet eyes, paint the loveliest little heart upon
your canvas, fresh and fair out of the hands of
God, such a face as will warm cold hearts, and
teach them histories of joyous sacrifice, of love
that knows no evil, of life that remembers self last
and least of all. You said it first in bitterness, and
sore distress; but, nevertheless, it is true. You
can do it, Mcnie. It is “ the, trade ” to which you
were born. ' I I

And with a long sigh of weariness Menie comes
back. N o, it is not a very fine picture; the execu,
tion is a woman’s execution, very. likely no great,
thing in the way your critics judge; but no one.
can see how very like it is, looking at these little
simple features, one could see it was still more
like, looking into the child’s sweet generous heart.

“ What were you crying for this morning,
Jessie ‘2” . r r '

A cloud came over the little face, a mighty in-
clination to cry again; but Jessie glanced atthe
picture once more, and swallowed down her grief,
feeling herself a very guilty Jessie, as one great,
blob of a tear fell upon her arm.

“ It wasna little Davie’s blame, it was a’ Eme."v~
Poor little culprit, she dares not hang her head for
terror over that picture. “ He was paidling in the
burn, and his new penny ga’e a great screed, catchw
ing on the auld saughtree; but it wasna his blame
——-he’s owre wee—it was a’ mine for no loekinr
after him. Just, I was awfu’ busy; but that’s “nae
excuse, and my mother ga’e Davie his licks, fer a’ I
I could say.” . .   ,

Another great tear; no one knows so well what ‘
an imp this said little Davie 'is';'but Jessie sighs
again. “ It was a’ me.” ‘_

But it is not this little cloud of childish trouble
that throws a something of pensive sadness..an
Jessie’s pictured face. The face is the-faceles-
forc yen; but the atmosphere, Menie Laurie, isin
your own heart. Something sad, touched with that
sweet pathos which lies on the surface of all great:
depths, and this true picture grows under
hand to a heroic child. ,  ;

It is a strange place for an artist to be. Eran: ,
this dark raftered threatening roof which catches

your first glance, you look down to the mother. 
by the fire, with her unpretending look: ofrg'eu-  =
tlewoman, to the daughter’s graceful head, bend-1 ‘
ing over her work, to pretty little, Jessie- here 

with her flutter of extreme stillness, looking attho .
gray walls and sober thatch without. YouWeuld
never think to surprise such a group within ; and yet,
when you look at them again, there is something
of nobleness in the primitive cottage‘where these
women have come to live independent and an.

pitied——come down in the world—very true; butfit -

would be hard to presume upon the
wayside house. ' _   .

You need not fear to enter, little'July. Kalb
weeping, blushing, trembling, and with all-these
beseeching deprecations of yours, on maycome-iu
boldly at this narrow entrance. ‘ _
hers, poor bairu," Mrs. Laurie says,r-'With'a{little,
sigh. No blame of hers nor of Randall‘s eidxer,’
for Menie has kept her secret religiously, and will
never tell to mortal ear what brokefiher engage-

tenants ofthis

ment. Nelly Panton knows it, it is trough“: 

Nelly, with the obtuse comprehension of a’ meme};
nary mind, thinks Randall .broke off the match in
consequence of Mrs. Laurie’s poverty, and know;

of no more delicate difficulties behind. , Compmp  "
boldly, July Home, for no manner of inteppmt§_fiy 

fig which I 
own for, an . i

tion eculd disclose to you the sudden
seizes" Menie as she bends her head

Menie’s ,
. ,‘I y

" 1;}: no blames: "

 

 

,1

instant, when she/dimmers you at, tiredness tibia  j .

she says nothing, as she holds out henhaud'filgnt 1 gr"

 
 

Mellie is busy; it  onlyher left glihe’i.

 

 

 

"flu-W. (- . fl
_ v

’x

m4 to UIET HEART; *

27-

 

 

“ tends to her friend; that is Why she does not
3 V Speak.
“"‘I’m not to come out again," whispers July, sit-
‘ " ting backinto Mrs. Laurie's shadow, and speaking
under her'breath. “ I came here the very last place,
> and oh, Menie, will you come ?" .
The color mounts high to Menie’s temples ; this
. " means, will she come to July’s marriage, which is
Date happen a week hence. Will she be there?
Some one else will be there, the thought of whose
‘ coming makes Menie‘s heart beat strong and loud
"against her breast. But Menie only shakes her
 333d ’i’n reply-shakes her head, and says steadily,
w o

 

, “ You might come, for me. I never had a friend
but yon, and you’ve aye been good to me. Mrs.

, Laurie, she might come?”

r -,But Mrs. Laurie, too, after quite a different fash-

" ion, shakes her head with a look of regret—0f
, ' ,only partial comprehension, but unmistakable

'solicitude. “ No,”.8he says, doubtfully; “I do
 not see how Menie could go ;” but as she speaks,
 she looks at"Menie, with an eager wish that she

, would. ,.

‘ Courage, Menie Laurie! If your hand falters,

'1 they will see it; if a single tear of all this unshed
A ‘ agony bursts ferth, your mother’s heart will be

overwhelmed with pain and wonder—your little
‘ friend’s with dismay. This is best, to look at the
Child’and go on, though little Jessie has much ado

_ keep from weeping when she meets, with her
startled face, the great gloom and darkness of
Me ie’s eye.

I‘ . “ his is from Menie and me,” said Mrs. Laurie,

taking out a pretty ring. “ You are to wear it for

' our. sake, July. 'Menie can you put it on ?”

v i, Yesé—Menie takes the little trembling hand with-
 in her own, and fits her mother’s present to a slen-
ygder finger-wand no one knows how Menie presses

i, her éwn delicate ankle under her chair, to keepdler-

self steady by the pain. “ You must try to be very
happy, J uly,” says Menie, with a faint smile, hold-
~ ing the hand a mement in her own; then she lets

_‘ it drop, and turns to her work once more.

' What can July do but cry? She does cry, poor

, little trembling heart, very abundantly, and would

rfain whisper a hundred hesitations and terrors in-

" to Menie’s car. But there is nothing of encourage-

ment in Menie’s face—so steady and grave, and
calm'as it looks. The little bride does not dare to

_ pour fOrth her innocent confidences, but only whis-

E pers again,“I never had another friend but you,
" and .you wereaye so good to me ;” and weeps a
, {floodzof half-joyful, halbdespairing tears, out of

_ her very heart.

Q

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

“ No one can doubt that Randall is unhappy; but
' Randall is not a humble man, Mrs. Laurie; he will
' not woo and plead and supplicate, I am afraid;
'» he will honor only those who honor him, and never
obtrude his love where he thinks there bum re-
» @0386. You know them both ; could anything be
<' dune i” , '
' Alas! poor Johnnie Lithgow, we are all proud.
\ This is not the wisest line of attack, in the cir-
cumstances. Mrs. Laurie sits gravely by the fire-
‘slde to ' listen.‘ Mrs. Laurie was Mrs. Laurie,
‘ before Randall Home was born. It is wonderful
' how she recollects this; and, recollecting, it is not
v difficult to see which of the two, in the opinion of
,, Menie’s mother, has the best right to stand on
L their dignity. ‘ » -'
 . “"I’cann‘ot advise,” said Mrs. Laurie, somewhat
» coldly. f‘ Menic has made no explanation to me.
2 51h"? Homehas not addressed me at all On the sub-
‘ 160% I am, sorry I cannot suggest‘anything, es-
, partially when I have to take into consideration the
g 30fty/ideas of your friend.” V .
..  i It ,‘wasa little bitter, this. Itchgow felt himself
'. ' ,chiikd by it, and she saw it herself, immediately;
"A' but Mrs. Laurie said no word of atonement, till a
. “Width recollection of Menic's strangely altered
a... ' SQbered/ fate broke upon her. Her counte-
-.,’,nanee changed, her voice softened. . . _
" f .7 “I Wouldbe glad to do anything,” she said, With
 a/slight falteri ' ., "“To‘make Meme happy, Icould
getter; earshot-nice. "Iwill'see, I Will try. No,"
38116 continues  to: a considerable pause, “ I was
mutate: im'your‘frimd new you call him.
Kristie New: high spirit, and in thismatter

  
  
 
  

 

is notto be controlled by me. They must be left
to themselves—4t is the wisest way.” -

Lithgow made no answer. Mrs. Laurie sank into
silence and thought. As they sat opposite to each
other by the little fire-place, the young man’s eye
wandered over the room. His own birthplace and
home was such another cottage as this; and
Lithgow’s mother with her homely gown and
check apron—4191‘ constant occupation about the
house—her peasant tastes, and looks and habits,
was suitable and homogeneous to the earthen floor
and rude hearth of the cotters’ only room. But
very strangely out of place was Menie’s easel, Me-
nie’s desk, Mrs. Laurie’s delicate basket of work,
her easy-chair, and covered table; strangely out of
place, but not ungracefully, bearing, wherever they
might be, a natural seemliness and fitness of their
own. And if a rapid cloud of offence, a vapor of
pride and resentment, might glide over Mrs. Lau-
rie’s brow, it was never shaded by so much as a
momentary shame. As undisturbed in her house-
hold dignity as at her most prosperous time, she
received her visitor in the cot~house, nor ever
dreamt she had cause to be ashamed of such an
evidence of her diminished fortunes.

