"'Yes,' I replied; 'when I was a boy in Edinburgh, there was nothing I
so much delighted in as a Punch and Judy performance. I used to loiter
for hours at the foot of the Mound, and see it repeated again and
again; and coming upon a set of Pandean pipes in my father's pawnshop,
I used to practise upon them.'

"'Why,' said Joe Greener (for, as I learnt afterwards, this was his
name), 'you're the very man I want. Aint it lucky? To tell you the
truth, I'm in a bit of a fix. My pal bolted two days ago with all the
swag. A good riddance at the price.' (And here Joe abandoned himself
to his peculiar snigger. He seemed to laugh all his trouble away, and
blow it off as if with a gust of merriment.)

"'I have written,' he continued, 'for an old partner in London, but he
can't come for some weeks. Meanwhile you'll do for a substitute. I'll
soon coach you up in the business. All that you have got to do is to
play the overture before the drama begins, and while it is going on to
collect the money and keep the imps of children from pulling aside the
baize and peeping in. The terms are six bob a week and your grub; and
I'll advance something at once to rig you out.'

"The bargain was struck; and that evening, in the inn yard of the
neighbouring village, we had several rehearsals, and I felt that I
would manage to get through my part fairly well.

"Behold me now, an Oxford man, and formerly the chum of lords and
swells, degraded into a Punch and Judy assistant. It was a bustling
life. We were out in the road in all weathers, performing at fairs, and
in the evenings in small towns and villages. In fact, wherever we saw
groups of people hanging about on the outlook for amusement, we set
up our stage. Once we were hired to amuse the boys at my old school,
Vere de Vere College. I cannot describe the feelings with which, in my
new character, I entered the well-known scenes. My uppermost feeling
was the fear lest I should be identified as a former scholar. But, to
my infinite relief, I saw that all the pupils and the servants were
strangers. The doctor, indeed, stared at me for a moment as if he
recognised me; but he turned away, muttering 'No, no, impossible!' He
could not believe that anyone who had had the unspeakable advantage
of being taught by him could possibly have fallen so low. His conceit
saved me.

"This vagrant life had its drudgery and its difficulties; but there
were certain things about it that I liked very much: the quiet country
roads, the resting on the green grass under hawthorn hedges, the
palatable dinners of bread and cheese and cider at rustic inns, and the
merry faces that clustered round us when that abandoned rascal Punch
began to play his pranks. But, at the end of a few weeks, Joe Greener's
former pal arrived from London, and my occupation was gone. So, bidding
a hearty farewell to my merry benefactor, I turned my face northwards
again, and partly by walking and partly by coaching, I have come thus
far.

"When I arrived at your gate to-night, and listened to the
well-remembered sound of the wind in the big plane tree, the past came
back upon me, and I felt as if I were a boy again, and as if my strange
experiences at Oxford and London were but the medley of a dream."

"Bless me," cried Miss Grizzie, "did you ever live here?" and she and
her sister were on their feet scrutinising the face of the stranger.

"Yes," he said quietly; "I once lived in this very house, and I can
give you a proof of it. Look at the back of the fireplace there, on
the left-hand side, and you will see the letters B.L. cut in a stone."
They all crowded round the fire to look; and, surely enough, they
detected the initials, badly formed and rather indistinct, but still
recognisable.

Then Miss Lizzie, turning round and looking intently at the stranger,
called out, "Are you Ben Levy? Eh! I thocht that there was something
about yer face that I should ken. Ah! I mind ye weel--a bit laddie,
comin' ower here in yer vakens, and introducin' yersel as oor coosin,
and steyin' for three or four weeks."

"But yer faither," said Miss Grizzie, "was a gentleman, I thocht. I
never heard o' him bein' a pawnbroker."

"No," said Ben, "he had retired by that time from the three balls, and
wished them to be forgotten."

Hillend, now putting his hand on the shoulder of the stranger, said,
"Oh man! is this you? Man, I'm fain to see ye. I mind ye weel--an
auld-farrant loon, dour at the readin', writin', and coontin', but
ready with yer haunds, and in the thick of everything--howin',
shearin', and threshin',--and wi' an awfu' wark wi' bease. An' have ye
really been through a' thae ups and doons: and what are ye gaun to dae
noo?"

"Well," said Ben, "that's just what I want to tell you. You see I have
had my chances--all the advantages which a man could have--education,
society, money. I could not use them, and they nearly did for me. They
have been a curse to me. I don't want them again. It is evident that
my proper sphere is a humble lot in the country. I shall be content if
anybody allows me to work in the fields, and gives me in return bed
and board and a suit of clothes once a year. A man who has frequently
supped on a turnip and slept under a hedge, will look upon a cog of
oatmeal porridge and a bunch of straw in the barn as real luxuries."

Hillend's eyes glistened. "Well," he thought, "here's something new at
a farmer's fireside, a man that has gaen up and doon the hale ladder o'
Fortune, and kens a' the changes o' Life. What a companion he will be
for the long winter nichts! A' the tales o' the Borders in one livin'
edition! A well that can always be pumped, and will never gang dry! I
think we must ask him to stey for a week or twa at least."

He gave a significant glance at his sisters, and they returned it. Then
he said--"Ye micht stey on here for a wee till ye can look aroond ye.
It happens that Jamie Doo, oor orra man, has just left. Ye can tak his
place, and pit oot your haund to ony job that's wanted; and ye'se get a
bed in the bothy, and your share o' the parritch and kail that's gaun
in the kitchen."

Weeks, months, and even years passed, and Ben Levy still remained at
the farm. The truth is that they could not do without him. He was the
factotum of Hillend, and also of the two sisters. During the day, if
any stress of work arose, he was the man to push it through; and in
the evening, if any visitors dropt in, he was the man to entertain them
with his startling experiences.

One remark he always made at the end of his story. "It's strange that a
few weeks experience of country labour in my boyhood should have been
more useful to me than all my school and university education. It has
enabled me to earn my bread. I believe it's because my heart was in it.

 "'The heart's aye the part aye
 That maks us richt or wrang.'"

THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE.

In my boyhood I was familiar with a thin emaciated man, that used to be
seen in the streets of Sandyriggs. Consumption had wasted his body, and
utterly quenched his spirit. Wan and dumb, he moved among the healthy
faces of the town folk like a ghost; and it was a painful sight to see
him crawl up the outside stair that led to his solitary room above the
butcher's shop. People called him "a blighted being" and "a living
wreck," and associated his name with a tragedy which had long been the
talk of the county. Yet, twenty years before, he began his career under
the most favourable auspices.

When Malcolm Blair entered the University of St Andrews, he might have
been considered a favourite of Fortune. He was the only son and the
pride of his father, a prosperous farmer. His body was healthy and
handsome, and his mind agile and enthusiastic. He had a keen relish,
not only for material blessings, but for knowledge of every kind. It
was as pleasant to him to study as to take a bracing morning walk.
Without any difficulty he drank in classics, mathematics, literature,
and science. In all the college competitions he easily took the first
place, and at the end of every session came out the first man of his
year.

At the same time, his learning did not make him moody and unsocial. He
put it (to use a homely phrase) "into a good skin." It was thoroughly
digested, became part of his being, promoted his general health,
and fed his buoyant spirits. When the time came for tossing aside
his books, mirth danced in his eyes and rioted in his laugh. His
motto seemed to be "Taste life's glad moments." At all the students'
recreations--the social gatherings on the Friday night, the Saturday
excursions into the country, the jolly junketings at Guardbridge and at
Leuchars--he was the life of the company. He could sing, recite, tell
stories, make a speech or "screamer," as it was called, and give the
most ludicrous imitation of the different professors.

"Blair," said one of his friends, "is irrepressible. How does he keep
up that vivid tone, both of body and mind? One would imagine that
his food was ambrosia and his drink was nectar; and the air which he
breathed was laughing-gas."

Altogether Blair was a youth full of promise, and apparently destined
for a popular and successful career.

But it was this highly-strung excitable temperament that brought him
into danger. The time came, towards the end of his Arts curriculum at
St Andrews, when "the young man's fancy lightly turned to thoughts
of love." If he had been privileged to mix in cultured family life,
his fancy might have settled on a suitable object. But in St Andrews,
where the distinctions of caste are strongly defined, the students are
unfortunately placed. They are regarded as being beneath the upper or
professional class; and they consider themselves as above the under
or trading class. They are, therefore, shut out from family life, and
are left to herd together in their lodgings. And thus it came to pass
that Malcolm Blair's fancy was unable to find a resting-place till it
settled on his landlady's daughter.

Grace Bourhill, daughter of Mrs Bourhill, lodging-house keeper in
College Street, had no special charms beyond a fresh complexion and a
pair of bright eyes. But she was ambitious, and tried all her little
fascinations on Mr Blair. When she brought in his meals, she was always
tidy as Hebe herself or neat-handed Phyllis. When he spoke to her, she
would blush and smile and look at him from the corner of her eyes.
When she ran against him in the lobby, she would show the prettiest
confusion, and after begging pardon, would trip away like a startled
fawn. As a matter of course, he soon saw that the girl was fond of him,
and could not help appreciating her good feeling and taste. He found
a pleasure in looking upon her and speaking to her, and when he was
singing Burns's songs, he would often call up her image to help him to
realise the poet's heroines. Yet all the while he never once thought of
her as a suitable partner for him. He considered the whole affair as an
innocent flirtation. Miserable delusion! He soon found out his mistake.

Blair's curriculum was drawing to a close. He was about to take
farewell of St Andrews' University. As he was preparing himself for
the Dissenting Ministry, his divinity studies were to be prosecuted
in Edinburgh. It was a time of great excitement among the students.
The winter, with its dull days and its hard work, had gone; and the
spring, with its bright hours and its prospect of country holidays,
had come. Song and laughter were in the air, and infected every one;
and the evenings were entirely given up to farewell merry-meetings.
One of the most important of these was the _Gaudeamus_ of the Literary
Society, held in the Cross Keys Hotel. The chair was taken by an
honorary member, a divinity student of jovial tendencies; and a galaxy
of youthful faces, all glowing with intelligence and good humour, was
grouped before him. What could be the result but an utter abandonment
to the influence of the time? The past, with all its trials, was
forgotten; the future, with its promised happiness, was taken for
granted; and the present, with its grateful pleasures, engrossed their
whole souls.

Prominent among the company was Malcolm Blair. He was, in a certain
sense, the hero of the evening. He had just completed his literary
course with the greatest distinction, having taken his degree of Master
of Arts with special commendation, and come out the first man of his
year in every branch; and he had, therefore, every reason for being
in the highest spirits. During dinner his jokes and anecdotes kept up
a constant roar. After dinner he sang songs and proposed toasts in
the most effective style. And then to crown all, he was called upon
by the voice of the whole company to give his imitation of Tammy, the
mathematical professor. Standing up, and putting on the well-known
grimaces, awkward gestures, and broad Scotch accent, he delivered a
speech on elocution, urging them all to cultivate a correct and refined
style of speaking, and to take an example from him, the speaker, who,
though born and brought up in Fife, had so thoroughly got rid of his
native peculiarities of phrase and accent, that he defied any stranger
to detect even his nationality. He sat down amid a prolonged shout of
applause; and on every side he was saluted with cries of "Health and
Imitation," and with pressing calls from dozens of his admirers to
drink with them.

Replying to these on the spur of the moment, he imbibed more than he
was aware of; and thus it happened, when the meeting broke up, that he
was in a state of the highest excitement.

This state of excitement was, indeed, very unfortunate. But another
unfortunate circumstance was fated to happen. On that particular night,
of all nights in the year, it chanced that his landlady, Mrs Bourhill,
was seized with a sort of fit; and when he reached his lodgings, he
witnessed a most distressing plight--the mother lying insensible on the
sofa, and the daughter wringing her hands and crying in despair. Alarm
and pity took possession of his heart; and after uttering a few words
of sympathy and comfort, he rushed away and brought back a doctor. The
doctor, a young man beginning practice, was solemn and taciturn. Asking
a few questions, and feeling the pulse of Mrs Bourhill, he looked very
grave, and tried one restorative after another until at length she
opened her eyes; and then, with the aid of the daughter, he led her to
her bedroom and shut the door.

Blair retired to his own room to wait the result. The minutes passed
slowly without a single sound to break the oppressive silence. At last
he heard the doctor go, and shut the outer door; but he waited in vain
for any other sound. Sick of suspense, and imagining all sorts of
evil, he crept quietly out of his room and entered the parlour; and
there he found Miss Bourhill seated on a chair, the picture of silent
misery.

"What has happened?" he asked, in a voice of alarm.

She answered by breaking down into a paroxysm of weeping.

"For God's sake, Miss Bourhill," he cried, "what has happened? Is your
mother dead?"

Then she rose, and with her hair streaming over her shoulders, and the
tears running down her cheeks, she clasped his hands, and said, "Oh,
Mr Blair! you have been so kind. But what am I to do? what _am_ I to
do? The doctor says that mother's condition is very serious, and that
another attack may be fatal, and I shall be left alone in the world
with nobody to care for me." And here she broke down again.

