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SHEILA

,*? ■ \

ANNIE S. SWAN

(Miis. liruNKTT Smith)

AVTBOR OF 'gates OK F.UEN,' ' BKIAR AND PALM
'ST. VEDA 'a/ BIC.

■£,V>:h.

TORONTO, CANADA

WILLIAM BRIGGS

EDINBURGH and LONDON
OLIPHANT» ANDERSON & FBRRIBR

1889

C^^5ine.

OoO

n^ I

ih f) r

I0(o

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Brioos,
Book Steward of ihe Methodist Booli and Publishing House,
Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture.

■1

HER GRACE
/: DUCHESS-DOWAGER OE AT HOI!

-iJ-4>9.

LlD)\ J /ay tlu',c /,

V'AVf nt thy fe,t

It liL (fs f/!on /(■

{•Noh'it anicif- /,'i,

'//, /

■/ /'

V/V,.t.

/>'\' t/w s-.vijtjl.wui- St,

rant, iv/iusc mu

Hears in its tone t/i.

niinn ■/■

>' ninsic of t/it pa.st.

in,/ if t/ie record of t/u

\'t un: /;

I he fer/tifj^r^' ,,f

■c r fs ///(■

A'j'. t/ie ercss (>f p,

U7,n.

u' /,

/<■// < n earth it is nuu/i

(■ inert fur JJcav

■ '^*"''^'''^ '^' ffdne a tender mem rv

Of otiier days, whien t/iat />n^/it radian' /i:ht,

t'he love whih i\- /if ... ■■,

a //A// n /,j , uo7i'n, i.lujinned thine.

It is enough : J /ay it at t/iy feet.

As. Ml'. S. Swan.

r»

NOTE.

T::r.t tnle has aln-ady nj^peared in s( ii;;l foi m iiinlcr tlu> title of
'<''\i :• till' Hills aii'l J'ar Away. Tin- c!:.ni.:«' las Ia-cu icuiU'red
in'i' sr.'U'y 1-y tlio fact that tho fornuT title has b''.":i cojyi'JL'litcil by
aii(;lliur author.

Anmk S. Swan.

CHA
I.

II.

HI.

IV,

■ ^ '•

■V II

VIII.

IX.

t X.

XI.

„ X I ; 1 .
I >:iv. :
X v .
X' I. :
xv:i. ,

* X \ I ; 1

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. THE laird's WOOIN'O, .

II. IJllOTHKU AND SIMKK, .

III. LAUV AII.SAS (/I'lNloN, .

IV. WKLCOMK 1H»M|;,

V. TIIK K'I1:K of AMCMIKK,
\ I. T!l •. MTIIKK M]LLsT<jXK,

A II i;\i;:x dans,
VI 11. A^;(.^•() tiik tai-M) folic,

IX. Tin; SI'AMV,' UF DKA'III,

X. i:s'::i wcii),

X!. A U:i,Y TLOTTKi:,

XII. r\' ;ui: and laihd,

XI ii. r .,;; .slIADdWlNtJ.s,
>;!V. M.MAOI.M, . ,

aV. rN( [,K (iU.MIAM,
X> I. MiiTiiKii AND SOS, ,

x\:i. ciiiMs,

iX\ III ID Mr: AGAIN,

FAQB

103

113

122

130

139

148

167

166

viii CONTENTS,

CHAr

XIX. THE LAST MFF.TINa, .

XX. AN INWKLCtJMK IN IMUDKIl,

XXI. 'KARKWKLL To LoCIIAIlKU,*

XXII. SHKILA's INIIEIUTANCE,

XX I II. I'LANS,

XXIV. tiif: awakening,

XXV. II MR,

XXVI. IIKII OWN FOLK,

XXVIL IIEU UESOLVE,

XX ^ III. COUSINS,

XXIX. SCIIKMINO STILL,

XXX. love's youNo dream,

XXXI. IN BITTI IINKSS OF SOUL,
XXXH. AIAsTAIR's WOCINO, .
XXXI IL THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR,
XXX I v. NEW year's MORN, .
XXXV. SIGNS OF EVIL,
XXXV I MY WIFE,
XXXVII. A DARK NIGIIT, .

XXXVIII. PEACE,

XXXIX. MACDONALD's LAST WILL,

XL. *THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN'.
XLI. A maiden's HEART, .
XLii. 'a JUDRKCIOUS FRICUT,'
XLXII. love's CROWN,

p.\or.

ir.
1

5.1

'li\

Sil)

2".-}

£;:.

27;

2ril

2!)0

L'!):)

307

315

^^^V

323

331

338

ik^

345

admin

353

boiste

361 '
871

close
wiTe
iiiingi
under
face 1
lier }•(

years.

bro>vr]
so lik«

line?

PAor

E^^aS^JF

2il

£';.■)

27;

281

2i);)

307
315
323
331

3r>8

345
353
SGI
371

SHEILA.

CHAPTER I.

THE laird's WOOINO.

•Might we but share one wihl caress,
Ere lilu's autumnal blossouis fall 1 '

0. "W. HOLMM.

IlEILA, are you ever a moment still ? You'll have
every spring in ninmma's poor old couch brokeii.'

The reproof was very genily uttered, in a sweei,
caressing voice, but the child to wiiom it was
administered felt it to be a reproof, and, desisting from her
boisterous gambolling with Tory, her little fox territr, cnme
close to her mother's side and looked up into her fuce. They
were mother and child, though one woidd scaicely have
imagined it. The mother's goldt n brown hair was confimd
under a close widow's cap, but the sweet, somewhat careworn
face under it seemed only a girl's. Edith Murray had k« pt
her youth well, though she had been a widow for nearly five
y<*ars. Her white hand rested lovingly on the child's tumbled
bro>vn curls, and she smiled into the large, soft, hazel eyes,
so likp her own, which were uplifted to her face.
'Well, Sheihs what now?'

* Cun Anne take me, mamma, away up the river, Tory and
me ? I m so tired staying in the house.'

SHEILA,

'Not to-day, darling. Mamma will need you by and by.
But you and Tory may go out to the garden for a frolic, ocly
don't let him chew Anne's linen bleaching on the grass.'

* Very well, mamma, thank you. Come, Tory, Tory ; oh,
you dear, funny little dog I '

She went through the wide open window on to the little
lawn like an arrow, Tory tumbling and rolling on the top of
her, chewing her sash ribbons and snapping at her toes. They
were both babies, and the one enjoyed the fun as much as the
other. Sheila Murray, the widow's one child, and therefore
boundlessly precious, seemed to bear a charmed life. She
was filled with frolic and fun, and was never a moment still
from the time the big hazel eyes opened in the morning till
the sleepy lids drooped over them at night. But though she
had been in perils oft, and had been nearly drowned in the
swift Tay more than once, her escapes neither sobered nor
frightened her. She did not even know the meaning of fear.

It was not often Edith Murray sat with idle hands, but after
child and dog had disappeared through the high privet hedge
into the back garden, she sat quite still, looking in the direction
they had taken, but her thoughts had not followed them.
'It is for the child's sake,' she whispered to herself after a
while. * And what have I to do with the world, or the world
with me? '

It was as if she had been balanced between two opinions,
hesitating between two diverging paths, and had suddenly
found strength of mind to decide. Her face cleared of its
anxious expression, and a kind of sunny brightness seemed
to pervade her whole being. But she was feeling nervous,
for, in spite of her outward self-control, her hands trembled
when he took up the little frock she had been embroidering
for her child.

Though still young in years, Edith Murray was old in the
experience of life. She was English by birth, and connected
with a very old Lincolnshire Aimily. But the branch to which
she belonged had been very poor, and when she found herself
early orphaned, she had to face the world in her search for
dully bread. She had rich a,nd titled relations, but they knew

THE LAIRD'S WOOING,

>y and by.
frolic, ocly
ss.'
Tory ; oh,

> the little

the top of
568. They
luch as the
1 therefore

life. She
ament still
orning till
hough she
led in the
bered nor

of fear.
I, but after
ivet hedge
B direction
ved them.
If after a

the world

opinions,

suddenly

ed of its

s seemed

nervous,

trembled

►roidering

d in the
onnecred
to which
^ herself
;arch for
ley knew

not the poor, obscure girl who made an appeal for their aid.
They advised her to try the usual medium throuj;h which
teacJiing appointments are to be got, and washed tlieir hands
of her. That bitter sting remained long in Edith Chesney's
{▼entie heart; but she was fortunate beyond others of her class in
finding a home and friends among strangers. She left England
to become governess in the family of a Scotch baronet, whose
residence was in Perthshire, five miles from the ancient and
picturesque town of Dunkeld. Sir Douglas Murray himself
was a stiff, proud, unyielding man, whom not m.iny loved;
but his wife, Lady A.ilsa, was one of the sweetest and best of
women. Although an earl's daughter herself, she made the
friendless orphan feel truly at home in Murrayshaugh, and
among her four boy pupils Edith Chesney was very happy.
She liad not been long an inmate of the house, however, when
Alastair Murray, Sir Douglas's brother, a lieutenant in the
93rd Highlanders, fell in love with the sweet, gentle, gracious
girl who taught his brother's boys. Of course there was the
usual opposition from the bridegroom's family. Not only did
they object to the marriage from motives of pride, but also of
prudence, for Alastair had not a farthing in the world but his
1 eutenant's pay. But when did young love over count pounds,
shillings, and pence? They were married, and though barrack
life had its drawbacks, and it was no easy task to lay out their
meagre income judiciously, they were ridiculous enough to
be perfectly happy and contented for a few brief months in
Edinburgh Castle, unfil the gallant 93rd was ordered to the
Crimea. Then husband and wife parted, not knowing they
should meet no more on earth.

When Edith was ill at Murrayshaugh, and a week-old baby
in the cot, the news came home that Lieutenant Alastair
Murray had fallen in the trenches before Sebastopol. The
poor young widow and her baby-daughter were thus left
entirely dependent on the Murray s. Sir Douglas did his
duty, as he saw it, but it was done in a spirit which could
not fail to wound a sensitive soul.

He gave her one of his own cottages in Birnam, paid her
servant's wages, and gave her fifty pounds a year. This, Lady

I'.i

SHEILA.

Aiisa, out of the loving-kindness of her heart, and unknown
indeed to her husband, supplemented with many a kind and
handsome gift. Sir Douglas regarded his sister-in-law as a
burden upon him, and one which ought never to have been
laid upon him. But though he gave her of his substance
grudgingly, he frowned her down when she had meekly
suggested trying to earn her own living, as she had done
previous to her marriage.

' Remember, Mrs. Alastair, you are one of " us " now,' he
had said, with his haughty head high in the air, and the most
unbending severity of look and tone. So poor Mrs. Ahistair
could only eat meekly of the bread of charity, and how bitter
slie found it to the taste no one but herself knew. But for
her child's love, and the precious kindness of Lady Ailsa, she
would have given way to despair. There were times, however,
wheiA looking forward she did despair. Year by year, as Sheila
grew older, expenses w^ere increasing. More cloth was required
for the little frocks, and a few shillings more for boots and
slippers — and what was to become of the child's future?
Mrs. Alastair was a great deal alone, and she brooded over
these things perhaps more than she ought. An occasional
dinner at Murrayshaugh was her only experience of social
life, and though she never failed to impress Lady Ailsa's
guests with her sweetness and grace, the idea that any one
could be specially interested in her never presented itself to
her mind. She believed that she had lived her life, but she
had that day received a great surprise — the greatest, ind'!>ed,
which had ever ruffled the quiet curre-^t of her days. She
took the letter from her pocke., and read it again for the
twentieth time. It was very short, .ird very much to the
point. The concluding sentences appealed to something in
her heart she had fancied no power on earth could again
awaken. *Yon are the only woman I have ever seen wiio
ever cost me a second thought. If you will marry me, I will
do my utmost to make you happy. What your answer may
mean to me I can scarcely permit myself to think. Madam,
1 cannot wait for it. I will therefore call to-morrow afternoon
to receive it from your own lips.'

(lay
fixe' I
gate]
and

THE LAIRD'S WOOING,

\ unknown
I kind and
n-Iaw as a
have been
I substance
ad meekly
had done

" now,' he

d the most

s. Alastair

how bitter

But for

■ Ailsa, she

i, however,

', as Sheila

IS required

boots and

's future ?

oded over

occasional

of social

dy Ailsa's

t any one

1 itself to

, but she

St, indeed,

ays. She

n for tlie

to the

ething in

lid again

seen who

ne, I will

wer may

Madam,

afternoon

Such were the words Edith Murray had read so often ihat
day that they seemed engraven on her heart. Her eyes were
fixed upon them when she heard the sharp click of the gariltn
gate and a firm step on the gravelled walk. Then the bell r;in<i.
and almost before she could collect her wavering, trembling
senses, the visitor was announced. ^'

* Mr. Graham Macdonald.'

Mrs. Alastair rose hurriedly to her feet, and, with crimHui
face, extended her hand in greeting.

'I hope I see you well, madam?' Macdonald said, witli a
rugged, old-fasliioned courtesy ; but his deep, keen, flashing
blue eye dwelt on the sweet face as if he sought to read In r
very soul.

Tall, broad-shouldered, strong of limb and will, was this
ruggfl Highland laird, who had done his wooing in such a
rough and ready fashion without any of the preliminaries (.f
courting. He had but seen her twice at Murrayshaugii, but tlic
first time he took her in to dinner he knew that if she would
have him he would mike her his wife. Macdonald was not
handsome, but he had a powerful and not ungraceful figurr,
a striking if rather stern-looking face, and an honest, flasliiiig
eye, which had never fc ired the face of man. He was a
descendant of an old and honourable family, who had at one
time held large estates in the far north. But the vicissitudts
of war and the fickleness of fortune had wrested these from it.
It was only after the rebellion of '45 that Dalmore, in Glen-
quaich, and Findowie, in Strathbraan — the present estates of
the Macdonalds — came into the possession of the family.
Graham Macdonald was a proud man, and had the reputation
of being hard of heart and greedy of gold. But the man had
another side — a fine, generous, loveable side — which was now
to come to the front. Until love for this woman had touched
his being, he had had no experience of the sweeter influences
of life. Love was not the less sincere, and even passionate,
that it had come to him so late. He was now in his fifty
filth year. Hasty of action, though somewhat slow of speocli,
he had risked his happiness on the very slight •icquaintance
he had with Mrs. Alastair, and now had come in person for

. -I

1 :

SHEILA,

liis answer. He did not sit down in her presence, though she
b«'gged him to do so. He saw her extreme nervousness —
indeed, the fluctuating colour on her fjice and the downcast,
womanly manner might have given him hope — but what did
the grim Laird of Dalmore know of women and their ways?

Mrs. Aiastair saw that she must speak, for the Laird had not
a word to say for himself now he had come for his answer.
But while she was trying to find words to open tlie conversa-
tion, they were interrupted by Tory's sharp little bark and the
sound of hurrying feet, and the next moment Sheila darted
into the room. She was not a shy child, and she rushed at
once to the Laird's side and thrust her hand into his pocket.

* Sheila, Sheila ! you naughty child,* said Mrs. Alastair
reprovingly. ' Kun away to Anne.'

Macdonal 1 stooped down and took the child in his strong
arms, and instantly her little hands clasped his neck, and she
bent upon him the pair of loveliest, most innocent baby eyes he
had ever seen.

* Any rock ? *

* No, but there's something to buy it with in the pockets you
were at just now,' said the Laird, with a smile which Mrs.
Alastair thought made his face almost handsome. 'I have just
been asking your mamma to come and live at my house. Sheila,
you and she, and you would have a pony to ride on, and all
sorts of things.'

' We'll go to-morrow,* jaid Sheila, quite excitedly ; ' is it far
away ? '

' Not very ; but see what mamma says. I think she is not
quite sure about it,' said Macdonald, finding a fine easy way
out of his dilemma. Poor, innocent Sheila! she was quite
unconscious what a momentous question she was called upon to
decide.

' Oh, mamma always does what I want,' said Sheila, with
delightful confidence. ' How soon can we go ? To-morrow ?
Will you take us after breakfast? Anne gives me my porridge
at eight, mamma has her coffee at nine. We'll go at ten I *

* Oh, Sheila, Sheila ! * Mrs. Alastair rose with crimson face,
and rang the bell.

THE LAIRD'S WOOING.

bough she
ousness —
downcast,

what did
ways ?
rd had not
is answer.

conversa-
ik and the
ila darted
ruslied at
pocket.
Aiastair

his strong
;k, and she
by eyes he

ockets you

hich Mrs.

lave just

ise, Sheila,

and all

'is it far

le is not

easy way

was quite

d upon to

eila, with
morrow ?
y porridge
ten ! '
iison face,

♦Take Sheila away, Anne,* she said, when the girl came.
* Keep her with you till I ring.'

So Sheila was ignominiou^ly dismissed, but she had settU'd
the queslioa all the same, and both the Laird and Mrs. AUistair

knew i*^.

Macdonald sat down beside her, and took her soft hand in
his. * You will never regret it, madam,' he said, in his some-
what formal way, * nor shall Sheila. I owe her a great deal for
Uii'lping me out of this dilemma.*

I So they laughed, and shook hands upon it, and were very
I happy in a kind of sober fashion, as befitted a pair whose first
I youth was past.

\ ' Mr. Macdonald,' said Mrs. Aiastair, after a little, * do you
Uhink your sister will be quite pleased at this?'

' She may or she may not. Ellen is rather queer,' said the
'Laird briefly. 'It has suited her to dwell with me since the
minister of Meiklemore died, but there was no promise given
that Dalmore should be a permanent home. She and the boy
shall never want; and even if I do nothing for tliem, her own
portion would be suflScient for his rearing. She talks whiles of
m;iking him a minister, but truly I think the lad too manly
ever to put on gown and bands.'

' Does she know you are here to-day ? '

'No; my business is my own business, and she'll get to
knov. in good time,* said Macdonald grimly. ' You need not
jbe surprised if she pays you a visit soon. That would be the
right thing, wouldn't it?'

A slight shadow crossed Edith Murray's fair face.
'I am afraid of Mrs. Macleod. She was very distant and
haughty, I thought, the last time I met her at Murrayshaugh,'
|ihe said timidly.

'You need not be. Ellen is an ill woman to bide with, 1'!!
admit, bu^ you will not require to bide with her. She shall
|)ave a house of her own before you come to Dalmore.'

'I fear she will not bear me an^ goodwill for her own and
jber boy's sake,' said Edith Murray, with a sigh. ' I wish I
Ifnew whether I am doing right?'

' If you are doing that which your heart tells you, madam.

liM

(

'.iSl

SHEILA,

111

it is right. And why should / not be allowed to choose my
wife as Ellen herself chose her husband, and a fine noise there
wiis about that. The minister of Meiklemore was not con-
si dt red a fit mate for a Macdonuld of Dalmore.*

' So I have heard them say ; but I should not like to bring
(lispeace into Dalmore,* said Edith Murray, still anxiously,
I hough Macdonald*s hearty manner somewhat reassured her.

' You have made me a happy man this day,* he said, when
he rose to go ; and certainly he looked it.

' I hope I shall always be able to make you happy,* Edith
answered ; for her heart warmed to him, he was so honest, and
St raijiht forward, and true.

' You will be kind to Sheila ? * she interposed, as they parted ;
tliough she had no real misgivings about it. And what could
Macdunald say but that he would love the child for her dear
sake ?

As he rode away from the gate of the cottage, a carriage and
p^nr swept over the bridge from Dunkeld. Its occupants were
H lady and gentleman. Sir Douglas Murray and his fair wife —
Mrs. Alastair*s aristocratic kindred. They looked at each other
in amazement at sight of Macdonald.

* Can he have been seeing Edith ? ' Lady Ailsa asked in
wonder.

' It looks like it ; but you'll hear about it presently,* Sir
D.iuglas answered, in his sliort way. * Well, we*ve ten minutes
to make a call, so don't get into an endless gussip.*

' Oh, Douglas, you are hard upon me,' laughed his wife, as
she sprang lightly from the carriage at her sister-in-law's gate.

Edith Murray saw them come, and wondered in what words
she would break to them the event of the day. Gentle though
she was by nature, she could not help a slight thrill of pride at
the thought that she was the promised wife of a man whose
great possessions far exceeded the heritage of the proud
Murrays of Murrayshaugh.