But Lithgow’s thoughts were full of Randall;
he was not willing to give up his attempt to rec-
oncile them. “Randall is working very hard,”
said his generous fellow-craftsman. “I think his
second success will lift him above all thought of
hazard. He does his genius wrong by such un-
necessary caution; he could not produce a com-
mon-place thing if he would.”

“ And you, Mr. Lithgow,”—-Mrs. Laurie’s heart
warmed to him, plebian though he was.

“I do my day’s work,” said the young man,
happily, “ thanking God that it is very sullicient for
the needs of the day; but between Randall and
myself there is no comparison. I deal with com-
mon topics, common manners, common events, like
any other laboring man. But Randall is an artist
of the loftiest class. What he does is for genera-
tions to come, no less than for to-day.”

This enthusiasm threw a flush upon his face. As
it receded, gradually fading from his forehead, a
quick feetstep went away from the cottage
threshold. Menie Laurie had paused to listen
whose the voice was before she entered, and pans-
ing, had heard all he had to say. .

The happy golden purple of the sunset has
melted from Criffel and his brother hills; but
there is a pale light about all the east, whither
Meuie Laurie’s face is turned as she leaves the
cottage door. From her rapid step you would
fancy she was going somewhere. \Vhere will she
go ? Nowhither, poor heart—~onlyinto the night
a little—into the silence. It would not be possi-
ble to sit still in that noiseless house, by that
lonely fireside, with such a tumult and commotion
in the loud throbbing heart, forcing up its rapid
cadence into the ears that thrill with sympathetic
pulses, leaping to the very lips that grow so
parched and faint. Oh l for the din of streets, of
storms, the violence of crowds and noise of life——
anything to drown this greater violence, these
strong, perpetual throbs that beat upon the brain
like hailstones——anything to deaden this.

But all the air remains so still, so still; not a
sound upon the silent road but the heart and foot-
steps, ’so rapid and irregular, which keep each
other time. But by-and-by, as Menie goes upon
her aimless way, another sound does break the
silence~vOices in the air—the sound of wheels,
and of a horse’s feet. Listen, Menic—g—voices in
the air? 1 I

But Menie will not listen—does not believe there
are voices in the world which could wake her in-
terest now—and so, unconsciously looks up as this
vehicle dashes past, looks up, to receive—what?
The haughty Salutation, uncovered brow and bend-
ing head, of Randall Home. , .

She would fain have caught at the hedge for a
support; but he might look back and see her, and
Menie hurried on. She had seen him; they had
looked again into each other’s eyes. “I never said
I was indifi‘erent,” sobbed Menie, to herself, and,
in spite of herself, her voice "took a shriller tone
of passion, her tears came upon her in an agony.
“ I never said I was indifferent; it would hare
been a lie.”

 Hushl'be calm. It is safe to sitdown by the

roadside on this-turf which is unnamed bythe‘

xv,

   

 

has been a marriedwlfe five years.‘

 

let the flood have vent once and never more. And
the soft whispering air comes stealing about Me.
nie, with all its balmy gentle touches, like a troop
of fairy comforters; and the darkness comes down
with gracious speed to hide» her as shecrouches,
with her head upon her hands, overcome and mas.
tcred; once, and never more.

Now it is night. Yonder the lights are glim-
mering faintly in the cottage windows of the Bri-
gend. Far away above the rest, shines a little
speck of light from the high window of Burn.-
side, where once was Menie Laurie’s chamber-—
her land of meditation, her sanctuary of dreams.
The wind rustles among the firs—the ash trees
hold up their bare white arms towards the
heavens, waiting till this sweet star, lingering at a
the entrance of their arch, shall lead her followers ’
through, like children in their dance. And-hush!
-——suddenly, like a bird new awaked, the bung
throws out its voice upon the air, something Sada
The passion is overpast. Look up, Menie Laurie ;
you are not among strangers. The hills and the
heavens stretch out arms to embrace you; the
calm of this great night, God’s minister, comes to
your heart. Other thoughts—and noble ones—-
stretch out helping hands to you like angels. Rise
up; many a hope remains in the “world, though
this one be gone forever.

And Menie, rising, returns upon her way—away
from Burnside, her old beloved home, and, going,
questions, with herself if aught is changed since .
she made the bitter and painful decision which, in
her heart she thought it right to make. Nothing
is changed—the severance has been made—the

shock is over. i At first we knew it would be very , ‘

hard ; at first we thought of nothing but despair;
We never took into our calculation the oft-return-

ing memories—the stubborn love, that will not be > ,

slain at a blow; and this it is that has mastered
mind and heart and resolution now.

w .,

dust of these passing wheels; safe to sit down and 

i

There is no one else upon the road. The night,  W

and the hills, and Menie Laurie, look up through
the silence to heaven—4nd no one knows the con.
diet that is waging—none is here ‘with human
voice or hand to help the struggle. Fought and
won—lie still in her religious breast, oh, heartl
Fittest way to win your quiet back again, Menio
Laurie has laid you down—come good or evil,
come peace or contest—laid you down, once for
all, at the feet of God.

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A nmnumr company, the very newspapers ',

would say so if they had note of it; distinguished

people—except here and there a few who are only} _ '
wives or sisters of somebody; the ladies and gen- ” 4

tlemen present, individual by individual, are some.
bodies themselves.
of lions, as one could wish to see, are 'drawn to-
gether in Mr. Editor Lithgow’s drawing-room, to
do honor to his wedding-day. '

And you may wonder at first’tohear such-a f.  p- ‘

moderate amount of roaring; lions of the present»

day are not given to grandiloquence. If the truth '  V ' ‘
must be told, the talk sounds somewhat'pro’i‘es. .

sional, not unlike the regimental talk of soldier, ,
officers and the ladies pertaining to the some.
True, that a picturesqe American, bolder than her

compeers on this side the Atlantic, Page: in We“, 

corner, and by-and-by makes a tableau, lying down
in wild devotion at the feet of two respectable and

somewhat scared good people—literary ladies of a ‘ 

modest/standing, who have done just work enough
to make their names known, but are by no means
prepared for such homage as this. And for the
rest of thevcompany, it must be sdid that they sit

or stand, lean back or lean forward, 33.1)“,me ,   

or common custom enjoin ;‘ that! there is a

talk of babies in that other corner, where the this." 5‘  ‘ A

tress of the houseis surrounded by a bandof mm;
ron friends; and that there is in reality very little

out of the common in this company, if itwere not ” A

for the said professional talk. ,_, , r
The young mistress of the'housel She talks
pretty nearly as much now as other. people talk;

quite as much, indeed, when her heart is Opened . , 
, is
her tongue has leisure toth of the marvellous ' ,, _,

with that all~interesting subject, babies ; orwhen
feats "of. certain babies of

1

her'owug' [July  ,

r,’
.‘y ,

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For a very pretty collection 

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“There is nothingvery costly or rare in this draw~
 . "lug-room; but it is‘well-sized and welqurnished,
; notwithstanding, and a pretty apartment. Lith-
go'w himself, not a very stately host, attends to his

. guests with an unassuming kindliness which charms

these somewhat sophisticated people, in spite of

V ‘ L themselves ;, and Lithgow is full of the talk of the
a profession,‘aml speaks great names with the confi-
dence of friendship. In these five years, mother
though she be, and mistress of a London house-

: hold, all you can sayof July is, that she has grown

‘ a pretty. girl; a little taller, a little more mature

in action; but a girl just as she was when we saw

. .r 'her laSt.

Being addressed, but of his own will scarcely
speaking to anyone, there is a remarkable-looking
person among Mr. Lithgow’s guests. Looking up
_ V to his great height you can just see some threads
“a, , V of white among his hair, though his age does not

K ‘ ' ‘ justify this, for he is a young man still: and a

F ' settled cloud upon his brow gives darkness to his

3.177 . face.‘ It is not grief; it is not care; a gloomy,
' self-absorbed pride is much more like what it is.

“ “That is Mrs. ‘Lithgow’s brother,” says another
guest, in answer to’ the “ who’s that?” of an un—
 _ accustomed visitor. Mr. Lithgow’s brother! Is
, V   rethi‘s all the distinction that remains to the lofty
:   ‘_Randall Home? «

' ”  - 5W " “ ,And- a literary man, like all the rest of us,”

centinues,» condescendingly, this gentleman, who

_ _ is a critic and contemptuous in right of his

1, . craft.» “He made a great success v with his

first publication six or seven years ago. I saw it

on that table in the corner, covered with a pile of

"  '1 ,1 prints and drawings. They say Home cannot hear

' ' ‘ to see it now. Well, he lingered a long time pol-

, ' ishing, and elaborating, and retouching his second

book, expecting, no doubt, an universal acclamas

thin. Poor fellow! the public never so much as,
looked at it—it Was a dead failure.”