Now, what could this unsophisticated lad do, wrought up as he was by
various causes into a high state of excitement? What could he do but
take her hand, and pat her on the shoulder, and, in his anxiety to
soothe her, protest that he would take care of her? And other tender
promises he made which he was afterwards told about, but which he did
not remember.

Next morning he awoke with a curious, confused feeling which cannot
be described. Amid all the confusion, however, there still started up
the impression that he had said to Miss Bourhill many things which
he ought not to have said. He feared, in fact, that he had given her
the impression that he really loved her; and he resolved to lose no
time in disabusing her mind. He would represent it as an ordinary
flirtation, and would apologise most earnestly and humbly for trifling
with her feelings. He was not going to allow his future prospects to be
blighted, and he must set himself right at once, and at all hazards.
But, unfortunately, this resolute plan of his was utterly foiled by
unforeseen circumstances. No sooner had he stepped out of his bedroom
into the passage than Miss Bourhill, radiant with the consciousness of
one who was both loving and beloved, and looking really beautiful, had
thrown her arms around his neck and was embracing him; and her mother,
glowing with recovered health, came up and saluted him also.

"Mother," said the daughter, "this is my future husband."

And the mother, blessing them fervently, protested that he was the
very one whom she herself would have chosen, and congratulated him upon
his having secured such a priceless jewel.

"She canna," said she, "strum on the pianny, but she can darn stockins
and mak shirts. She'll no be able to jabber French, but she'll scrub
and cook and keep yer manse comfortable. And she's high-spirited too,
and she'll keep the members o' the congregation in their proper places.
She was jist born to be a minister's wife."

Now what could the fated Malcolm do, involved as he was in such a
witches' coil! He felt that if he didn't speak out and protest at once
he was lost; but the smiles, caresses, and blandishments that were
rained upon him, drugged and chloroformed his powers, and literally
shut his mouth; and he remained speechless and helpless. Two days
afterwards, Malcolm Blair left St Andrews an engaged man. The one fatal
mistake had been made.

During the six months of the summer vacation that Scotch students
enjoy, Malcolm Blair had been accustomed to continue his studies under
the most exhilarating circumstances. What a pleasant change it was from
the closeness and monotony of St Andrews' lecture-rooms to the airy
canopy and ever-changing glories of nature! And oh, the delight, at
daybreak, when the ploughman drove his team afield amid the thousand
melodies of morn; or at noon, when a golden haze brooded over the
pastures and cornfields, and the silence was broken only by the hum
of the bee; or in the evening, when the scent of flowers was in the
air and the coo of the cushat came from the firry woodland--oh, the
delight! to dwell upon the country scenes of the Mantuan Bard, or roll
out the winged words of Homer, or trill "the native wood-notes wild"
of the Swan of Avon. Standing on the same green earth, under the same
glorious sky, and amid the same perennial influences, he was able to
look at things from their point of view and in their spirit, and thus
virtually to realise--to make real to himself--their thoughts and
feelings regarding Nature.

But now, what a difference! He moped about the fields and hedges a
blighted being. The consciousness of his calamity, like a frosty cloud,
enveloped his imagination; and, seen through this cloud, the world
had lost its glory. And before he had been a week at home there came
from his betrothed a letter which brought the blush to his cheek.
With unsteady pen and bad spelling, the poor girl had laboured to
express her affection, but, alas! had only betrayed her meagre and
undeveloped mind. As he read this epistle at breakfast, his mother was
watching him; and he knew that she was wondering who his illiterate
correspondent could be; and to give her no more ground for suspicion,
he was mean enough to bribe Marjory, the servant, to bring his letters
in future directly to himself, and not to lay them on the breakfast
table.

One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it was
called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and instantly
changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight. Grace, he
thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary that she should
remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and without doubt would
be eager to learn. Why should she not have the opportunity? He would
earn some money by going out as a tutor, and with this money he would
send her to a first-class boarding-school, where she would learn the
accomplishments, manners, and graces; and thus she would become a young
lady of whom anyone in his position might be proud. A fond dream which
might so easily be realised!

But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace, she,
instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost scorn.
She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in giving vent
to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of her because she
could not jabber a few French phrases, and hammer on the piano; and he
wanted her to go to one of those boarding-schools, where nothing but
what was bad could be learned. She would not go to one of these dens
of wickedness; but as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself,
and her murder would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last
attempt to educate his betrothed.

Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His
parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their looks,
how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had frequently
visited Grace; and although he could not help being pleased with
her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar remarks, and her
mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the quick. And now there
happened a change of circumstances which stirred up within him a
strange mixture of vexation and delight. The letters of Miss Bourhill
came to be short and far between. He suspected that there was some new
attraction engrossing her; and he asked a confidential friend in St
Andrews to ascertain if this was so. His suspicion was correct. She was
frequently seen with a divinity student, by name Harker, good-looking
after a sort, but notoriously self-indulgent and even loose in his
principles. In fact, his very name at the University seemed redolent
of dissipation; and his presence among innocent young girls would have
been deemed absolutely blighting. He would have looked like an obscene
raven among a troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's
lodger, and it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon
him. The reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student
of the Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a
larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.

This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various
feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at being
jilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into
tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his utmost
to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able to do so.
Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out to walk to
St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace, scarcely noticing
the objects that he passed, and making little of the long distance. As
he drew near to the ancient city, there came into his view two figures
that instantly revived his flagging feelings--Harker and Miss Bourhill
returning from a walk on the links. Keeping well behind them, he dogged
their footsteps, and watched with a fiendish gratification how they
talked, looked into each other's faces and laughed, until they reached
College Street and disappeared in Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered
without much ceremony, received the surprise and the salutation of the
two women, who were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said
that he wished to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the
parlour, locked the door to keep the mother out.

Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the
reports that had reached him; he exposed the deplorable character
of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all correspondence
with this man whose touch was an insult to a woman; and he wound up by
saying that she must, on the spot, and once for all, choose between him
and this new admirer. He spoke with great vehemence and determination,
and expected to see her completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.

But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with
nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his
culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With the
air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and unreasonable
child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did he really mean
to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's lodger, and because
she allowed him, when he met her in the street, to walk home with her?
And did he really wish her to promise not to speak to Mr Harker? They
could not afford to turn him away, and as long as he remained in their
rooms they could not insult him. Then, waxing righteously indignant,
she demanded why he employed sneaks to tell tales of her, and why he
came raging and locking the door as if he were going to murder her. The
fact was, that he was ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and
to get an excuse for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was
a poor girl, she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in
Edinburgh, would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this
calmly, she unlocked the door and went out.

After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned home
full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come out in her
true character--cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While she claimed the
liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the liberty of throwing
her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor, showed that the
terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary, to keep him to his
bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening up before him; and for
several days he wandered aimlessly about, the most melancholy of men.

But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for
long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of
sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to the brightness of Spring.
When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss Bourhill, he
became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation was evidently
prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he was glib and
clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry her; and then,
oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his life! He would
then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now came over him.
His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to look with a new and
fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His mother noticed the
transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she said to her husband,
"Now that the boy was himself again, the farmyard and the fields seemed
brighter and pleasanter."

But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening towards
the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the county paper,
his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an electric shock.
He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be true after all;
but the details were given in such a circumstantial and confident
manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them. They were as
follows:--

"SAD DEATH OF A STUDENT.

 "On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker and
 Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the country. As they
 passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for refreshment at a small
 inn. After a time they seemed to have grown reckless, and to have
 set in for serious drinking; and in rapid succession they ordered
 tumbler after tumbler of whisky toddy; and when the landlord, becoming
 alarmed, refused to supply them with any more, they left and went
 to another public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy.
 When they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially
 Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the street,
 and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being drunk. Next
 morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the roadside near Denbrae,
 between Strathkinness and St Andrews; and when Harker, who had arrived
 at his lodgings late on the previous night, was asked what had become
 of his companion, he grew confused, and could only say that he could
 not get him to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On
 Monday, the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and, after
 due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence of expulsion.
 This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does his whole future
 career: but a still more terrible punishment must be the reflection,
 that he took a poor unsophisticated youth into a public-house,
 deliberately set to work to make him tipsy, and then in the end left
 him to perish by the wayside."

As Blair read this passage, he fell back again into the Slough of
Despond, and all the delight of life vanished once more. He knew that
the siren, whom he now loathed and had hoped to get rid of, would fall
back upon him and again cling to him; and, just as he had foreboded, in
a few days came the well-known hateful scrawl, appealing in a vulgar
manner to his affections. What, she went on to say, had come over him?
Had he fallen in love with some milkmaid and forgotten his poor little
Gracie. She had been breaking her heart, waiting for a letter from him;
and all the neighbours had been noticing that she had fallen away from
her clothes. Was not that a dreadful scrape Harker had got into? She
was not surprised at it, knowing what a bad character he was. Though
she had been obliged to be civil to him, she had always hated him.
Thank goodness she would now get rid of his attentions! With a whole
lot of kisses, and waiting for a letter from him, she was his own Grace.

After reading this, he gnashed his teeth with vexation and disgust,
tore the letter to pieces, and threw it in the fire. He did not answer
it; and he vowed that from that time he would treat her with the silent
contempt she deserved.

At the end of another year, Blair was licensed to preach, and became
what is called a _probationer_. He had looked forward to this as the
great epoch of his life, the turning-point of his career, when he
was to become the accredited legate of heaven, to bear the message
of salvation to his perishing fellow-creatures. Could anyone have a
nobler work? But, unfortunately, this sacred office was hampered by
preliminary conditions which he felt to be exceedingly humiliating.
He had first to get a church; and in order to get a church, he had
to please that very uncertain thing called the popular taste. In
this perplexing task, the great stores of learning which he had been
piling up for so many years gave him little or no assistance. He sat
down doggedly and constructed his sermon after the most approved
conventional method. By persistent reiteration he committed it to
memory, word for word. With fluttering heart and trembling knees he
went up to the pulpit on Sunday and began to give it off. During this
unwinding process, he did not see the congregation before him; but he
was looking at the image of his manuscript; and his mind's eye was
running over line after line and page after page. It was a recitation
exercise, and not a living speech coming warm from the heart of the
speaker and going direct to the heart of the hearers. And all the
while, he did not feel that he was pleading with his fellow-creatures
to accept the Word of God. He felt that he was really begging them to
notice how ably he was treating the subject, how effectively he was
delivering it, and what a promising young creature he was. He was, in
fact, a sort of itinerant theological hawker, hawking his spiritual
wares from town to town.

And as time went on, he found himself beaten in the bid for popularity
by fellow-students who were far inferior to him in ability and
scholarship. Sim, who could not for the life of him construe a Latin
sentence, and Macfarlane Macdonald, who was never known to have a
single idea in his head on any subject whatever, found no difficulty
in tickling the ear of the many-headed beast, and became ordained
ministers while he continued to wander about, an uncalled probationer.
It soon became evident that Malcolm Blair, the most distinguished
student of his time, was in danger of becoming "a stickit minister."

But this universe is constructed on the grand principle of
compensation. Providence seldom inflicts a wound without supplying a
soothing plaster. That want of success, which lands us in poverty and
hardship, scares away our false friends. Miss Grace Bourhill thought
herself too good to be a stickit minister's wife; and while Blair's
fate hung in the balance, ceased altogether to correspond with him; and
at length, to his infinite relief, he heard that she was married to a
cousin of her own, a prosperous brewer in St Andrews. Freedom at last!
and brought about in an unexpected way! He now gloried exceedingly
in his failure as a preacher. What was the want of manse and stipend
compared with the escape from that incubus which had pressed the very
spirit out of him! The world now lay bright before him, and he was
free to go his own way by himself. As the church did not want him, he
would adopt some other calling; and he was actually preparing himself
to undertake either literary or scholastic work, when he received an
invitation to engage in one of the most striking enterprises of the day.

Those that knew Fife more than fifty years ago must remember Miss
Singleton, who worked such wonders in the way of evangelising the
mining village of Coaltown. She belonged to that strongly-marked
and combative class of female social reformers; and certainly she
was one of the best specimens of the class. She was not, like some
of her sisterhood, conceited, arrogant, and masculine. Though she
was strong-minded, she was also strong-hearted. If she was bold and
aggressive, it was in urging the claims of the oppressed, and not in
exhibiting her own cleverness. Her plan for raising the sunken masses
was direct and drastic. "Get rid," she said to the missionary, "of all
that priestly parade and formality which have concealed so long the
true living face of religion. Return to Christ's sublimely simple plan,
which is founded on the two everlasting facts of the Fatherhood of God
and the Brotherhood of man. Imitate Him as far as the circumstances
of the time will allow. Go down among the lapsed masses, not with
man-millinery, patronising airs, and doles of blankets and soup, but
with wisdom in your head and real love in your heart. Live amongst
them, become one of themselves, and help them in their difficulties and
sorrows." Such was the method which Miss Singleton herself had carried
out; and the results were said to be marvellous.