' You have had a caller, Mrs. Alastair,' said Sir Douglas,
with that slight sarcasm of manner which made him feared of
many ; * it is not often Dalmore condescends to make polite
calls.*

lil'l;

THE LAIRD'S WOOING,

\ asked in

Mrs, Alastair sat down suddenly, for she was trembling in
every limb. The colour came and went fitfully across her
sweet face, as she lifted her eyes with firmness to the face of
lier husband's brother. He was the head of the faniily, and it
was Iier duty to acquaint him with the object of Dalmore's visit.

'Mr. Macrlonald came to see me to-day, Sir Douglas, on a
spocial errand,' she said quietly and with dignity, though her
(Iiet'ks and hands were hotly flu^hed. * He has done me the
lioiiour to ask me to be his wife.'

' Bless my heart and soul ! '

Sir Douglas forgot his starched dignity for a moment, and
siared in the most profound amazement. ' His wife. Lady of
Daliiiore and Findowie, Mrs. Alastair? Impossible 1'

' It is true, and I have accepted him,' said Mrs. Alastair, with
a sad ^^milf ; th-n suddenly she turned to Lady Murray with a
quick, sobbing breath. ' Oh, Ailsa, if I have done wrong,
furL'ive me! It is so hard to know what to do ! And my posi-
tion here — oh, I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I have felt
it hard. It will be a home for me and Sheila, and we both
need it. We are not a. raid to trust ourselves with Macdonald
of Dalmore.*

' My poor, dear Edith ! I am st glad. Don't cry, my darling,
nor tremble so. You have done perfectly right ; and oh, I
li(»[ie you will be happy, dear, and find the happiness you hope
for. It will be a great change for yon, Edith ; and we will
all need to bow before the Lady of Dalmore, will we not,
Douglas? '

' l-ady of Dalmore,' repeated Sir Douglas, as if the words had
a charm for him. ' Upon my word, Mrs. Alastair, you have
done ^splendidly. Of course you have done right. No woman
in her senses would refuse such a position, and I congratulate
iyou with all mv heart.' Sir Douglas was perfectly sincere in
what he said, and he looked at his sister-in-law with a new
|init rest and a considerable increase of respect. The penniless
widow of his brother and the lady-elect of Dalmore were two
ditlerent beings. * We must go, Ailsa, if you wish to get this
itr;iin, s'id Sir Douglas presently ; and with renewed con-
jt»>>iulations they left her.

■ \

SHEILA.

M I

' What will Ellen Mucleod say, Douglas ? ' asked Lady Ailsa,
iis tlu'y stopped into the carriage.

' Show her black Macdonald blood,' said Sir Douglas briefly.
• Mrs. Alastair is quite a young womnn, and will bring an heir
lo Djiiniorc, so Fergus Macleod will be put out.*

Lady Ailsa sighed ; she seemed to see trouble ahead.

' Fergus Mucleod will have his mother's portion, Douglas,*
she saitl. ' He does not need Dahnore.'

' The mother's portion cannot be much. I don't think there
is money among the Macdonalds, and if Ellen ^L»cleod offends
Dalniore just now, she and her boy may find themselves badly
enough off.'

' She will be certain to do that,' said Lady Ailsa, rather
sadly. ' She was almost rude to Mrs. Alastair the last time
they all dined at Murrayshaugh. I should think Ellen
Macleod could make a great deal of unhappiness if she chose.'

' Well, well, let them fight their own battles,' said Sir
Douglas, dismissing the subject. ' M Mrs. Alastair becomes
Lady of Dalniore and Findowie, she can afford to snap her
fingers at Ellen Macleod.'

1 r

1 t

^^^^

CO*

'-at

Lady Ailsa,

glas V)riefly.
ring an heir

ead.

n, Douglas/

, think there
cleod offends
selves badly

A-ilsa, rather
he last time
think Ellen
she chose.'
?s,' said Sir
tair becomes
to snap her

CHAPTER a

BROTHER AND SISTER.

*0 haughty heart, hard girt about with the grim panoply of self.*

ALMORE had a ten miles' ride before him, but he
was in no hurry to reach home. The reins lay
loosely on the mare's glossy neck, and she took her
own time ascending the hill from Birnam. It was
I a warm, sultry summer night; a haze of heat hung low in the
I valleys, and made mysterious mist-wreaths along the mountain-
i sides. Here and there the silver crest of a birch tree would
Ipeep out weirdly from the hillside, or the tall head of some
|^gi;int beech or oak would stand out strangely from the sea of
I mist in the low grounds, but the Laird had no attention for
ilhose things. Any one meeting hiii» could have told that he
|was deeply absorbed in thought, but what these thoughts were
|it would have been difficult to determine from the expression
Ion his f;ice. It was a strange, striking face ; rugged, powerful,
ffiuggcstive of extraordinary strength of mind and will, but
piving but little indication, if any, of the finer feelinf^'s which
|be:iutify human character. His heavy brows were knit, his
ynoiuh set in a grim, stern curve ; but in his downcast eyes
^here shone a curious liglit, for Graham Macdonald was think-

tng of the woman he loved. He had met her years ago at
klurrayshaugh, where she was governess to the children of Sir

- !.

•0

SHEILA,

i:i^ I

Dotiglas, and had been drawn to her then, tliongh she was hut
a pill, and he a man of middle age. But Alastair Murray was

before Ijirn, and if Dal

had

more uau ever
lesney, her marriage wit

med any swtet

h th

iny

'ireams of Edith Chesney, ner marru»ge witn iiie younger
Murray dispelled it. So lie returned to his lonely dwelling on
the slope of bleak Crorn Creagh, and took up again the routine
of his life, but somehow it seemed to possess less of intere.st
or pleasures for him. A few months after Edith Chesney's
marriage, the minister of Meiklemore, the husband of Mac-
donald's only sister, Ellen died suddenly, and left her with
one little boy of two years. It seenied the most natural
thing in the world that Ellen Macdonald should return to
Dalmore, and tliere she had dwelt in peace and security for
three years. ^Vhat castles she may have built for her own boy
we shall learn hereafter. She had not the remotest idea that
Lady Murray's governess could even have possessed the slightest
interest for her brother. He was not a marrying man, nor one
of those who lavished attentions on ladies He had rather the
reputation of being a bore and a misanthrope ; therefore Ellen
Macleod apprehended no evil. x\s for imagining that Mrs.
Alastair, the Muriays* poor relation, could be a lion in her
path, she would have drawn herself up with indiirnation at tlie j
mere suggestion of such a thing. Ellen Macdonald was a

his har

touch,

the iui

jrioriouj

(jiiaich.

sheet oi

ing hil

Creagh,

cither

pile, its

set sky.

suggest i

great es

the grir

in Glen*

hard Ian

just mar

him. T

the little

winding

Fraochie

chain uj

solemn b

proud, haughty, hard-natured woman. How she had stooped tc^a fret the i
many the poor minister of Meiklemore, though he was a Macleod i Tl

Oi Piileoch, was a mystery not solvable by any who knew her. p the publi

looking
thrnuffh

The Laird rode slowly, thinking of the woman he ha(]|
left. Away in the ftir distance he could see the mist-crowned 't
cap of Crom Creagli, in whose shadow stood the home shei and finall
would one day brighten with her presence. It needed some- 1
thing to brighten it; it was a house, but no home, and nevei n^
had been. If Macdonald was morose and unloveable, he had'^
had no early training or sweeter influences to foster the 1
better part of his nature. Grim Highland pride, fierce Higli- J
land temper, had been allowed to run rampant among the ;^
Macdonalds through every generation. A thought of Ellen '1
came to him as he caught sight of Crom Creagh, and moment-
arily he set himself straight in the saddle, and tightened

le c;

A few sti
\\as no J
hare, unr
v.ihl beai
liglit and
peifect fr
heaven,
deep-root
exchangee

1 \

BROTHER AND SISTER,

she was but
Murray was

any sweet
lie younger
dwelling on

tl»e routine
; of interest
h Cliesney's
nd of M:ie-
•ft her with
lost naturiil
d return to I
security tor ;
her own hoy ;
est idea that
tlie sli<jhtest I
nan, nor one \
d rather tlic \
Tefore EUeii ' j
ig that Mrs. •
lion in her

at ion at the ;
onaid was a

d stooped to
as a Macleod

knew her.

an he had •

list-crowned
home she/

jeded sonie-i
and never

able, he had
foster the

fierce High-
mong the

ht of Ellen ^^

nd moment-

d tightened

his hand on the rein. The mare, sensitive to the slijzlitest
touch, set off at a brisk canter, and in fifteen mirutes passed hy
the inn at Amulree. The mist was clearing away, and a
}rh)riou8 sunset appearing beyond the solemn shadows of (Jlen-
(piaich. A red light touched the waters of the loch into a
sheet of living fire, and golden shafts lay athwart the surround-
ing hills. High on a bit of tableland, half way up Croni
Cieagh, stood Dalmore, sheltered somewhat by a pine wood on
either side, but standing out in front a grey, weather-beaten
pile, its many turreted windows reflecting the glory of the sun-
set sky. It was a bleak, exposed situation for a dwelling, more
suggestive of a shooting lodge th«n the mansion pertaining to a
great estate, but it was in keeping with the characteristics of
tiie grim race whose heritage it was. They were not beloved
in Glenquaich and Strath braan, and Graham Macdonald was a
hard landlord, exacting his dues to the uttermost farthing; a
just man, but not generous, that was all that could be said of
hitn. The front windows of Dalmore commanded a fine view :
the little hamlet of Amulree, with its picturesque church and
winding streams; the beautiful valley of Glenquaich, with Loch
Fraochie mirrored like a gem in its bosom ; and all around,
chain upon chain of heather-clad hills sat in mnjestic and
solemn beauty. They knew no change, whatever strife might
fret the minds of men.

The carriage-way to the mansion of Dalmore branched oif
the public road, crossed the Girron Burn by a rather unsK'.idy-
looking wooden bridge, propped up by divot and peat, led
through the marshy low ground at the base of Crom Creagli,
and finally wound up the steep slope of the hill to the hou-e.
A few straggling birches and firs grew on either side, but there
was no attempt at ornamentation or effect. It was a bleak,
hare, unpromising approach. And yet the place had its own
v.ild beauty: the purple glow of heather bells, the mystery of
liglit and shadows never seen save on Highland hills, and a
perfect freedom and solitude, which seemed to bring it near to
heaven. The Macdonalds loved their bleak heritage with a
deep-rooted, if undemonstrative love, and they would not have
exchanged it for any lowland castle or palace.

i;'

SHEILA.

! u

Graliam Macdonnld rode slowly up the carriage-way. Onco
more tlit* mare was allowed to take her own sweet will. She
evt'n stopped to take a mouthful of herbage from the bank
without being restrained by her master's impatient hand. Tlu*
house was built on a broad tableland directly under the steep
ascent which led to the summit of th»i mountain. It was a
commodious building of solid masonry, with long narrow win-
dows, and a low wide doorway opening out on a sweep of
gravt'l taken from the bed of the mountain streams. The
stables and other offices were on the left, and to the right the
garden, which, considering its height and exposure, seemed
wonderfully productive. The harvest more than sufliced for
the need of the simple household at Dalmore.

The Laird dismounted at the stable door, and as he did so,
a little lad dressed in the Highland garb, and becoming it well,
came bounding with his hoop, and followed by a collie dog,
from the front of the house.

' May I get on Mora, Uncle Graham ? ' he asked, in his clear,
childi: 1 tones. 'I have been watching for you. If I had
seen you, I would have come to meet you on the road.'

'Too late, my boy,' said the Laird, gently for him, and his
eye softened as it dwelt on the boy's sweet, open face. * Never
mind, Fergus ; to-morrow you shall have a ride on Mora. Is
your mother in the house ? '

* Yes, Uncle Graham. She is in the drawing-room, I think.
I saw her at the window just now when I was playing. May I
go with Lachlan Macrae to get Mora shod, and ride her home?'

' Yes, yes ; off you go. See that Colin doesn't chase the
sheep. He'll need to be shot, Fergus, if he doesn't stop these
tricks of his. I have had two complaints from the Fauld
about him.'

' He is a bad dog, Uncle Graham, and I try to teach him.
I'll whip him with your whip if he looks at a sheep to-day/
said Fergus sorrowfully, but firmly, as his uncle turned away.

Dalmore entered the house by the kitchen door, and then
through a long stone passage to the front hall. Entering the
gun-room, he took off his riding boots, and, washing his hands,
proceeded as he was up to the drawing-room. Uis sister was

BROTHER AND SISTER,

2.?

}\l

dy. Onc<'
will. She
the bank
iind. Tlu'
the steep
It was 11
irrow win-
sweep of
ims. The
5 rigljt the
e, seemed
ufliced for

he did so,
ng it well,
collie dog,

1 his clear,
If I had
I.'

n, and his
. ' Never
Mora. Is

), I think.
g. May I
er home?'
chase the
stop these
the Fauld

teach him.
p to-day,'
2d away.

and then
tering the
his hands,

sister was

tliere alone, and he had occasion for u private word with

her.

The interior of Dalmore was much more imposing and C(»m-
fortahle than its outward aspect promised. The hall itself was
not the least liandsome and striking feature of the house. Ir
was panelled in oak from baseinent to ceilinur, and the latter
was a specimen of the fine carved work of a past age. It liiul
a Hre-place which, in these days of crazes for the anrujue,
would be accounted of priceless value. Deer and sheep skins
];iv here and there on the polished floor, and the walls were
adorned with magnificent deer's horns, stag's head, and otlier
trophies of the chase. A broad, shallow flight of steps led
up to a porticoed doorway, which opened upon the staircase,
also of rich dark polished oak, and uncarpeted. The eflect, if
somewhat gloomy and bare, had an attraction of its own. The
drawing-room was on the first floor — a curious octagon-shaped
room, built, indeed, in the tower of Dalmore. It was plainly
furnished, and there was no attempt at decoration, and certainly
none of those lighter touches of beauty, which flowers and
dainty bits of colour can give to a gloomy room. It was
occupied by a lady attired in a black gown of a hard material,
and a huge black cap utterly out of keeping with the still
youthful appearance it disfigured. Her long, white, character-
istic hands were busy kitting a tartan sock for her boy ; and
tliough she slightly turned her head at the opening of the door,
she had no smile of greeting for her brother. A smile was,
indeed, seldom seen on the face of Ellen Macleod. She was a
liandsome, striking-looking woman, with a grace and dignity of
Itearing which proclaimed her descent ; but there was nothing
winning or womanly about her. One might almost wonder
how she had been persuaded to become a wife. She was a
woman v/ho looked always on the gloomy side of life. Young
creatures shrank from her ; sometimes, God help him ! her boy's
warm heart was chilled by her coldness. She regarded any
demonstration of affection as a pitiable weakness. She looked
iifter the moral and physical well-being of her child in an
exemplary manner, but withheld from him that motherly tender-
ness which is the children's heritage. A woman this with few

1 i

IiTT— p:
1'^

SHEILA,

womanly atfributps or impulses, and whose pride knew no
limit. Of these two grim beings who faced each other in that
room, the man was the preferable of the two.

'You have been riding?' she said briefly, and without lifting
her eyes from her work. She was indeed surprised to see her
l)i()ther in the drawing-room. When he was indoors, his
hours were chiefly spent in the gun-room or in the library,
which was filled with books he never read.

' Yes ; 1 have been to Birnatn and back since luncheon,' he
answered ; and, approaching the window where she sat, he
stood directly opposite to her. She sligiitly elev<*ted her eye-
brows, but continued her work.

' Will you give me your attention for a few minutes, Ellen,
if you please ? '

' Certainly, Macdonald,' she answered, and, folding up her
work methodically, laid it on the small inlaid table at her side,
and lifted her calm eyes to his face. They were beautiful eyes —
large, dark, and piercing — but they lacked that luminous light
which a tender woman's heart can give to less e.xpressive orbs.

Graham Macdonald was no coward, but he felt a trifle
disconcerted under that calm, steady gaze. He knew perfectly
well that she had not the remotest idea of the nature of the
communication he was about to make, and it was impossible to
expect that it would not give her a shock of an unpleasant kind.

* I have something very particular to talk to you about,
Ellen,' he began. ' It concerns myself directly, and more
indirectly you and your boy.'

'Indeed!'

Ellen Macleod started slightly. She had felt herself very
secure in Diilmore, and, in point of fact, regarded herself as
the mother of its future laird.

* I trust, Macdonald, that you have no faidt to find with me
or with Fergus ? ' she said quietly. ' I have endeavoured to do
my duty in the house, and the child is as good as one of his
years can be expected.'

' It is nothing of that kind, Ellen. How can I have any
fault to find with you? And I love the boy, as you know,'
said Macdonald hastily. *I only ask you to look back for a

J
I

'i
J

little,
of yf)i
iriven

Muck

long

■I

I til

BROTHER AND SISTER.

ites, Ellen,

ng up her
It her side,
iful eyes —
nous liglit
sive orbs.
It a trifle
V perfectly
ure of the
possible to
isant kind,
ou about,
and more

rself very
herself as

1 with me
ired to do
one of his

have any

)u know,'
uck for a

little. You will remember, when Macleod died, you came here
of your own free will, without asking, and there was no promise
given on either side.'

'What are you talking about, Macdonald?' asked Ellon
M.icleod, betrayed into more hastiness of speech than usual,
' What do you mean?'

' What 1 say. I am only reminding you, that when you
came back to Daluiore three years ago, there was no promise
given that it should be to you or the boy a permanent home.'

'Then you wish me to leave my father's house?' said Ellen
Macleod, with quivering lip. 'Fergus and I have been too
long a burden^ on you, perhaps; but we were unconscious
offenders.'

'Don't be a fnoV Ellen,' said Macdonald hastily. 'It is im-
possible you can misunderstand me. You have been no burden
on me, nor have you given offence in any way, but I am going
to marry, and it is impossible there can be two mistresses in
Dalniore.' :

' Marry I ' The word fell short, sharp — almost like a gasp-r-
from Ellen Macleod's lips. In all her planning and dreaming,
such a contingency as this had never presented itself to her
mind. It was a moment before she recovered herself, for she
had received a shock of no ordinary kind.

' Excuse me, Macdonald, if I am lax in offering my congratu-
lations,' she said at length, with a slight, chill smile. 'The
magnitude of my surprise is my excuse. Pray, who is the lady
to whom you have offered your hand and heart ? '

Graham Macdonald did not iike her tone, and his colour rose.
There was not much love between the two, but the blame was
Avholly hers. She had done nothing all her life to conciliate or
WHi her brother's heart. Nay, she had taught him a mistrust
and dislike of women which had soured him in his young man-
hood, and made him a morose and melancholy man.

' Spare me your sneers, Ellen, though they are not un-
expected,' he said quickly. 'I do not admit your right to
question me about my affiiirs. The fact that I am to marry
niight be sufficient. The lady who has done me the unspeakable
honour to accept me in ail my uuwoitluuess is Edith Murray,

'11

llill

SHEILA,

'\ 'li;

\ \ !■

whom you may perhaps remember as go'cerness at Murrays-
hiingh.'

Ellen Macleod started as if she had been stung. Hot, bitter
words rushed to her lips, but she restrained them, and even
kept that cold smile steadily in her face.

' Lady Ailsa's English governess has indeed feathered her
nest in Scotland,' she said slowly. 'Not content with her
position as widow of a Murray of Murray shaugh, she has played
and won Dalmore. She must be a clever woman, in spite of
her baby face and innocent ways.'

Ellen Macleod was very angry. Her passion was at fever
heat, or she would not so far have forgotten herself. As her
anger rose, however, her brother's cooled, and he looked at her
with a touch of compassion.

' My news has angered you, Ellen, and I forgive what you
say about my future wife ; only, I beg of you, whatever you
may think, in future to spare me the expression of your
opinion. I suppose I have come to years of discretion, and
may be permitted to please myself in this matter. I have told
you in good time, for only this day did I receive my answer.
You cannot accuse me of keeping you long in the dark regard-
ing my plans.'

' I thank you for that courtesy, Macdonald,' said Ellen
Macleod briefly. ' Unless the marriage is to take place
immediately, I shall have time to make my plans. As you say,
tlure cannot be two mistresses in Dalmore.'

' There need be no haste, Ellen,' said Macdonald. * Do not
think I shall lose all interest in you and the boy. You will, at
least, remain until the new mistress comes home ? '

' I think not, Macdonald ; it would scarcely be pleasant for
her or for me,' was the cold response.