' “‘ Was it not equal to the‘first ?" inquired
' breathlessly the original speaker, who in his heart

was awarm adherent of Randall, though person-
. «ally unknown to him, and who was a great deal
. better acquainted with the work in question than
‘1,»  .ghis informant. . ' l
v  I ' “There was merit inthe book,” said the critic,
" V , poising a pretty paper-knife carelessly on his fore-
 . ~finger; “merit suchas it was; and Lithgow, here,
,g are him an article, and tried hard to get up a

' Tooling; but he’s asupercilious fellow, sir, proud
I as Lucifer ; he is constantly running against some-
 \ ' . body, and we put him down.”

i The critic turned to speak to another critic on
his other hand; the interrogator stood aside. Soli-
tary in the midst of this animated company—dark
where all was glowing with a modest brilliancy—
it was not wonderful that this good man should
r _ i inquire of ‘himself whether there was nought of
the, evil'thing called affectation in the gloom and
.j'pri‘de of Randall Home. One-thing, at least, it
v ‘ iwas not dilficult to seea—that Randall know people
were looking at him, wondering about him, and
, ‘ I “that more than one lady of sentiment and enthusi-
~ .Iasm' hadmarvelledfalready, with wistful melan-
‘ ' 'élioly,"whether anyone knew what the grief was
, {I which had blighted the young author’s life.
   . The young author’s life was not blighted. On
 'o'him, like a nightmare, sat a subtle spirit, self-
f " questioning, self—criticizing. He was disappointed;
 ' 7a bitter stream had come into his way, and by its
; kids he walked, his eyes bent downward on it, pon-
, i daring the evils of his fate; trying with acold
« 1,; "philosophy to believe them no evils, assuming to
 r' r-‘despise‘ them, yet resenting them with bitterness
» .7‘ ’  '  his own heart. 1

  ,l’CRaudall, look at this; it minds me of home,”
’ : ~ .- said his sister in his ear. He took mechanically
‘3 ~ What-Valle putinto his hand, carelessly; not the

' r alightest interest in his face for poor July’s enthu-

, V'siasm, as‘like as'not he would smile and put it
1'»  ,down with a Careless glance. Things that other

, ‘ people look on with interest were matters of chilled
'M} " and disappointed indifference to Randal. Home.

', ' Yet he looks at this child’s face that has been-
, ~11r§y~ought before him; insensibly a’smile breaks
* " gupoa his lips in answer to this sweet child's smile.
who is a critic, knows it is no cluf d’oeum-e,
land has little claim, to be looked upon as high art;
"buthononce-Randall thinks nothing of the execue
, ,",’tldh‘:‘—~a‘s,onra~real countenance he gazeshpohtbis,
These/Janeen little *5featiires seem to. more before

  

 

 

 

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THE 22111311154137!»  r

him with the throng of gracious childlike
thoughts that hover over the incloudcd brow——
childlike thoughts—thoughts of the great eternal
simplicities which ceme nearest to angels and to
children. This man, through his intricacies and
glooms, catches for an instant a real glimpse of
what that atmosphere must be through which sim-
ple hearts look up into the undoubted heavens; for
scarcely so much as a summer cloud can float be-
tween this cloud and the sky.

Come this way, Randall. Here is a little room,
vacant, half-lighted, where lic other things akin to
this. Take them up after your careless fashion.
What message can they have to you? Be ready
if you can, to put them aside with a word of bit-
ter criticism—only leave out this child’s portrait.
say with your lips it is good and you like it; feel in
your heart as if it spoke to you long, loving, sim-
ple speeches; and when you turn from it—hush!
it is irreverent—do not try with either sarcasm or
jest to cheat this sudden desolateness which you
feel at your heart.

A cloudy face—is this no portrait? The
wind is tossing back wildly the curls from its
white high brow, and out of a heavy thunder
cloud it looks down darkly, doubtfully, with a look
which you cannot fathom. Uneasin the spectator
lays it aside to lift anotherwanother and another;
they are very varied, but his keen eye perceives in
a moment that every face among them which is a
man’s bears the same features. Other leads of
children unknown to Randall—pictures of the
peasant women, real and individual, diversify the
little collection; but where the artist has made a
man’s face, everywhere a subtle visonary resem-
blance runs through each and all. Through altered
features the same expression—through changed
moods and tempers the same sole face. » The room
swings about him as he looks—is it a dream or a
vision—what does it mean? .

The long white curtains faintly stir in the
autumn night-wind which steals in through the
open window; the shaded lamp upon the table
throws down a little circle of light—a larger circle
of shadow—~11pon these pictures, and faintly shines
in the mirror above the vacant hearth. He has
sunk on one knee to look at them again. What
memory is it that has kept this face, what sad re-
collection has preserved its looks and changes so
faithfully and so long? N o ideal, noble and

glorious, such as a heart might make for itself—

no human idol either, arrayed in the purple and
gold of loving homage—and the heart of Randall,
startled and dismayed, hides its face, and beholds
itself for the first time trulv. He knows that
none of these is meant for him—feels with certain
confidence that reproach upon him is the last thing
intended by this often portraiture; yet stands
aside, and marvels, with a pang—a great throb of
anguish and hope—to see himself, changed in
habit and in aspect, with years added and with
years taken away; but he feels in every one that
the face is his own. '

Love that thinks you loftiest, noblest ; love that
warships in you its type of grace and high perfec-
tions, its embodiments of dreams and longings ;
rejoice in it, oh, youth! But if you ever come to
know a love that is disenchanted—a love that with
its clear and anxious sight has found you out and
read your heart—knowing not the lighest part
alone, but, in so far as human creatures can, all
that is written there—yet still is love; if you re-

joice no longer pause, at least, and tremble. Light.

is the blind love of the old poets—frail, and in
constant peril. Heaven help those to whom is
given the love that sees as nothing else can see.
It struck to the heart of Randall Home.

Through secrets of his being, which himself had
never guessed, this lightened eye had pierced like
a sunbeam. Unwitting of its insight, nought
could it say in words of its discovery, but uncon-
sciously they came to light under the artist-hand.
Menie Laurie! Mcnie Laurie! little you wist when
your pencil touched so dreamily these faces, which
were but so many shadows of one face in your
heart—little you wist how strange a revelation
they would carry to another Soul.

“Something has happened to Randall—he will
not hear me,” said July to her husband when the
guests went away.
he never hears me speak, but stands yonder stead-
fast at the mirror, lookiiig in hisyown face.” ’

 __ , , l , _ . 3 1,

,V/’,

“He makes (me no answer-e.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV ,

THE sun has struck on Crifi’el”s sullen shoulder.
Look you how it besets him, with a glorious burst ‘
of laughter and triumph over his gloom. Andnow-
a clown no longer, but some grand shepherd.
baron, he draws his purple cloak about. ~liim, and ,
lifts his cloudy head into the sky. Marshal your
men-at-arms, Warder of the Border! Keep your
profound unbroken watch upon the liege valleys
and homes at your feet, for the sun is. setting in a
stormy glory, and the winds are gathering wild in
their battalions in the hollows of the hills.

Traveling with his face toward the east, is one
wayfarcr on this lonely road. He knows the war,
but it is long to his unaccustomed feet; and heis
like to be benighted, whatever speed he makes. ~

The sky before him is cold and clear, the sky" bf an ; V.

autumn night, gleaming itself with an intensepalc
lustre, while great mountain-heaps of clouds,
flung upon it, stand out round and full against its
glittering. chilly light; and with awild rush, the,
wind comes down upon the trees, seizing themin
a sudden convulsion. The road ascends a little,
and looks from this point as if it wentabruptly
into the skies ; and on 'either side lies the low
breadth of a peat-moss, on which it is’ioo dark
now to distinguish the purple patches of heather, ,
or anything but the moorland burn and deep drain,
full of black clear water, from which is thrown ‘
back again, in long flying glimmers of reflection,
the pale light of the sky. ,

There is not a house in sight. Here and there a. '
doddered oak or thorn, or stunted willows trailing
their branches into the pools, give a kind of, edge,
interrupted and broken, to the moorland road ;,
and now and then on a little homely bridnr one
arch of stone, or it may be only two outhree planks
-—-it crosses a burn. With every guet of wind 0. ,
shower of leaves comes rustling down frdm
the occasional trees we pass, and the same cold
breath persuades this traveler very scion to regret.
that his breast is not guarded by the natural 1ch »
fenee—-the gray plaid of the border hills. ‘ -