This was the lady who now wrote to Malcolm Blair. "She had listened
to his preaching," she said, "and had heard of him from some other
friends, and she thought that he might be able to assist her in her
labours. She could not give him very much in the form of money, but he
might be able to find some of his reward in the work itself. Should he
think favourably of this proposal, would he kindly call upon her?"

After considering this matter long and carefully, Blair came to the
conclusion that he could not do better than wait upon Miss Singleton.
And when he had once seen her and talked with her, he could not refuse
her offer. Miss Singleton's whole personality was like a pleasing
revelation to him. Instead of the bold-featured, masculine-looking
woman that he expected to see, he beheld a gentle and beautiful young
lady, the secret of whose power lay in her feminine tact and sympathy.
And when he saw her moving about among the poor, she seemed to him
the very embodiment of the spirit of Christianity. Wherever there was
sickness or sorrow--that was her chosen abode. There was comfort in
the sound of her voice; there was healing in her very touch. Her smile
was the highest reward, and her look of painful disapproval was the
heaviest punishment. In her presence the coarsest miner felt ashamed
of his conduct, and silently vowed to give up swearing and drinking.

Like the rest of those who came under Miss Singleton's influence, Blair
soon caught her enthusiasm. He threw himself heart and soul into the
work of evangelising Coaltown, visiting the houses of the poor miners,
talking with them in a brotherly way, listening to their troubles
and ailments, and helping them to help themselves. There were many
experiences which filled his senses with disgust, and even sickened
his very soul. But there were also many surprising results which amply
atoned for all his pain. What sight could be more pleasing than to see
a ragged and red-faced drunkard gradually being transformed into a
well-clad and intelligent man; and what sound could be more delightful
than to hear the thanks of a wife and children for a husband and father
reclaimed, and a home made happy?

But the most gratifying circumstance was a change in his own nature,
which may seem almost miraculous, but which has happened to others,
and which can easily be explained. This new evangelising work actually
remedied the defects of his theological training; and "the Back
Raw" of Coaltown became a school of eloquence, and did for him what
the University and Divinity Hall had been unable to do. The intimate
knowledge which he there acquired of human nature filled his heart
with a fuller sympathy; and this fuller sympathy let loose his power
of utterance. Out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. He
was so eager to supply comfort and guidance that he gave no thought
to his language, and his language came readily of its own accord.
In preparing his Sunday discourses, there was no longer any need of
slavishly writing them down and committing every word. All he had to do
was to think out the subject, to arrange the details, and to trust to
the inspiration of the moment for the language. The consequence was,
that he drew large audiences, that his fame as a preacher soon spread
abroad, and that, when he least expected such a thing, he received a
call from a large dissenting congregation in the town of Easterton.

Though this call gratified him exceedingly for several reasons, and
chiefly because it vindicated his character as a preacher, and took him
out of the black list of stickit ministers, yet he hesitated before he
accepted it. He found himself bound to Coaltown by a feeling almost
stronger than life itself. In spite of its dismalness and poverty,
it had become to him an enchanted ground. There was a presence which
brightened the landscape; there was a voice which diffused a holy calm
through the air; and this presence and this voice belonged to Miss
Singleton. She was the daybreak that had arisen upon his night of
despondency, and had filled the world with light and melody; and to
part from her was to go back into darkness again. And when he spoke
about his dilemma to herself, he found that she was just as much
affected as he was. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she
would miss him very much.

However, just when he was on the point of asking why they should part,
and why they should not continue to work together as husband and
wife, she rallied both herself and him to a sense of duty. This call,
she said, had brought a great opportunity of applying the system to
the degraded classes of a large town, which might never occur again.
It was an epoch in his life: it might be an epoch in the history of
Christianity. He must, therefore, throw all other considerations aside,
and accept it. Meanwhile at least, they must deny themselves all other
pleasures. Self-denial was necessary to their spiritual life. It was
the manna which kept them alive in this wilderness of a world.

Malcolm Blair, accordingly, had no other alternative than to accept
the call; and at the end of a few weeks had to tear himself away from
Coaltown. His only consolation (and it was a great one, filling his
soul with the highest hopes) was that Miss Singleton had shown that she
was most tenderly attached to him.

The 27th of April was set apart for his ordination by the Presbytery in
the dissenting church of Easterton. It was a day that was doomed to be
memorable to him for ever. At the beginning of the ceremony he was in a
melancholy mood. He had been overworking himself, had fainted more than
once, and felt weak and nervous. As he sat under the pulpit, looking
out upon the crowded pews, he saw nothing in the faces of his new
congregation save staring curiosity; and away to the right was a dark
countenance full of settled hate. He knew who it was. It was the Rev.
Ewan Murdoch, who had been his fellow-student at St Andrews, and had
been known as "Dark Murdoch," and who had been one of the unsuccessful
candidates for the pulpit of the present congregation.

"If I have a mortal enemy," said the new minister to himself, "there
he sits, one of those wretched beings who look upon the success of a
fellow-creature as an unpardonable injury."

Towards the conclusion of the service, however, Malcolm passed into a
better mood. The preacher's sermon on the text, "Fellow-workers with
God," spoke words of encouragement that went to his heart. The first
line of the concluding psalm was, "Unto the upright light doth rise,"
and no sooner was it read than an outburst of sunshine flooded the
building. Then, when the congregation in a long line passed before him
to give him the right hand of fellowship, there was warmth in every
smile and in every grip. And amongst them, what should he see but the
face of Miss Singleton! He was so delighted that he compared her to an
angel bringing with her the atmosphere of heaven.

"Miss Smeaton and I," said she, "came this morning. We must make some
calls in the town, and then we shall drop in at the manse to have a cup
of tea and a long chat."

He left the church full of hope and happiness. As he walked up the
High Street, it was with a springy step, so that the gossips standing
on the stairheads remarked what a pleasant-looking, active man he was.
And when he entered the manse garden at Highfield, he thought that
he had never seen a more charming place. The house stood on a site
commanding an extensive view of the Firth of Forth, with the castle and
spires of Edinburgh distinct against the horizon; and the garden in
front, with its green gooseberry bushes and apple trees, sloped towards
the sunny south. There, too, in the doorway of his new abode, stood his
mother, now in widow's weeds, who had brought herself and her furniture
to make a home for him. Truly he thought, "the lines had fallen to him
in pleasant places." And after a comfortable lunch, they had a long
confidential talk, in which he told about Miss Singleton's intended
visit, and gave a glowing account of Miss Singleton herself, and hinted
that he intended to ask her to be his wife.

"Then, oh! happiness," he said, "for us three to live in this paradise
together! What a blessed helper she will be in my work, and what a kind
housekeeper and guardian you will make! It is a prospect almost too
good for this world."

They were still talking when the servant came in to say that two ladies
were in the drawing-room wishing to see the minister. Malcolm started
up, radiant with joy.

"Bring them in here," he cried. "Now, mother, you will see my dearest
friend, and, I hope, my future wife."

But, horror of horrors! who should be announced and ushered in but Mrs
and Miss Bourhill, the mother and daughter who had been such familiar
figures in his nightmare of the past. As the terrible significance
of this reappearance dawned upon him, it seemed to strike him to the
heart, and he fell back in a swoon.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself propped up in an
easy chair, and saw four women standing round him in a state of silent
excitement. Miss Singleton, pale and pensive, was gazing intently
at him; the two Bourhills were staring at Miss Singleton with an
expression of indignant surprise; and his mother, full of keenest
anxiety, divided her attention between him and the others.

Miss Singleton broke the silence by saying--"I must go. We strangers
had better leave the invalid to quiet and the care of his mother."

"Thank you, my dear lady," said his mother, "for that sensible remark."

"But," said Miss Bourhill, "that remark does not apply to me, his
betrothed."

"Nor to me," added Mrs Bourhill, "his mother-in-law to be."

"Dear me," said Mrs Blair to Miss Bourhill, "you are married, you know.
We saw it in the papers."

"A mistake," replied Miss Bourhill, "a cousin of the same name, not me."

"But," pleaded Mrs Blair, "the engagement fell to the ground. The
correspondence stopped years ago."

"Malcolm's fault," replied Miss Bourhill quietly. "I wrote last."

"A promise," added Mrs Bourhill, "can't be broken but by the consent of
both parties. A bargain's a bargain."

These replies, curt and remorseless, sounded in the young minister's
ears like his death-knell, and he lay back in his chair and closed his
eyes in mute agony.

But Malcolm Blair, enfeebled though he was, was too brave to be
crushed at once. In a few days his mind had regained its strength,
and was calmly looking the difficulty in the face. He had, he saw,
just two alternatives. One was to hold himself bound by his blindfold
engagement, to marry Miss Bourhill, and so to blight his whole future
career: the other was to break his promise and bravely take the
consequences--a law suit, a public exposure of all his private affairs,
the payment of heavy damages, and the resignation of the position to
which he had just been appointed. The latter course was the one which
he was inclined to take. But before definitely deciding, he wrote to
Miss Singleton stating his resolution, and giving his reasons for it.
The engagement between him and Miss Bourhill, he argued, was made in a
moment of excitement, and when they were both young and thoughtless.
Any affection they might have had for each other was a mere fancy, and
very soon vanished. By a tacit agreement they ceased to write to each
other, and for years there had been no correspondence between them.
To go through the solemn and binding rite of marriage under these
circumstances would be to lay the crime of perjury upon their souls.
This argument seemed to Malcolm to be so unanswerable, that he felt
sure of the approval of Miss Singleton.

Great, therefore, was his surprise when he received a letter from
her expressing her deep regret that she could not approve of his
resolution. The exchange of the heart's affection, she said, between
a man and a woman was a serious and solemn engagement. It was often a
matter of life and death. Not only the happiness of the individuals
themselves, but the welfare of society might depend upon it. It was
really as binding as the marriage vow itself. No cooling of affection,
no temporary estrangement, nothing but infidelity could be a reason
for setting it aside. And as for his future happiness, he should not
despair. By the use of tender and assiduous sympathy he had succeeded
in rekindling healthy affection in many a degraded soul. Why should the
influence which had been so effectual in the slums of Coaltown fail at
his own fireside. Let him keep his promise like an honourable man and a
Christian. Let him do the right, and trust in God for the result.

When Malcolm Blair was reading this letter, he felt like a criminal
receiving sentence of death. Had anyone else than Miss Singleton
offered this opinion, he would have spurned it. But she was his
guardian angel, one who, in his belief, had never erred, and could
never err. Besides, if he did what she considered a dishonourable
action, he would forfeit her approval; and that was all the world to
him. He therefore felt himself bound to follow her advice, although
he broke his heart in doing it. He even forced himself to take up her
sanguine view of the future, and hoped that by kind and sympathetic
treatment, he would succeed in making Grace Bourhill into a useful
minister's wife.

Four years have elapsed--four momentous years. Mr and Mrs Blair are
seated at breakfast. He is wan and wasted, and stoops over his cup and
plate as he drinks his weak tea and eats his thin toast. She is stout,
red, and restless-eyed. A pervading air of discomfort is given to the
room by the dirty discoloured tablecloth, the disarranged furniture,
and the careless dress of the two occupants. The following is the
conversation which passes between them.

"There!" says she, tossing to her husband a letter which she has just
opened and glanced over, "there's Goodsir's, the grocer's account."

"Good heavens!" replied he, staring at it and turning pale.

"Don't swear."

"Sixty-four pounds seventeen and eightpence! and of that, thirty pounds
odd for wine! We must really do with less wine."

"You say _we_, meaning that I have consumed most of it. You grudge me
the glass of port which the doctor ordered."

"My dear! have I not often pressed you to take it?"

"You forget the wine you give away to your paupers."

"I can't see my poor sick fellow-creatures perishing without sharing
with them the best that I have."

"You smuggled two bottles away last night in your greatcoat pocket."

"Yes, and if I can save poor widow Slight to her young family, and
Robbie Stark to his distracted parents, my reward will be great."

"You forget, too, the bottles which you sent to your mother. She is the
greatest pauper of them all. She wanted to live here to sorn upon us;
but I soon sent her to the right about."

"My dear, is it kind, is it Christian-like to use such language?"

"You never send any to _my_ mother."

"Your mother is strong. Besides, you forget the yearly allowance that I
pay to her."

"If I do forget it, it's not for want of it being cast up to me. Why
don't you ask for a rise of stipend?"

"My dear, I could not, through sheer shame, do such a thing. My poor
people are severely taxed already to make up my salary. There's Sandy
Slack, with ten shillings a week and six children, giving one shilling
a month toward my maintenance. Upon my word, I'm ashamed to look the
poor man in the face."

"Why don't you look out for a better situation?"

"No, no, no! I could not go about like a hireling, offering myself to
the highest bidder. I would forfeit my own self-respect as well as the
respect of every one in my congregation."

"Much respect they have for you when they insult your wife as they do."

"No, no, not insult."

