Front matter (continued 3)

"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 his back;" and she took him in her arms as if to protect him.

Next morning his father told him that he must go back to the school and apologise to the master; but that look of determination came again into his youthful face, and he said, "No, I'll no gang." The father got hold of the strap, seized him by the collar, and was about to flog him; but stopped when he said, "Ye may kill me, but I'll no gang." The father was startled and half afraid at this unprecedented rebellion. It was something eerie and uncanny. He did not know what it might lead to. He therefore desisted, and throwing the boy aside, said—

"Weel, I'm through wi' ye. I've dune a' that I can for ye; and if ye gang to the bad, it's yer ain faut. But ye'll no eat the bread o' idleness here. If ye wunna learn ye maun work. Ye maun gang and herd the sheep in the Back Park."

And now was this little fellow made to suffer for his sin. His life must have been very like that of an excommunicated one in the Catholic times. His own father would not speak to him, and would not permit him either to attend church or family worship. The neighbours stared and shook their heads when he passed. His former school-fellows must have been told to avoid him, for they never came near him. The only sympathy he got, if it could be called sympathy, was from "auld Wull Crabbie," the stone-breaker, who plied his hammer near the entrance to the village. This wayside philosopher, shaggy-browed keen-eyed, hook-nosed, perched upon a seat made of an upright stone with a bunch of straw on the top of it, knapped away at the "bing" before him; and in the intervals of labour watched all that was going on. From every stranger that passed he levied some bit of information, and to every acquaintance that came near he imparted some sarcastic comment. In fact, he was a cynic, a true follower of Diogenes, scorning the luxuries which never came to him, and finding his true luxury in criticising severely the failings of his fellow-creatures.

One morning when Willie was passing, Wull, fixing his ferret-like eyes upon him, said, "And sae, laddie, ye were bold enough to ca' auld Sloan a leer. Ye stupid shaver, dae ye no ken that dominies and ministers never tell lees. They're perfeck. Did ye ever hear them confess that they were ever wrang? Na! Dod I come to think that they must have been present at the creation, and that they brocht awa wi' them the Mawker's plans, and hae packed them a' into the twa buirds o' the Confession o' Faith. But, toots, what am I sayin'? I'm jist haverin'. Wha am I, to sit in judgment upon men o' that kind? It's aye best to be ceevil, as the auld wife said when she bobbit to the deevil;" and with that he made a fierce blow at a stone and said no more.

For several months Willie continued to be a herd-boy. It was thought a degradation by his father; but he himself felt it to be the reverse. After the bondage and oppression of Sloan's school, what an unspeakable relief it was! He had now the freedom—a freedom which should be the birthright of every young creature—to wander about over the green earth and under the blue sky, to drink in the fresh air and sunshine, to notice all the beauties of beast, and bird, and flower, and to share in the general banquet of joy provided by nature. And another pleasure altogether unexpected awaited him.

One Sunday morning, as he was setting out for the Back Park, his mother said to him that, as it was the Sabbath day, he should take his Bible with him and read it as he herded the sheep. To please her, although the method of his education had given him unpleasant associations connected with the Book, he put it in his pocket; and in the afternoon, as he lay on the grass in a listless mood, he took it out and opened it. Now, it chanced that the passage which caught his eye was the history of Abraham, and before he was almost aware, he was reading it attentively. He could not master some of the hard names and allusions; but he knew enough to understand and appreciate the narrative. Here was a discovery: The Bible, after all, was not a collection of hard names and difficult passages fitted only to puzzle and torment school children. It was a delightful story-book. So he continued to read it day after day. Surrounded as he was with pastoral associations, he dwelt with especial delight on the pastoral scenes in Genesis. In fact, he was never tired of reading them. What a wonderful magic lies in a book which enabled this Scottish shepherd lad in the nineteenth century to enter into the lives and feelings of those primitive shepherd kings of the East! In his own little way he fancied he saw them and heard them speak. He often found himself placing the scenes of the principal events in the pastures that lay before him. For instance, a large beech standing by itself was the tree under which Abraham pitched his tent; a pleasant meadow in the distance was the field where Isaac was meditating at the eventide, when "he lifted up his eyes and saw, and behold, the camels were coming;" and the watering-place at the foot of the Back Park was the well where "Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept." This was literally bringing ancient history home to him.

When the winter was coming on, Willie's mother saw that something must be done for his education. Now, there was in Sandyriggs another school of much higher standing than Sloan's, and the master of it, Mr Fairful, was college-bred, and had the very highest character for intelligence and Christian philanthropy. She, therefore, resolved to apply to him. He was very likely, she thought, to refuse to take her scapegrace, through fear of his contaminating the other children; but at any rate she must do something for the boy. So, one morning, with Willie in her hand, she knocked at the door of the school and asked to see the master. When he came out, he looked so frank, genial, and kind, that she had no hesitation in telling him all about her child.