' The marriage will not take place immediately,' said Mac-
donald, after a pause. ' I hope, before the time, that you and
she may have better acquaintance of each other. You will
accompany me at an early day, Ellen, to Birnam, will you
not ? '

Ellen Maclecd's colour rose, and her eyes flashed ominously.

* Although I have enjoyed the shelter of your roof since my

BROTHER AND SISTER.

klurrays-

ot, bitter
nd even

Ted her

vith her

IS played

spite of

husband's death, Mucdoiialil, I am not bound to humour your
wliiins, or humiliate myself to pU-ase you,' she said, with hitler
scorn. 'This woman yuu have chosen is not a fit wife for you,
and / must decline to countenance the affair, or to receive
her*

So saying, she gathered her heav^ skirts in her hand, and
swept out of the room.

•lit

at fever

As her

ed at her

/hat you
ever you

of your
bion, and
bave told
' answer.
c regard-
id Ellen
ce place

you say,

*Do not
u will, at

asant for

aid Mac-
you and
You will
will you

linously.
since my

^^^^i^-1^.^.W^

CHAPTER m.

LADY AILSA S OPINION.

''-I;i'

;■ ,1

'Oh, swept is sympathy; and woman's heart
Should be its fittest home.'

HAVE just come over, Edith, my dear, to have a
long chat witli you about everything,' said Lady
Ailsa Murray to her sister-in-law. 'Douglas is at
Perth to-day, and I shall wait with you until his
train is due. How are you? Sheila is not with me, my love,
because I knew that if I brought her, you would have eyes and
ears for nobody else.'

'I have missed her very much, Ailsa,' said Mrs. Alastair.
*Y()U, with your merry band, cannot understand the feelings of
a motiier who has only one ewe-lanjb.'

' Oh, but I do 1 If you saw Sheila, Edith, among tliose six
wild boys ! She is like a little angtl. In spite of my merry
band, I envy you your one ewe-lamb, because she is a giilif.
What' if we keep her? You will not need her badly at
Dalniore?*

' Perhaps more than here, Ailsa,' said Mrs. Alastair, with a

sicrii

Why that long face, child ? You are not regretting havinj

given yo .r [irom
*0 no!' The

ise to Dali

imore i
delicate colour rose

swiftly to the young

M ^-%

have a
d Lady
as is at
ntil liis
ny love,
fyes and

Llastair.
klings of

liose six

merry

pi 1 lit'.

idly at

"VV

ith a

having

young

LADY AILSA'S OPINION.

widow's pfile face. * If you only knew, if I could only ti-ll you,
liow kind and good he is, Ailsa. I feel that I can never repay
hin» »or it alL' , ■

' I should not have thought Dalniore would make such a
lover, Edith,' said Lady Ailsa, with a laugh. * I have alwavs
been rather afraid Oi* him.'

' You do not know him,* said Mrs. Alastair, and turned her
head a little away.

'I suppose EUen Macieod has never come?'

* No ; she will not recei^'e me, Ailsa,'

'Al)ominable of her! but nobody could expect anything else
from her. It passes my comprehension how any man ever had
the courage to make her his wife. 1 daresay she wore pf)or
Edgar Maehod out,' said Lady Ailsa calmly. ' She will leave
Dalmore, I suppose ? '

' O yes. Tiiere is a little lodge at Amulree — Shonnen, I
think, is the name — which has been a kind of home for the
ladies of the family. It belongs to her, so she and her boy are
to take up their abode in it.*

' Amulree ! ' exclaimed Lady Ailsa, shaking her head. * Too
near, my dear, far too near. I should like the breadth of the
sea between you and Ellen Macleod.'

' You nuist not be too hard on her, Ailsa. Her hopes are all
quenched. This must have been a blow to her ; and yet, and
yet, if she were a true sister, she would not grudge her brother
his happiness.'

' It is for the boy, I suppose,' said Lady Ailsa musingly.
* Tiiere is not much chance now of his inheriting Dalmore and
Findowie. He is a fine little fellow. Have you ever seen him ? *

' No ; but Macdonald speaks a great deal of him. He has a
warm place in his uncle's heart.*

' So Ellen Macleod has put up her Highland temper and her
Highland pride,' said Lady Ailsa. * Never mind her, my dear;
the only thing you can do is to ignore her.'

' I wrote to her, Ailsa, but she returned me my letter un-
opened,' said Mrs. Alastair, with flushing face.

' Insulting woman ! and in spite of all that, she deigns to
remain at Dalmore !*

lit > '^

SHEILA.

\\ il

\^t

' I did not tell Macdonald of it, Ailsa, as I am afnid — he is
so sensitive where I am concerned — that he would have sent
lier away.'

' Well, well, don't let us speak about her any more. When
is the marriage likely to take place ? '

' The date is fixed,* returned Mrs. Alastair shyly ; * the
twenty-first of September.'

' And this is the ninth of August, child. There is no time
to prep.l!re. Of course you know the wedding will take place
at Murrayshaugh ? '

' We talked of being married in Edinburgh, Ailsa. This is
such a prying, gossiping place.'

' Let them pry and gossip,' laughed Lady Ailsa. * It can be
as quiet as you like, but it shall be at Murrayshaugh and
nowhere else. You can tell Macdonald that, with my kind
compliments. Since you are going to cast off the Murrays, it
must be done gracefully ; and Ellen Macleod shall see that
she stands alone in her senseless disapproval of the wisest step
her brother ever took in his life.*

' Cast off the Murrays ! ' repeated Mrs. Alastair, and her tears
rose. ' If I ever forget what you have been to me, Ailsa, since
the first day I entered Murrayshaugh, a nameless dependent,
may I suffer for it 1 '

' Hush, my darling ! we have made you suffer too. My heart
has been sore against my husband often on your account.
Many times has he made the wound I could never heal. It is
an unspeakable source of gratitude to me that at last you will
be able to hold your own against us with all our pride. This
marriage is a perfect joy to me, Edith, and all the Ellen
Mr'.cU'cds in the world won't damp it.'

Both were agitated, and there were traces of it in their looks
and manner, when the servant announced Mr. Macdonald.

Lady Ailsa sprang up, brushed away her tears, and was
ready to meet the Laird with a smile. As he entered the
room she could not but be struck by his noble bearing, and
note the exquisite softening which a woman's sweet influence
had given to his hard face. She saw the light in his eyes as
they dwelt on Kditb*s face, and her heart was content, for she

4 bring a c
I me up to

[(ji ' jji'i

ZADY AILS A' S OPINION,

-he is

e sent

When

; *the

o time
B place

This is

can be
gh and
ly kind
rrays, it
ee that
sest step

ker tears

;rt,

since
jendent,

heart
account.
It is
ou will
This
Ellen

ir looks
d.

nd was
red the
ng, and
nfluence
eyes as
for she

knew that it was the love of a life her gentle sister-in-law had
^voii — a love which would shield and cherish her from tlie
hhists of life. Love had indeed wrought a marvellous change
ill Macdonald of Dalmore.

' What little bird whispered to you that Edith and I were
talking about you?' laughed Lady Ailsa in her happy way.
'I do not suppose that you will care for anything so conven-
tional as congratulations. Nevertheless, I do congratulate you,
and I have known Edith much longer than you. You have
won a prize, sir, which I fear we Murrays have not sufficiently
appreciated.

She spoke lightly, but with an undercurrent of earnestness
which Graham Macdonald deeply felt.

' I thank you. Lady Ailsa. I pray I may be worthy of it,'
he said, with a courtesy and grace which became him well.

'I have no fear for your happiness. Good-hye, Edith,
darling. She will tell you what we have been talking about.
No, I will not stay ; ' and almost before they could detain her,
the warm-hearted lady of Murrayshaugh had flitted out of the
room.

' Is Farquhar in your kitchen, Anne ? * she asked Mrs.
Alastair's maid, as she met her in the stair.

' No, my lady ; he has gone over to the hotel to put up the
horses.'

'Ah, just run over and tell him to bring back the carriage,
as I am going farther on. I shall wait in the dining-room till
he comes,' said Lady Ailsa, who had conceived a sudden plan.
She was impulsive by nature, but the promptings of her heart
were always in the right direction.

' Have we time, Farquhar, to drive to Dalmore and be back
in time for Sir Douglas's train ? '

' Dalmore, my lady ? ' asked the servant in surprise.

' Dalmore, above Amulree — you know it ? '

' yes, my lady, I know it ; it is ten miles from here.
No, there is not time ; it will take us three hours at least.'

'Ah, then, Lachlan can walk back to Murrayshaugh, and
bring a dogcart for Sir Douglas ; Anne will tell him. Drive
me up to Dalmore,'

'• ?

3«

SHEILA,

There was nothing for Farquhar but to obey, though he felt
himself aggrieved by this suilden and unexpected order. Ir
was a long, toilsome road to Dalmore, and a cold, wet drizzle
was begiiming to blow in the easterly wind. Mr. Farquluu's
imperturbable countenance wore a shade of anxious gloom a-^
he turned his horses' heads up the hilly ascent.

Lady Ailsa contemplated an errand of mercy. She wished
to reason with, and, if possible, to conciliate Ellen Macleod,
whom she had known since her girlhood, though she had not
seen much of her for some years. But she knew the nature of
Mrs. Alastair, and that the thought that Ellen Macleod regarded
her with aversion and anger would eat the happiness out of
her heart.

Far(juhar was in no very good mood when he got his horses
up the steep carriage-way to Dalnjore. He was an old and
privileged servant, and sometimes spoke his mind with curious
cnndour.

'Just look at the poor brutes, my lady,' he said, pointing to
their foam-fl iked flanks. 'That road's enough to kill them.
How folks can live in a wilderness like this, and expect
other people's horseflesh to pull up their mountains, / don't
know.'

' You make idols of the horses, Farquhar,' said Lady Ailsa
good-naturedly. 'Take them into the stables and feed
them well. I shall stay tea with Mrs. Macleod while I am
here.'

Ellen Macleod had seen the carriage mounting the hill, and
lecognised the grey horses, l)ut scarcely expected to see Lady
.Ailsa alone. She had made up her mind that 'that woman,'
a> >lu' teimed Mrs. Alastair, had come to assert her right to be
received at Dalmore. Dear me ! how uncharitable one woman
can be to another when jealousy and anger are allowed to gain
the mastery. Lady Ailsa perfectly divined her thoughts, and
smiled as she shook hands with her.

* No, I have not brought poor Mrs. Alastair to take you
by storm, Ellen,' she said, with that sweet daring which character-
ized her at times. 'I am not such an arch-plotter. Will you
give me a cup of tea, and let me rest a little with you while

visit Die
bell-nipi
*Yuui
invir;irio
your.seif
iiideous
you ever
Lady J
was evid,
Macleod *s
*I Iiav
attractive
' What
are not or
tliere no g
Ellen ]\
lighted firt
'Do sit
'Jiat she vv;
you can tr
jilead Mrs,
Ellen M
and her lip<

'i M'uulc

please.'

'Hilt, Ell
ov^f this thi
f'Ut, arjd se
"ow, that
brother.'

'1 have nt
f''i'nsj)ijed.
niiddie-ared

[i:ii

nl.ii

I ; ' '

LADY A/LSA'S OPINION.

le felt
r. It

wished
acleod,
lad not
iture of
fgarded
out of

s horses

old and

curious

inting to
ill them.
^ expect
/ don't

Ailsa

feed

lie 1 am

hill, and
see Lady
woman,
ght to be
woman
to gain
Ights, and

[ake you
Iharacter-
-ill you
;ou whi^6

attonds to his pncioiis hors(>s? lie is much more concoriud
about tbfir AVfll-hciiig fban liis niistress's coiivH'riii'nce.'

It was iiM|)()ssil)le not to feci the cbann of that biiLiI t
pr«'s«'nce, and Klh-n Maclcod's grim fa(;e relaxed.

' I am very glad to see y<iu, Lady Ailsa. Few women I" Ik
visit me here,' slie said graciously, as she laid her hand on iIm
bell- rope.

'Your own fault, Ellen Mach'od. Peop'e won't visit without
invitations,' said Lady Ailsa candidly. * Why do you nieu
yourself up in this dull j)lace ; and oh, ?r//// do you wear thai
hideous thing on your head ? It (juite di>ti<jures you. lla\c
you ever noticed what a dainty thing Mrs. Alastair wears' —

Lady Ailsa stopped abruptly. She had made a mistake, a^
was evidenced by the slow, bitter smile which curled Ellen
Macleod's lip.

' I have not a like desire witi. jNIrs. Alastair to make myself
attractive in the eyes of men,' she said quietly.

' What iiorrid things you say, Ellen Macleod ! I detdare you
are not one bit better than you used to be as a girl. Was
there no grace in the manse of Meiklemore?'

Ellen Macleod held her tongue, and stirred up the newly-
lighted fire to a brighter blaze.

' Do sit down, Ellen, and let us talk,' said Lady Ailsa, feeling
that she was making very little headway. 'I am an old Iriend;
you can trust me, and I will be true. I have come to-day to
plead Mrs. Ala>«tair's cause.'

Ellen Macleod sat down; a red spot burned on her cheek,
and her lips compressed themselves together.

'I Would rather not speak of Mrs. Alastair, Ailsa, if you
please.'

' But, Ellen, you must speak of her. If you go on brooding
over this thing it will eat your heart out. Let us tu''n it inside
out, and see the good as well as the ill in it. Confess,
now, that it has made a wonderful improvement in your
biother.'

'1 have not noticed it. lie has been little at home since this
ti'iuispired. There are no fools like old ones, Lady Ailsa, and a
middle-ar;ed lover is generally a sorry spectacle. 1 am soiiy

i I

SHEILA,

to see Macdonald makinc: himself a lauchinjr-stock ' was tlie

sour re

ply-

'How hard you are upon him, said Lady Ailsa pontly.
Love mjikt'S us all a Httl<^ foolish. I saw Macdotiaid to-day at

Mi's. Alastaii's, and I never admired him hefoic. Ell

en.

fact, I have been rather sorry tor Edith ; you Macdon.dds art;
ratiuT a fearsome race, you know.'

'Not fearsome enough to frighten //er,' said Ellen Macleod,
with LM'im irony ; whicii Lady Ailsa passed over, so eager was
slie to make peace in Dalniure.

She leaned forward in her chair, with her fair white hands
clasped on her knees, and fixed her soft blue eyes earnestly on
the dark, forhiddin;."; face oj)posite.

' Ellen, all you can do now will not put ^facdonald past his
purpose. Would it not be better to accept the inevitable
gracefully, and do what you can to further his happiness? I
am certain this marriage will be for his ha|)|)in(.'ss. Edith is

dear woman. I am sure you will learn to love her. Don't

be tl

le only

shad

ow on

the 1

lai^niness o

f I);

ilmore

Ellen ]\Licleod never spoke, nor did her countenance relax in
the least. She fancied herself dee{)ly injured, and her anger
burned causelessly against the inoilensive woman who had
supplanted her. She was a proud, hard, jealous-minded W(mian,
and Lady Ailsa's gentle pleading fell with very little effect on
her ears.

'Macdonald is his own enemy, Lady Ailsa. He has not
calculated what expense and extiavagance this step will lead
him into. He will find a wife and family a very difTereiit
matter to provide for from what it is at present. I have saveii
money for him, and Heaven knows — what with grum'.'ling, ill-
conditioned tenants, who shirk their rent paying, and thesi'
hard times — there is need for retrenchment somewhere. Tiu'
revenues of Dalmore and Fiiidowie combined would not sutlice
to keep up an extravagant establishment.'

'Mrs Alastair will be more likely to diminish than increase
the household expenditure. Her way of lil'e since her mai-iinLie
— indeed, all her life — has taught her strict economy,' said Lmiy
Ailsa, with a slight sigh, for her heart was heavier than it liaii

Elle
o/" a S"
'I I.
niariiaj
fiM'ling.
Lady o
so you
Ar tl
liis fair
vellow I
room, w
'Oh,
hut stop
Lady
and «s|jL'
lad drew
close by
heave as
' Mam
file who
l^ahnore
Ellen
'That
'"•r, and
ftjr the St
}<'ii not t
' Uncle
'"'}■; and

' 1 mus

M,M'ln,d, ;

■'"id has n(

'Ir is },

LAD Y AILS A 'S OPINION,

the

rontly.
(l;iy at
1. In
ds are

ivclend,
er was

2 liands
islly on

past liis

u^ss V I
Caitb is
. Dou'l

relax in
er an'Jfcr

woman,
effect on

has not

Iwill lead

different

tve saved

d'nvi, ill-

bd these

jre. The

lot suilicL'

incrtasf
mani;i;-'-
5aid Lady
Ian it li^'i

bren wlipn she started on lier mission. * I assure you, yon
are iniaL'iiiing troubles and ills which will never come. Do he
|)('isiia(h'(l to make the Ix'st ..i* this, Ellen. Go down some day
iind see Mrs. Alastair. Were 1 you, my pride would niake
me do it.'

Kllen >racleod's face grew yet more grim with the sternness
ot" a s' tiled purpose.

' I have passed my word. I do not approve of this fooIi>h
miiiiaj^e; and I caimot think her a woman of principle or
t'l'tding. I will not humble myself to her. If she becomes
Lady of D.dmnre she can afford to despise me, and will probably;
so you must leave us alone, Lady Ailsa.'

Ar that moment the door was thrown open, and little Fergus,
Iiis fair face flushed with out-door exercise, and his tangled
vellow hair t()S>ing on his open brow, came bounding into the
room, with a wet and muddy collie at his heels.

'Oh, mamma, there is a carriage in the yard!' he cried,
hut st(»pped short at the sight of the strange lady at the hearth.

Lady Ailsa's motherly heart warmed to the bright- faced lad,
and .she stretched out her hands to him with a smile. But the
lad drew back with a shyness quite unusual with him, and kept
close by his mother's side. Lady Ailsa saw the mother's bosom
heave as her full eye fell on the childish figure at her side.

'Mamma,' said Fergus, in a whisper perfectly audible through
the \vli.)le room, 'is that the lady who is to put us out of
Dalmore?'

Ellen Macleod's colour rose.

'Tiiat is Lady Ailsa Murray, Fergus. Make your bow to
111 r, and then take Colin downstairs. Don't you see he is fitter
t'ur the stable than the drawing-room ? IIow often have I told
you not to bring the dogs into the house ? '

' Uncle Graham said I might have Colin in, mamma,' said the
l")y; and, with a graceful salutation to Lady Ailsa, he left the
ronin.

' 1 must apologise for Fergus's hasty speech, Ailsa,' said Ellen
Miflt'od, as she rose to pour out the tea. 'He is only a child,
iiid has not yet learned the wisdom of the world.'

'Ir is hardly fair to poison his mind, Ellen,' s>aid Lady Ailsa,

\ 1

SHEILA.

in gontle robnl<o. *Y(iii niijilit liave given Edith a clianco, at
least, to win liis unprt'jiidiccd love.'

* Yoii doti'i uiidcrNtJind,' said Kllcn Miieleod fiercely, for licr
passion rose, and iier eye grew d;irk with the swelling tumult
wirliin. ' Timt is wiiere it stings. I iiave watclied the i)oy
with all a mother's pride, and loved hini for his manliness and
noble hearing. I thoiejlit he was giving fair promise of fitness
for tlie position 1 thonglit would be surely his. And now I
nnist crush every maidy attribute, and make Idm fit to serve
otluM'S ; for, <iod ludp ITun ! he has now no heritage. Hy the
lal)our of his hands and the sweat of his brow, Fergus Macleud
must turn his bread.'

CHAPTER IV.

WELCOMK HOME.
cliild, tliy Hfo should bo

Ev'll il.S tliy oiirll 1)10W,

Curoletis and luvt-'ly.

ITOWITT.

pnnes,

cdonald

i iiiiiii

SHEILA.

n . !

tartan about her waist. The child, quick to notice the new
riltbon, had asked its meaning, and Anne liad answered back
that it was her new papa's colours, which she must always
wear now.

'Her new papa's colours!' The child had pondered these
words in her small mind for hours, without being able to
understand their meaning.