"You know they do. I'm sure (_shedding tears_) when I came here I tried
to do my duty as a minister's wife. I went among the poor and gave them
the benefit of my advice. And what was my reward? That man, Kinnell,
because I found fault with him for giving his children tea instead of
porridge, turned me to the door, and I became the laughing-stock of the
whole congregation."

"Unfortunately, your zeal carried you away. In dealing with these
people we must come down to their level, and look at things from their
point of view."

"Come down to their level, indeed! I should be sorry to do so. And
then the big folk of your congregation! You can't say that I did not
come down to their level. And what did I bring upon myself? One day at
afternoon tea at Lady Brockie's, I heard her friends, Mrs Soutar and
Mrs Stables, call her Sarah, and I followed suit. You should have seen
her face. She was never the same afterwards; and now she never invites
me along with you. I'm not good enough for your grand friends."

"My dear, we all receive slights. You should be like those who have
given themselves up to mission work. They look upon such slights as
part of the cross they have to bear."

"I know what you mean. You were about to say I should be like your
precious Miss Singleton. You are constantly casting her up."

"My dear! I never mentioned her name."

"That makes it all the more suspicious. You are constantly thinking of
her. Don't deny it. I tell you I _know_ it; and I know your ongoings
with her at Coaltown. Mr Murdoch told me. And I know that on the day of
your ordination you were waiting for her, in the manse here, to propose
to her, when I dropped in, in time to spoil the sport. Ha! ha! you
wonder how I found that out. Your mother let the cat out of the bag.
And you got a letter from her this morning. I detected the handwriting.
If there's nothing wrong, why do you hide it?"

"I did not hide it. I was just going to show it to you. There it is.
Read it."

"What? coming here to-day at eleven (_starting to her feet_); she
sha'n't come here. Not so long as _I_'m here. I'll tell the servant not
to let her in."

"I will certainly countermand that order."

"Then I'll go to the door myself and slam it in her face."

"And I will certainly take means to prevent you. Listen to me. I'm
speaking quite calmly. That venomous man, Murdoch, who told you about
the ongoings of Miss Singleton and myself, is a slanderer. Our whole
souls were in our mission work. Every word exchanged between us was
about it, and might have been published to the world. She comes here
to-day as a servant of God, interested in God's work, and I would be
a heartless, graceless coward if I allowed my door to be shut in her
face. Now let that be understood. Let that be understood."

Mr Blair sits waiting for a reply. His wife, however, preserves an
unusual silence, and sits staring into vacancy with a fixed look. He
does not like this, as it is so uncommon with her, and he anticipates a
stormy scene. But to his infinite surprise, when the door bell sounds,
she does not get up; and when Miss Singleton is ushered in, she rises
and shakes hands with her, and goes out of the room saying that she
will bring her a cup of tea. And then comes a scene which can never
cease to haunt his memory! He feels himself to be in a sort of trance,
seeing horrible deeds swiftly done before him, desiring to prevent
them, but utterly unable to do so. He and his visitor have scarcely
exchanged the usual inquiries regarding health, before he sees his
wife enter with a cup. He sees her give it to Miss Singleton; he sees
Miss Singleton receive it with a smile; before he can cry out to her,
"Don't drink it," he sees her take several sips; he sees her fall back
lifeless; he sees his wife throw her arms into the air with a demoniac
gesture of delight; and he sees and hears no more.

When he comes to his senses, he is conscious of the presence of several
people, and hears Sir Benjamin Brockie's voice, very much broken down
and full of tears. This hard, unsympathetic man, generally so replete
with narrow opinions, and so stubborn in maintaining them, is, by some
strong influence, quite softened. The flinty rock has been touched as
if by the prophet's rod, and the pure waters of Christian charity flow
forth.

"This excellent woman," he is saying, "has died a martyr. She had heard
of Mr Blair's unhappy married life, and she came over expressly to try
and put things right. She called upon me to see how the land lay, and
she thought that we had been lacking in sympathy towards Mrs Blair. All
that we want, she said, to regenerate mankind is enough of sympathy.
Sympathy is the great sanitary agent in the moral world. If applied
in large enough measure, it will neutralise every evil, and sweeten
the social atmosphere. She had great hopes that she would make all
right; and I believe that she would have succeeded had she not been so
suddenly cut off by the unfortunate woman whom she was trying to save.
I don't know how it was, but her own example seemed to be a mirror in
which other people saw how defective they were. For my own part, I felt
to-day, after seeing her, that I and my family, and the rest of the
congregation, had been remiss in our duty towards Mr and Mrs Blair; and
I hurried over to lose no time in atoning for my mistake."

The sight of the best and purest being whom he had ever known, murdered
before his eyes by the woman who bore his name, was never to be
forgotten by Malcolm Blair. It haunted his soul like a spectre, would
give him no rest, and wasted his strength away. For many weeks he lay
prostrate, hovering between life and death; and during his hours of
delirium, when his judgment no longer kept the door of his heart, his
feelings wandered forth at will, and those waiting at his bedside heard
him express repugnance for his wife, and call in agonising tones for a
glimpse of Julia Singleton's face. He recovered enough of strength to
be able to rise from his bed, but it was only to find himself alone
and helpless. His wife was a hopeless lunatic in a private asylum; his
aged mother, crushed by the misfortunes of her dear son, was dead; and
he felt himself called upon to resign his pleasant manse, and to retire
to the solitary lodging at Sandyriggs in which I knew him.

At first, he felt that his Divine Master had no more work for him, and
that all that remained for him was to lie down and die. But by and by
Milton's noble lines occurred to him:

                               "Who best
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
 Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
 They also serve who only stand and wait."

And thus he waited patiently till Death, the remover of all burdens and
the solver of all difficulties, came to his release.

A ROMANCE OF THE HARVEST FIELD.

A large field of ripe wheat surrounded by a fringe of trees; a long
line of sun-brown reapers, of all ages and of both sexes, stretching
across the whole breadth of the field, and bending to their work; the
golden shocks falling before the gleaming sickles; and over all a warm
autumnal haze.

It is a great occasion, a sort of annual festival to which people have
flocked from every quarter of the country. There are solid-looking
Highlanders in garments rough-spun, and smelling of peat reek; canny
Aberdonians asking "far is't" and "far was't"; Edinburgh wives, with
tongues so slick and sharp that (to use a vulgar phrase) they could
almost "clip a clout"; well-favoured matrons and maidens from the
cottages round about; and chubby boys and girls who glean, or (as they
call it) "gather" among the stooks, making up their gatherings into
"singles." Even the infant is there, attended by his elder sister,
and kicking his heels as he lies on a couch of sheaves. There is a
feeling of hilarity in the air. The thought of the higher wages they
are earning, the prospect of scones and ale for lunch and dinner,
the sight of the abundant harvest they are reaping, the scent of the
aromatic herbs they are treading upon, and the glorious weather, all
combine to gladden their hearts and let loose their tongues. They talk,
they laugh, and they sing. And sometimes, in the superfluity of their
spirits and strength, they take to what is called "kemping," that is to
say, each _rig_ or company or division of shearers tries to get before
the others. In other words, there is a competition as to which band
will do the most work. Strange! will workers of the present day believe
this?

High above all the clamour is heard the voice of Peg Jackson, a
broad-beamed, brawny virago, who is known by the expressive name of
"The Bummer." She is one of that class who bring themselves into notice
by virtue of a loud and glib tongue, and a bold and brazen countenance.
In her remarks she is no respecter of persons. Her satire glances at
all sorts of game, from Dave, the herd boy, up to Mr Stocks, the
master. Many of her phrases also are very graphic; and, like burrs, are
prickly and apt to stick to the persons against whom they are cast.
This self-elected oracle is engaged in disposing of some local scandal
that has been brought up for her judgment, when she catches sight of
the farmer, along with a gentleman and several ladies, entering the
field.

"Oh," exclaims Peg, "there's Stocks himsel comin' to keep us at oor
wark; and he has brocht some friens wi' him to glower at us, jist as
if we were wild beasts in a show. My certie! a bonnie sicht we'll mak,
raxin' and sweatin' like pownies in a mill."

"But wha's thae wi' him," asked Kate Corby, a girl from the Nethergate
at Sandyriggs, who, after a few days' acquaintance, had become Peg's
admirer and toady.

"Tuts, lassie, whaur hae ye been cleckit that ye dinna ken that,"
replied Peg. "That thing in a white frock, and wi' a face made o'
skim-milk cheese, is Stocks's sister, Miss Tammy (Thomasina they ca'
her when they want to speak proper). And that lanky shaver, for a'
the warld like a pair o' tangs oot for a daunder, is her sweetheart,
young Tosh o' Lammert's Mill. That little black-e'ed cratur in a red
jacket is Miss Winnie Laverock, a veesitor from East the Coast. She's
as bonnie and lively as a robin, and is briskin' up, they say, to Mr
Stocks. But, my word, she'll no nab him withoot a warstle. Dae ye see
that cummer in black, for a' the warld like a howdie craw wi' a sair
gaby? That's Magdalen Jaap, the maister's cousin, but awfu' anxious to
be the maister's wife."

Miss Winnie Laverock, whose appearance and character have thus been
touched off by the irrepressible Peg, was the daughter of the minister
of Pitlochie. Her father was a man of great accomplishments and strong
character. Winnie was all that was left of his family; and it was his
ambition to teach her everything he knew. And most amply was he repaid
for his trouble. She had a merry heart, and a keen and active mind;
took an interest in everything; and mastered every subject. Ill-natured
people, it is true, sometimes said that "if she was quick to learn, she
was also quick to show off." But, as her father remarked, why should
her intelligence be kept to herself? If she was witty, how could she
help expressing her wit? She was a real gem, and it was her nature to
sparkle even amid the dullest surroundings. If there was a ray of light
to be got under the whole horizon, she was sure to catch it and reflect
it.

As they entered the harvest field, Winnie was in high spirits and
full talk. "How delightful this is," she said. "What a glow from the
hawthorn hedges and from the ripe grain! I actually feel myself getting
warmer and brighter every minute."

"Not brighter," said Mr Stocks, "that would not be possible."

"No irony, Mr Stocks!" she replied. "But here comes Collie to welcome
us and do the honours of the field."

"Collie," said Mr Stocks, "is an important personage here. He fancies
that he is superintending the shearers."

"Superintending the universe, I should say," replied Miss Laverock,
"judging from the way he looks above and around. Controlling the laws
of gravity! In fact, he is gravity itself. But, Mr Tosh! why does he
put out his tongue, as he stands staring at you?"

"Bad manners, I suppose," said Mr Tosh.

"No," replied Miss Laverock, "he takes you for the family doctor, and
wants you to prescribe."

"Then," said Mr Tosh, "I shall prescribe a little more _bark_."

"Oh, Mr Tosh!" said Miss Laverock. "But what a delightful scene this
is! The sight of the shearers with their bright faces and strong arms,
the clatter of their sickles, and the rustle of the falling corn, have
a strange effect upon me. I feel inclined to share their work. Such is
the influence of good example."

"It's like the measles, infectious," said Mr Stocks.

"Or like the moral leaven," replied Miss Laverock, "which leaveneth
the whole lump. But I am really ashamed to stand idle before all these
industrious people. They must have a low opinion of us. Look at the
glances which that stout woman in the striped shortgown is casting
at us! She evidently pities me as a poor feckless idler, and thanks
Providence that she has got a pair of strong arms and plenty of honest
work to do."

"That's Peg Jackson," said Mr Stocks, "the randy of the parish; and I
don't think that she is much given to thank Providence for anything."

"Oh," said Miss Laverock, "I don't know. I should say that she belongs
to the sect of the muscular Christians. And she really looks a good all
round woman."

"She goes by the nickname of The Bummer," explained Mr Stocks.

"That means the Queen Bee," said Miss Laverock; "and a very appropriate
name, for she has got a fine swarm of busy bees around her. But look
at that big black man in tattered attire! What an illustration of
Shakespeare's phrase, 'looped and windowed raggedness.'"

"Yes," remarked Mr Stocks. "In one way at least he attends to
ventilation."

"But," exclaimed Mr Tosh, "what a villainous look he has! That means
murder, robbery, and all the other seven deadly sins."

"Not at all," said Miss Laverock. "These black beetle brows were very
likely handed down to him from his grandmother, along with a stocking
full of her savings. The stocking he has squandered; but he couldn't
get rid of the beetle brows."

"Yes," remarked Mr Tosh, "he has squandered the stocking, if we may
judge from the bare toes peeping out from the ventilating holes in his
shoes."

"That little man beside him," said Mr Stocks, "is his inseparable
companion, although he looks a being of a different stamp. He has not
been used to this kind of labour. His features are refined, and his
hands are white and delicate."

"Oh!" said Mr Tosh, "he's the worst of the two. He reminds me of a
portrait I once saw of Jack Sheppard--keen, rat-like eyes, and fingers
like claws itching to clutch his prey. But, look! how he is darting
glances at Miss Laverock. By Jove, Miss Laverock, you have made a
conquest! I congratulate you."