He does not lift his foot high and cumbrously,

from the ground, as the men of this quarter, used f ‘

to wading through the moss and heather, are “out
to do; nor does he oppose to this wild wind the
broad expanded chest and weather-beaten- face [of ,
rural strength; but he knows the way along-which" s
he walks so smartly, pauses now and then to fre- f
cognize some ancient landmark—and pushes for- f
ward without hesitation, very well aware wherejlic . '
is going to, nor fearing to choose that‘shcrter ‘
{ray across the moss, like one to the manner
cm. a ' '  - ' '
A narrower path, broken in upon here and'thei'c' " '
by young sapling trees, self-sown willows,”7aud
bushes, which are scattered over all the-moss. 7
Suddenly, it may be but a parcel ' of stones; allit-
tle heap of peats, but there is, somethingon the
edge of the way. ' ,- 3 1
Going forward, the traveler finds seated on
the faflen trunk of a tree two children, a little girl
drawing in to her side the uncovered flaxen‘head‘
of a still younger boy, and holding him firmlywith
her arm. The little fellow, with open mouth and
close-shut eyes, is fast asleep, and his Vybungj.
guardian’s head droops on her breast. You can
see she watched long before she yielded toit; but;
she too has dropped asleep. ' . ‘   g. ‘ .
The traveler, touched with sudden » interest,
pauses and looks down upon them. Indistinctlv, .
in her sleep, hearing his step, or conscious of the 4
human eye upon her which breaks repose, thejlitv
tle girl moves uneasily, tightens the firm pressure
of her arm, murmurs somethinng which:'the~
spectator, stooping down, can only hear “ little‘Da-i

vie ”——and then, throwing back her head» and 

changing her attitude, settles again into hei- pr»;
found child’s sle ,, , ‘ '  " 
What arrests film that he does not wake.x'herf '
What makes him pause so long after his; previous
haste? Yes, look closer, stoop down upongthé .,
damp and Springy soil, bend your kneeprmwp
pale, faint light has not deceived you, neg“
ther has the» memory, which holds/with,ufiwomwp,
tenacity the likenessof this face, for-3 my... ;.,'
indeed the original. Sweet in its depth of fihmmr; -
its lips half closed, its eyelash wu'mupon its sheet, '
the same sweet heart. you saw/in Wag-mm}, 
picture, th'e‘very child. A     “  .

   

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

V.

, ~myowmffiia'4fif! 

 i, , I '9': ‘

 

 

  Eleven years old a Jessie commute keep lit-l

~ the Davie out of, mischief is a harder task than
' Lever. Sohelpless, yet in such an attitude of guar-
, dianship and protection, the traveler’s eyes, in spite
,‘of himself, fill With tears. He is almost loth to
 wake her, but ,the wind rushes with growing vio-
' 2; once among the cowering trees.
 1 He touches her shoulder—she does not know
' how gently—~as suddenly she starts up broad awake.
J One terrified look Jessie gives him, another at the
wild sky and dreary moor. “You’re no to meddle
' wi‘ Davie; it’s a’ my blame,” said Jessie, with one
frightened sob; “and oh, it’s a dark nicht, and
we’ll never win hame l”
, “'Howtdid you come here ?” said the stranger,
gently. , Jessie was reassured ; she dried her eyes
r and began to look up at him with a little returning
" confidence. ‘ ' '
v , ‘.‘I dinna ken; it was Davie would rm, no—it
.  was me that never came the road before, and we
' , 3% on to the moss. Oh‘, will you tell me the out
a I’m to gang hame ?” .
He put his hand upon the child’s head kindly.
’ This was not much like Randall Home. The Ran-
\ (dell of old days, if he never failed to help. scarcely
:  ever knew himself awakened to interest. There
‘ was a great delight of novelty in this new Spring
Opened in. his heart. ”
. ‘f Were you not afraid to fall asleep ‘2
C’I’oor little Jessie began to cry; she thought she
had done wrong. “I couldna keep wakin. I tried
"1'8 dang as I could, and then I thocht I would
just ask God to take care 0’ Davie, and then there
'WOxild be nae fear. That was the way I fell
‘ asleep.”
. ,1A philosopher! But how have these tears found
fl theirvway to his face? Somehow he cannot look
4,111; this littlé speaker,_cannot perceive her .small
, brutherjlaying his cheek upon her breast, Without
~, a new emotion which ought to have no place m the
Iidndof Tan observing m‘oralist'whose thought is of
. cause-and eflect. Again he- lays his hand upon
5 ~ 1191' head, so kindly that Jessie looks up with ashy
' .xsmile, and says :1 “You are used to say your
prayers ?”
, W'“ I aye do’t every nicht.” Jessie looks up again
‘wistfully, Wondering with a sudden pity. Can it
' ‘be possible that he does not say his prayers, gen-
tiemahthough he be?
“ Say them here, little girl-J would like to hear
your prayers ”——and his own voice sounds rever-
ient, low, as one who feels a great presence near.
‘  But Jessie falters and cries—does not know
what to ansvver, though it is very hard to contend
" against the impulseaof instant obedience. “Oh, I
I  lme-PI c’anna"saythem outbyrto a man,” she
_ says,— in greatj trouble, clasping and unclasping
., her’hands. “I just mind a’body, and little Da-
 «as, and grva soul to Christ to keep,” added the
:little girl, solemnly, “for fear I shouldn’t awake
' the morn.” " v '

There is a little silence. She thinks this kindly
stranger is angry with her, and cries; but it is only
nonmetlfing of strong unusual emotion, which he
must swallow down. .

 “Now you must wake up little Davie, and I will

take you home. Is it far? You do not know, poor
I little guardian. Come away, is it near Brigend?
. ‘Well', 1Vlrei‘will manage to get there. Come, little
, fellow, rouse‘up and give me your hand.” .
’ r- But Daviepvery wroth at such a sudden inter-
7 'ruption of his repose, shook his little brown

clenchedzhand in the stranger’s face instead, and
 ' would hold ' by no, other but his sister. So’in this
. binderthey Went on, Jessie with much awe, per-
- hitting her hand to be held in Randall’s, and
 . sleepy Davie dragging her back at the other side.
 They went on at a very different pace from Ran-
' dall’s‘fonner rate of walking, treading their en-

.y.‘

/

   
 

:'-ihoorland path, but by-and-by, to the general com-
. £1.10i‘h'elnerged Once more upon‘the highroad, and
 ' hear the cheerful light from a cottage door.

.  Audhere he would, pause to ask for some re.
 f§é$hment’for the lost children, but does not 18.11 to

   
 

 fitfifigbefm'e the fire has a face‘he knows, and she
_'i§'l‘°llifi§'np a heavy, white-faced baby, and mov-
' , 1.m83“'iihéfi kmdof monotonous took, back and-for:
7 film“ milier‘seat.’ But there is hat a min-mul-
‘fiffllk’fin‘therwsdag, instead, she is slowly wmdmg
em  Won»: fittle girl‘- in a Show

/

 

numbered way with great dificultythrough the,

»« glancefinfirst at the cottage window. Thiswowan

 

 

gown and apron, who'stands behind her r in a flood ‘

of tears, and whose present state of mind Sug-

gests no comfort to her, but to break all the.

“ pigs” (Anglice crockery) in the house and run
away. \ I

“‘Will I take in two bairns ?—-—-what would I do
wi’ twa bairns? I’ve enow o’ my ain; but folk
just think they can use ony freedom vwi’ me,”
said the woman, in answer to Randall’s appeal
made from the door. “I’m sure Peter’s pack
micht be a laird’s lands fer what folk expect;
and because there’s nae ither cause'o’ quarrelling
wi’ a peaecable woman like me, I maun aye be askit
to do things I canna do. It’s name 0’ my blame
they didna get their denner. Lad, you had- best
take them home.”

“I will pay for anything you give them cheer-
fully; but the little creatures are exhausted,” said
Randall, again from the door. ‘ He thought he had
altered a good deal his natural voice.

The Woman suddenly raised her head. “I’m
saying, 'that’s a tongue I ken,” she said, in an
under tone. “This is nae public to gie meat for
siller, lad,” she continued; “ but they may get a
bit barley scone and a drink 0’ milk—I’ve nae 0b-
jections. Ye‘ll no belang to this country your-
sel?” For, with a rapidity very unusual to her,
she had suddenly deposited her gaping baby in the
cradle, and now stood at the door. Randall kept
without in the darkness. The lost children were
admitted to the fire.

H No.”

“I wouldna say but you’re out 0’ London, by
your tongue. I’ve been there mysel before I was
married, biding wi’a brother 0’ mine that’s real
wool-off and comfortable there. I’ve never been
up again, for he’s married, and her and me disna
’grce that Weel. It’s an awfu’ world—a peaceable
person has nae chance—and I was aye kent for
that,'married and single. Ye’ll have heard 0’ my
man, Peter Drumlic, if you come out o’ Cumber-
land; but I reckon you're frae London, by your
tongue.”

With ‘a bow, and a sarcastic compliment to her
discrimination, Randall-i answered her question;
but the bow and the sarcasm were lost upon the
person he addressed; she went on in her dull tone
without a pause.

“Ay, I aye was kent for discrimination,” she
said, with modest self—approval, “though it’s no
everybody has the sense to allo’t, But you’ll ha’e
come to see your friends, I reckon, they’ll be bid.
ing about this pairt l” a

“ Just so,” said Randall.