Poor little Sheila! Dalmore, that magic word which had
been so often on her lips of late, had grievously disappointed her
when she alighted from the carriage at its entrance that dreary
afternoon. It had chilled her young heart ; and when she w;is
dressed and sent into the big, gloomy drawing-room to await
her mother and her * new papa's' home-coming, a great sense
of desolation had come upon her, and, curling herself up in the
deerskin by the fire, she cried herself to sleep. When she
awoke, the shadows were gathering in the long room, the wood
fire was smouldering on the hearth, and Anne, gossiping with
her new master's domestics, had forgotten all about her little
charge. The house was very silent. Not a c-^und was to
be heard but the soughing wind among the pines, and the
monotonous plashing of the rain upon the panes. The carriage
was very late, but, before it arrived, an uninvited guest came up
the brae to the house, and, with all the freedom of familiarity,
marched up to the drawing-room, muddy boots and all. At
tiie opening of the door, Sheila slipped from her high perch on
the window-seat, and came expectantly across the floor. But
instead of her mother it was only a small boy who entered,
attired in a damp kilt, and with the feathers in his bonnet
dripping in his hand. He shut the door, and advanced into the
room with a peculiar expression on his face. The two children
stood on the hearth-rug, surveying each other with delight t'lil
deliberation for a few minutes. Then Sheila spoke, with a
curious mixture of shyness and dignity —

' Who are you, little boy ? '

' Fergus Macleod,' was the prompt reply. ' Who are
youV

' Sheila Murray. My mamma and me have come to live
here now with Mr. Macdouald/ said Sheila proudly, and

t n

WELCOME HOME.

beginning to smooth the ribbon of her sash witli her dainty
httle hand. ' Do you know Mr. Macdonald, little boy — my
papa ? '

' He is my Uncle Graham,' said Fergus, drawing himself up.
' My mother and 1 lived here before you came.'

' And wliere do you live now ? '

' At Shonnen,' said the boy, with a break in his voice whi(;h
made Shi'ila open her eyes very wide indeed.

' Don't cry, little boy,' she said, in a gentle, patronizing,
reiissuring tone, such as a mother might employ towards her
child. ' Would you like better to live in this house?'

'Yes; Shonnen is a little liouse, and it is on the roadside,'
said Fergus contemptuously. ' 1 can't live in it.'

' Well, I'm sure my mamma and my new papa will let you
live heie if you ask them. It is such a big house — rooms, and
rooms, and rooms, nearly as many as Aunt Ailsa's. Then you
and I could play cattie and doggie. Do you know cattie and
dogpie, little boy ? '

' No ; I never play. I'm a great deal too old for that. I am
nine,' said the lad. ' Are you five yet?'

*0 yes; next Sunday is my birthday, and I am six. See,
my sash is the same colour as your kilt. Don't touch it, little
boy ; your hands are all wet.'

' I'm not touching it, and my hands are quite dry,' said
Fergus quickly. ' Don't call me a boy. I can ride Uncle
Graham's Mora — a big, wild horse — and I have had a pony
since I was six. Did you ever see a pony ? '

'Yes, I ride on Alastair Murray's pony when I am at Aunt
Ailsa's. Do you know Aunt Ailsa, Fergus ? I love her next to
ma mm a.'

' No, I don't know your Aunt Ailsa,' f lid Fergus quickly.

In looking round the familiar rr'tni it had suddenly come
upon the boy that he had no right in Dalmore. Young though
he was, he had learned to love the place with a love which was
to sadden youth and early n)anhood with a dark cloud. N^n-'j
early liad the cross falk^n on the shoulders of Fergus Miicleod.

'You are a rude little boy, Fergus Macleod,' said Sheila,
in her quiet, quaint way. ' Aunt Ailsa makes her boys so

y \

,l!i

' I

' i

SHEILA,

m 1'

])olite to ladies. But then you have no Aunt Ailsa, Have
Mill come over to see inanjiiia and nie to-day?'

• No ; I came because there is no garden or stable, or — or
ativthinir, ar iShonnen,' said tlie boy, with a strange, weary
lunk. ' Will your mamma be angry if slie sees me here? '

'My mamma is never angry. She will let yf)U live here, I
an (juite sure,' said Sheila promptly. 'And I'll ask my new
|i;i|)a. He said he would buy me a pony, and you can ride on
ii, Fcigu^, when I am not on it.'

' My mother said you would never let us into Dalinore
again, and so I came up to see,' said Fergus.

'Just sit down, and wait till my manuna comes,' said Sheila
rea«^uringly : and. taking the boy's bonnet from his hand, site
led him over to the Hre. It was delightful to see her ; the
e\(pii*ite i)leiiding of sympathy and protection and childlike
tiuderuess in her whole demeanour, was tiiilike a child. So
these two. whose way of life was to lead them together into
many strantie paths, met, and drew to each other, without any
provision of that eventful future in store.

Presently the servant came in to replenish the fire, and, after
one look at the children, sitting contentedly side by side, went
out with a tear in her eve.

' I wish Leddy Micleod saw the picture in the drawing-
n.iim,' she said to her mates. * It wad serve her for meat an'
drink for a week, an' more. I dout she'll no divide Shonnen
\\\\ Dalmore.'

A' most as she made her speech, the carriage with the Laird

and his wile swept up to tiie door.

in a tew nK)ments

Kdith Murray crossed the threshold of iier new home, h-aning
on her hu>band's arm. Sheila was not in the hall, but thrt)uj.di
the ojx'U doors, and down the staircase, there came floating the

en's voices, and the clatter of hurrying

inerrv tnusic of childr

'•)'

•t.

'Did any of her cou-iins come up with Miss Sheila, Antte?'
shi' asked, WMth a smile, turning to the familiar face of her own
'uaid.

'No, ma'am,' said Anne, smiling too; for she was delighted
to see her mistress looking so well and happy.

lif'ila

, sl\e

; the

(Hike

• into

■

' any

inc?
own

[Ijted

WELCOME HOME.

Tlien tlie Lniril and liis Avife went ujist;iirs torrctlicr, and, tlie
drawing-room door heiiipj open, they had a lull view of the tin-lit

\\\\K

rior, wliere a little elf in white was ruiinin<]i; lauLihiiii; I'our.d

the room, jiiirsiied hy Feigns,
Cattle and doL'gie liad begun!

lauijl

iiutr

all 1

us nni;lit too.

Who is that, (ir.diam ?' she whispered.

'Ellens bo

'}'

dear. The l):iirns will make peace in

Dalmore,' he said sigiuficantly. 'IIuMoalis not this a pretty
din to kick up in a drawing-room, eh?'

The children came to a dead stop; then Sheila, with a shriek
of deliglt, sj)iaug into lier mother's arms; but, in spite of his
niich''s reassuring smile, the boy hung back, rememberiu'j his

ther

WOK

Av, E

lien

icleo(

lia(

poisonec

1 tl

le vouuijj

heart ai'ainst Dalmoi'e, and could she have seen the nietiire i

the

wiuff-room

that

niff

ht. 1

ler ire won

Id 1

lave been threat

dia
hideed.

'This is Fergus, mamma; such a nice little boy,' said SIk il.i,
presently slipping from her mother's arms, 'lie is al'iaid of
yon, mamma — jusi think!'

'Fergus will not be afraid of me, darling, after to-night,'
sa' ^ Ed'th Macchmald; atul at sound of the sweet voice the

y .i eyes were raised almost wotidenngly to the face o

giy

.f t(

speaker. She put her two soft, kin<l hands on his shouhlers,
atid, bending down, kissed him straight on the brow above ids
earnest eyes.

' 1 am Aunt Edith, dear. Do you

think

•ou wi

11 1

ove me

a little? I intend to love you a great deal.'

'Oh, Uncle Graham!' cried the lad, t^ieaking from her, and
li'iMiug fast by his uncle's hand, for there was a [XMfect con-
tideiice between them; 'mother said ihey would hate me, and
put me out of Dalmore.'

uncle

And you have come to see for yourself, Fergus?' said his
'That was right. Learn early to form and act on

ynur own opinion. It will make you independent. Well,
Ivlidi, in spite of the dreary look of the place outside, this
l"tik.s comfortable enouuh, eh?' he asked, turning to his

wit I

Yes; this is a lovely old room, Graham, and the children

» ■■

SHEILA.

m;ike it home-like. If only the boy's mother had stayed to
uw^Icoine me,' she said in a low voice.

' She'll never do that, so there's no use nmkinq yourself
Miiserai)le about it,' said Macdonald, and his mouth took a
stein curve. ' Well, Fergus, what's been happening in Amulree
iind till! Fauld while 1 have been away?'

' Nothing much, Uncle Graham. I fought Angus M'Bean
ill th(^ school on Tuesday, and the master thrashed me.'

' What school ? '

' Peter Crcrar's. I go there now.'

jMacdonald l)it his lip, and his wife saw his eyes flash.

'Upon my word, Ellen's folly transcends everything!' he
muitercd. 'But why in the world can't you go or as usual
with your lessons at the manse?'

'J'he boy's face flii>lied, and he did not speak.

'Did your mother give you any reason, Fergus?' asked his
uncle quickly, noticing his hesitation.

' She said that as 1 would need to make my own living, the
sooner I made friends among poor boys the better,' said the
boy, in a slow and pained voice, for he felt it acutely. He was
old beyond his years. The ct^nstant companionship of grown-
up people had given his childish thoughts the maturity of
manhood. Though he was compelled to obey his mother, he
had felt her injustice and foolish resentment. It was scarcely
a child's action to come to Dalmore to see for himself how
matters stood.

'Angus M'Bean is the factor's son, Edith,' said ^Tacdonald,
looking towaids his wife. ' Pray, what were ye fighting about? '

' lie laughed at my mother. Uncle Graham, and asked how
we liked Shonnen,' said Fergus, with heaving bosom, ' and I
just knocked him down straight on the floor in the school.
The master thrashed me, and when we got out I fought Angus
on the road.'

You bloodthirsty

oun
was

g rascal ! ' laughed Macdonald ; bur

1,1
I'.i ■

his wife saw that he was pleased with the spirit of the boy.
' And who beat ? '

'It was a drawn battle,' said Fergus proudly. 'But III
fight him when I'm bigger. He's a far bigger boy than me.

iii^ilill

WELCOME HOME.

and stronger, too. But he's a coward, Uncle Graham. lie
hits little boys and girls.'

It would i)e inij)()ssible to set down the emphasis wliich
Fergus laid on the last word.

'Then he's a horrid boy, and I hate him!' cried Sheila
slirilly. 'I like you, Fergus, and you can ride on my pony
if you like.'

* But he has his own pony. Donald is in the stable, isn't
he, Fergus ? '

' Yt'S, Uncle Graham ; but mother says I'm not to go on
liim, nor come to Dahnore any more,' cried Fe*"gus, in a great
])ur.st of sorrow; and, ashamed of his tears, he turned round
and ran out of the room.

None attempted to detain him. They saw that the childish
heart was full, and that it would have its vent. Edith Mac-
ilonald turned away to her dressing-room with a shadow in
her eves and ,on her heart.

'What a woman, Graham!' she said, when she was able to
speak. 'Although she is his mother, she is not fit to have tlie
care of that tine, sensitive-souled boy. She'll l)reak his heart.'

'I'm not done with Ellen yet,' said Macdonald grimly.
' Slie has forgotten that her husiiand left nie guardian of the
hoy, and she can't do what she pleases with his education and
upliiiiiging. Peter Crerar's school, indeed! Tin; woman's a
jiertect fool.'

' It nuist have been a great blow to her, when she acted so,'
s;iid Edith, with a sigh. ' I wonder it' we have acted right,
Graham':' '

'Now, Edith, after all my warnings, you are just going to
iVet about this. AVhat you have to do is to make yourself
lijipliy and at home in D.dmore. It is yours now. I'll deal
wiih E'kn. As for the boy, if he turns out as he promise?!,
he'll not lie a sufferer, I like him, and I'll do my duty by
liiin. But Ellen must be brought to her senses first, or she'll
ruin him.'

Meanwhile, Fprgus, with wet eyes, and sore, sore heart, was
rutiiiiiig nil his might down the avenue, away from Dalmore.

A\ hen he reached the bridge spanning the Girron Burn, he

i hi

iiiiir

•11

• !

:|1

i t,

; tl

SHEILA.

iilj!

stood on it a little while with the rain beating down upon him,
watching the f(»arning torrent, whose current carrieJ all before
it. Tiiree days' rain had brought tlie burn down in floo(h
There was something soothing to tlie boy in tlie swift rush of
that wihl tide, and before he had waUhed it for many minutes
he began to wonder how many days it wouKl be before he
could fish the burn. Theie was a long yellow line in the far
west, and tiie lowering clouds were beginning to lighten, and
the wet caps of mist to roll from the mountain tops. The
storm was nearly over, and by Saturday, he cilcuhited, the
burn might be in order. Having arrived at this conclusion,
he walked soberly over to the road, and, passing by the school
and the inn, turned off to his new lionie.

It was a bare, barren-looking house, not much bigger than
a cottage, though it was called Shonnen Lodge. It stood by
the roadside, and had no garden, but only a few stunted birch
trees at either side, and the gaunt, bare slope of Craig Ilulioh
rising abruptly V)ehind it. It was a bitter change indeed iVoin
D.dniore, and there is no doubt that both mother and son felt
it keenly. Ellen Macleod had missed the boy fi-om the house,
and, watching by the upper front windows, she saw him cross
the Girron Burn, and guessed where he had been.

She opened the door to him herself, and bade )«im come in,
in a sharp, angry voice.

'You've been at Dahnore, Fergus?'

'Yes, mother,' he answered, in a low voice.

' And are you satisfied now?' she asked snappishly. *I saw
them ride by in their fine cariiage. You got a sorry welcome,
I expect, that you havt* come back so soon?'

' Mother, I don't think they are what you said,' he ventured
to say, ill a low vt)ice. 'Aunt Edith is very kind.'

'Aunt Ediih, indeed! Have you <iot that length already?'
she asked sourly. ' Do you know you deliberately disobeyed
me this afternoon, Fergus?'

' I am sorry, mother. I forgot.'

'That is no excuse. If you forget what I say again, Fergus,
I nuist pnnish you very severely. I will not do it to-day, as
I suppose you were curious to see them,' she said coniemptu-

■t*,

WELCOME HOME. 45

onsly. 'Hear me again. Yon are not to go to D.ilinoro. ^'••'
li;i\e no riLilit in it. 'I'liat woman and licr oliiM have tiikin i
(V.mi you. She is md your niint. I forbid ^ou to c.ill I
;iuiit.'

The boy never spoke, but crouclied down l)y tlie lire I i.
;i dntj who has been beaten for a fault lie c:imiot nuih i-'.i
lie ihouuht of the place he had left not Vnvs. a^n — "I i'
liappv. laughing child ; of the sweet-faced, kind-\di('e 1 inot' . i ;
and of li's uncle, wh(tm, with all his sternnes*^, he draily hi i- i
Xo donl)t the tie which binds mother and child is stiiei-. '■ '
can it not i>e weakened — Uiiy, almost severed — l>y coldne^- i,.
negh ci y Elhii Macleod had done very little to win \\\<- \ < \
love, and he luul a deep, sensitive, yeanung heart. She >;i.;
not know what a harvest of anguish she v/as In^apiriij u,> !• i
heiseir — av, and for him; for there catne a day wlen '■'.<■
conllici betwixt choiee and duty became a uiaitcr ui' uu. i
uiomciit for i'eri'Us Macleod,

I'f

■ '! I.

il*

S 1

i'i

CHAPTER V.

THE KIRK OF AMULHEE.

But on that gentle hoart a sliadnw fell
And darkly lay, stealing the sunlight sweet
From out her life.

HE next day was the Sabbath. It dawned fair and
bright for October, willi a clear, soft sky overlicad,
and a sprinkling of hoar-frost scattered like manna
on the ground. The roads even were made crisp
and firm by the first frost of the season, and walking was very
pleasant. The Laird's folk went on foot to the church in
Amulree, — Macdonald and his fair wife before, and Anne, with
Sheila, coming up behind. There was a goodly gathering in
the kirk, for the fine season had tempted the shooting tenants
to linger longer than usual, and all the country folk turned
out in expectation of seeing the new lady of Dahnore.

They cuuld not think enough of it when they saw her come
walking up the road so humluy and unostentatiously, like
themselves, without a bit of display or grandeur to make her
cons[)icuous. The kirk stood on a piece of rising ground over-
looking the river, as it ran swiCtly and silently fioni its source
in the loch. It was a fine situation, and the church itself was
a picturesque white-washed building, of long, narrow construc-
tion, and having a curious little belfry, containing a tinkling,

THE KIRK OF AMULREE.

old-fa'^lnonefl bell. The grassy enclosure surroundiiifr I lie
cliurch was used as a burying-grourid, as as cvidcnci d l>y tlir
uneven mounds scattered here and there, though there weic
b'lt few lieadstones to be seen.

'J he Liiird's pew was on the left hand of the ptdpit, and iifter
entering, Mrs. Macdonald knelt for a moment in silent pmyer —
an action so unusual in the kirk of Amulree, that one lonkcd
to the other, and there were even more tlian one solemn lir.iil-
sliaking. It was rather like a Paj)it.t, they thouglit, Imt hoped
the Laiid had not been drawn into an unholy miirriage.

In these few brief seconds Ediih Macdonald had time to
hreathe a piissionate prayer for a blessing on her new life iind
home. The Laird looked proud and happy enough, hnwever.
There wjis no doubt as to his opinion about the stej> he li;;(l
taken; and as for Sheila, she sat very bolt upiighr, wiih her
big brown eyes wandering over the whole interior of the kiik.
It was the very funniest church she had ever been in in ail
her life.

The Laird's seat was cushioned, and the boards were laid
pretty evenly on the floor, but along the passages — and, indeed,
in all the other pews — there was no attempt at systematic
flooring; and in many places, notably under the long com-
munion table, which ran from end to end of the chuix-h, the
sandy soil was quite uncovered. It was a cold, uninvitiri'j
place altogether, very different from tlie little E[)iscopjdiiin
chapel in Dunkeld, which Edith had reguLirly attended.

Then the j)ulpit and the precentor's box below were curious
nari'ow contrivances, very deep and narrow, in which the
preacher's eloquence was kept within due limits. But the
kirk of Amulree had always been noted for the solidity of it»
pulpit ministrations, and had no connection with such iVivolitics
as loud shouting of the Word, and senseless throwing about ot
the arms to enfi)rce its doctrine. A fine drowsy atmosphere
unially [)ervaded the kirk during the three-quarters of an hour
the sermon lasted.

Just as the bell began to ring, the Laird opened the door
of the peW, and in walked Colin, quite doucely, and curled
himself up or the floor. He had been over at Shotmen, and

m '^'

'f~

SHEILA,

liii 1 ('nine fo olmrcli, a^ iisiimI, af. F^•rgus Mnclfocr.s IippIs. ATfcr
('dliii l.iy (Inwii, tin- Liiird kt'pr \\\^ eye 011 tho door, vvoiidrr-
iiiu liov\ Kilcii would cotidiict licisflf, and wlietlicr she woidd
]i;iv(; the picsunipiion to cnmc^ down and sit. in the pew bcsnlc
the woman aixain-r whom slie chdished sucli causidcss an!i(>r.

She came in at U'ni,>;tli, with lier thick crape veil haniritifr
down ovci licr faoe, and took a seat in a pew near the chidr,
out of si^ht of the folk from Dalmoie. Slx'ila's small stainre
prevented her seeing wlieii' Feijius went, but slie was soiiv
he did not come to sit hv her. II-.T att^'iition, liowever, \\a^
j)r(Senily di\eited by tlie entrance of an imbvidnai in a >we( p-
ing blaek cloak, who came down the aisle with an air of dignity
very impressive to behold. It was not the minister, however,
but Ewan M'Fadyen, the precentor, (piite as important an!
necessary an olheial as the nu^i^5te^ — perliaps, in his own
estimation, more so.

lie stepped into his box, closed tbe door, and blew his nose
with an astounding report, Sheila watching him with the most
open-eyed wonder all the v/hile. Her mother could not l)Ut
smiln, indeed, at the expression on her face. The Laird
smiled too, when Ewan, without the least shame or attempt to
liide his ol)j('Ct, stood up and turned towards the Dalmore pew.
Now Ewan had a peculiar cast in his eye, which gave his face
a somewhat evil expression, and when he was lo( king intently
at anything, he screwed his 'skelly' eye up uiull it contoited
the side of his face and made his visage a, sijjht to see. In this
singular but characteristic rnamier Ewan stared at the Laird's
wife for a full second or so, and then, slowly nodding his head,
sat down and took a pincli of snuff, indicative of his absolute
approval. Edith hastily drew down her veil, not only to hide
her lining colour, but the smile which was like to become a
laugh. Then the minister gave out the psaliTj, and Ew.tn
stood up to raise the tune, which was 'Martyrdom.' Ewan
M'Fadyen's mode of conducting the psalmody was unique in
the extreme, and alas! too often provocative of mirth amonj
the ungodly strangers who were occasional visitors to the kirk
of Amulree. He held the book directly out from his nose,
and had his five fingers carefully spread out upon the boards.