But Miss Laverock did not reply. She was dumb with amazement and
horror. The sight of that face had recalled a painful episode in her
life; and, under the coarse guise of a reaper, she had recognised
one who had formerly been very dear to her. After a few moments she
recovered so far, and tried to resume the conversation; but her spirit
and elasticity were gone. All the members of her party noticed the
sudden collapse. Mr Tosh asked if she had been hurt by the rude staring
of that man, and offered to give the fellow a wigging on the spot. And
Mr Stocks, remarking that the heat was too much for her, drew her arm
into his, and suggested that they should all return to the house.

But there was one person who did not take such a lenient view of the
incident. This was Miss Jaap. She had already expressed to her chosen
confidante, the tablemaid, her opinion of Miss Laverock.

"People," she had said, "admire what they call her brightness.
Well, forwardness is often mistaken for cleverness. I might even
use a stronger word than forwardness. I might call it by the good
old-fashioned name of impudence. And the way she ogles men, and jokes
with them, and leads them on to make idiots of themselves--it's
disreputable. That's what it is."

And now, here was an incident which seemed to justify all Miss Jaap's
suspicions, and to give her an opportunity of supplanting her rival.
Her excitement was so great that she could scarcely walk home quietly
along with the others. And when she reached the farm-house, she rushed,
bursting with confidence, to the tablemaid.

"Oh, Kirsten!" she cried, "such a scandal to happen in any respectable
community! Ye may well cry, 'What is't?' Your precious Miss Laverock
exchanging glances with a common shearer on the harvest field, and
turning deadly pale. Yes! a common dirty shearer! Some poor unfortunate
wretch with whom she has had an intrigue! That woman would intrigue
with anything in the shape of a man. You must help me to find out more
about him. He is the companion of Black Morgan. I'll expose her; and
I'll see that your poor deluded master's eyes are opened."

Talk about vivisection! There are human beings who are vivisected by
their fellow-creatures, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously.
That day at dinner, Miss Winnie Laverock was one of these hapless
victims. The operators were Miss Thomasina Stocks and Mr Tosh; and Miss
Jaap, with her bold black eyes, was a keen and gratified spectator of
the operation.

First, Miss Stocks insisted upon leading back the conversation to
the incident in the harvest field, and again and again expressed her
astonishment at Winnie's sudden faintness. "What was it made you ill, I
wonder? Was it the heat, do you think? For, you know, you were so well
and bright a minute before."

Then Mr Tosh, in turn, after his headlong, haphazard manner, took up
the subject. He had, he said, been instituting inquiries about that
ruffian who insulted Miss Laverock and made her ill. The fellow, it
seemed, called himself Riley, for the nonce at least. Whether it was
his real name was very doubtful. Blackguards kept several names, just
as decent folks kept several changes of garments, and as soon as one
became too soiled, they put on another. Riley was the inseparable pal
of Black Morgan, who had the words "burglar" and "garrotter" written
on his countenance--yes, written in the Devil's own handwriting.
Altogether, this Riley was a bad lot; and those keen eyes and greedy
hands must have been inherited from a long line of thieves. He was
some desperate criminal in disguise. What if he should turn out to be
Crouch, the Glasgow murderer, that they were searching for everywhere?

Under this ruthless talk, poor Miss Laverock sat wincing and quivering
and answering at random. At length her host interfered for her relief;
and oh! how she thanked him inwardly from the bottom of her heart. Mr
Stocks was, what I may be allowed to call, a natural Christian--one who
had an instinctive sympathy and consideration for the sufferings of
his fellow-creatures. Without the slightest fuss he adroitly diverted
the conversation, by asking if they had heard of the last escapade of
Rory Brand, the converted shoemaker: and then he told a most ludicrous
incident,--how Rory had been at July Fair on an evangelising mission;
how, when he was returning in the gloaming, near Inverarden, he had met
a shabby old man, apparently a tramp; how he had addressed him at once
as a lost sheep, exhorting him to give up his wandering and lawless
life; how he had pressed upon him a tract entitled "Hoary Sinner,
Stop!" and how this hoary sinner had turned out to be the saintly
Dr Gowans, an ex-Moderator, and Convener of the Church's Missionary
Society. In this way the attention of the company was diverted from
Miss Laverock, and during the remainder of the dinner she was left in
comparative peace.

But after she had retired from the table to her own room, she could
not rest. She must see this infatuated young man, and ascertain the
reason of his extraordinary condition, and implore him to spare her.
The proceeding was dangerous, but at all hazards it must be done. So,
without more consideration, she put on her hat and went out.

When Miss Laverock passed through the farmyard, the shearers had
emptied their large basins of oatmeal porridge, and were lapped in that
most delicious of all luxuries--rest after a long day of hard labour.
On the heap of fragrant grass at the stable door reclined three or
four Highlanders, passing the snuff-mull, and exchanging their rather
stinted sentiments in their native Gaelic. On a seat improvised by the
laying of a plank on two upright stones, sat some pawky Aberdonians
enveloped in a small cloud of tobacco fumes. And outside on the road,
under a tree, was a group of women, mending their linen as they rested
their weary limbs on the cool green turf. On another occasion, Winnie's
quick sympathy would have enabled her to appreciate this picture of
honest well-earned content. But now, her eyes were searching right and
left for one figure; and there he was, seated on a stone opposite the
garden gate, and attended by his evil genius, Black Morgan. As she
passed him, she gave him a glance, which he understood, for he rose
and followed her; and when she had walked a short distance, she turned
round, and the two stood face to face, ready for an explanation.

But there seemed to be no chance of the poor girl escaping from her
perplexity. She had only time to ask--"Why do you come here, of all
places, to disgrace me?" and he had only time to answer--"Don't be
alarmed; I shall not disgrace you," when out from the farmyard appeared
Mr Stocks, talking with his grieve. Like one surprised in a criminal
act, Winnie turned aside abruptly into the garden gate. And there
inside the wall was Miss Jaap, who made no attempt to conceal the fact
that she had been eaves-dropping. With an air of the most righteous
indignation she said,--

"Really, Miss Laverock, for the sake of public decency, you should not
be seen talking to that man." And then she went out of the garden into
the road as if to get hold of Riley and question him.

"How dare you!" was all that poor Winnie could answer, and then escaped
hurriedly to her own room. There her vexation found vent in a tempest
of tears and bemoanings.

"Oh, why," she sobbed, "has this happened just when I was so happy,
and everything was going so well. And what will Mr Stocks think? I'm
anxious to stand well in his opinion. I have such a sincere admiration
for him. He is not a genius, but he is something far better--a
large-hearted, shrewd-minded man, who cannot fail in any of the duties
of life. And to-day, I have liked him more than ever, for the tender
and clever way he protected me from these babbling fools. And he is
really beginning to show that he likes me. Oh, it is provoking that
this hapless ne'er-do-well should turn up here of all places in the
world to spoil everything. What should I do? What should I do? Should
I run away home at once? No! that would draw more attention to the
unfortunate circumstance; and besides, the evil is already done. No!
there is another course, a very disagreeable one; but I will face
it. Why should I not? Why should I not confess the whole thing to Mr
Stocks? He will place himself in my position; and may not think a
bit the worse of me. My mind is now made up. In the morning, after
breakfast, I shall explain the whole matter to him."

In the morning, however, she did not see Mr Stocks. He had been
summoned away to meet the factor on important business, and would not
be home till the evening. Her heart sank within her; and she felt that
she would never get through the long weary hours. And her misery was
intensified by the contrast which she saw in everything around her.
There was merriment, as well as excitement, in every countenance.
It was to be the last day of harvest, and the great question was,
who was to get "the maiden," that is, the last handful of grain that
was reaped. To determine this, it is true, a well-known device was
generally practised. Some of the young men conspired, before the end
of the field was reached, to leave a shock of grain uncut and cover
it up with a stook. Then when the close came, and every ear of corn
apparently was reaped, the favoured lass was taken to the spot, the
stook was cleared away revealing the unreaped shock, she cut it and
thus secured "the maiden," and became "the Queen of the Harvest";
but this device required to be cleverly carried out in order to be
successful.

Meanwhile, Miss Laverock was passing the weary hours under a cloud of
apprehension. Some great calamity, she feared, awaited her. What shape
it was to take she could not divine, but it was in some way connected
with that unfortunate young man. And when, in the afternoon, she
walked out with Miss Stocks and Mr Tosh to see the end of the harvest,
she felt as if she were going to her doom. Accordingly, she was not
surprised, when, in approaching the Five Acre Park, they became aware
of a great hubbub. The end of the harvest had evidently been reached;
the reapers were clustering together in a noisy mob at the end of the
field; groans mingled with shouts arose in the air; and prominent in
the turmoil were seen the figures of Peg Jackson and Black Morgan.
"Now," thought Winnie, "it has come at last. My disgrace has been
discovered, and will now be held up before the world."

But on this occasion, at least, she was alarming herself needlessly.
The commotion was caused by no serious matter. Peg Jackson, it seems,
at the dinner hour had noticed three or four stalks of corn that had
been left uncut by the side of the field. She had squatted down upon
them, and had beaten them flat, and concealed them under her capacious
person; and as she was always the first to sit down and the last to
rise up, no one had seen them. She waited till the device for securing
"the maiden," which we have explained above, was carried out, and
Grace Fleming, the favoured damsel, was proclaimed "the Harvest Queen."

Then she came forward and protested that the last of the harvest was
not yet reaped; and in proof of the statement she went to the handful
of grain which she had concealed in such a grotesque way, cut it, and
held it up in triumph. Many loudly demurred; but others declared that
The Bummer was right, that she had got "the maiden," and a proposition
was made to carry her shoulder high. Peg, however, was not to be
trifled with; and when Black Morgan advanced to lay hold of her, she
gave him a cuff which sent him backwards into a stook.

This cloud of alarm melted away without doing any damage; but a more
ominous one was gathering on the horizon. That evening, the shearers
were to be entertained in the barn to a supper and a dance; and the
farmer and his friends were expected to be present at a part of the
entertainment. At eight o'clock, the ladies were in their rooms making
ready to go into the barn, when a cry arose, that Miss Stocks's
jewel-case was stolen. The last time it had been seen was at the dinner
hour of the previous day. Mr Stocks, who had just arrived from his
journey, summoned the whole household--guests, servants, and all--to
ascertain if any clue could be got to the mystery. No one could give
any definite information. Then Miss Jaap, who, it was evident to all,
was bursting with something, struck in:--

"It's that man Riley. He was hanging about the garden gate last night.
You saw him, Miss Laverock, and you were speaking to him; and, by the
by, you must have left the garden door of the house ajar, for it was
found open this morning, and that was the way by which the thief must
have got in. And what confirms his guilt is, that he has disappeared.
He wasn't at his work to-day. Do you know where he is, Miss Laverock?"

"Magdalen," said Mr Stocks sternly, "there must be no rash accusations.
What we have got to do is not to suspect, but to detect. I shall wait
till to-morrow morning, and if the matter is not cleared up by that
time, it must be put into the hands of the police. Meantime, Magdalen,
don't introduce Miss Laverock's name. She has got nothing to do with
it: depend upon that."

What Miss Laverock's feelings were during this ordeal may be imagined
but can't be described. When it was all over, the only remark that she
could make was, that she could not go to see the shearers. But Miss
Stocks, taking her aside, and kissing and coaxing her, said, "Don't
mind what that spiteful cat insinuates. It is all jealousy. Show your
contempt for her by appearing as usual, and going about as usual." And
Winnie set out with her friend to the barn.

When they reached the barn, the supper was over, and the tables and
forms were being cleared away to make room for the dance. Whether it
was owing to the solid nature of the viands, or to a scanty supply of
inspiriting beverage, I can't say, but the men and women were dull and
dumb, and the sight of their betters from the big house only tended
to make them look more sheepish and awkward. How they were to be
entertained seemed to be a great difficulty. But a remedy was at hand.

There was present an Orpheus who could animate the stocks and the
stones. This was the old, bandy-legged fiddler, Geordie Wilkie. On
ordinary occasions he was a simple clodhopper, trudging at the plough
tail, or sitting upon his muddy cart; but at a foy, a penny wedding,
or any other merrymaking, he was a potentate, a magician swaying the
crowds at will, as the moon sways the waters of the deep. On this
particular night, he was, as he himself expressed it, "in fine fettle."
No sooner did he, after a few preliminary tunings and squeakings,
strike up an old-fashioned reel, than the dead mass of humanity began
to move, and throb, and leap. The music, like electricity, had flashed
through their nerves and muscles and made them jump into life. In a
trice they had fallen into sets and were involved in the mazes of the
dance, thumping the floor with their hob-nailed shoes, cracking their
horny fingers, grinning and grimacing to their partners, "hooching,"
and wheeling nimbly about, shaking off their cares as a dog shakes off
the hail-drops, and looking as if there was to be no more worry or want
in this world, and all was to be peace and plenty for evermore.