, “ Ye’ll ken many a change in the country-side,”
continued the woman. “ There’s the auld minister
dead in Kirklands parish,and a’ the family scattered,
and a delicate lad, a stranger, in the Manse his
lane; and maister and mistress gone out 0’ Kirk-
land House, away somegate in foreign pairts; and
Walter Wellwood, the young laird, he’s married
upon a grand lady and joined to the Papishes;
and—but ye’ll maybe ken better about the com-
mon folk 0’ the parish. There’s auld Crofthill
and Miss Janet their lee lane up the brae yonder,
and ne’er a word frae Randy—maybe you would
ken Randy? the awfullest lad for thinking of him-
sol; and then there’s the family at Burnside, they’re

come down in the world, wi’ a’ their pride and.

their vanity, living in naething but a cot-house on
the siller Jenny makes wi’ her kye; and Miss
Menie, she makes pictures and takes folk’s like-
nesses, and does what she can to keep hersel.
Eh, man, there’s awfu’ changes! And wee July
Home, Crofthill’s daughter, she‘s married upon our
Johnnie, keepit like a leddy, andnever has a band’s
turn laid to her, wet day or dry; it’s a grand mar-
riage for the like 0’ her; and there’s myscl—I was
ance Nelly Panton till I got my man——but I’ve nae
occasion to do a thing now but keep the house
gaun, and mind the siller, for Peter, he’s aman 0’
sense, and kens the value o’a guid wife; and I

‘ live real comfortable among my ain folk in apeace~

able way, as I was aye disposed——thongh they’re
an ill set, the folk hereaway'; they’re aye bickering
ainaun‘ themsels. 'Will you. no come in-by and
rest ?” ' ‘

Randall who felt his philosophy abandon him in
this reSpect as "well as others, and who could not
persuade himself by any arguments of her insig-
nificance to quench the passion which this slow.

stream of ;’ malicious _ disparagemeut eagerly-yams;

/., u "\ F

 

him, ansivered’ very hotly,'and with great abrupt‘
ness, that he could not wait longer. A moment
after he found himself again upon , the road, with '
the reluctant children dragging him back, and
Nelly looking out after him from her door. -He
had time to be annoyed at himself for betraying
his anger; but Randall began to have changed

thoughts; began to lose respect for the sclf—con- ‘ «

straint which once had been his highest form of
dignity; began to think that no natural emotion
was unworthy of him——of him. For the first time
he laughed at the words with bitterness as he
looked up at the pale gleaming sky, with its clouds
and stars. Unworthy of him—~who , then was he ?

 

CHAPTER XXXV.

“THE man’s richt-——they’ll ha’e strayed in on the
moss. Oh, my bairnsl my bairns i” cried the dis-
tressed mother into the night. “And Patie was
telling, nae farther gane than yestreen, what a bog-y
illy bit it was, till a’ the weans were fleyed; and
if they’re no sunk in the moss itsel, they’ll be dead
wi’ fricht by this time. Oh, my bonnie Jessie
that was aye doing somebody a guid turn and wee
Davie—puir wee Davie, he was aye the youngest, and
got his ain way. My bairns l my bairns l”

A snort came through the misty gloom. By
this time it was very dark, and Randall could hear
the voices as they approached. ,

“What’s the woman greeting for. Her balms ';
her balms? I would just‘iike to ken what suld
all her bairns—little mischiefs 1 They’re warm at
somebody-‘3 ingle-neuk, Ise warrant. I That wee
Davic’s an imp o’ Satan ; neither fricbt nor bogles
will harm him. Come this road, woman. What
gart ye leave the lantern? ' If there werena bet“
ter wits than yours” '

J cnny’s voice was interrupted by a sudden
footstep crushing , the bramble. branches ' on‘
the side of the way, and by a sudden-glow or
light thrown full upon the dazzled eyes of little
Jessie, who left Randall’s hand with a cry of joy:
“Oh, it’s thé leddy—we’re safe at home.” » w

The lantern flashed about through the darkness.
Randall’s heart beat loudly. With a great start
he recognized the voice which gave kindly welcome

 

to the strayed child, and he could distinguish the” ’

outline of her figure, as she shhded the lantern
with her hand; then she raised it—‘he feltthe

light suddenly burst upon his face—another mo- 1 p \

ment and it was gone. Little Jessie flew back to

him dismayed; voice, and figure, and light had“;

disappeared as they came ;- one other step upon
the brambles and they were aloneonce more. ‘

He had no time to marvel or to follow, for  ‘ 

the mother and Johnnie, suddenly drawing close to
them, fell upon the lost children, with cries [of
mingled blame and joy. “It was the gentleman,
brought us home.” '
“ Thanks to the gentleman, would he no comeén‘
and rest? he would be for Out of his way; the ‘
guidman would takes. lantern, and convoy him;”
and a hundred other anxious volunteerings » of

gratitude poured upon Randall's ears. “ I mhst go _ » l ‘

on—I must go on!” He burst past them impa-
tiently; he did not know where the house. Via/8,011

if she had gone home; but Meme had seen"  y

and Menie he must see. '

Step softly, Randall!‘ In her high excitement, I V '

she hears every stir of the falling leaves without.
and could not miss your footstep. if you trodsoftly
as a child. She has reached to her shelter already

--she has put out her mother's : lights, and Stands 
in the darkness, pressing her white face against the 

window, looking out, wondering if she will see
you gain; wondering why you came here; pray.

ing in a whisper that you may'not cross be;- , 

path any more, but contradicting the prayer indie:
heart. Mrs. Laurie stands .by the door without,g

watching for the children‘s return; and now they 7‘ .
arms (for he  V,
) Jessieeage’rj '
that everybody should understand “ it was my ..
blame,” and Jenny smartly lecturingeachandnli. 
The rest of the’family—all but the good-man, who __

come, Davie lifted. into his mother’s
had been almost asleep on his feet ,

has gone 1"'0 the moss to seek the childrenéare

gathered in a group, before the onttage; and. then  '3'

red light of the fire glows out upon, them,an

some one has picked up the lantern which Monies ,’
A little crowdfthe innercircle  "

Laurie dropped.
offence {brightened by lamp. “mentor, 

1 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  

i"

‘ W.
ceding into: partial gloom, hearing little Jenny tell
. her story, speculating V What part of the mess it
could be, and “ where was the gentleman ?” a ques~
tion which none could answer. I 
“ Though I’ve heard his tongue afore,mysel,”
said Jenny, “ I’m just as sure—Woman, will ye no
take that little Satan to his bed? and puir wee
Jessie’s een gaun thegither. It wasna your blame,
1, you deceitful monkeyl Ye may cheat the wife
there, but ye’ll no cheat Jenny. It was a’ that lit-
,tle bother—it wasna you. Gang out o’ my gate,
’, - {callautl If nane o’ the rest 0’ ye will stir, I maun
pit the helm to her bed mysel.”
- From her window Menie Laurie looks out upon
this scene—~upon the darkness around—.the one
spot of light, and the half-illuminated faces;
looks out wistfully, straining her eyes into the
night, wondering where he has gone, and getting
"f. ,time now, as her agitation calms, to be ashamed
’ ' - and anoyed at her own weakness. Very calm for
many a day has been Menie Laurie’s quiet heart—-
soberly, happily contented, and at rest. Little
comforts and elegancies, which neither Mrs. Lau-
rie’sincome nor Jennie’s kye could attain, Menie
has managed to collect into this little room. Her
“trade,” as she still calls it—for'Menie is the per—
son of all-others least satisfied with her own per-
 formances, and will not assume to be an artist—
",has brought her in contact with many pleasant
people: her mother is pleased that they have even
better “society ” here, in the cothouse, than they
 had in prosperous Burnside; and it even seems a
T ,t’hing probable, and to be hoped for, that by-and-
 g by they may go back to Burnside and be able to
' live withOut its fifty yearly pounds. This success
” 7 Could not come without bringing some content and
satisfaction with it; and constant occupation
has restored health and ease to Menie’s mind,
 while almost as calm as of old, but with a deeper,
rloftier quiet, a womanly repose; light within her
cased breast, has lain Menie’s heart. I
And why this. face of strange excitement now,‘
Mellie cannot tell. She found him out so sudden-
ly—éflashin her light upon the face, which least
'of all she t ought to see But Menie wonders to
" .. \' ,ifeel this strong thrill of agitation returning on her
" , as she touches the window with her pale cheek,
’ and wonders if she will see him again.
i The night falls deeper—darker; the wind over-
. V ~- head comes shouting down upon the trees, throw-
"  ,ing their leaves from them in wild handfuls, and
 ., tearing of! their feebler branches in a frensy. Here
.  where we stand, you can hear it going forth with
7 its cry of defiance against the hills, flinginga mag-
ic circle round the startled homesteads, attacking
bridges upon rivers, stacks in farmyards. The
. geodman who has returned with a glad heart to
third his children safe, says, when he closes the cot-
tagedoor, that it is a wild night; bnthere, amid
«all its violence, waiting a moment when he may
 see her—«strangely excited, strangely emancipated,
_  owninglthc sway of one most passionate and sim-
 mple emotion, and for the first time forgetting, not
  ‘  I : ,only' himself, but everything else—~here, with
  V‘hi‘sbare forehead to the wind, stands Randall
“  Home.
. ' Now come. hither; Jenny’s candle in the kitch-
_. en thriftin eittingpished, leaving her window only
 7, lightened by the iirelight, proves that Jenny has
i v'come “ ben ” to the family service—the daily meet-
ing~ground of mistress and servant, child and
mother. There is no need to close the shut-
 ters on this window, which no one ever passes
 * by tosee. Calm in her firesidecorner sits Mrs.
"Laurie, with her open Bible in her lap; Jenny
his close ‘ by the table, drawing near the light,
«and poring very closely upon the “sma’ print,”
"rwhichv'runs into a confused medley before her,
‘ "i  not to be‘ deciphered—for Jenny will not be
' ,‘pefluaded to try spectacles, lest they should
7 “spoil her een;” while Menie who reads the
. chapter aloud, reverently turns over the leaves of
V . athefamily Bible, and with all her quiet restored,
  speaks the words which say peace to other storms
._ than that stem never to be forgotten, in the Gali-
lean Sea. ,
g ‘ -; You remember how she was when you saw her
’» .- giant; you remember her through the flush of your
37,1,0mi'an‘ger, the mortiflcation of your own pride ;.
'  burpri e and modification have little to do with
_ 7*,this atmosphere which surronnds ’our Manic now.
 ison theorenBook; berm:-

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  

lw.