Aft.-r

Voice,
Ili'fe.
or fifl
hefore,
ina'jic
move c
Hi.
prt Inni
Jill tii;
Til.. Li

tlioiljjlil
IiKU'e ti
siiiiill n
tlic pi'e
siun of
wiiich \i
sdlcnit.ii
waiiiiiinr

enjoyed
8lie Avi^
scriiion,
aicri! l)a
(iid not
all the
M.icleod
I't-r, and
till' jneei
'Klleii
iier liaiid
iiiv hand
v-iniiiiily

b was

ri'i\L'"is w
I'lif wifJK
'***Ik' I'ose
iter iirutli
I'ie churc

pew.
face
Mitly
)rted
n this
aird's
heiid,
solute
liide
3m e :i
Ew.m
Ewan
ue in
unoii'JT
kirk
nose,

loards.

THE KIRK OF AMULREE.

After having read alnud tlie first two lines in a half siiipiiii,'
Vdicf. lie cleared his tlirf>ar, and atieinpfed to raise the first
iiefe. lint it would not come, as a usual thing, lui'il the ftiurth
or fifih clearing of the throat, each tiiiu; more loudly than
hefore. and with his one eye closed up all the linu*. The
iiia.:ic seemed to lie in his fingers, for when tiiey l»e;jan to
move on the boards Ewan moved also, au'l the tun(» was raised.

Hi> utter uiicoiiscinusness of any oddity or singulaiity in his
pn liiiiinar.es was most delightful to htdiold ; hut it was a fear-
t'ld tiid to the decoium of those uniiccustomed to the scene.
Tlie Laird's wife shook with sih-nt hiuc-hier, and even Macdonald
tiioujiht Ewan exctd'.'d himself. Sheila amust'd him, }'.eihap<,
iiioi'e tiian Ewan. She stood on tiptoe on the seat, with her
MiiiJl neck cianed, in oidi r that she mi;jht have a full view of
tlie j)recentor's box. There was no smile on hef face, or any
siin of amusement — only a look of jierfect, solemn wondei',
which was in'e>istil)le. I fear that, on the whole, the spirit of
soUmi.ity belitiing the solenm exeicises of the day was rather
waiuing in the Laird's pew that morning. Edith, however,
enjoyed the sermon, and had time to compose her thoughts.
She wished, indeed, that the service had closed with the
Sermon, for Ewan's extiaordinary gestures and grimaces once
mere banished every serious thought from her mind. 'I'hey
did not hasten out of the church, and when they rose at length
all the benches were empty except the seat where Ellen
M;icleod sat, with her grave-faced boy by her side. Edith saw
her, and, without a moment's hesi^-ition, stepped round before
the piecentoi's box, and stood directly before her.

'Klleii,' she said, and her sweet voice shonk as she extenih d
lier hand, * we are in the house of God. Will you not tniidi
iii\ hatid in token of fiiendship and forgiveness if I have uii-
wittiniily done wrong?'

It was an a[>peal few could liave resisted. The eyes of
Fnoiis were raised to his in<'ther's face with an implorin-j lo k,
Imt without any eflect on the stony heart of Elh-n Macleod.
She idse from her seat, and, without raising her veil, swej)r
lier i Hut I Id's wife a little haughty curtsey, and passed out of
the church.

'E t

\rl

SHEILA,

Kdith hiistily drew down lier own veil, not wisliinu; licr
liusliuiid to SLH' licr teiirs. But ho saw tlu; wliolc sc»'nt', and
wlu'ii slie joined him there v/as a dark cloud on liis hrow.

' You ought not to have liumiliatcd yourself to lu-r, Editli,'
he said, more ha.^tily than he liad ever sp )k(Mi to her before.
Hut at tluit inoMU'nt their attention was directed by Kwau
M'Fadyen standing on tlie doorjitep in his robe of office, with a
i)land smile on his face.

' I wish you good-niorninfr. Laird, and a full measure
of ;M-()sperous felicity to yourself and your noble lady,' said
Kwan, trotting out his best English and most ' laiig-nebliit '
wolds to grace the occasion; 'and I make bold to prophesy
and prognosticate that never, in all the pellucid annals of the
ancient house of Macdonald, has a iairer, more noble huly
rtigned paramount in Dalmore.'

It was a happy interruption, and the Laird burst into a
laugh.

' Oil, Ewan, man, spare your lang-nebbit words. Stick to
plain speaking or Gaelic, if you want to be imj)ressive,' he said.
' Afrs. Macdonald, let me present Ewan M'Fadyen, our wortli\
precentor. He is a teiumt in Achnafauld. You'll likely kimw
iiim better by and by.'

'1 hope so,' said Editli; and, with a pleasant smile, she
extended her hand to honest Ewan.

'May every auspicious blessing descend on your honourable
liead, madam!' he said, bending his srniggy head over it. 'As
I said before, I prognosticate again that you will be the author
and originator of many blessed days fur Dalmore.'

Macdonald, laughing still, took his wife on his arm and
hurried her out to the cairiage, which he had ordeied to be in
waiting to convey them up the steep ascent to Dalmore. The
country folks were lingering about the churchyard and tlie
manse road, eager for a better look at the Laiid's wife. They
weie mostly his tenants, though Edith did not know it, but she
had a smile for all. Just as Macdonald handed his wife into
the carriage, a horseman rode up, and, taking off his hat, drew
rein, evidently wishing to be presented.

' Angus M'Bean, farmer in Auchloy, and my steward, Ediib,

wlii'«p(
up to
kirk- d

S. Ml

rode (»:
cottars
a little
l»y his
>i-iiear
(•.died J
' Tlie
fMalian
smooth
'Ay;
eccentrii
strike u!
nianner
'It is
'Ay;
it has a
nificance
filong at
very quii

'Oh,
able to h
' Did yoii
take Torj,
'Idou
'i"t been

shepherds
the Higj,

' Fergu
away fron

' At th(
to-niorrov
and hegar
^'.\'e.s clou(
^\Jiich woi

Ill

THE KIRK OF AMULREE.

S«

wlil«porp(l Macdonald. ' You must fxcuse us, ^^'Rt'Jln. Com«»
\i]i to the lioiis** and pay your n-spi-cts to Mrs. Macdonahl. The
kiik door is liardly the place to hold a K^vee.'

S. iiifwhaf cliMurined, Mr. M'Bean raised his hat ajiain, and
rode (»fT. He had hoped for a better reception before all the
cottars, and Mrs. Macdonald's acknowledgment of iiini had been
a little di>tant. She was not, indeed, very favourably impressed
hv his hard, keen visage and rather forward manners. AngUN
M'Px'Mn did not like to be called a land-steward. He always
called and wrote himself factor to Macdonald of Dalmore.

' The manners and customs ap here are rather j)rimitive,
draham,' said Mrs. Macdonald, as the carriage rolled along the
smooth road to the Girron Brig.

' Ay ; perhaps I ouglit to have prepared you for Dugald's
eccentricities. We flie accustomed to them, and they do not
strike us. He is quite a character. Did you notice his noble
manner of expressing himself? '

' It is about as absurd as his singing,' laughed Edith.

' Ay ; if he can get a long word hauled in, in it goes, whether
it has any fitness or not. I suppose it must have some sig-
nificance to himself. They get some terrible laughs at him,
along at Donald Macalpine, the smith's. Well, Sheila, you are
very qniet.*

' Oh, mamma, such a funny, funny church ! ' said Sheila,
able to laugh now at what had held her spell-bound at first.
'Did you ever see a church where dogs go to? Papa, may I
take Tory next Sunday ? '

' I doubt Tory would not keep so quiet as Colin. He has
not been trained to church-going,' said Macdonald. 'The
sliepherds' dogs always accompany their masters to church in
tlic Highlands.'

' Fergus never came to speak to us, papa. Does he live far
away i'rom here ? '

' At the other side of the church. I daresay you will see him
to-morrow. He is always about on the hills,' said Macdonald ;
aiul began to name some of the hills to Edith, for he saw her
eyes cloud. Ay, Ellen Macleod had cast a shadow on Dalmore
Nvhich would be ever present with its gentle mistress, "obbing

wm)

VA:\

■ (

,1 il

1l p'-^ll

SHEILA.

her married life of hnlf its sweetness, ^rjicrlonnlrl, vlio was not
in the least put about by liis sister's fooli^li conduct, except to
feel a trifle annoyed when any new phase of it struck him,
could not understand how it weighed U[)on his witi-'s hejirt, nor
how she brooded upon it in silence and S(jUriide, and piiiyed
that the otdy cloud on her happiness might be swept aw;iy.
It might have given Ellen Macleod a grim satisfaction had she
known that her uncompromising enmity was to her brother's
wife a veritable skeleton in the cupboard.

'Now, Edith,' said Macdonald, following her up to her
dressing-room -vhen they entered the house, 'I could not hear
what you said to Ellen, but I know it was an ap[)eal of some
sort. It is to be the last. She shall beg your pardon before
she sets foot in Dalmore again. I mean what I say.'

He put his hands with a kind of rough kindness on her
shoiddeis, and turned her face to liim, in (>rder to enforce his
words. She tried to smile at him, as she answered tremu-
lously, —

'I wanted to give her a cliance, Graham. I am so liappy, I
Ciumot bear that there should be any cloud. Do you think she
will relent? '

'Do you see Craig Ilulich over there, Edith? Do you think
it couhi walk over here and place itself in the Girron Bum?
Ellen Macleod will nt-ver forgive you, so the sooner you foigtt
that she is in existence the better.'

' I am sorry for the boy. We must try and make it up to
him, Grah;im.'

' If she will let me. But she'll watch him, poor htddie! like
a hawk. But I'll keep my eye on Fei'gus for his father's sake.
and for his own. IL-'s as fine a lad as ever wore the kilt, and
none of his mother's ill-tenper about him, if she does not spoil
him in the making.'

It seemed a fearful thing to Edith jMacdonald that a woman
should cherish a mortal enmity in her heart, and pride herself
that she never forgave an injury. She could neither understainl
nor comprehend Ellen Macleod's fierce, dark creed ; but she
pitied her from the bottom of her heart, and would have served
her if she had any opportunity. But Ellen Macleod went home

to th

her I

liis s

she 1:

(lesol;

(lowiK

th"m.

ferlin;

to Co(t

for hii

which

I do ni

will di:

'Die

feather

Ins mo

sight ol

a homii

' Hov

' I sa'

her witi

lead jiir

think of

''yes ket

'I the

■•^iin[)Iy, i

tlioiiulit

uiiflcr til
'Oh,

Somly.

'n</t|ie,-p
iiients an
The '
.^•■itc of 81
'"' fUllUM

tlii(-\v hii

hii'clu's

Culin U

)(

THE KIRK OF AMULREE,

felie

think
uin V

-1

! like

s siikt'. i

Ir, iim! \

\ si^'il ^

•r>t;m(l \

lut si If i
I served I,
home I

to the plain house of Shonnen filled with hate and anger against
luT hi'iither's wife, who looked so fair and sweet and young hy
his side that d;iy in the kirk of Aniulrce, sitting in the scat
she had usurped. And Fergus, weighed down by a feeling of
desolation and misery he could not understand, walked with
downcast liead by her side, and never a word passed between
tli'Mii. The boy suffered as she liad no idea of. He had a
feeling heart and a sensitive soul. Perhaps he was too young
to comprehend the difference his uncle's marriage might make
for him; but I would rather believe that there was that in him
which could lise above such selfish and sordid considerations.
1 do not think that Fergus M'Lecd, though he is not perfect,
will disappoint us in the end.

' Did you see the vain thing, like a peacock, with the nodding
feathers in her bonnet? — not a fit head-dress for the kirl..' said
his mother, finding her tongue at length, when they came in
siiiht of Shonnen. 'A vain, empty peacock! and she has made
a bonnie fool of 3 our Uncle Graham.'
' How, mother ? '

' I saw the folk laugh at the old grey-headed man handing
her with such pride into the coach. Silly, silly fools! She'll
lead him a fine dance vet, or I'm mistaken. What did you
think of her, Fergus?' she asked, suddenly bending her dark
eyes keenly on the boy at her side.

' I thought, mother, she looked like an angel,' said the boy
simply, and without hesitation ; for such, indeed, had been his
tliounht as he saw the pale, fair, sweet countenance shining
under the nodding feathers of the bridal bonnet.

'Oh, of course you'll stick up for her!' said his mother
siiuily. 'Boy, do you ihiidv there is no duty from a son to his
mill her? I think I'll need to get you to read the comnumd-
nunts and the Catechism this very day.'

'Hie boy's lips quivered ; and when they parsed through the
;:ate of Shonnen, instead of following lis mother into the house,
lii^ turned round the end, and, climbing up the ri>ing ground,
'liivw himself down on a heathery hillock among the scanty
birches.

Culin followed, and, sitting down beside him, lifted one sober

\ I

Wil."

SHEILA.

piuv and let it fall on his master's back. His tail was wa paging
svmpatlieiically all the while, and suddenly Fergus flung his
jinns around his neck, and buiied his face in his sliaggy li:iir.

' Oh, Colin, lad ! ' he cried, and all the sore grfef he found so
ili ro thole was expressed in that weary cry, 'there's only you
'.'mer

dcliglitc

ii:;

ng
[lis

so
ou

-cifMfl

^^'n/

CHAPTER YL

THE NETHER MILLSTONE.

Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind
In chains like these.

0. W. Holmes.

ACDOXALD rode down to Shonnen Lodge next morn-
ing before breakfast. He knew Lis sister was an
early riser, and he was anxious to have this matter
settled as soon as possible. lie was very angry
that slie should have dared to send the boy to the Fauld scliool,
and knew it was only done in a moment of passion to vex him.
For Ellen was proud enough ; and, though it had pleased her
to make a great talk about the poverty and obscurity to wliich
her brother's marriage had consigned her, she would not have
allowed any one else to hint at such a thing. To any outsider,
not intimately connected with the family, she professed herself
quite well pleased with the new arrangement at Dalmore.

Fergus, an early riser too, was out on the hill, and, seeing his
uncle come, flew down to meet him.

' Yes, you can take Mora, and ride her gently along the road,
Fergus, while I talk to your mother. Up you go ! '

Wiih a little assistance from his uncle, Fergus sprang
delightedly to the saddle, and cantered off down the road

towards Loch Fraochie. His uncle stood a moment to admire

i;
II

V-

s«

SHEILA.

M
1

the ])oy's splondid bearing in tlie sivMle, anr! to note liow Wfll
lit' kept tli(f 'iwxy niJire in cui'b. FtTgus Maclcod iVart'd no
living tiling in the world except his nioiher.

TIk^ door was open, and M;iodonald walked iincerenionion'^ly
into the honse. lie found iiis sister in tlie little dining-room,
sitting over the fire doing nothing. She merely looked U|) at
inr brother's entrance, but did net signify in any way that she
was awiire ol" his j)resen(;e.

' Well, ICilen, how are you? Fine morning after the rain,' he
saiil heartily.

' Is it? ' she asked brieflv ; for she resented tlie liappy, liearty
ring in his voice, tlie brightness in his eye; all signs of the
hippiness she so sorely grudged him. She considered them
in-uliing to herself in her poor estate.

'Fergus came up to welcome his aunt on Saturday night,
though you didn't. Still in the tantrums, eh?'

Ellen Macleod made no reply.

'I didn't think you'd keep up an ill-will so long, Ellen,'
lie said gravely. ' Will you not come up and see my
wife?'

' I i)assed my word, Macdonald. All I ask from you and
yours now is to be left alone.'

'You are likely to be. You are not such pleasant company,
ma'am,' returned Macdcmald candidly. 'It's the boy I'm come
about. So you've swallowed your pride, and sent him to school
with the cotfars' sons? What's to be the meaning or end of
this, I'd like to know?'

'I can do what I like with my own, I suppose?' said Ellen
Macleod slowly; 'and as Fergus will have to earn his bread
by the labour of his hands, he had better accustojn himself
early to the society in which he is likely to move in future.'

'Ah, well ! it won't do the lad any harm for a year or so,' said
Macdonald ; and his ofT hand way was extremely fialling to his
sister. 'I'll step in when I think there's need. You're niiiking
j1 of yourself, Ellen, before the coi

pretty

'■)'•

tell

YOU.

Much do I

care for the talk of the country-side!' she
exclaimed passionately. ' Go back to your pmk-faced wife,

otil

THE NETHER MILLSTONE.

^^;l(•(^^n;ll(l, and leave me and mine in peace. You look gay
and liappy enough. You can do without us.'

' O I, vt'i'y well; as I said hcfcjre, it was the boy I came to
sen iilier. You won't be able to keep him out of Dalmore,

Ellrt..'

'1 have laid my commands on him again. If he disobeys
theiu he is to be severely punished.'

'Then the boy is to suft'er too?' said Macdonald more
gloomily. 'Becaivful how you treat him, Ellen. It will not
he easy for him to keep away from the old place. Let him
com*-' and go as he likes.

' Xo, 1 shall not. If I am cruel it is to be kind. He would
only set ins heart more and more on the place, aiul the awaken-
ing would be ten times more bitter. You are very wise in
your own conceit, Macdonald, but you can't teach a mother how
to treat her own son.'

' Well, well, perhaps not. I suppose I may speak to him in
]t;issing, may 1?' asked Macdonald, with a flight smile, as he
turned to go.

She vimchsafed him no reply, and so the unsatisfactory
interview came to an end.

Macdonald was not in the least depressed by it, except
for the boy's sake. He felt tempted to press him to come to
Dalmore as often as he pleased, but it would not be right, he
knew, to set so young a child in direct defiance of his mother's
will, though that will were harsh and unjust.

'Oh, Uncle Graham! it is just splendid to ride Mora,' cried
Fergus, when he drew rein, breathlessly, in the middle of the
roail before his uncle. ' When I'm a man I'll buy a horse just
like Mora.'

' In the meantime, my boy, what is to become of your own
Donald? He'll eat his head off in the stable if you don't come
up to Dahiiore.'

I'ergus threw himself from the saddle, and his uncle saw that
his eyes were wet.

' We must manage someliow, Fergus,' said Macdonald
cheerily. ' When you want Donald, send one of the village
buys up, and he'll bring him down to the Ginon Brig for you.

11 ii

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: i
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1 ;

) \\

SHEILA.

t '

\ ^ Or

And don't vex yourself. This cloud'll maybe blow over sooner
than you think.'

' Oh, Uncle Graham ! ' The boy's face positively glowed
through his tears, and he laid his cheek against iiis uude's
brown hand as it hung down by Mora's side.

'Do your best at Peter Crerar's, Fergus, and keep Annus
MBran in order,' said Macdonald, with a twinkle in iiis eye.
'And never forget that your uncle's in Dalinore — ay, and
your aunt, too, Fergus. She wouldn't hurt a hair of your
head.'

' Ohj I know. Good-bye.'

Graham Macdonald did not readily part with money, but if
ever the generous impulses of his heart bad been called into
play, the last few weeks had done it. Edith Murray had
wrought a change, indeed, in grim Macdonald of Dal more.

So, when Mora cantered off, Fergus found himself with a
golden sovereign in his palm, and what was much better, a
glow of pleasure at his heart. Macdonald was a king in his
nephew's eyes ; for, whatever the man\s faults, and they were
many, he had been a kind, affectionate guardian to his sister's
son. Macdonald restrained his impatient Mora, and rode
slowly along the river-side, keeping his eye on the fields as he
went.