On another occasion, Winnie, with her sunny sympathetic disposition,
would have entered thoroughly into this scene, and would have enjoyed
to the full all its escapades and humours. But now her heart was frozen
by despair, and could not feel anything like pleasure. Their bright
merriment by its contrast only made her despondency all the darker.
It seemed a mockery of her grief, and aggravated it intensely. She
looked on in agony, and was wondering where she should go and what she
should do, when she saw the unwonted sight of a policeman at the door
of the barn; and immediately afterwards a servant whispered in her ear,
"Please, Miss, you are wanted in the parlour." Then she knew that the
catastrophe was at hand, and went away to meet it.

But a strange change had come over her--a change which surprised
herself. Despair had become desperation, and she now felt herself
perfectly calm and collected. She was eager to make a full explanation
of the whole matter, and to abide the consequences. Therefore, when she
entered the parlour, and saw a policeman, with the official calmness
on his countenance, and Riley well dressed and bright, and Mr Stocks
anxious and perplexed, and Miss Jaap flushed and giving her evidence,
she was not surprised, but quietly took a seat and listened.

Miss Jaap in excited tones was telling her story--how she had seen
Riley last night about seven o'clock watching the garden gate, how
she had gone back half an hour afterwards and found him still lurking
there, and how she was sure it was he who took the jewels, and it could
be no one else. Then turning to Winnie, she said, "You know that this
is true, Miss Laverock, for you saw him and were talking to him on the
road, and came in through the garden and did not lock the door, and
that was the way he got into the house."

At this venomous speech the hearers were visibly fluttered. Mr
Stocks looked stern indignation; the policeman condescended to smile
contemptuously; and Riley, producing a box, asked Miss Jaap if that was
the stolen article.

"Ah, look there now!" cried Miss Jaap; "was I not right? He's obliged
to confess that he is the thief."

"No, Miss! there you are wrong. But," he added, after listening to
footsteps coming along the passage, "here, if I mistake not, comes the
thief."

And two policemen entered with Black Morgan in charge.

"So," growled out Morgan, regarding Riley with a murderous look, "you
hound, you split upon your pal after all your gammon! But look here,
policemen, this smaik is the real boss of the plant. He has got the
jewel-case on him."

"Right so far," replied Riley coolly; "but I took it from you in the
way of business. I am Macnab, the detective."

"The d---- you are," exclaimed Morgan.

"Whew ---- by ----, if I had known that, I would have spoilt your mug
for you. Mean! low! mean! d----d mean!"

"Come now, Morgan," said Riley, "don't be uncharitable. Every man to
his trade. Your trade is wholesale criminal. Mine is detective officer.
You prosecuted yours with unflagging enthusiasm. Allow me to do the
same. I was asked to look after you. From information received you were
thought to be the man wanted for a notorious crime. It was a difficult
job, for you were up to no end of dodges. Now, I had always been fond
of play-acting. In fact, I was once upon the boards. So I resolved
to dress up as a brother pal, and I stuck to you like a brother and
followed you here. And you must confess that I made up and performed
the part to perfection. And what's more, I have got the evidence that I
wanted. You are not Will Morgan. You know you are not. You are James
Crouch, that has been wanted so long for the Trongate murder."

This intelligence startled the little company like the shock of an
earthquake. The thought that they were in the presence of that ruthless
cut-throat, Crouch, who for so many weeks had been advertised for
and sought for all over the country, and also in the presence of
Macnab, the famous Glasgow detective, produced what journalists call
"a sensation." For several minutes they could do nothing but devour
with their eyes the criminal, who returned their stare with a scowl of
defiance. But their amazement was interrupted by the detective and the
policemen rising and preparing to leave with their charge. While doing
so, the detective glanced at Miss Laverock, and said, "I'll call here
and see you to-morrow morning."

The company in the parlour sat for some time expressing their
astonishment at this wonderful denouement. Then Winnie, noticing that
Miss Jaap still regarded her with suspicion, fairly turned on her.

"You are wondering, Miss Jaap, what connection this detective has with
me. Well! I shall tell you. This man is _not_ my husband. He is not
even my discarded lover, a statement which you were overheard making
to Kirsten the tablemaid. He is only my brother, nothing more. He was
an only son, and my father devoted his whole time to his education,
and resolved to make him a scholar. But when Eric (that's my brother's
name, and his middle name is Macnab) was ready for the University, he
refused to go. He said that he had no taste for learning, and that his
whole heart was for acting, and that he would go upon the stage. Now,
my father is passionate, imperious, and accustomed to get his own way.
Besides, if there is one calling that he considers disreputable it is
_play-acting_, as he styles it. He therefore solemnly declared that
if Eric went upon the stage, he would from that moment disinherit and
disown him. But Eric, who had inherited his father's hot and wilful
temper, declared that he would not be forced into a profession which he
hated, that he himself was the best judge of what he was best fitted
for, and that if his own father chose to throw him off, he would fend
for himself. So he went away and disappeared; and for years, up till
yesterday in fact, we have seen and heard nothing of him. Now, Miss
Jaap, was it not natural that I should be disturbed when I came
unexpectedly on my long-lost brother in the harvest field? Was it not
natural that I should blush for him, when I saw him in the garments of
a hireling reaper? And was it not natural that I should try to have
a talk with him? And was it not very cruel, Miss Jaap, when you had
only these grounds to go upon, to jump to the conclusion that I was an
abandoned girl, and actually to accuse me of aiding and abetting in
this robbery of the jewel-case? I ask you, Miss Jaap, has your conduct
not been very, very cruel?"

Miss Jaap sat silent, and only replied by a look of inveterate hatred.

But Mr Stocks, in the most earnest manner said, "If nobody else will
reply, I will, Miss Laverock. You have been used most cruelly. You
were invited to the house as a guest, and you have been treated like
a criminal. As the master of the house I humbly apologise; and as for
Miss Jaap, she ought to go down on her knees and ask your pardon for
her vile suspicions and accusations."

But this only brought Miss Jaap's hate to a climax, for she rose up in
stern silence and went out of the room.

"That woman's unamiability," said Mr Stocks, "is a most pitiable
spectacle. She was always irritable; but latterly her bad temper has
become chronic. It is a madness, a monomania, which she takes a morbid
pleasure in nursing. Almost every person is looked upon as an enemy,
and almost every act as an insult. I myself am afraid to move or to
speak lest I offend her. But I will stand it no longer. She shall go at
once. I have done with her."

"Don't, Mr Stocks, I entreat you, cast her off," said Miss Laverock.
"You are her only friend, I understand. The poor thing is more to be
pitied than blamed. Her infirmity is more physical than moral. It is
the result of biliousness, and can only be cured by medical treatment.
But I believe that I am partly to blame. My presence and my incessant
chatter have aggravated her. I know that I talk too much. Ever since I
was a child, my father has made me his companion, and has encouraged me
to give my opinion on every subject; and when in company, I am apt to
forget that other people are not so partial as he is, and I allow my
tongue to go like a bell. And poor Miss Jaap, along with others, has
suffered. My everlasting gabble must be a great nuisance."

"Well!" replied Mr Stocks, "if that's gabble, then all I have to say is
that I don't wish to hear anything better than gabble during the rest
of my life."

"There's no accounting for taste," said Winnie laughing. "But, Mr
Stocks, to speak seriously, you'll not cast that poor thing off?
Remember that you are her best friend. If you do, I shall be very
miserable, for I shall feel that I have been the cause of it. You'll
not do it, will you?"

"Well, Miss Laverock, if it's to give you pain, I will not do it."

"Now! that's like you. And you'll find that everything will now go
right. I'm going home to-morrow, and Miss Jaap will then become quiet.
This (_pointing to her jacket_) is the red rag that has made the
cow mad. When this is removed the cow will settle down to chew the
cud--yes, the cud of sweet and bitter memories."

Mr Stocks was now aghast. "Miss Laverock," he stammered, "you can't
mean it. No, no--it will never do--why, you have only been here
two days, and you came to stay a month at least. I was looking
forward--that is, _we_ were all looking forward--to a happy time, and
now"--and here the good man's feelings overpowered him, and fairly
carried him away. What he said he never could exactly remember; but
he gave her to understand that he could not do without her, and that,
deprived of her presence, life would not be worth living.

Then she, blushing very much, yet unable to repress a merry twinkle in
her eye, said that this was dreadful. It was just another proof that
she had been too long there. She was the wicked fairy that, without
meaning it, had introduced confusion into the family. She must,
however, persist in going home to-morrow. She wished to be present at
the meeting between her father and brother, and to try to reconcile
them. But (_and here she looked down and faltered in her speech_)
if her father approved, and she had no doubt he would, she would
come back; and after all the proper forms had been gone through she
would stay. She could not bear the idea of having his death upon her
conscience, or even his unhappiness--all the more so as she had always
admired and liked him, especially during her late trouble, when he had
shown her so much sympathy and good feeling. Would he agree to this
arrangement?

Of course, he was only too delighted to agree; and he was anxious
that there should be witnesses to the agreement. So he led her into
the drawing-room, where Miss Stocks and Miss Jaap were sitting, and
introduced her as his affianced bride. Miss Stocks rushed to her, and
took her in her arms; Miss Jaap bounced out of the room.

"What wonderful chemical properties I must have," said Winnie. "I
possess the power both of attraction and repulsion."

"No wonder," said Mr Stocks, "that she is ashamed to look you in the
face, after accusing you of theft."

"But," said Winnie, "I was really guilty of theft. I stole your heart;
but you punished me, for you stole mine."

THE BOY HERETIC.

The parish of Sandyriggs had been, time out of mind, noted for its
orthodoxy. In the days of the Covenant its inhabitants had suffered for
the good cause; and at the Battle of Tippermuir its most prominent men
had sealed their testimony with their blood. It had also been blessed
with a long succession of faithful ministers, both Established and
Seceding, men who had not only held the form of sound doctrine, but
also of sound words. The minister of the parish, at this time, was the
Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog, a preacher famous all over the land for his
persistent and deadly attacks upon organs, images, printed prayers,
human hymns, private interpretations of Scripture, intemperance, and
all the other backslidings of the day. The result was, that while
heresy was breaking out in various parts of the country, it never was
known in Sandyriggs. The theological atmosphere was evidently too keen
and bracing for such a hothouse plant.

Imagine, then, the sensation when it was reported that, at last, heresy
had appeared among the rising generation. The inhabitants were struck
dumb at first; but gradually recovering themselves, they began to talk
about it. It was discussed by the men at the church door on Sunday, and
by the women over their _four hours_ tea. What could be the cause of
it, was a question frequently asked? One suggested bad education; while
another asserted that it was too much education, and boldly wished for
the return of the good old time when the young bolted their knowledge
as they bolted their monthly dose of castor oil, and never thought of
complaining that it disagreed with them.

The _fama clamosa_ became so great that it could no longer be ignored
in his pulpit messages by that faithful minister, the Rev. Mr
MacGuffog. With bated breath he told his hearers that this was only one
instance among many of the fact that the spirit of evil had rallied
his powers and was making a desperate attempt to ruin mankind. "Yet,"
he added, "this incident which has taken place in our midst is also
fraught with comfort; because it is the fulfilment of the prophecy
that children will rise up against their parents; and, taken with the
wars and rumours of wars that prevail in the world at present, it is a
sign that the glorious time is at hand when Satan shall be bound for a
thousand years."

Who was this arch heretic, this chosen emissary of Satan, at whom the
parish turned pale? Little Willie Torrance, aged seven, the son of
George Torrance, a small farmer. What were the influences under which
this heresy was developed, it is now our task to describe.

Willie was what his mother called "a fell laddie," and his father "a
fair heartbreak." Do what they liked, they could never make him behave
like other boys. His dull red hair was always in disorder; his face
seemed a favourite resting-place for dust and smut; his hands were
soiled with the stroking of rabbits and pigeons; and his corduroys were
torn and worn with the climbing of trees. A book was a thing which he
never of his own accord touched. When he should have been learning his
lessons, he was outside watching the ducklings and the chicks; and on
Sabbath evenings, when all the members of the family were questioned
on the Shorter Catechism, he mixed up the answers in the most profane
and ludicrous manner. Every effort was tried to reclaim him. His
brother and sister, who were much older than he, were most faithful
in holding up before him all his sins against cleanliness and order;
his father at intervals conscientiously applied Solomon's educative
instrument, the rod; and his mother, though longing to be kind and
sympathetic, frowned upon many of his ways. But all these measures
seemed to produce no effect. He, indeed, endured all their treatment
without a murmur or protest, and really felt at times that he was a bad
lot and would come to a bad end; but his patience was unhesitatingly
pronounced to be "dourness," and was added on to his list of crimes.