"I know all about the case," he said. "No doubt the lad was wrong; but those that provoked him were still more to blame. There are certain religious questions so mysterious that they should never be handled, especially before the young. What we have got to do, is to set people on the right road in this world: we should never attempt to fix their everlasting destiny in the next." Then, taking Willie by the hand, and looking at him kindly, he added: "I'll be happy to receive him, and do what I can for him." Mrs Torrance thanked him warmly, and went away very much relieved.

As time passed on, Mrs Torrance fancied that she saw a change for the better in Willie. He became tidier, and was more particular in washing his face and hands and brushing his hair; and on Sabbath evenings he was often seen reading the Bible. But, on the other hand, very little time seemed to be devoted by him to the preparation of his lessons. On the long winter nights he was usually engrossed with a book, entitled "Natural History of Beasts, Birds, and Fishes," poring over its pages, and copying on paper its pictures of animals; and when the lightsome evenings of spring came, he was almost always out of doors, playing with the tenants of the farmyard, or roving through the woods in search of nests. His big brother, in that masterful tone generally assumed by big brothers, often asked him, "Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule?" But the invariable answer was "fine." "What dae ye mean by fine?" the brother demanded. "Ou, jist fine," was all the reply.

At length came the time when the school year was to be closed with the public examination. It was a great event; for not only were the pupils to be examined in presence of the public, but the prizes were to be decided on the spot by the voices of the scholars themselves. This method, though common enough in those days, seems to us rough and ready, and apt to lead to favouritism. Yet it seldom failed to arrive at the right decision. The fact was, that the best pupils generally stood out unmistakably; and when there was any doubtful case, the teacher had ways and means of turning opinion in the right direction.

The parents were respectfully invited to be present at this ceremony. Mrs Torrance resolved to go; but it was with fear and trembling. She was afraid that Willie would fail in his examination, and bring disgrace upon her before the public. He was such a queer laddie, and had never brought them anything like credit. And when she went into the schoolroom, and saw the company assembled, her feeling rose to alarm. There were the laird's wife, Mrs Campion, and the parish minister's sister, Miss MacGuffog, and the wife of the principal grocer and of the principal baker, Mrs Figgins and Mrs Cook, and many others. There were several ministers, black-coated, white-necktied, solemn-faced. Above all there was the Rev. Mr MacGuffog, who had denounced Willie from the pulpit. Oh, what a countenance he had, self-denying and holy without doubt, but oh, so hard and so devoid of ordinary sympathy! There was no saying what this fanatical man might think it his duty to do. He might seize this opportunity of catechising her son and exposing his deficiencies before the assembled company.

The examination, however, went on quietly; and when Willie's class came forward a pleasant surprise awaited her. There was her boy at the top, happy and intelligent, catching encouragement from the teacher's eye, and answering every question. She could not believe that it was the same lad who was so silent, and often so stupid-looking, at home. With flushed cheeks and bright eyes he actually appeared good-looking. His very hair seemed no longer red, but auburn. And when the time came for his class-fellows to award the prizes, there was just one name on their lips, and that was "William Torrance"; and the three rewards, for English, Bible Knowledge, and Arithmetic respectively, all went to him. And how shall I describe her emotions when the exhibition was over, and all the principal people—Mrs Campion, Mrs Figgins, Mrs Cook, the ministers, and among them Mr MacGuffog himself—came up to congratulate her! The tears were in her eyes, her heart was in her mouth, and she could scarcely frame words wherewith to thank them.

Then the teacher, Mr Fairful, came up, and shaking her hand, told her how gratified he was by Willie's success. "The poor boy," he said, "had been very much misunderstood. He had within him a keen desire to know all about the natural objects around him—human beings, beasts, and birds. Instead of gratifying this desire, those who should have known better tried to cram him with tasks that had no interest for him. The consequence was that he became disgusted, and wore what was considered a sullen and stupid look. But when he came to us, we gave him lessons that were not only interesting, but referred to the familiar scenes around him. Therefore, he devoured them eagerly, and became a most diligent scholar. And then it was that the information about country sights and sounds, which of his own accord he had collected, became of use to him and gave him an advantage over his fellows. A young human soul, in fact, is a rosebud full of delightful possibilities. Keep it in a chilly atmosphere, and it will never develop itself properly, and will very likely become a canker. Surround it with bright and genial influences, and it will gradually open wide its petals, and delight the world with its grace, fragrance, and splendour."