A backward summer had made a late harvest in Strathbraan
and Glenqiiaich, and the cottars in Achnafauld, whose crofts
stood on the damp, cold soil at the top of Loch Fraochie, were
like to have a poor return for their labour. There were
several fields, indeed, lying partially submerged, and the
standing slooks had a blackened, stunted appearance, which
augured ill for the quality of the grain. Macdonald himself
did not interfere with his tenants, all his dealings witii them
beiiiQ carried on through the medium of Angus M'Bean, the
factor, who lived in Auchloy, a snug domicile on the Gairow^s
side of the loch. If there was a man in the strath hated
and feared, it was Angus M'Bean, but by dint of his smootli
tongue and economical management of the estate he had made
liis position secuie. lie was indispensable to the Laird. Mac-
donald had really not the remotest idea of the way the tenants

, . 'I

THE NETHER MILLSTONE,

were ground to tlip oiirth, and because he exacted tlie rent
to the iittcrmoNt farthing, did not know at -what cost and
sacrifice it \vas paid. And Angus M'Bean took very good
c;irt' that there weie vt-ry few direct coinings and goings hctwixt
tlic Laird and tlie tenants. Macdonald was struck i)y the
pitiable a|)peaiance of the crofts, and determined to a^k
Angus M'Bean whether tlie poorer cottars were not likely
to sustain any loss. It wiss the Laird's boast that his fact tr
was a thoroughly practical man, for he had not only been in
his early days a cottar himself, but had for many years now
been I'arnier in Auchloy, the largest holding attached to
Dalinore. His experience, therefore, fitted him in a ])eculiar
wav to understand the workinps of the estate and the needs
of tlie tenantry.

The man mi'jiit k

now

)usmess we

eiioutih, but he was a tyrant and a coward, and his disposition

w.is seltish am

avaricious in

the extreme. Mr. M'Bean did
not approve of little crofts, nor of a large number of tenants
oil an estate. They gave too much trouble and too meagre
returns, and it was his hope and ambition to see Achnafauld
swej)t clean away from Glenquaich, and Dalmore and Findowie
lit out in huge farms. But his progress was very si

ow.

long as the rents were paid, the Laird approved the cottars
KMiiaining on their crofts. The same families had inhabited
tin- little thatched cottages for hundreds of years — in days,
iiiileed, before the name of Macdonald was known in Glenquaich.
The Laiid was very seldom in the clachan, and when, on his
return from visiting his sister, he rode Mora through the burn
which winipled past the doors, the wifies all ran out to give

um a cuitse

as he

asse(

ley

a new interest in him

now since he had become a married man, though they had
thou;iht him very stingy not to give something I'or them to
iii;ike merry with at his bridal. The idea had never occurred
to Macdonald himself, and nobody had suggested it to him.
lie drew rein and sj)iang from the saddle at the smith's door,
one of the mare's shoes bi'ing loose. Donald Macalp;ne, the
smith, was in at his breakfast, but in an instant he was out to
wait \ipon the Laird, while Mary, his wife, looked at liiin over
the white muslin screen at the window.

it '

III,

'. »

: \

« 'I

SHEILA.

., ■!'

H t\

I 1!

■' 'Mi

'Good-day, smith. Look to the mare's hind foot, will yon?
A stone in the burn tripped her np, and some of the nails are
out. Fine niorninp; after the riiin.'

' Ay, sir, sure it is,' said Domihl.

' I hopii the Laird is weel, and his Leddy, too?'

'Very well, thank yon. Poor weather tor the harvest.
The crofts seem in a sorry condition, Donald.'

' Ay,' said DonaM, shiiking his head as he scraped the
niiire's shoe with his knife. ' The Lord lias a queer way o'
wurkin'. It seems to me a needless wastrv, an' a ^infu', though
He can dae nae sin, to destroy the fruits of the earth after they
are come to the ear.'

' The sun may shine yet, Donald,' said the Laird cheerily.
'There seems to be bulk enonjrh.'

' Ay, but it's as green as leeks,' was Donald's brief comment.
'Wo, beestie! stand still.'

Mora was growing impatient of the strange touch on her
dainty limb, and it required all the smith's strong energy to
keep her quiet.

'Anything new in the Fauld, Donald?' asked the Laird.

' N.iethiiig, but that Jenny Mfuzies has gotten Jock's twa
bairns hame from Glesca, an' a bonnie ootcry she's makin' about
them.'

' What has become of Jock?'

' Deid ; an' his wife an' a'. They're nice bits o' bairns. The
lassie s a wee doo ; the laddie has a wan'ert look. Malcolm
and Katie, they are ca'd.'

'Two more scholars for Peter Crerar,' laughed the Laird.
'Ye hae gotten my nephew to school in the Fauld.'

' Ay, sure, an' Peter Crerar himsel' is neither to hand nor
bind ower it,' said the smith. ' Weel, he'll get a giiid education
frae Peter, lie has a heid.'

' Well, well, it will do the lad no harm, Donald. Is she all
riiilit now?' said the Laird, springing to his saddle. 'Thanks
to you ; give my respects to Mary.'

Donald, with his hands under his leather apron, watched
the Laird lide round by Kob Macnaughton's corner, then
slowly sauntered into the house, which was pervaded by a

THE NETHER MILLSTONE.

finp smell of toasted tatcnkes, Mary being busy with her

bilk

iittr.

'Tliiit was the Laiid?' ^fary said, her sonsy lace full (f

iiiteiest.

' Ay, it was. I never saw the Laird mair frank an' f k c,
M;iry Maca pine,' Donald answered; 'I canna tliink liini i(s
bad a man as Angus M'Bean of A.nchloy would nuike ( ut.
There's a kindness in his e}e like a sun-blink on the loch. I'd
a mind to ask him was it his wnll that the loch fidiin' w.is
ta'en awu' frae us. But I'll do it another day, Mary Macal[.ine,
as sure as I stand here.'

'Donald, ye'll not meddle wi' it, my man, or we'll have
Angus M'Be.m down on us, an' he's an ill enemy. Eh ! Kniic
Mcnzies, my hnnb, is that you?' she cried, wiih a motheily
smile at a bonnie wee girlie, with yellow hair and eyes like the
furget-me-not, who looked sliyly in at the door.

'Is Malky here?' she asked, with a strong west country
accent. ' 'I'he skule's gaun in, an' auntie's awfu' angry.
M;ilky's no' ready to gang. lie got pawmies yesterday, an'
he'll get them the day, for the maister's an' awfu' crabbir
man.*

'Ay, Malky disna like the maister. Rin ye to the sknle,
Katie. Gie her a farl, M;iry, an' let her awa',' said the sniiih
kindly. ' I'll look for Malky. He'll be seekin' his le&son
by the loch-side or on ♦he hill.'

' lie's gaen gyte wi' Kob Macnaughton's sangs,' said
M.irv, as she gave Katie a crisp oatcake and a pat on the
cheek.

1 lie smith laughed, and, wghting his pipe, stood in the porch
a minute watching the l)airns gatheiing in for the school. His
lu'jirt warmed to them, and his eyes were filled with a tine light
of soft tenderness. Mary and he had had but one child, wh(<
now slept in the buryiiig-ground at Shian.

He (hd not need to go tar to seek Malcolm, the truant. He
saw him away up the hill near Auchloy, a solitary, lonely figure
among the browsing sheep. The bairn was a s: range bairn,
not like others, He loved nothing better than to wander by
himself among the hills or by the burns, which were a great

Wms

'I: 'I

II i!

«2

.•I IK

SHEILA.

I xvondcrfiil r('V(>larion to tlie boy, wlioso eyes till now liad
M-..I1 nothing but paved sfrcets and big stone houses, which
Mi'riK d to touch the very sky.

11(5 WHS ji thorn in the flesh to hard, <rr;is|.inir Jjmet Menzies,
li;s ;iuur, who looked U|)on the l)iiirns .vs a hcivy i)ur(len, and'
^|"<i ilU piopheaied that the boy would never come to any
'J'lod.

. ¥

1 I
"i:|r

; '"

\^mm

CHAPTER VII.

BAIRN DATS.

O little hearts ! tliat throb and heat
With such iiiijiaticnt, fcvcri.sli hoat—
Such limitless and strong desires.

Longfellow.

HERE was no School Board in Achnafaiilcl, and tlie
cottars conducted their own municipal and educa-
tional matters to please themselves. There was
only scluxjling six months in the year, from
November till May, the children being required on tlie land
in the summer. The teacher, Peter Crerar, the son of a small
fanner on the opposite side of the river, was a clever young
man, quite competent for his duties, and many a good scholar
uas turned out of that primitive schoolroom by the edge of the
Achnafauld burn. For his six months' work, Peter Crerar
received the sum of £6 ; but his food was found, as he obtained
his meals in rotation at the house of each puj)il's parents. His
own home was so near at hand, he had his lodging there,
thiintrli, had he been from a distance, bed would have been
found as well as board. It was a priniitiA-^ an-angcment, but
all parties were satisfied, and the fuundation of a good, solid
education was laid in these young minds at a very nominal
cost.

Such was the academy to which, in a fit of spleen, Mrs,

. !' I

■i"

SHEILA.

\ !•>

III \ -C^^'

I' i ■

I li

Ellen ^T^clpn(l had eloctrd to send lier son. Tbore wns a sclinol
in Aiinili<'(! of a more jinil)iti()Us type, but slie had ciioscn
AcliiiMl'auld i)eci»nsi' it was on Dalniore lands, and also bccau^ic
tli(! (actor's soil, young Angus M'l'jt'jin, went to it. Not tliat
tlie two boys bail ever been friendly, tlie diir^rence in tiieir
dispositions forbade it; but, of course, Ellen Macleod knew
nothing of this. She had a great respect for D.ibnore's factor,
and tliough she was a shrewd woman in most things, she cniild
not see through Angus M'Bean. lie was a liypocrite and a
time-server, a man who wonld spare no eiFort to advance his
own selfish and avaiicious ends. lie liad iield the factorship
for live years, and had conmiended himself to tlie Laird by his
assiduous attention to his interests. Never had there iieen less
trouble on Dalniore and Findowie ; never had the retits been
so punctnally paid. Nevertheless, Angus M'Bean was shiwiy
uiuleriiiining the relations betwixt the cottars and the Laird,
and discontent was smouldering liotly in Achnafauld.

Fergus Macleod had enjoyed his study under Mr. Macfarlane
at the manse of Amnlree, and he thought it a strange and new
thinu; that his mother should send him to Peter Crerar's school.
As the smith stood in the doorway that muming, he saw the
tall, handsome lad, in his dark Macdonald kilt, coming up the
buni-side, and he shook his head.

' It's hard on the laddie, ay is it ; the Fauld schoolin's no' for
liim,' said Donald to himself; for the expression on the boy's
face struck him. His head was down, and though he was
walking (piickly, there was a lack of energy and buoyancy
about his whole demeanour. Tlie smith, by reason of his fine
instincts, was quick to note the si<jniHcance of exjiression and
altitu le in both old and >oung. He saw at once that young
Feigns Macleod was under a shadow, and his ln'att was lull
of syiiij)'i'hy for him. Under pretence of going to look for
Malcolm, he sauntered thr-jugh the clachan, and met Fergus at
the stepping stones.

' A fine mornin', sir,' he said, toucliing his bonnet as respect-
fully as if he had been speaking to the Laird.

'Ay, Donald, a fine morning,' answered Fergus, with a
sudden flash of a smile, like sunshine.

'![.

BAIRN DA YS.

*Yp nrp for fl)e scliool, I sec?' «Mi(l Donald. ' IIow d'ye like
ii)-liv«'? Does Peter Cn-rar come up to MiNtcr Macfarl.HM' ? '

Im'IL'Us gave his l»a^ u jmsh on liis bliuuklur, and u hliglit,
ticiiiulous smile crossed liis face.

' I like Mr. Cierar very well, Donald, but I don't like the
sell'-*! as well as the nian>e.

' Never mind, lad ; it's a deescipline. The Lord has His aiti
wavs ()' workiii', an' giiiil comes oot o' evil. Ye'll he a daur ofi
uoi' (liils o' laddies; I'eler Crerar has his ain to dae wl' tliem.'

'lie taws j)lenty, Donald. There's Malonim Menzies on the
jiill tiear Aiichloy. Is he not coming; to school to-day ? '

'Dear only kens. The laddie's gane wild sin' he cam' frae
rilesca. I was pilten' a sluie on yer uncle's nieer this niornin',
Mai<ter Ferjus.'

' I-ii't she a beauty, Donald?' quoth ihe lad, his eye kind-
ling with enthu>iasni. * When I'm a man I'll have a mare
like Mora.'

'Ay, I houp sae; mony o' them, sir,' said Donald fervently,
for Fergus was a prime favourite of his. 'There's the wee
MBean condn' by Diigal Bain's. lie's lato.'

'So am I. Mr. Crer.ir never taws M'Bean nor me, iind it
isn't f.iir, for we need it as bad as the rest,' said Fergus, cross-
ing the burn at a bonnd.

'Ilewadna like to lick you, Maister Fergus, and the wee
M'B-an he daurna. Though I think \\i' you, Peter shouldna
iii.ik' flesh o' ane and fish o' anither.'

Ftvgiis laughed as he ran off, thougli he did not fully un(h'r-
stiuul Donald's expression. He came up with the factor's son
at the school door, but no greeting passed between them.
Aii<-us MBean, indeed, scowled at Fergus from under his
heavy brows, but Fergus did not change his serene expiession.

'We're late, Angus,' he said cheerily, for though he had
niven him a thrashing he deserved, he was not one to keep up
spite.

But Angus only scowled the deeper. He was what country
l"ii!k call an ' ill-kindet loon,' and there w;;s nothing in his
appearance to win approbation. He was a little, squat fellow,
with a fat, freckled face, and a s.iOck of red hair. ' Puddin'

• h

SHEILA.

I ■',''■

lil

I ::m

il i:

l^i

M'Bean/ he was irreverently called among the youngsters of
the Fauld, who recognised no class distinction, and hated him
with a cordial hatred.

It suited the factor to send his boy for the winter months to
the Fauld . school, as it gave him ground lor posing as a
humble, unassuming man before the Laiid, and he pretended
to have the love of a brother and the interest of a true friend
in his old neighbours. But tliey knew better.

On the whole, Fergus Macleod did not greatly dislike the
school, though, brought up as he had been, it was certainly a
change for him to sit side by side with the rough cottar lads, who
stared at his kilt, and made rctnarks to each other in Gaelic, which
he only partially understood. Peter Crerar, out of his desire to
do honour to the Laird's nephew, set up a small form near his
desk, and put Fergus on it, alongside Angus M'Bean ; but the
lad, young though he was, felt that no such distinction ought to
be made, and begged that he might be allowed to sit among the
rest. He was not any I'urther forward than the bigger boys,
for he was not much inclined, as yet at least, for study, and
Mr. Macfarlane had not pushed him. Angus M'Bean was, no
doubt, the sharpest boy in the school. In spite of the dour,
slow, stupid look, his mental I'aculties were keen enough, and
he speedily left his compeers behind. He had a profoiuid
contempt for the clachan lads, and showed it in every possible
way ; and though they all hated him, he had never been laid a
hand on till Fergus Macleod thrashed him. He caught him
one day after he had pushed wee Katie Menzies from tlie
stepping-stones into the burn, and nearly put her into a fit
with Iright. These were the sort of things that amused the
factor's son, so it may be guessed that there was not nuich love
lost between Fergus and him.

The Lord's Prayer was over, and all the slates out that
morning, when the door was quickly opened, and a pale-faci'd
lad, with large, melanclioly eyes, came cree])ing into tiie room.
It was Malcolm Menzies, who had retui'ued unwillingly from
his wanderings. He did not likti the irksome routine of the
school, and Peter Crerar, having no patience with the slow,
shrinking, sensitive boy, who never had his lessons ready, was

■\m

ii M

BAIRN DA YS.

neeflU'ssly hard upon him. No doubt, the strong, Jazy urchins
of AclinaCuiiId needed the wliolesone discipline of the tawse,
and tli(.'ir brown paws could stand a very honest number of
jiMwrnies; but it was different with Malcohn Menzies. Wee
Katie, wiio had been anxiously watching for her brother, made
room on the form for him, and the boy slipped into his seat
witli a look of anxious fear. He was not allowed to sit on the
front form with the big boys, who laughed at him, the ' toon's
laddio,' as they called him, for being so backward and stupid at
his lessons. The master was busy in the cupboard in the wall
behind his desk, and as his back was to the scholars, he did
no' see Malcolm enter. But this was an opportunity for show-
iuii a mean revenge on the Menzies, which Piiddin' M'Bean did
not intend to let slip. So, when the master turned round and
a^kcd what the noise was, he was told that it was Malcolm
Menzies coming in late. Now the master had had a good deal
of trouble with Malcolm Menzies, who seemed to have no sense
of the passage of time, and would come into the school at any
time of the day. Only three days before he had been punished
for the same offence, and Peter Crerar, being an ordinary, hot-
headed young man, who thought the tawse the only way of
estal)lishing law and order in the school, made up his mind he
would stand it no longer.

' Malcolm Menzies, come up ! ' he said, in that quiet way he
was wont to assume in his sterner moods.

Poor Malcolm trembled and grew paler, if that were possible,
and wee Katie began to cry quietly, with her apron to her eyes.
The boys, who enjoyed, as is ihe manner of their kind, ' a
liikiri' ' given to another, sat up expectantly, and Puddin'
M'Bean <:ritmed consequentially behind his slate.

' You're a mean sneak, Angus M'Bean ! and PU give it you at
leave,' whispered Fergus savagely; for his hot Macdonald blood
sprang up at the cowardly tell-tale.

' I'll tell the maister on you too, if you don't take care,' said
Anmis scowlingly. He was very brave when he was safely out
"I tiai;;i"r s way.

M< aiiuliile, Malcolm Menzies, positively shivering with fear,
c.iiue vei'\ , very slowly up between the forms to the master's desk.

ill'"''

SHEILA,

\ ^t

' Where have you been, eh ? ' ask<*d Peter Crerar, in a loud,
pciviiipttii'v voice.

' Up l)y AucliK)y. I forgot, sir ; an' oh, dirma lick nie, ;n'
I'll never dau't again ! ' saitl the lad ])iteoMsly, but with dry
y^^^^i^. Even after the v^'orst lickintj he liad never been seen to
cry, but he brooded over things, and suffered often a tlu)U>^and
times more than the rest liad any idea of. The smith ])artially
understood him, but had refrained from giving Peter Ci'erar
any instructions abou', him, thinking that the ojdinary drilling
at school might sharj)en him up a bit, and knock tlie sensitive
shriidiing out of him.

' Ju^t so,' said the master grimly. ' Hold out your liand.'

The i)oy did so nervously, but put it quickly beliind his back
befi>re the stroke fell. Them the master lost his ten)per, and
fell upon him, hitting him on the shoulders and on the bare
calves of his letrs without mercy, l)ut the boy neyer uttered a
sound. Fergus Macleod could not keep his eyes away from
the scene, but it made him really sick, and at last he could
stand it no longer, but sprang from his seat.

'Oh, sir, don't! Stop, sir! Hit me. I'm abler than
Malcolm !' he cried, and held out his brave right hand at once.

'i'hen Peter Crerar put up his tawse, told Malcolm angrily
to go back to his seat, and in his wrath actually V)ade the
Laiid's nejjhew hold his tongue. But it stopped the 'licking,'
at which Puthlin' M'Bean was grievously disappointed. Nothing
pK'a>ed him better than the sight of another boy getting a
good taste of the tawse. The pity was he should have so little
experience of it himself. Malcolm Menzies crej)t back slowly
to his seat, and sat doAvn with a queer dazed look on his fac^e.
Wee Katie slij)ped her hand into his, and looked up into his
fac;e, her blue eyes shininji with childish sympathy.

' Dinna greet ony mair, Malky,' she whispeied ; but Malcolm
drew himself away fiom her touch, and when he saw the
master in the piess again, he rose very (juietly and went out
of the door like a shot, and that was the last time Malcolm
Meizies ever sat upon a school form. He ran all his miLiht
into the smiddy, where Donald, in his leisurely fashion, was
preparing for his work.

BAIRN DA VS.

' \Veo1, Inrl, what is't?' lio asked kindly, when Malcolm's
sh;i(l(iw d;irki'iiod tlie doorway.

•Oil, Donald, a>k my auntie no' to let me to the schulc I '
-w'wX t'lic lad, in a solemn, weary voi^e. 'I canna go hack lo the

MllUlC

ess nil

• W'liiit way can you an' Peter Crerar no' agree?
\\li;ii'> the niMJtter wi' yer legs?'

• lie did it,' said the lad, with swelling hosom. * Oh, Donald,
'rt me work in the smiddy or onyihing, hut dinna let her send
iiic to the schuh\ I winiia gang.'