But in spite of all this, he could not have been a bad boy, for he
had some devoted friends. The moment he appeared in the farmyard, his
presence was hailed by both "the fowl and the brute." In the sound of
his voice and the touch of his hand there was that miraculous power,
sympathy, which at once won their hearts. He understood them and they
understood him. Sweep, the cat, rubbed and purred against his leg;
Rover, the dog, jumped up to kiss his face; Blaze, the bob-tailed
horse, turned round its head in its stall to neigh to him; the brown
calf put its nose over the fence to be scratched; and the pigeons
settled on him like a small cloud to eat the corn from his hand.

But Willie's greatest blessing was his staunch bosom friend, Bob
Fortune. A friend is dear at any time, but he is especially dear in our
childhood, when the heart is fresh, the conscience clean, and the world
full of untasted pleasures. Not only is he another self, doubling our
delights and lessening our troubles, but he is what Shakespeare calls
"an earth-treading star," shedding a new light on everything. Answering
exactly to this description was Bob Fortune, nine years of age, and a
neighbour farmer's son, who called in, every morning, for Willie and
accompanied him to school. He was a healthy, hearty, intelligent boy.
It seemed as if his soul were made of sunlight, which warmed every limb
and shone through every feature. He had a smile and a soft word for
every living creature; and it was only when he witnessed cruelty that
he was ever out of temper. Overflowing, too, with animal spirits and
all kinds of boyish accomplishments, he was ever ready to run, leap,
sing, whistle, and imitate all sorts of sounds. He was also clever with
his hands and with his tongue, and, therefore, well fitted to be not
only a friend but a protector to Willie.

Your ordinary boy is apt to be cruel. He is as Dickens remarks, "an
enemy to all creation." He stones cats, beats the dumb driven cattle,
robs birds' nests, and in general gets "his sport," as he calls it, at
the expense of the lower animals. Like his full-grown fellow-sportsmen,
when he wants to be happy, he says, "Let us go and kill something."
This habit is not the result, as some suppose, of the cruelty inherent
in human nature, but rather arises from sheer thoughtlessness. It never
occurs to him that the lower animals feel the same pain as we do; and,
strange as it may seem, in this age of education, sympathy towards our
fellow-creatures is not taught at school.

From this savage habit our two lads had been saved by a painful
accident. One day a pretty, bright, playful young spaniel, named
Spring, which they had just been fondling, darted before a carriage,
and was run over and killed. Willie, especially, was dreadfully
shocked, and could not get rid of the sight of the poor animal
writhing in the death throes on the hard road, looking up pitifully
into his face as if struggling to tell what it was suffering, and
venting all its agony in one long, pitiful whine. Next day he stated
to Bob that it was wrong to torment animals, "for," he said, "they
suffer jist like hiz." They both resolved that they would not be cruel
to any creature, and that they would no longer rob nests. They might
take one egg, but that would not matter, as the bird could not count
and would never miss it. Then they wondered where Spring was now; and
Bob, whose imagination was always active, declared that he was sure to
be in heaven. Good dogs, he said, must go to heaven; for their masters,
when they went there, could not be happy without them. To Willie this
reasoning was conclusive, for he could not fancy any perfect state of
happiness where there were no four-footed favourites.

Our story begins on a bright summer morning, when the two boys set
out together for school. Delightful as their walks always were,
this particular walk was to be more delightful than usual. They had
scarcely left the farm buildings and were passing a whinny knowe,
when out there came running in a great state of flutter and anger,
as if to attack them, a hen partridge. Knowing by this that her brood
was near, they searched among the furze, and found instead of young
partridges, five barn-door chickens. There they were--yellow, black,
and white--staggering on their wire-like legs, and wondering very
much at this strange world into which they had evidently just newly
come. On searching still further, they came upon a nest with the
empty shells. It was evident that the pair of partridges, having been
robbed of their own eggs, had come upon this neglected nest, had taken
possession of it, had hatched the brood and were now trying, like good
foster-parents, to bring up their adopted family.

The next object before which the boys stood was a well-grown larch at
the foot of the avenue. On it was their favourite nest, a chaffinch's,
a perfect specimen of bird-craft. They had been able to examine and
admire it by climbing a neighbouring tree and looking into it. It was
snugly and securely placed in a fork of the larch, was cosy inside with
hair, wool, and feathers, and outside was covered skilfully all over
with lichen so as to look like a bit of the tree. They had also taken
an interest in the two birds, and by feeding them every day with seed
had made them quite tame. On this morning, the boys saw that something
unusual had happened; for the hen-bird was flitting excitedly between
the ground and the nest, and the cock was singing his favourite song
with more than his usual briskness; and on climbing the neighbouring
tree, they saw that the nest was full of gaping little bills. No wonder
that the mother was busy and the father proud!

But the most exciting event was seen when they were passing along the
pathway that skirts the back of the Gibbet Wood. Out in the air above
the field, a beak-and-claw fight was going on between two birds that
were discovered to be a wood-pigeon and a sparrow-hawk. The pigeon was
having the worst of it, and its feathers were falling fast, when some
crows, happening to pass, darted upon the common foe, the hawk, and
forced it to let go its hold. The pigeon alighted on a wall to recover
itself and then disappeared, and the hawk retreated, pursued and
harassed by its black enemies.

Then without further adventures they sauntered along by the loch side
under the blue unclouded weather. Bright and sympathetic, they formed
a part of the general joy that was abroad on the earth. They carolled
with the lark, whistled with the blackbird, and sported with the
butterfly among the flowers. And in the intervals Bob, full of bright
fancies, told what he was to do when he was a man: how he was going to
be a farmer, and have a garden full of the bonniest flowers, and keep
all kinds of horses, dogs, rabbits, and birds.

But when the boys reached the village and looked down the Overgate
where the school was situated, a sudden change came over their mood.
There was a dreadful silence which struck terror into them. The school
"was in" and they would be punished for being late. With fluttering
hearts they mounted the outside stair, went through the "pend" that led
to the school building, opened the door, stood before the indignant
teacher and the expectant and by no means sympathetic scholars, took
their punishment bravely, and sat down with smarting hands to their
work.

This humble institution was about the last specimen of its class.
It was an instance of the comparative ease with which, not so long
ago, schools could be set up, and schoolmasters could be made. The
schoolmaster, Mr Sloan, had been a house-carpenter. When old age
began to steal upon him, and he found manual labour too much for his
strength, he was advised by his fellow-elders in the small sect to
which he belonged to start a school. "You've a gude haund o' write,"
they said, "and ye're no a bad coonter; and the members o' oor body
will send their bairns to ye." He took their advice, and carried it
out with the greatest ease. First of all, there was no difficulty
about getting a schoolroom. Choosing his own workshop, he cleared out
the benches and the shavings, scrubbed the earthen floor, swept down
the bare walls, put in a few plain desks and forms which he had made
with his own hand; and the thing was done. According to his idea, no
more furnishings, such as maps, globes, or pictures, were required.
Then there was just as little difficulty in converting himself into a
schoolmaster. He laid aside his working-man's clothes, wore his Sunday
best every day, bought a bit of old leather and fashioned it into
_tawse_; and lo! the transformation was complete. The house-carpenter
in one day had been changed into a teacher of youth.

Equally simple and easy was his method of education. All he required
his pupils to do, besides their writing and arithmetic, was to commit
to memory the Shorter Catechism, Proofs, and Psalms; and he rested
satisfied that these good words, when swallowed, like a blessed
medicine would purify the heart, and enlighten the head. And all that
he, the teacher, needed to do was to direct and stimulate them by means
of the tawse; for did not the wise man say that the scourge was the
great instrument to be used in the education of the young! "He that
spareth the rod hateth the child." His scholars were placed on the
plain, beaten highway, and his whole duty was to drive them forward. He
was an educational _drover_. He was never known to have given a single
explanation of any kind on any subject whatever.

On this particular day, it chanced that the work of the school bore
very hard on poor Willie Torrance. The first lesson he was called upon
to say was a question in the Shorter Catechism. "Wherein," asked the
teacher, in slow and solemn tones, "consists the sinfulness of that
estate whereinto man fell?" "The sinfulness," answered Willie, in a
lugubrious, singsong voice, "of that estate whereinto man fell"--and
then he came to a dead stop. "Go on, sir!" said the teacher, sternly.
Willie could only run over again, "The sinfulness," etc., in the
desperate hope that he would thus gain an impetus which would carry him
through the remainder of the answer; but it was all in vain. Leather
was applied smartly to the palm of his hand; but this, while it gave
a keener realisation of the _feeling_ of the sinfulness, did not
contribute at all to its _theological conception_. He was sent to his
seat in disgrace, and sentenced to be kept in during the dinner-hour to
learn his neglected task.

The reading lesson came next, and every boy and girl was called
upon in turn to read a verse. The chapter was in the Old Testament,
and consisted chiefly of a long list of jaw-twisting Hebrew names.
Easy-going teachers used to skip such a chapter,--one of them, an
irreverent Gallio, alleging as a reason, that it was "a mere hatteril
o' nick-names." But Mr Sloan, a strictly orthodox man, held that every
word and letter, nay, every jot and tittle, were "profitable for
instruction in righteousness," and would not tolerate this playing
fast and loose with the inspired record. As it was, these Jewish names
stuck in Willie's throat. In the supple jaws of old Orientals, without
doubt, they were as a sweet morsel to be rolled under the tongue; but,
in the narrow and stiff jaws of a Scotch boy, they were hard nuts which
could neither be cracked nor swallowed. A smart box on the ear was
suddenly administered, but it did not contribute to the clearing of the
head, or the loosening of the vocal organs. There was no help for the
lad. He was left in the midst of the verse, like a lamb entangled in a
thicket of brambles, and the class proceeded with the remainder of the
task.

The writing lesson followed. Willie, grasping the pen tightly between
the forefinger and thumb, dipped it in the ink; but alas! the ink
bottle was too full, and, on bringing out the pen, he let a big blot
fall upon the paper. He licked the ink up with his tongue; but a very
ugly mark was left upon the copy. And when he tried to make a stroke
he only made another blot. The master gave him a smart rap on the
knuckles with the ruler; but this only shook his hand, and flustered
him. He could not keep his fingers free from the black liquid; and, in
his desperation, he wiped them sometimes on his corduroys, sometimes on
his hair, and sometimes on his face, until he looked as if he had been
exposed to a shower of ink.

The dinner-hour now intervened, and he was locked up in the schoolroom
all alone to get up the Catechism lesson which he had been unable to
repeat. By dint of sheer hammering, he managed to fix the words, not
the meaning, in his memory. Yet all the while he was looking out on a
green hill opposite, where a boy of his acquaintance was herding a cow.
Oh! how he envied that boy! How delightful it would be if he could get
free for ever from school, and pass the long summer day in the open
air, rolling on the grass among his favourite animals!

After the dinner-hour came the most difficult task of all. A column of
figures on the slate was put before him, and he was told to add them
up. He did not know how to add; he did not know even the meaning of
the word, and no explanation was vouchsafed to him. He sat wondering
how it should be done, and feeling that his brain was becoming a mass
of confusion. Casting a stealthy glance upon his neighbour's slate, he
found that his neighbour was putting down quite easily under the column
a row of figures. He concluded that the whole thing was a puzzle, and
was only to be found out by experiment. Accordingly, he tried first one
set of figures and then another, but every time he was wrong. At last
the master, losing patience, was driven to the use of sarcasm. Seizing
the boy's ear, twisting him round, and pointing to a stucco bust which
was over the door, and which, indeed, was the sole ornament in the
school, he said, in withering tones, "There's your brother." Then,
tapping the little confused skull, he added, "You've a head, and so
has a pin." The whole school laughed at these sarcasms. They were well
known. They were the master's only jokes, and, therefore, did duty very
often.

Willie had now run the gantlet of all the lessons and all the
punishment. The road to knowledge had not been to him a green and
flowery lane, along which he was led with ease and delight. It had
rather been a thorny brake, through which he had been dragged by main
force, and from which he issued hot, dishevelled, and bleeding. It
never occurred to him to ask, "What is the use of all this?" He had a
vague impression that this education, like measles and whooping cough,
was one of those serious dispensations of Providence which all must go
through, and which must be borne with patience.

But now came a relief. Mr Sloan, soothed by the good dinner which he
had just eaten, sank into his usual afternoon nap; and the scholars
immediately turned from their books and slates to subdued fun and
talking. Willie, greatly relieved, stood up and began to tell his
neighbour, Button Bowie, as they called him, all the strange sights
which he and Bob Fortune had seen that morning: the partridge with the
brood of chickens, the chaffinch's nest, and the fight between the
wood-pigeon and the sparrow-hawk.

But this interval of relief was not to last long. In every school,
just as in every company of human beings, there is always to be found
a bully; and this bully requires two persons near him,--a victim to be
tormented by him, and a toady to laugh at his cleverness. Christopher
Bain, nine years of age, was the bully; poor, harmless Willie was the
victim; and Button Bowie, whose father was foreman to Bain's father,
was the toady. Bain founded his superiority on the fact that his father
was the largest farmer in the neighbourhood, and kept a gig. He was
conceited, brazen-faced, and loud. Coming forward, he cried, "Weel,
what's that little numskull, that dunce o' the hale schule, been sayin'
noo? He's gettin' stupider than ever."