   

 

/

‘  i v ,_ reacting? magma

out eyes cast down, upon it; her figure riding out
of its old girlish freedom and carelessness, into a
womanly calm and dignity. He follows the motion
of her head and lips with an unconscious, eager
gesture; follows them with devotion, longing to
feel himself engaged with her; and bears, his frame
quivering the while, rising upon his heart with a
command, that hushes all these violent, strong
voices round—the low sound of her voice.

Now they are at prayer. Her face is folded in
her hands, Randall; and there may be a prayer in
Menie’s heart, which Mrs. Laurie’s voice, always
timid at this time, does not say. Whatever there
is in Mcnie’s heart, you know what is in your own;

know at once this flood of sudden yearning, this

sudden passion of hope and purpose, this sudden
burst of womanish tears. Now, then, overmas-
tered, subdued, and won, turn away, Randall Home,
but not till Jenny, starting from her knees, has
burst into a violent sob and scream. “ I dreamt
he was come back this very nicht ; I dreamt 0’ him
yestreennRandall—Randall Home 1” But with
an awed face, Jenny returned from the door to
which she had flown. Randall was not there!

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Sommrmno of langor is in this chill morning,
as its quiet footstep steals upon the path of the
exhausted storm; something worn out and heavy
are Menie’s eyes as she closes them wearil y upon the
daylight when Jenny has cleared the little break fast-
table, and it is time for the day’s work to begin.
They speak to her softly, you will perceive, and
are very tender of Menie, as if she were ill, and
Jenny cannot forgive herself for the shock that
her exclamation Caused last night.

’ A heavy stupor is on Menie’s mind, lightened
only with gleams of wild anxiety, with fruitless
self-questionings, which she fain would restrain,
but cannot. Jenny, firm in the belief that she has
seen a spirit, is melancholy and mysterious, and
asks suggestive questions—-whether they have
heard if there is “ony great trouble in London
’enow,” or who it was that was prayed for in the
kirk last Sabbath; a young man in great distress.
Mrs. Laurie, uneasy and solicitous, cannot stay
these pitiful looks which unawares she turns upon
her daughter, and hangs perpetually about her
with tender touches, consoling words, and smiles,
till poor Menie’s heart is like to break.

The day’s work is over in Jenny’s “redd-up
kitchen ;” the uneven earthen floor, is carefully
swept—the hearth as white and the fireside as
brilliant as Jenny’s elaborate cars could make
them; and Jenny has drawn aside a little the slid-
ing panel which closes in her bed, to show the
light patch-work quilt and snowy linen of the
“ owrelay.” Bright brass and pewter carefully
polished above the high mantel-shelf—-bright
plates and crockery against the walls——with a
glance of satisfaction Jenny surveyed the ‘whole
as she passed into the private corner where she
made her toilette—a “ wise-like ” kitchen; it was
worthy of Jenny. ,

And now, in her blue and yellow gown. in her
black and red checked plaiden shawl, in her great
Leghorn bonnet, fashioned in antique times, Jen-
ny sets out from the cottage door. N 0 one knows
where Jenny is going, and there has been some
surprise “ hen the house” at her intimation of her
proposed absence. But Jenny keeps her own
counsel, and walks away soberly, seeing Mrs.
Laurie at the window, in the direction of Burnside.
“Nae occasion to let the haill town see that gate
that Jenny was gaun,” she says to herself, with a
slight fuff; and altering. her course before she
reaches the Brigcnd, Jenny turns rapidly towards
the hills.

And something of growing gravity, almost awe,
is on Jenny’s face. “ Eh, puir callant, he’s young
to take fareweel 0’ this life. Weel, laddie, mony’s
the time Jenny’s grutten for yo, and maybe it’s
best, after a’, if one could but think sac.”

These lamentations fall like so many tears on
Jenny’s way—and she is rapidly climbing thebrae,
as she utters them, towards the house of Crofthill.

Jill is a wintry autumn afternoon—so dull, that
the potato-gatherers in the fields are chilled into
silence, and the ploughmen scamer can whistle
into the heavy atmosphere which droops upon
them laden with unfalleu rain. The paths of the

 

4

 

, 

.3, ‘7", _
little triangular garden. of Crofthill' are choked
with masses of broivn leaves, fallen from the trees,
which sway their thin remaining foliage ‘drearilv, 
hanging lank from the ‘crest of ’the ’hill ; l The "
goodman is thrashing to-day; you can hear the heavy
tramp of the horses, the swing of the primitive
machine; it is almost the only sound that breaks
the silence of the place. I ' ,

Nay, listen—there is another sound; a slow .
monotonous voice, wont to excite in Jenny ' certain .
sentiments the reverse of peaceable. The kitchen
door is open, a great umbrella rests against the
lintel, and Miss Janet’s tall figure is just visible,
in a gown not much unlike J enny’s own; standing
before the fire listening, as Jenny, arrested at the

threshold, must be content to listen too. ' ' .
“Na; I can do nae mair than tell what’s true ;
I canna gie folk the judgment to put trust in me.
I’m no one that meddles wi’ ither folk’s concerns
—-but I thocht it richt ye should ken—y—I’m no say-
ing whether it’s in the flesh or the spirit-«that ’ :
Randall Home was seen upon the Kirklands road a i
last nicht.” _ ' y H r r i
“But I tell ye, woman, it couldna be our Randy / 1
i

--it couldna be my bairn,” exclaimed Miss Janet,
in great distress. ‘_‘Do ye think 'Croftliill’s, ’ ‘
son would ca’ upon the like 0’ 'you,’"'and no
come hams? It’s been some English lad that’s
spoken grand, like Randall; and how was yen to
ken to look at his presence, that never ane had
like him? Na, it wasna our son.” ' » 3
“Presence or no presence, I mind him weel,” 
said Nelly, emphatically. “I wouldna think, my- . ,
sel, an appearance or a wraith could ha’e grippit‘» . 
thae weans, and kent the road sae weel to,carry ‘
them heme—no to say that spirits would ha’e -
little patience, as I think, wi’ barley scones, when
they canna partake themsels ; and I tried him about
the Burnside family, and Crofthill as weel; and I
saw his een loupin g wi’ passion, and he Scarce ga’c”
me thanks for my charity. It’s an awfu’ thing
to sel as I do ilka day, and I canna think but
that it’s just because I’m sae peaceable 'mysel that
a’body flees into rapture wi’ me. But I just ken
this—I saw Randall Home.” ‘ ,
Miss Janet turned round to wring her hands un- . .3;
seen. She. was very much troubled and shaken, ,
and turning, met, to her dismay,“ the keen inqui. i_- '
tive face of Jenny. With a little startand cry,
Miss Janet turned again to dash some’tears off-lwr  
cheek. Then she addressed the new-comer in a
trembling voice: “‘Ye’ll have heard her story-L- 
your house is on the same road—have you, soon '
anything like this 2’” ' , V
“I wouldna put amoment’s faith in her—nome,”“ .
said Jenny, promptly. “It’s a dull day to her, 
when she disna put somebody in trouble; and it’s
just because there’s no a single mischief to the ~
fore in Kirklands that she’s ceme to put her 'ma- 5
lice on you. Put strife amang neibors, walnut-+4 ,
naebody can do’t sae weel; but what would gve ".
come here for to frichten honest fell; in their sin .
houses ?” I A r ‘ ‘ ' I ’ ‘
“For every friendly word I say, I aye get twa‘il'l' -
words back,” said Nelly, meekly, with'a, sigh of
injury. “But it’s weel kent the spirit thalls in '
Burnside Jenny, and I wouldna take netice, for my,
pairt, 0’ what the likes 0’ her micht say; but Icon;
no. help aye being concerned for what happens. to ,
Crofthill, minding the connection; and if I didna '
see Randall Home’s face, and hear Randall Home’s
tongue, in the dark at my sin door yestroen, Ifnev- 
er saw mortal man. If he’s in the flesh, I would- 7 
no say but he was hiding for some ill-doing,'for "
you may be sure he didna want me to see his face, -
kenning me for far sicht langsyne,, and if it was ; 1
an appearance, I’ll no gie you mucus-hope" o’~his  :‘
state, for the awsome passion he got“ idylthough he f”.
never said a word to. me; and, as I Said before, I“ I
can tell you what’s true, but I .canna “e, vs ;
faith to believe, sue I’ll bid ye gOOd-day, Miss Jaw . j
net; and ye’ll just seeif ye didna think mm ,’ 
what/I’ve said, state you’re-3 593? “merge-round:
the sold man too.” . ,  ‘,  * .
Slowly Nelly took her departure, Miss Jan}; ‘_. I,
looking on like one stupefied. As the naive-looms 
visitor disappeared, MissJanet sank into a chair, -,
and again wrung her hands; but looking up was
sudden fright to perceive Jenny’s elaborate dress, 
and look of mystery, hastily‘exclalnied' “Jennv, 