• W'eel, if" ye winna gang, y(? winna, I suppose. Gae awa' to
tlie ])eats, Malcolm, an' help to load the caii't, or I speak to yer
aiiiiMe,' said the good-natured smith, who saw that the hoy was
tnirly roused. lie also feared that if practical Nhuy saw him she
would tliitik it her duty to send him back instantly to the school.

So Malcolm, with a look of inexpressible relief, slipped
(|iii('tly away round the smithy end, and away up to the road.
He had absolute faith in Donald Mac.ilpine, and did not fear
wl)ur the end would be. Bi'fore leave-time it was noticeable
that Puddin' M'Bcan began to grow uneasy in his scat; and
>oMie of the lads who had overheaid Fergus Maclcod's remark,
luid^cd each other in d(dightful anticipation of another tiuht.
l)iit Puddin' circiunvenled them by remaining in the school all
I ave-time, hoping that by the afternoon Fergus's ire would
have cooled. He had a veiy vivid recollection of what \\(\ had
nc'civc'd at the same hands for knocking wee Katie into thi;
huiii, and had no wish to repeat the dose.

\\ hen the school 'scaled,' Puddin' made off; ])ut Feigus
was after him like a shot, and overtook him on the path i>cforc
he had got up to the Auchloy road.

'Now then,' said Fergus, laying down his books, and looking
tiNi'dly at the scowling, fat face of the cowardly lioy, ' what did
\oii mean bv telling on Malcolm Metizies? Didn't I tell \()u
tiiat if you meddled any of the Menzies again, I'd — I'd do for
youV'

'You'd — you'd better! Fll tell my father if you touch me,'
said Angus dourly, shaking in his shoes, though he was two
years older, and much more stoutly built, than Fergus.

.! t

lliiil

t I . i \ t

I I . i i 1 : I I

I 1 I

l:\\

SHEILA.

ii'!

%vi^.

'' Wlien you're tolling, be svire and toll what you were licked for,
then,' said Fergus, giving hnn a tliunip between the shoulders.

By this time the whole school, like a hive of bees, wcic
Hocking up the path. Seeing he was sure to get the worst
of it, Puddin' began to cry, which so exasperated Fertius
Macleod that on the impulse of the moment he gave him ;i
good push, which slioved him over the bank into the l)iiiii.
The recent rain had brought it down a little in flood, and tlic
[)ools were deep and the current strong. But Angus miin.iLicd
to scrandile up the bank, and then what a shout of hiiight. r
iirt)se from the bairns! The whole scene was so comical, tluif,
though he was sorry for M'Bean's plight, Fergus could not hclj)
joining henrtily in the laugh. Then Puddin', fairly roused,
swore at Fergus, and ran oiF as fast as his legs would carry
him to Auchloy. It was not far. About half a mile up the
loch there was a fine sheltering clump of trees, in the midst ol"
which stood Auchloy, the snug domicile of Macdonald's fjictoi-.
The hou:e, one of the shooting lodge?, had recently bet-n
repaired and added to, and presented a v^^y roomy, substantial
appearance. There was a commodious steading at the back,
and a well-filled stackyard, for Angus M'Bean held a large
farm on the estate, and was always adding bit by bit to it. lie
had three children, Angus being the eldest, and then two little
girls. Mrs. M'Bean, looking out of the dining-room window,
saw the boy coming up the little avenue, and wondered at ins
dejected appearance. She came to the door to see what was
the matter. When she saw him all wet, she threw up her
hands in amazement.

' Mercy me, laddie I where ha'e ye been ? Ha'e ye fau'n
into the loch ? '

In spite of her husband's ambition to be a gentleman, ami
her own desire to be a fine lady, Mrs. M'Bean could never
learn to talk ' English,' greatly to her husband's disgust. iShf
was a south country Avoman, and would have been a fine.
good-natured, harmless body if she had been let alone, lint
her efforts to seem other than she was, and to keep up her
husband's position and ambition, fretted her temper, and made
her miserably unhappy. In spite of her big house, her fine

her

III II

liUlil

]vcr

IllH',

\\\u\

llirr

Ifinc

BAIRN DA YS.

clothos, find hor horse and trap, slic secretly often reprretted the
days when she had only been a cottar's wife in xVchiiat'auld.

At sight of his mother, Angus instantly began to blubber;
and when he was drawn into the dining-room, where his father
was, he managed to tell a beautiful story, which fixed all the
bhnne on Fergus M;icleod, and converted him into a hero.

'This is the second time Fergus Macleod has ill-used you,'
said the factor angrily. ' But never mind, Angus, lad,' he
added, stroking his stubbly red beard more complacently. ' The
upsetting monkey! His wings are clipped already, but we'll
manage to crush him yet,'

(

III

?>■«•■

?*^^'1J^e

CHAPTER Ylir.

AMONQ THE FAULD FOLK.

So t^io'-e young lioarts
AVan^eied at ^vill.

Tennyson.

WlSil you'd hold yonr ton Q-ne, Sheila Murmy ! you're
rrightt'iiintr tlio lish, and they won't bite. Lie
down, Culin.'

' I'm tired seeing you ri>h. You can't catch

inytliin"-,' s;iid S|i('i!;i, witii the delieioiis Ciindour of childiiood.

your rod, and let us play. Colin can't keep still,

h wn

Fer-j

tis.

' You're just a bether, Sheila,' said Feruns, as ho bep^an to

ind up hi-s i('( 1, li)r to hlia Slieil.i's word Avas hiw. They

ere frti-at iVii nds — in>^ep,irable companions, indeed — -these

tw'i, tliouirh Keriiiis Macleod had neviT once crossed the

tliroliold of Dahnore since his lujcle's wife came home. Ellen

IMaeleod had piivented him visiting tl.'e house, but she had laiil

no embargo on his actions outside, and had not th(» remotest

idea of the long hours her boy and 'that woman's child' sprut

to.x-rher. The Girxm Brig was their trysting-placo, and Colm

rheir companion and protector, and the two bairns became

ahu(»st lu'cessary to eacii otlier's existence. Those long summer

dass spent among the hills and by the burn-side wit'i Fergus

Were dreams of delight to Sheila Murray, who had been

AMONG THE FAULD FOLK.

cnnfloninod to walk out by tin; Tay wifli a prim nursotJiaid,
or play in solitary state in tin; little garden surrouiidiiiu: the

cf'ttatre a

t B

irnani.

'\\

U'SG days ucre sea

rcely

a nicniorv to

the child. She never recalled them. She was honiidlessly
li,ij)py at Dalmore, and all the natural sunshine of her nature
had lVee>t vent. She was lull of tiicks, and l»rinniiin<j with
laiiL'hter. There was no mischief done at Dalmore in which
she was not concerned, and she was just adored in the house.
'j'iie servants who liad served under Elh-n Macleod's lm im rule
(ir<'W many a comparison, and blessed the day the Laird
had brought home his gentle wife. She was not strong; she
had not been many times at the foot of Crom Creagh since she
canic home, but she was serenely, boundles>ly ha[)py. \\' hat-
ever her husband was to others, he was full of care and
tenderness for her and for Sheila. She did not trouble her
head about the child, but allowed her to run wild among the
Ik ather, and watched her b )rn)ie face and her bate rouml arms
taking on the sun-dye with undi>turbed content, knowing what
a stoek of health she was layittg in for the days when study and
care would demand her at tern ion.

* You don't bother your head much about Sheila, Edith,'
sii I Macdonald one day. 'Do you know where I saw her and
the hoy the other aiternoon in tlie pouring rain?'

'No, where?'

' In the middle of the peat bog at Dalreoch. Fergus is
Icaiiiing botany from no less a person than Rob Maenaughton
ill tlie Fanid, and he trails poor Sheila everywhere with him.'

'She is just as willing to be trailed,' laughed Editii. 'It is
nut among the heatlier, or even in wet peat bogs, any haini will
come to Sle-ila, Graham. As long as she is a child she is safe.'

'I shouldn't wonder, now, Edith, if the bairns theinsflves
scttji' tlie vexed cpiestion about Dalmore,' laughed tlie Laird;
liiit Edith oidy smiled. She had iuj wish to anticipate the

cares winch encon)[)ass every

lother's heart wdien she has a

(iau;^hter to settle in life. So the bairns were allowed to wander
!>iue by side, or hand in hand, by moimtain, moor, and loch,
aiid that sununer Sheila was filled with a wealth of country
lore. She knew the nest of the whaup and the peesvveep, the

n ' i

( ' i , ;

,11

1:1

1.1;

SHEILA,

. Ill '

ii !

il
i'

lijiiint of the fox nn^^ the red deer, and tlie name of every wild
flowiT wliich blew. That most perfect companionship V)et\veen
Fer^^us and herself hiid the founchition of a deep aflfection whicli
neitlier time nor circumstance could ever chan<ie, thonch it was
destincid to he rudely sh;iken hy tlie vicissitudes of life.

' Look, Sheila,' saitl Fergus, laying liis rod on the grass, and
pickitig the k^af of a gr en plant from the marshy edge of the
bui'n ; 'these len •: 3 ' ilies.'

' I don't beliew li,' rs-j Id Sheila promptly. * How can a leaf
eat anything V it h, .Mi..>r*^^li.'

'Bob Macnaugliton slio\\\;u me it; when the fly gets on the
plant, it folds all its leaves over it and scpieezes it dead.'

' Oh, Fergus Macleod ! you horrid, cruel boy, to tell such
stories ! ' said Sheila reprovingly. ' Girn at him, Colin. Isn't he
a naughty boy ? '

' I'd like to see Colin Macdonald girn at me, Sheila Murray.
I'd girn him,' said Fergus, as he began to take his rod to pieces.
• I wish you were a boy, Sheila.'

'What for?'

' Because you'd like to fish, and chase hares, and all these
kind of things. Girls always want to sit quiet, don't they ? '

' I don't. If you don't want me, you can go away home,
Fergus Macleod,' said Sheila quickly. ' I can play by myself
with Colin.'

' No, you can't, or why do you always watch for me Avhen I
fish in the Girron ? Besides, I never said I didn't like you.
You aren't bad at all for a girl,' said Fergus graciously. ' I
say, do you think you could walk to the Fauld ? '

' Of course I could,' said Sheila promptly.

' Well, come on ; I want to speak to liob Macnanghton about
something very special, and if you like I'll make him tell you
about the mist -wraiths up Glenquaich. He's seen tluin.
Would you be frightened. Sheila?'

'No, I wouldn't,' said Sheila; but her eyes opened wide wiili
something like appreluMis-nn. ♦ What's mist-wiaiths ? '

'Things that live in the mountains,' answered Fergus vaguely.
'I'm not very sure myself, because, you see, I never saw thetn.
Rob'll tell you all about them, and we can go to the smith's

:lf

nit
toll

in.

AMONG THE FAULD FOLK.

as well. Mnry will jrivo you some cakes and milk. Then you
will see wee Katie Menzies that I've told you about so often.
Slie's always at the smith's.'

'Is she niciT than me?' asked Sheila soberly.

'Sometimes,' answered Fergus, rather absently; for they had
crossed over the brig, and he was looking away over at ShoiiMcii,
with a look of pain in his eyes which one so young ought not
to have known.

'I don't think you're nice, anyway, Fergus,' said Sheila, in
rather an aggrieved voice, as they turned up tlu; r d to the
Faiild. 'You just fished and fished, and never spok^. at I.'

' I was thitdiing, Sheila,' Siiid Fergus ; and he .'usi ' his
hand over his eyes as he looked to the long, low, • hi e-washed
kirk of Ainulree. ' Sheila, what would you think ii ome day,
wlicn you Were a big woman, you went into the I irk there, and
Saiuiy M' lavish brought up the Bible, and th opened the
vestry door, and let in a new minister, not Mr. Macfarlane, and
when you looked up it was me ? '

' Vou!' Sheila stared with all her might, and then laughed
ritilit out. 'Oh, tliat would be funny!'

' It might be funny for you, but it wouldn't be very furmy for
till',' said Fergus gloomily. ' My mother says that in Septem-
lur, just when Uncle Graham and them are out on the hilLs all
day, 1 have to go to Perth to the school, and learn to be a
minister.'

'Oh, Fergus, what for?'

'She says, Sheila, that I must learn to do something, for I
have no money; and that I must be a minister, because father
was one, and it will be the best thing for me.'

There was a catch in the boy's voice tiS he spoke, and Sheila's
sweet eyes filled with tears of sympathy, thougii she only parti-
iiUy understood it all.

' IM rather dig peats all day, or be a gamekeeper like Lachlan
Macme, or break stones on the road, than go to be a minister.
Sheila. I hate books and going to school.'

' Ijiit, Fergus, Uncle Graham has lots and lots of money. I'll
!i^k him to give you money, and not let you go to be a minister,
it' you don't like it,' said Sheila confidently.

.V'^-

'• 'I

76 SHEILA.

Fcrjrns smiled sadly, rcnionibcring wiih what jiot, stinfritig,
im^paring words Ids iiioilicr had drnoutict'd Aiitit Kditli and her
lit lie iiii'l, and liow she had said they had stolen his hiitlnlLdit

fiMin him. She had said a great deal-

-in<

»re, indeed, tiian FerL;u<

understood — hut that point \s

lite plain

to iii

in.

And

L't It

niaije no dilTerence in his leelin^ to Sheila, who had hecoine as
necessary to his existence as light and sunshine was to Aunt

K.liil

'■}'

1, wiio was en-nriiuu

d hk

e a saint in ids

)0\1S

h I

leait.

Whatever Ids mother inijiht say, he woidd never change towards
I hem nor hlanie them in the least.

Tlu'y walked a lilth; way in silence, until, a>^cendinff one of
I he <:tntle elevations in the road, they saw Aclmalauld and the
>il\erv loch heyoii'^ shimmering in the radiance of th«' summer
sun. A mystic, exfjuisite purple jilow lay on the encircling
hills; a long, dry, bright summer had ripened the heather, and
made it i)loom before its time.

' Oh, Fergus,' said Sheila, and she slipped her hand in his,
' isn't it sunny and luce ? Never mind. Perhaps your mother
won't send you to be a nunister yet.'

Fergus smiled. The beautiful scene spread before his eyes,
in all its grand solitude and peace, had its effect

)flied his vexed spirit

upon lum, and

ipo

' Yonder's a gig coming out of Auc.hloy, Slieila, he said, point
ing with his rod to the c4ump of trees hiding the i'actorS
residence. ' 1 see Puddin' M'Bean in it.'

• Why do they call him Puddin'?' askt'd Sheila; and Fergu.-

1 unfiled at lu-r cur

ions pronouncing of the wov

leila

pure Fngli>h accent yet, though she had picked up a few High-
land words in her intercourse with the servants and witli
Fergus.

• liecause he is so fat. His face is like a bannock all dabbed over
w iih little holes, like Mary M'Glashan's scones,' said Fergus, witli
nene force than elegance of diction; and Sheila only laiigheil.

Mr. M'Bean drove a high-step])ing horse, and the light gig
came rolling over the rough road at a splendid pace.

' Here's Lady Macleod's boy and the little girl from Dalmore,
mistress,' said the factor to his wife, wdio was on the back of the
gig. ' Take a good look at her.'

AMOXG TJfE FAULD FOLK.

Which Mis. M'I>t';iri certainly did, after tlu' gig had piisM d
till' cldldii'ii, and ilu' factor had <!nly saluted theiii.

'She's a dainty wee hiss, Angus. The hawns are \.- v
fiifiKily-iiKt',' was lier conunent.

Av, tlialll do i the nicantitne,' said the factor siLMiili

fail'

1);

illliole

III

iiyhe conie between tliein somt' (hiy,

I (h)n t- like Puddin' M'liean very muvdi ; do you, Ki inn

■stcd

111 her ('

ii-Kcd hheila, who, liavmg heen gi'eatly interc

iiaiiioii'^ acci'iuit of his exjduits at the scliool, iiad been \

iiiiNioiis to see

him.

1 like him! I'd lil:e to put him in the burn every (ia\ lii

lie w.is all washed aw

'7'

said Fer<ius, who was addi(;ted to il

u>e of strong lanjinage, and had grown very combative of laif
111 fact, home iiillu<'iices wi-re soui'in<r the sweet teiniier of tht

e w;is

h(iy. Ellen M;icleod had really no idea of the harm sli
(|. jiil:, and tlieie was nobody lioni.'st enougli or coiii,i'_^c(iiis
t imiiLdi to tell her. Macdoiiald, after that one futile nMiiiing
(■ail, had indeed let lier severely alone, i)Ut whenever he had
>Iij) irtunity he heaped kind words and gifts on the boy, for his

nan was sore

for 1

Ulll.

Hand in hand tlie pair passed on, and turned down the fust
hi'atcn p:it!i into Aclinafauld. Fergus chose this way brcau-^e he
w.inred to show Sheila the pool in the burn where I'uddin'
Md)tan had got his 'dookin';' and there he had to help her
(ivi r the stepjjing-stones, which were nearly dry with the long
(IrwHudit. It was past six o'clock, and the bii^y claiii: of the anvil
\v;is at rest and the smithy ein[)ty. Fergus hoped Donald would
have his suj)per, and that he wou'd l)e smokinii by the side of
the peat fire, for it was then, "when liis own pipe smoke went
ciiiiiiig u[) in beautiful unison with the peat reek, that Donald
Was apt to glide into his most talkative and delightl'ul moods.

Ill all her wanderings with Fergus during the long days of
Hiiiiiiier, Sheila had never been in the Fauld before, nor within
:iiiy of the cottars' dwellings. She opened her liig brown e\es
\iiv wide as she followed Fergus through the low ii.umw dix/r
iiiin the kitchen, the floor of which was white and tlu^ roof black,
'he rafters having been varnislied with the peat ri'ek of geuera-
""us. The kitchen was the whole width of the huuse, and there

; I

7»

SHEILA.

., ,

I ' *■!

WHS a tiny window not much binncr tlian a port-holo, both to
buck sind front. Tlicn, just lu'hind the (h^or, tlicri? w.is tlw
(jiu'cnst, (jiiiiintt'st firc-pliicc Sheila had ever seen in hef hie;
\\\>\ a handful of peals l)uniiii;jf among soft l»r(»wn ash on two
Itiir Ihit stones, and a ketth; liangin-^ on a chain ai)ove it, and
siii;iiri<r with all its niijjht.

A sha^L'y tan-coh)ured colHe hay at full length before the fire,
with a eat and two kittens on its back. On the one side tlii're
was a kind of rude couch covered with a faded tartan plaid. In
tlio i)i<2; arm-cliair, by the peat bin in the wall, sat the smith him-
scir, enjoying his evening pipe. He took it from his niourli
wlieii the children came in, and rose up to receive them, with a
slow, ])leased smile on his bronzed and lugged lace. Slicil.i
looked at him a little shyly, and kept close by Fergus's side, for
tilt! smith was a great big, uncouth-looking man, and the
addition of an immense Scotch boime on his shaggy hair did
not by any means soften the general outline.

'An' this is the wee leddy liom Dalmore? Mary M:ical])iii<'.
ht're's the gentry to see ye.'

.\biry cauK! out of the adjoining room, with a motheily smile
of welcome, and bade them sit down while she ran to get cakes
and milk.

' We can't stay long,' Fergus exclaimed ; ' because we're goitig
ovi-r to K(d) Macnaughton's to hear about the mist-wraiths.'

' IJuin[)h,' said the smith, with a smile. 'Ye ha'e suiely
golttMi round Kob's saf't side. Does he no' lock ye oot?'

' O no, never,' said Fergus. ' I like liob, and so will Sheila.
Wheie's Katie? She's mostly here, isn't she?'

'Ay; but Jenny Menzies, thrawn deil I has ta'en the gee, an'
winna let the bairns come in. It was jealous she was of

\\ wasn't she, Mary Macalpinc? because the baiins, puir

things! bket our ingle neuk better nor her caiddrife hearth-
si aue. An' what are ye daein' wd' yersel' the noo, Maister
Feigns?'

' Nothing. I'm going to be a minister, Donald ; atid if you
sleep in the kirk when I'm ]ireachiiig FJl cry out to you,' said
Fergus, with his mouth full of oatcake.

'A minister!' The smith lifted his hands into the air.