Button, eager to curry favour with the son of his father's employer,
told him.

"Ye lee'in beggar," said Bain to Willie, as if in righteous
indignation, "hoo daur ye tell sic stories? Why, ye're sae stupid that
ye wadna ken a pigeon frae a hawk. Ye wadna ken a B from a bull's
fit;" and, so saying, he gave the little fellow a push which sent him
sprawling on the floor.

While some of the girls cried out "Shame," and Button Bowie sniggered,
Bob Fortune exclaimed, "Stop that, ye big coward. Strike ane o' yer ain
size. I tell the same story that Willie telt aboot what he saw this
mornin'. Ca' me a leer! Try't!"

"Ay, I'll try't," retorted Bain in a blustering voice.

"Just try't," repeated Bob.

"Ay, I'll try't, and dae't tae."

But now an explosive snore proclaimed that the master was waking, and
in an instant the scholars were intent on their slates and books, just
as if they had never stopped their studies; and the teacher himself
tried to look as if he had never been asleep, but had only shut his
eyes to think out some deep problem. A fine bit of acting on both sides!

After the scholars were dismissed, Bob and Willie went to do some
errands at the village shops, and then they took their way homewards.
When they came to the foot of the avenue, whom should they see but Bain
and Bowie looking up at the chaffinch's nest? "Oh, ho!" cried Bain,
"so, this is yer precious nest;" and before they had any idea of what
was going to happen, the wretch had shot a stone with unerring aim, and
the ruins of the nest and the young birds, gasping out their little
lives, were lying on the hard ground. Willie burst into tears; but
Bob, rushing at the heartless rascal, thrashed him soundly, and ended
by throwing him down in a bed of nettles. Bain, starting up, ran to a
distance, and then threw a big stone which, had not Bob smartly ducked,
might have done serious damage. Bob, crying out, "Twa can play at that
game," sent after him a missile which hit him on the small of the back,
and he went howling round the corner, followed by his sympathising
spaniel, Button Bowie. Bob and Willie sorrowfully gathered up the
murdered birds, and buried them in a tuft of moss, while the parents,
fluttering round, filled the air with their distressful notes.

The next day, Thursday, was the annual fast, which, in this primitive
village of Sandyriggs, was most rigidly observed. As the preparation
for the solemn rites of the communion, it was considered even more
sacred than the Sabbath itself. Any secular work or any amusement on
such a day was considered to be an act of desecration. There is a story
still handed down, that a stranger, who was passing through the village
on a Fast Day, and who chanced to whistle, was stoned by the natives,
and obliged to run for his life. I myself distinctly remember my horror
when I saw two boys on such an occasion playing at marbles. I trembled
lest lightning should fall from heaven, and strike them dead. But of
late, there were some bold spirits who regarded this day as a mere
human institution, and, therefore, not binding upon them. Bob Fortune's
father was one of these. On principle, neither he nor his children went
to church on a Fast Day. And thus it happened that Bob had told Willie
that he was going on the morrow to see his big brother fish in the
loch.

On the forenoon of the Fast Day, George Torrance, silent and serious,
like a man bent on living up to a high ideal, set out with all his
family to church. It was a brilliant summer day, and as they went along
Willie could not help occasionally giving vent to his delight, when a
golden butterfly wavered across his path, or a lark sprang up singing
from a neighbouring grass field. But his unseasonable joy was frowned
down by his father; and his mother said, "For ony sake, laddie, mind
whatna day it is." When they came to the loch, there was Bob Fortune
in the distance. He had taken off his shoes, and was lying on his back
on the grass, and luxuriating in the sunshine. On seeing them, he rose
up and waved to them. Willie had soon good reason for remembering that
action. For the rest of his life, the image of the bright boy waving
his hand never left his memory.

The services that day in the church, in which George Torrance was
an elder, were solemn and long. First of all, the minister of the
congregation, Mr. Peden, went up into the pulpit, gave out a psalm
to be sung, and offered up a long prayer. Then, while a second psalm
was being sung, he gave place to a reverend brother, Mr. Herd, of
the Byres, who, not satisfied with the prayer already given, thought
it necessary to engage in another of equal length. The sermon came
next, severely doctrinal, many-headed, long-tailed; and then a short
prayer and a psalm concluded the forenoon service. Mr. Torrance, in
the interval, led his family to a room in a private house, where
they silently lunched on _baps_ and ale. The afternoon service was a
repetition of that of the forenoon, with one of the long prayers left
out.

Some people of the present day may be inclined to sneer at this service
as "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." But to the intelligent
and pious rustics who had few books, it was an intellectual and a
spiritual treat, which edified and refreshed them. Their most heartfelt
associations clustered round the church and its worship, and they could
sing with genuine feelings the lines of the psalm:

 "Blessed are they in Thy courts that dwell,
       They ever give Thee praise."

A great mistake, however, was made in subjecting mere children to these
ordinances. It was thought, indeed, that the preaching of the Word,
though not understood, was bound to touch them and foster within them
a love of religion. The very reverse, however, was often the result.
Their bodies were wearied out, their minds were stupefied, and they
formed disagreeable associations with the church, which were sometimes
never dispelled.

Willie Torrance, in the afternoon especially, passed through a very
disagreeable ordeal. He sat on a high, hard seat with his feet dangling
in the air. Under the influence of the heat of the crowded church,
and the monotonous tones of the minister, he fell fast asleep. Then
he was roughly awakened by a nudge from his father, and a kick from
his brother; and his mother whispered to him, "Sit up, and listen to
the minister." The poor lad, rubbing his eyes, tried to obey her,
but he could not understand a single scrap of the sermon. It was as
meaningless and depressing to him as the moaning of the east wind at
the kitchen window on a wild winter night. What could he do, therefore,
but sit wearily, and allow his thoughts to stray to all sorts of
things, and, above all, wonder what Bob was doing at the loch side,
until the word "Amen" told him that the sermon was at last done, and
the end of his imprisonment near. What a welcome sound had that word
always been! It was the only part of a discourse that ever stirred
him; and even in a dead sleep he could hear it, and waken up with the
feeling that a wearisome ordeal was passed. Yet on that particular day
when he came out into the sunshine, he did not experience his usual
joy. A strange depression lay upon his spirits. He could not help
feeling that God was angry with him for not listening to the sermon,
and for not liking the church. He had also the apprehension that a
punishment was hanging over him, and on this occasion that apprehension
was fated to be realised.

On their way home, when they came near the loch, he saw that something
unusual had happened. A group of people were standing on the bank,
and talking excitedly; and two men, hurrying towards the village,
whispered something to his father, who was in front. He heard the name,
"Fortune," and in another minute he became conscious that a terrible
calamity had befallen him. His boy friend and protector was drowned.

Two young men, in the course of the day, had come to the loch, and had
got hold of a boat to have a row, and had invited Bob to go along with
them. When they were at some distance from the land, the two young men
fell into a dispute, and after the foolish manner of gawks, stood up
in the boat and had some horse-play. In an instant the boat was upset,
and the three occupants were in the water struggling for life. The
young men managed, with difficulty, to reach the shore; but the boy,
who was not a swimmer, could only cling to the bottom of the boat. For
some time he struggled to get out of the water on to the keel, crying
desperately all the while for help. But his brother could not swim,
and the two young men were either too tired or too timid to venture to
rescue him; and while they were standing wondering what they should
do, the poor lad, worn out with his ineffectual struggles, sank out of
sight. A minute afterwards, men from the neighbouring farm arrived in
another boat, but it was too late. All they could do now was to recover
the body. After an hour's dragging, it was found, placed on a barn
door, and covered with a cloak to be carried home. The Torrances, on
arriving at the loch side, saw the melancholy procession proceeding up
the road by the Mill Farm.

This terrible disaster fell upon Willie like a blow, and stunned him.
His powers were paralysed, and he could neither speak nor weep. He
saw the loch, the excited groups on the shore, and the muffled figure,
lying on the barn door, disappearing in the distance; but the whole
scene appeared to be a terrible nightmare. This stupor continued as he
walked home, and sat silent by the fire. But after he had gone to bed,
his mother heard him sobbing, and, in a voice half-choked with tears,
praying that God would restore to life his lost friend. And in the
morning he was really hopeful that his prayer would be answered. God
had raised the dead in past times, and why should He not do the same
now? And he actually waited for his daily companion, looking up the
pathway in the Back Planting, and expecting to see him, as formerly,
coming bounding down like a deer. But he waited and looked in vain, and
was obliged to set out for school alone.

As he went along the familiar road, his grief broke out afresh. Almost
every object reminded him of his best friend, who was gone, and would
never, never come again. He lingered awhile with a strange, melancholy
feeling over the ruins of the chaffinch's nest that still lay on the
road. There was one object, however, that he could not face, and that
was the cruel loch which had drowned his friend; and to escape it he
went round by the Myre Farm, and down the links. Then as he came near
the village, the thought suddenly flashed across his brain: What if Bob
should be there, if he should have recovered, and, for some reason,
gone to school by another way, and should be sitting waiting for him?
But alas! no such joyful experience awaited him, but another of a very
different kind.

There is a set of well-meaning but narrow-minded Christians, who take
a very paltry view of God's government of this vast and complicated
universe. They imagine that every calamity is a judgment, that it
is the punishment of some particular sin, and that this sin can be
identified. They are also convinced that it is their duty to call
attention to this calamity, and hold it up as a warning to their
fellow-men. And this they call "sanctifying the dispensation of
Providence." Mr Sloan was one of these; and when Willie entered, he
was beginning to read to his awestruck scholars a speech which his
minister, the Rev. Mr Moodie, of the Original Protesting Church, had
prepared for him:

"They were met," he said, "under the gloom of a sad calamity. One of
their number, while playing by the loch side on the Fast Day, had been
drowned. His heart bled for the poor boy cut off in the springtime of
his days. But while he owed a duty to the dead, he also owed a duty
to the living. He had now to tell them that God was reading to them a
terrible warning. Had this unfortunate boy been attending to his duty,
had he been at church, had he been observing the day set apart by God's
own people, he would still have been in the land of the living and the
place of hope. As it was, the punishment fell upon him in the midst of
his sin, and without any time for repentance he was sent before the
Great Judge. It was an awful thought, but if they believed the Bible it
was a thought that they could not help having, that their unfortunate
schoolmate was now bitterly repenting his neglect of ordinances in the
place of woe."

At the sound of these last three words, horror fell upon the young
listeners, and a childish voice was heard calling out, "It's a lee."

"Who said that?" cried the master, white with rage.

"William Torrance," cried the officious Christopher Bain, in a tone
of exultation; and, seizing the culprit by the collar, he dragged him
forward.

The master took the child by the throat, and shook him. "Now, sir! do
you know what you are saying? you are calling, not only my word, by the
Word of God a lie. Do you still say that what I said was a lie?"

"It's no true," said Willie, with flashing eyes, and a look of
determination on his childish features.

"Then," said the master, taking off his coat and pulling out the
_tawse_, "I must punish you, first for the offence, and then I must
flog you till you express your regret for what you have said."

Then was witnessed a spectacle which was not uncommon in that class of
schools--a man trying to beat what he called "human depravity" out of a
child, just as a housemaid beats the dust out of a dirty carpet. But,
in this case, the man failed in his task. The boy frequently writhed
as the cutting stripes fell upon him; but he shed not a single tear,
and kept his teeth resolutely clenched; and at every interval when he
was asked if he was not sorry, he kept repeating the phrase, "it's
no true." At last the master, puffing and perspiring, was obliged to
give in and sit down; and the small culprit stood before him, red and
dishevelled, but unsubdued.

"Go out of this school," panted forth, at last, the defeated pedagogue;
and the little lad, with a dignity beyond his years, took up his cap
and books, walked to the door, and deliberately shut it behind him. He
took the same way by which he had come in the early morning; and he
carried out his determination not to cry, till at the turning of the
road, he unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the loch. Then, before he was
aware, an uncontrollable paroxysm of grief came on, and when he arrived
at home he was sobbing hysterically. At first, he could not tell his
mother what was wrong; and it was only by persistent questioning
that she extracted from him all the details of the disaster. She was
struck dumb with consternation, and she could only wash his face,
brush his hair, and lay him down to rest on her own bed. But when
the family assembled at dinner, the horror which his crime excited
found expression. "It was an awfu' like thing," said the mother, "to
contradick the maister."

"Contradickin' the maister," said the father, "that was the least o't;
it was contradickin' the Word o' God."

"I wonder what the neibours will say," skirled the sister, "and Sawbath
the Sacrament. I'll never be able to gang forrit."

"It should be threshed oot o' him," growled the brother.

"And that's exactly what I'll dae," said the father; "bring the strap."

The mother, however, was instantly up in arms. She was in general an
obedient wife; but here her obedience found its limit. "'Tweel," she
cried, "ye'll dae naething o' the kind. The bairn's been hashed enough
already. The bluid's barkened on his skin, and his serk's stickin' to