 

 

 

 

  

woman, it’s no but whatyou’re a {r I g . 
what’s,br°ch.. ; treshsrsthadwmg  

 

 

   

 " fnhy, abruptly. - ,
"  Ci...“ But ye maun have come with an err nd; I’m
“ no feared to greet before you, Jenny," 8 id Miss
Janet, with humility. “0h, woman, tell me, do
yyo’ui ken ‘onything of my bairn ?” "

v “'Me l, what should Iken ‘2” said Jenny, turning
herfaee away. V “ You’ll have gotten word? Nae
doubt, being grand at the writing, he aye sends

'ictters. What gars ye ask the like 0’ me 1’”
‘ lMiss Janet caught her visitor’s hand, and
:turned her face towards the light with a terri—

, ."fiedcry. , “You may tell me; I ken you’ve seen

I  him as wool.”

g Jenny resisted for some time, keeping her head

i , avertéd.’ ,At length, when she could struggle no

: longer, she fell into a little burst of sobbing. “ I
never would have tolled ye. I didna come to make
yondesolate; butI canna tell a lee. I saw him
2 "in the dark last nicht, just no moment, glancing
-‘ in at the window, and when I gaed to the door, he
was game.” ‘ ,
Half,“ an hour after, very drearily Jenny took
her way down the hill; and looking back as
the early twilight began to darken on her path,

, "she saw Miss Janet’s wistful face command-
. ing the way. The twilight came down heavily,

‘- ’the clouds dipped upon the hill, drizzling rain be.
gun to fall, carrying down with them light, drop-
ping showers of half-detached and dying leaves,

« but still" Miss Janet leaned upon the dyke, and
,turned 'her anxious eyes to the hilly footpath,

‘4' watching, with many a sob and shiver, for Ran-

dall, in the flesh or in the spirit. Surely, if he re-
galed himself to strangers, he might come to

 

 

 CHAPTER XXXVII.

., Am this there'fell some very still and quiet
days upon Mrs. Laurie’s cottage. Everything went
- . on languidly; there was no heart to the work
' which Menie touched with dreamy fingers; there
., ‘rwas something subdued and spiritless in her mo-
' *ther’s looks and movements; and even Jenny’s
 ' foot rang less briskly upon her earthen floor. They
1 3" rlid not know what ailed them, nor what it was
 ,théy looked for; but with a brooding stillness of
a = -'QXpectation,they waited for something, if it were
tempest, earthquake, or only a new glow of sun-
shine out of the kindly skies.
 ,Was it a spirit? Asking so often, you make
, your cheek pale, Menie Laurie; you make your
fl " gyelids droop heavy and leaden over your dim eyes.
' ,ewfieople come here to break the solitude, and
 , was gdWell with 01'?! own thoughts, through these
; » stili'days alone. ‘ I
~ g . ,“Meh‘ie, you are injuring yourself; we will tak
.v 7 La long walk, and see some people today,” said Mrs.
p’Laurie. “Come, a is quite mild; a will do us
.  both good. We will go to the mouse to see Miss
j’ Johnston, and then to Woodlands and Burnside.
Put  your papers; we will take a holiday to-
r-’ ’ i

’ 'Menio’s heavy eyes said faintly that she cared
_’ nothingabout Miss Johnston, about Woodlands or
v Burnsrde“; but Menie put aside her papers slowly,
and prepared for the walk. They went out to-

}; gather, not saying much, though each sought out.
- with labor and difficulty, something to say. “I

f‘iiyondergwhat on: us i” said Menie, with a sigh. «

.rlier mother made no answer. It was not easy to
’ atoll; andspeakiug of it would do more harm than

 A hazy day—aha sky. one faint unvaried color,

c, enveloped in a'uniform livery of cloud; a faint
clarhite mist spread upon the hills; small, invisible
 rain in the air, and the withered leaves heavily
 falling down upon the sodden soil.

 

   

 

' 3'41 gm o’my, ain will; when kens‘” said '

rm 8

 

 ,THE‘r'QU’IET HEARfi ' E
~~$_ f .  > r,
I‘ ' . r f . y . '

“This’wilf'ubt "raise our spirits, mother,” said
Menie, with a faint smile; ‘_‘ better within doors,
and at work, on a day like this.” ‘ .

But why, with such a start and trembll, do you
hear those steps upon the path?
with such wild curiosity about them, although you
would not turn your head for a king’s ransom?

Anybody may be coming—the shepherd’s wife

from \Vhinnyrig yonder, the poor crofter from the
edge of the peat-moss, or little Jessie’s mother
bound for the universal rural-shop at the Brigend.
We are drawing near to the Brigend—already the
aromatic flavor of the peats warms the chill air
with word of household fires, and we see smoke
loud the ash-trees—the smoke of our old
1" mine, the kind hearth of Burnside.

Hush ! whether it were hope or fear, is no matter;
the steps have ceased; vain this breathless lis.
tening to hear them again; go on through the
ash-trees, Menie Laurie-on through the simple
gateway of this humble rural world. By the fire-
side—in the cottage—with, such simple joy as
friendly words and voices of children can give you
-——ihis is your life.

, And only one-only one—this your mother—to
watch your looks and gestures—~tlie falling and
the rising of your tired heart. Wist‘ful eyes she
turns upon you—tender cares. Look up to' repay
her, Meuie; smile for her comfort; you are all
that remains to her, and she is all that remains to
you.

Look up; see how solemnly the ash-trees lift
their old bleached arms to heaven. Look up,
Menie Laurie ; but here, at our very ear, these be-
wildering steps again !

Do not shrink; here has come the ordeal you
have looked for many a day. W'ell said your pro-
phetic heart, that it drew near in the hush and
silence of this fated time. They stand there,
arched and canopied, under those familiar trees,
the hamlet’s quiet houses receding behind them—
Burnside yonder, the limit of the scene, and the
burn, the kindly country voice, singing a quiet
measure to keep them calm. An old man and a
young,learned with experiences of life; the elder
fresh and noble, daring to meet the world with
open face, aware of all the greatest truths and
mysteries of the wonderful existence which we
call common life, but nothing more; the younger,
trained in a more painful school, with his les-
son of self-forgetting newly conned, with know-
ledge sadder than his father’s, with a heart and
conscience quivering still with self-inflicted wounds,
-—they Stand there bareheaded under the cloudy sky,
not with the salutation of common respect, which
might permit them to pass on. ' A courtly natural
grace about them both, makes their attitude all
the more remarkable. With blanched cheeks and
falling eyes, Menie Laurie’s face droops ; she dares
not look up, but waits, trembling so greatly that
she can scarcely stand, for what has to be said.

Mrs. Laurie, with a sudden impulse of protec-
tion draws her child’s arm within her own, moves
forward steadily, all her pride of mother and of
woman coming to her aid ; bows to her right hand
and her left; says she is glad to see that this is
really Mr. Randall, and not the wraith her simple
Jenny had supposed; and. speaking thus in a
voice which is but a murmur of inarticulate sounds
to Menie, bows again, and would pass on. ’

But John Home of, Crofthill lays his hand upon
her sleeve. “ You and me have no outcast to set-
tle. Leave the bairns to themselves."

With a startled glance Mrs. Laurie looks round
her, at the old man’s face of anxious friendliness,
at the deep flush on Randall’sbrow, and at her
own Menie’s drooping head. “Shall I leave you,
Menie 1’” Menie makes no answer—as pale and as
cold as marble, With a giddy pain in her forehead,

[run sum]

Why be struck »

 

a great effort to support hersel
gradually looses her hand from her arm. ; r ‘

Passive, silent, her whole mind absorbed with r
the pain it takes to keep herself erect, and guide ,
her faltering steps along the road; but Randall is
by Menie’s side once more.

Father and mother have gone on, back towards
the cottage; silently, without a word these parted
hearts follow them side by side. If she had any
power left but what is wanted for her own sup-
port, she would wonder why Randall does not
speak. She does wonder, indeed, faintly, even
through her pain. With downcast eyes like hers,
he walks beside her, through this chill dewy air,
between these rustling hedges, in a Conscious sis
lence, which every moment becomes more over-
powering, more strange. ‘ ‘  .

“Meniel” With a sudden start she acknowl-
edges her name; but there is nothing more. i 

“I said, when we parted, that you were disloyal . '
to me and to Nature,” said Randall, after another
pause. “Menie, I have learned many a' thing
since then. It was I that was disloyal to Nature
——but never to you.” '

Still no answer; this giddiness grows upon her,
though she does not miss a word of what he says:

“ There is no question between us; none that.
does not fade like a vapor before the sunlight, I ,
see. Menie, can you trust me again?” '

She cannot answer; she can do nothing but fail.
ter and stumble upon this darkening road. It
grows like night to her. What is this she leans
upon—~the arm of Randall Home ? ‘

Miss Janet sits in her shawl of state in Jenny’s
kitchen—very curious and full of, anxiety. “Eh,
woman, such a sair heart I had,” said Miss Janet,
“ when who should come, as fast up the road as if
he kent I was watching, but my ain bairn ? He
hasna been hame since J ulv’s wedding; ye would.
na think it o’ a grand lad like our Randall, and
him sae clever, and sac muokle thocht o’ in the

J

world-but when he gaed owrehis father’s door. 8. , : .-

stane again, the puir laddie grat like a balm. Will '

you look if they’re coming, Jenny ?—’-nne word 0’ l * I

them ?
sea ill at the like 0’ him ‘2”

Eh, woman, what can make Miss Menie

“The like 0’ him’s nae such great things,” said ,  . 71

.Xeniiy, with a little snort. “I wouldna say but.
what Miss Menie has had far better in her offer.

She’s a self-willed thing—she’ll no take Jenny's. I 

word; but weel I wat, if she askit me”—+ -  V I 
“Whisht, you’re no to say a word,” cried Miss ‘ ,
Janet, coming in from the door. “ I see them on ’

the road—J see them coming home. Jenny, you’re . 

 
  

I ,7 

no to speak. Miss Menie and my Randall, theyfre'  _,  

aen heart ance mair.”

And so it was—one heart, but not, a heart at
ease; the loveprenewed still owed a. pang of term.

But day after day, came out of the softening he» _. 

vans—hour after hour preached and expounded of
the mellowed nature—othe soul which had learned
to forget itself; other pictures rose under Menie’s

   
 

fingers, faces which looked you bravely in the face,  :

eyes that forgot to doubt and criticise.
cleared from her firmament in gusts and rapid eye'- "

lutions, as before these brisk October winds. »- Bus 3  V i

fear followed another, falling like the autumn, '

 
  
 

Theclmids “ I if

leaves; a warmer atmosphere crept into the $03:— 4. 

tage, a brighter sunshine filled its behalf 
Day by day, advancing steadily, the son drew far: ,
ther in, to his domestic place. , The mother gore» ‘, 
her welcome heartily; the daughter, saying goth, ~
ing, felt the more; and no one said a Word or
grumbling, save perverse Jenny, who wept with joy
the while, when another year and another life ”

lighted up into natural gladness the sweet hurmo- ,1: i ‘

nious quiet of Menie Laurie’s heart.

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘14-15 TOILERS on Tim SEA. By Victor Hugo. ..

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The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, Five Cents.

1 The Masked Bride; or. WILL SEE MAR-
BY Hm. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

love? or, COLLEGIANS AND SWEET-
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3 The, Girl ‘Vii‘e. By Bartle T. Campbell.
Aifirave Heart. By Arabel a. Southworth.
rues-lie Raynor, the Work Girl.
By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. p

' he Secret. Marriage. By Sara Claxton.
A Daughter of Eve; or, BLINDED BY
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8 Heart to Heart; or, FAIR PHYLLIs’ LOVE.

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9 Alone in the \Vorid; or, THE YOUNG
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OUT IN THE WORLD.
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16 rust Her New or, TIIE TRUE KNIGHT.
By Margaret Leice 1‘.

171A Loyal Lover. By A. Southworth.

18 His Idol; or, THE ILL-STARRED MARRIAGE.
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19 The Broken Betrotlml; or, LOVE VER-

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, 20 Orphan Nell, the (bronco Girl; or,

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31 Now and Forever; or VHY DID SHE
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34 A Marrino‘o oi‘ConVenienco: or, WAS
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35 Sinned .Agaiust.By Clara Au sta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride. By A. uthworth.

3'7 The,_COIIntry Cousin. Rose Kennedy.

38 His Own Again. Arabella Southwortli.

39 Flirtation. By Ralph Royal.

40 Pledo'ed to Marry. By_Sara Claxton.

41 31111 Devotion. By Alice Fleming.

42 Beatrice the Beautiiul; or, HIS SEC-
OND LOVE. ByA. Southworth.

43 The -Barouet‘s Secret Sara Claxton.

44 The Only Daughter: or, BROTHER
AGAINST LOVER. By Alice Fleming.

45 Her Hidden Foe. Arabella Southworbh.

46 The Little Heiress. B M. A. Denison.

47 Because She Loved .1111; or. HOW
WILL IT END. By Alice Fleming)?t

48 In Spite offierself. By S. . Sherwood.

49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, LOVE AT
FIRST SIGHT. Bv Arabella Southworth.

50 The Cuban Heiress; or, TIIE PRISONER
or LA VINTRESSE. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison.

AN EARL. By Alice Fleming.

52 Th 0 Wing-ed. Messenger; or, Rrsxmo
:9 LL FOR A HEART. By Mary Reed Crowell.

53 Agnes Hope,;thc Actress ' or, THE RO-
MANOE or A RUBY RING. W. M. mer. M. D.

54 One “’oman’s Heart; or, SAVED
FROM THE STREET. By. George S. Kaime.

55 SheDid Not Love Him ‘ )or, S'l‘OOPlNG
TO CONQUERd By Arabglla SOUtilWOl'RIJl.

56 Love-Ma ' or, ETRO'I'E'ED, I Ammo,
DIVORCED AND’-—-—. By W. M. Turner, M. D.

57 A Brave Girl. By AlIc Fleming.

58 The Ebon Musk. By Mary R. Crowell.

59,. Widow’s \Vllcs. Rachel Bernhardt.

60 recil’m Deceit. By Jennie Davis Burton.

61 A “Wicked Heart. BySara Ciaxton. '

62 The Maniac Bride. By M. Blount.

63 The Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter.

64 What Jealousy Bid; or TEE HEIR or
WORSLEY GRANGE. By Alice Bleming. .

65 The ‘Vli’e’n Secret. 3' C01. Juan Lows

66 A Brother’s Sin. By achel Bernhardt.

6’1 Forbidden Bans. Arabella Souihworth.

68 W'cavcre and “felt. By M. E. Bmddon.

69 Camille; or, TEE FATE OF A COQUETTE.
Bv Alex Dumas. ' ,

’70 The Two Orphans. By D Ennery.

71 My Young Wire. By My Young Wife’s
Husband.

7,2 The Two Widows. ByAnnl’eTlonnas.

 

81 Lucy Temple.
82 A: I _
83 Playing for Big ,.

Thomas. , « . ,  , v
84 The Laurel Bush. By tzheautlior ’01 r .;
85 Led Astrny. By Octave Feuillet: -«

51 Two/Young; Girls; or, THE BRIDE or '

97 Hugh Melton. By Catharine King. j
98'Allco Learmont. BleISSMflOCk. '

'99 Marion-lo Bruce’s Lover.gB‘y Mary K
100 'l‘hro ' '

10] Hannah. ByMissMulock. OctobeI-is.

 

 

 

 

 

73 Rose Michel; or, THE TRIALS or A FAG‘
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74 Cecil Castlemainem Gage. By Guido-.1 

'75 The .Blaclg; Lady Dijlluna. By J. 8.‘ ‘

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76 Charlotte Temples "By Mrs.-Rowron.
author'of ‘fJohn‘ Halifax, Gentleman.”

’78 My Young Husband. By Myself.

79 A Queen Amongst “Ionian; By the
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77 Christian Oaklev’s Mistake. Bythe , ‘ ”

80 Her Lordvand Manet-Byglsflorence‘

Marryat.

Iong‘Time Awo'. BfiMetaOrred. : '~
"in Eta es; By

“John Halifax, Gentleman."

Eliot. 

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86 Janet’s Repentance. By Georg

87 Romance of a Poor You g, an.
By Octave Feuillet. . ~'  r  A . v

88 A Terrible Deed; or; ALL E02 GOLD.
By Emma Garrison Jones. ‘ -

89 A Gilded Sin. 4/ ‘  y A

90 The Author’s Daughter. By Mary p

91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. I
92 Eileen Alanna; ORTHE DAWqu arm ~ I
l ,

DAY. By Dennis O’Su van.

93 Love’s Victory. By B. LLFarjeon. .v
94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Ofiphanh »
95 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marshv

96 Haunted Hearts° or, TIIE BMm_Bl-f '

TROTHAL. By Rachel embardt.‘

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