' As W(

lian<is 1
;Ay,
with a

'I'd
a iiK'laii

' Con
wcK- aw

In a

tiaiiglito

was an

t'ii'.'o,.'i'ai

had a la

t;ill and

with the

th.' Faid

to the n

Faidd, hi

Ffigus h

him by

■iixl fears(

Ihiiui in I

without (

Idoiu was

at the tal)

heliitid lii«

lie hcaid

tilt' bairn,

tigiitcned

the h'.g, lo

i'lg face i

heiieath w

eyes.

'I h:ive

iihi.ut tilt
ill). If. I ^

end.'
'Is this

■a

AMONG THE FAULD FOLK.

' As wet'I try to bridle the deer or cage the lark us pit goon an'
liaiids u[)()n you.'

'Av, for sure,' snid Mary, stroking Sheila's soft brown curls
with a vt-ry tender toucij.

* I'd rather apprentice with you, Donald,' said Fi-rgus, with
a iiu'lancholy smile.

' CdUie then, Sheila. If we're going to Rob's, it's time we
wt'ir away.

Ill a two-roomed house, near the roadside, dwelt Rub Mac-
iiaiigliton, stockiiiji-weaver and poet of Achnafauid. lie
was an unmarried man, and lived entirely by liirnM-lf, not
iii'MNMiiging even his neighl)ours to disturl) his solitude. He
hail a lame leg, and was not otherwise lobust, though he was
t;ill and powerfully built, and only in his prime. Fergus,
with the fearless unconct'rn of childhood, went in and out all
the Fauld houses, Rob's not excepted, and had taken kindly
to the morose, stiaiige being, wlio was not a favourite in the
Fauld, because he was not understood. As Donald had said,
Fergus had got round the stocking-weaver, who would regale
hitn by the hour with old legeruls, which were too weird
ai)(l fearsome to have any foundation except in his own brain,
llmd in hand, then, the bairns went through the clachan, atid,
without ceremony, enter«'d Rob Macnaughton's door. The
loom was silent, and Rtjb himself was in the kitchen, sitting
at the tal)le, with an old copy-book before him and a (piill j)en
hi'liitid his ear. He looked round in no well jileased way when
he heard the sneck lifted ; but his face cleared at sight of
the bairns, and he rose to welctmie them at once. Slieila
ligiitened her hold on the hand of Fergus as siie looked at
the h'.g, loose fig" re, with the thin., embrowned, withered-look-
ing face and the straggling grey beard and shaggy brows,
beneath which there gleamed a pair of deep, flasiiing, penetrating
eyes.

' I have brought a lady to see you, Rob, and to hear
iihiiut the mist - wraiths,' said Fergus, as he closed the

(ii)nl'.

end.

And you must tell every word of it, to tne very

Is this the sunbeam frae Dahnore ? ' inquired Rob, with

SHEILA.

jl t 1

.'I strnn2:e softenitiGr of liis rut:<2;c'd features. 'You are wel-
(■oiiic, luacli iiiJicliree.'

Slicila was i-eassured by tliat smile. There is no fear in
(hi! Hioixl until it is iniplaii'ed there by others. RdI) j)la(!'(l
cliiiis for them I'ound the fire, and sat down himself, bur.
Sh"ili j)l.inted herself by his side, and looked wonderingly
;mi(1 (juestinningly into his face.

'1(11 us a story,' she said, patting his liard knuckles with
lici little sol't hand. That touch setit a tin ill throU'jih the
[H.rl's soul.

* I'll sing ye a sonjr, machree,' he said half dreamily. '1
was bur, at it when you cime in.'

And, half closing his eyes, and laving one hand softly on
the lai'jht held of the child at his knee, Rob beiran to
elijint, in a low, musical voice, his own Gaelic, the sound of
which kept both the childrtm spell-bound. It was a jiretty
j)iciurt', rendered more so that they were all so unconscious
of it. This was wdiat Rob sang: —

/ I.

MOLADH GHLEANN CUATCH.

LE Iain Macneachdainn.

Glenn nan caorach, Glennna cuuich nan c laidh louch,

Olia'n eil loithid ri fliaotainn an taobh so d'on Fliraing.

Tha fhalluing co prisi-il, ban- fraoicli 's bun cioba,

Is neconan is niillse niu d'chridiil)!! 's gacli am

Tlia fallaineachd nilior anns a glilfannan bheag bhoidheach,

Tha ni agus ttoras ann a d'clioir aims gadi am ;

Tha sitbionn an aonich 's iasgHch a chaolais

Gu bailt ann ri fhaotainn 'us cho saor ris a bhurn.

Tha loath-cbearc 'us smudan agus coil(5ch an dunain,

Boc maoisich gu luth'or a suibhal nam beann ;

Tlia chaug 's na smeorach 's na badaiiaibh boidlieach

Fo fhanga na Sroina seinn ceol air gach crann,

Tlia ruadli l)buic 'ns maoisich 'us eihiinn If'n laoigh ann,

Daimb cliabrach sraonach air aodainn nan torn,

'S an eaibag l)h(^ag laogbach bbios a combnuidh 's an doire

'S eoin bhachlach bheag loaghach le'n ceileerebh binn.

Tha tarmain 's soin ruadha us lachidh chinn-uain ann,
Maiybeach ghlas a clieum nallach gach nar anns a Ghlcan,

wiili
llu'

AMOXG THE FAULD FOLK. 8i

Na codiil gn gunmach 's na laganaihh naigneach
Ain fasga na luachrich na cuirteag gle chniinn,
'Miiiii tliig oirnn an Luin^isd's am (lireadli nan stwcaibh,
];i ill laiiiliiiclid ail fiidar 's luaidh dhu-gliorni na deann,
Aig nioriaiaihh 's aig Duic:iilili, le'n cui hlioara dubailt,
Be an aigli.dr's an sugiadh tighinn deu ort 's gach am.

Tha toilinntinn ri fhaotainn ma d'ghlacaibh tha faoilidh,

Gar am biodl, ach Loch Fraoclii'ili na aonaran ann ;

'S trie blia me le'm dliriamlaicli 's le'm chulae bheag rialiacli,

'S iTio gliad air a lionadh le iasgaibh nan lann.

Till tliu crea^anach, sronach, feadanach, boi<lheach,

Tlia thu bileagacb, foirLanach, romach, glan, grinn ;

Gu (learcagach, broileagach, snieuragach, oireagach,

'S gach meas bu roighneach sna coilliibh a cinn.

Clia'n fhaight am folach aon am an a d'choirsa

Ach muinenn do'n choineach bu nosir glan grinn :

Fnioch conihdach nan sleibhtcan fo blathas mios a chestein,

Is mil as ag eiridh mar eirthuinn nan tom.

Tlia'n abhainn gu brighor a tcatnadh gun sigios oirr,

Air loaliaidh do'n phehhJe na sin ad chom,

Dol seacbad na lubnibh gun smalan gun snniir oirr,

Is i ceadach am shuileabh mar shuicar glan pronn.

Struth fiorghlan mar chriostal Icam s miann bhi ga fhaicinn,

IVIar fliion-dearg tha bhlas domh 's tu carach gu grinn,

'B tu srutban is boidhche tha'n faobh so do'n Jordan,

'S ged theirinn cba bu sgleouisge mor Amazon.

Tlia an eala r-" phriscil-leam 's ait bhi ga inn.scadh,

Gu sucrach na sineadn air dilinn n^n toiiii ;

Gu ma maiieann na daoine, cliosd ruit am maoine,

Dhcanamh tioram a chaolais do gach aon tha san flonn.

Tha sruthan glan craebhach a Glcannlochan a taomadh,

Cluinias liiadh agus aodach ris gach aon tha san duthaich,

Le innsramaide grinne-muillcan cardaidh 'us mine —

Gha'n eil aicheadh 's a cliruinne le siitadh gu cul,

Tha i!o ghibhtean do aireamh, aig a mhiad, is a dh 'fhas iad,

On am san robh Al)I am braig cuig imnnt,

Is tu 's aileag.an dhuinne thar gach ait anns a chruinnp,

CLaidli ar 'n arach aunt uile, is c'um nach moLimaid thu.

[Till; foregoing song was composed by John Macnaughton, Achnafauld,
<il< ii'l'nii. h, who ilied in the year 18G0, aged 85. The following is a trn'ib
lutiuu by A. C. :— ]

l-H

^jl

.It

1 '

SHEILA.

PRAISE OF GLENQUAICH.

Glen where the sheep are, Glenquaich, where live brave, hardy heroes,

Thine equal is not to be found on this side of France.

Thy mantle's so precious of heather and mountain grass,

With daisies so lovely abounding at all times.

There is excellent health in that beautiful little glen,

And cattle and riches are to be found in thy precincts.

Venison off the hills, and fish from the loch.

Are to be found in abundance, and as free as the water.

Grey-hens and wild iiigeons and grouse from the moors,

And roebucks so agile roam over the hills ;

The cuckoo and mavis in the beautiful woodlands.

In the shelter of the mountains, sing music on each bow.

The red-deer and doe, witli their frisky young offspring,

And the stately antlercd deer on the brow of the hill ;

And the beautiful roes are at home in the thicket,

Where the blithe feathered songsters are singing so sweetly.

Tliere are ptarmigan and grouse, and blue-headed wild ducks,
And the white hare with her proud step is to be found on the

hill.
Sleeping securely in the seclusion of the hollow.
Cuddled uj) very snugly, quite near to the rushes.
When Lammas has come, and grouse-shooting begins.
Lords and dukes with their double-barrelled guns
Get a plenteous supply of powder and shot,
And their joy and their sport is to come to the Glen.

Delightful enjoyment's to be found in thy valley,

Though there was but only Loch P'raochie there.

Oft with my line .and a little brown fly

Have I filled my withe with the beautiful trout.

Thou art craggy and rugged, with thy beautiful brooks ;

Herbaceous, extensive, rough, but right clean.

Blae, woitle, bramble, and cloud berries.

The choicest of fruits will grow in the Glen.

Rank foggage will never be found on thy hills,

I>ut mountain grass and moss in the beautiful dells.

Luxuriant heatlicr grows on every moor,

And the fragrance of lioney is conveyed by the breeze.

Untiringly flows the substantial river

In its chanmd, a bed of tiie clefuiest of pebbles.

Winding cheerily on, free .f mud and of dust,

More precious in my eyes than the sweetest sugar

AMONG THE FAULD FOLK.

Thy clear streari, like crystal, I love well to see ;

Sweeter than red wine to me is thy taste.

Thou'rt a lovelier stream by far than the Jordan,

And no lie, though I say it, than the great Amazon.

The graceful swan— I am proud to declare it —

Is quietly reposing on thy watery wave.

May those generous men flourish who gave so much money

To bridge over the river for all in the Glen.

A tributary stream from Glenlochan comes foaming.
Which keeps food and clothing to each one in the place
By the excellent machinery iu tlie meal and wool mills.
No better than these can be found anywhere.
Thy gifts without number to all who will take them
Since that time that Adam lived up in the Glen.
Tliou'it a jewel more precious than all in the world —
Why should we not praise thee, who nurtured us all ?

■i

iUfe

CHAPTER IX.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

Love ! wlio bewailost

Tlie fi'iiilty of iill tilings well,
Why clioose you the frailest

Fur your cradle, your home, and your hior?

Shelley.

,P and down, to and fro the dining-room of Dahr.ore,
strode Macdonald one August eveninp", and Ik- Lad
the appearance of a man in the k( en tlii'Ks ol'
mental anuiiish. His hrows Aveie kiiir, and In'
clasped and unclasped his hand'? vvitii a nervous haste as hv
paused now and again to listen with ."^r ained ear for any sound
to come from upstairs. In the upper room, liis wife, tlie dailinu
of his heart, lay beiween life and death. Another hour, the
physician had said, wouhl decide the issue. Ih; set nied to have
been enduring this agonizing strain for hoius; in reality, it
was only miiuites. Tiny had sent hiin down. Tiie doctor
had itnploied liiin to stay in the dining-room ; for his restless,
liurri( d })acing up and down the conidor was disturbing tl ••
sick roon). He had obeyed innnediately. Ail he could do tn
heln Avas to keep out of the way; but oh, they sei'tned cai(lis«-.
indiifereni to his agony, tlioui>h it was the light of his life \\\
WHS in such f<'aiful peril. He heard a foot on the stair
li'iigll), and sprang to the door. 'J'he doctor, a grave, middii-
M^^iil man, of eminent skill, who had come all the way from

111
at

! 1

IV, llu.'
I) have

11 y, It

[or lie

do to

\n1io

lair at

lulili"'-

fioiu

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

Iv]iiiV)urgh to attend at tliis crisis, motioned him to be siU'nt,
aiitl. entering the room, shut the door.

' It is over,' he said hricfly ; 'the chikl is dead.'

'Wliat is tiie cliild to mo? How is my witV' ? '

'She cannot live,' said the doctor briefly, and, turning I i>;
head away, strode over to the winuv)W, and stood with his li;ul;
to the man, not caring to look upon liis anguish.

'Not live! Why not?' ciied Macdonald. 'What use are
you if }'ou can do nothing for her?'

'Mr. Macdonald,' said the physician gravely, almost sadly.
' wi' can only do what we can. We cannot work miracles.
Xn'liing short of a niiracle coidd save your wife's llf. .'

Macdonald groaned aloud. The doctor was amazed to see
such evidence of devoted love. lie had not been greatly pre-
p(i>M'ssi'd in favour of this rough Highland laird in the hours of
th.' last ev«'niiig whicli he had spent in his conij)any. lie had,
iiidt ed, wondered in what curious way he had wooed and won
so sweet a Avife. But there was no doul)t about the u:eiuiiiiene.>s
of the man's anguish. It was searing itself into every feature.

' Xothitig can be done? ' he said, calming Ijimself by an effort.
atid speaking iti a tone of anxious inquiry.

'Xoihing. The strength is completely gone. Mrs. Macdonald
has never been a very robust woman. No constitution to fall
back upon.

Such was the brief, callous explanation of the whoh' matter
as viewed in the light of medical skill. Macdonald re ived it
ill silence.

'How long' — He stopped short, unable to frame the
(jU'^tioti his eyes dumbly asked.

' Not long. You had better go up. She has ask< d for you
seviiaj times.'

Without a word, Macdonald turned and marched out of the

rodiu.

rill n th(! physician stretched himself on the couch and shut
Ills eyes. He had been up all night, and his work was done.
lie was not a heartless man; but he had never married, and
e< uld not understand a husband's feelings. He wai^ ijideed,
r;ither sceptical about them, as a rule.

! 1, 1 'i

ill

I I

SHEILA.

\ ^

The Laird met Anne, Sheila's nurse-girl, on the stair. She
was crying, with her apron at her eyes. He passed her by
v/ithout a word, and stiode on to the large, wide bed-chamber,
with the long windows looking over to Aniulree, where his wife
had laid lier down to die.

The nurse heard his heavy foot in the corridor, and passed
out as he went in. She only slipped into the adjoining room,
to be at hand if required. Macdon.ild only saw one gleam of
tlie perfectly colourless face on the Aviiite pillows, and, staggering
blindly across the room, he fell on his knees at the bed-side
and buried his face on his arms. His action shook the whoK-
bed, and his wife opened her eyes Then her hand went forth
very feebly, for her strength was spent, and, reaching his head,
lay there content. In his deep, terrible agony, he was un-
conscious of that light, loving touch.

' Graham,' she said at last, in a voiceless Avhisper, ' Graham,
look up ; there are some things to say.'

He flung up his head, and his eyes dwelt upon her face
lovingly, yearningly, with a look wh>h might have drawn her
back to life and health. It told of intense, undying, unutterable
love. She had all his affection, for until he met her it had
been lavished on none. Ellen Macleod was his only living
relative, and she had not sought or won any of his love.

' It is to be a fearful trial, Graham,' whisp.ered the dying wife
feebly. 'Try to bear it. We have been so happy. I — I thank
you for all ' —

' Hush, hush, Edith ! don't torture me ! ' he cried hoarsely.
' I have only known what life is since you came to Dalmore.
Oh, wife, li 'e — iive for my sake!'

' I wr.uld if I i^otld,' she whispered, and her faint smile was
very sweet. ' But i ^lust go. We cannot understand. Some
day it will b ; niacl:' pi; in, and it is not for ever.'

Her hopefa! word? found no echo in his heart. Ah ' in
death's dark ho\ : it is not easy to find comfort, even in ^ i-i-'
hope. \x sometr les seems aS if our day had set in utter
darkness.

Th J silence which followed was broken by the hasty patter of
small feet in the corridor; the door was opened by a quick,

■-»
•it,

impulsive
u])0i! the

' Oh, ni;
cried, as if
so white,
is crying ?
'i'lie mot
she liffed
dona 1(1 s ne
' Kiss n);
papa,' she
care of She
Even in f
married life
Macdonal
know no nu
Then lie bee
about his ne
his heart, an
glance.

Ellen Mac

Slioimen, bu

grassy slope

with Colin b(

and Shonnen.

thing why tl

belonged to

when he bro'

show at Invt

liitn house-ro

only visited 1

young master,

Fergus had

fiir enough fn

two days to

Graham woul

promised. It

THE SHADO W OF DEATH.

impulsive li:mcl, and Sheila, with a quick, sobbing cry, sprang
U])Oi! the bed.

' Oh, niiuiuna, mamma ! they "would not let me come ! she
crietl, as if her little heart would break. ' Wliat is it? you are
so white. Are you very ill, dear mamma? Is that why ])apa
is crying? '

The mother had no strength to reply. With a last eflbit,
she lil'ted the child's hand and tried to place it round Mac-
dona Id's neck.

'Kiss mamma, darling. Be good, and love and care (*«».'
papa,' she whispered slowly and with difficulty. 'Graham, take
care of Sheila, and don't let Ellen Macleod come near her.'

Even in death the shadow Ellen Macleod had cast on Edith's
married life lay chilly on her heart.

Macdonald heard these words as in a dream. He seemed to
know no more until they told him gently his wife •tvas dead.
Then 'le became conscious of a childish hand clinaino: tearfully
;ihovit his neck, and, gathering himself up, he to(dv the child to
his heart, and turned away Irom the room without a backward
ghuice.

• • • « • • •

Ellen Macleod was sitting at the drawinor-room window at
J^honnen, busy, as usual, with some knitting. On the little
grassy slope before the house Fergus was lying at full length,
with Colin beside him. Colin divided his time between Dalmore
iiiid Shonnen. To him it had appeared at first an extraordinary
thing why the family should be separated. 'I'he dog really
belonged to Fergus, his uncle luiviug given him to the boy
when he brought him home, a prize puppy, one day from the
show at Inverness. But Ellen Macleod had declined to give
liiin house-room at Shonnen ; so Colin slept at Dalmore, and
oiilv visited the Lodge when he wearied for a sight of his
young master.

Fergus had an open book before him, but his thoughts wa're
far enough from study. He was thinking that it wanted Itut
two days to the ' Tvvelfth,' and wondering whether Uncle
Graham would let him handle a gun this year, as he had
promised. It was life to him to be out of doors. Do what

-.1

I ! ^

\ 4

SHEILA.

1!
! '(

tlioy woiiM, tlicy would never iniikc a student of liim. Kll<ti
Maclcnd knew tliis riiilit well, but the knowledge did iM»r in d<e
her waver in her decision. An heir was expected at D.dniore,
so her hist hope was exiiriguished.

' Feiuus, isn't that Jessie Mackenzie running up the mad V '
she a-ked, j)Utting her head out of the open window, and
pointing along towards Amuh-ee.

'Yes, ninther ; what's she Hying like tliat for?' asked FerL^n*,
tuiiiing on his side, and shading his eyes Ironi the glow of the
■lUlset.

' I can't tell ; it is most extraordinary. She oidy went an
erraiid to the inn for nie,'

riiey were not long kept in suspense. The girl came hurry-
ing up to the Lodge, in by the back entrance, and stiaiglit
to the dining-room door, and ojiened it without kiioekinL'.
Through the open window Fergus heard quite j)lainly eveiy
word she spoke.

' Oh, ma'am, Mrs. Macdonald's dead ! '

'What?'

Ellen Macleod sprang to her feet, and her face flushed all over.

'Quite true, ma'am; at twi-nty minutes past six; an' the
babv, a son, is dead too. Oh! oh! what a d.iy for Dalmore!'
and the v Ann-hearted girl wrung her hands in tt)ken of her
distress.

'Jessie Mackenzie, the thing is impossible! Mrs. Macdonald
was alive and well, out in the garden, 1 was told, no later than
yesterday.'

'Ah, but that's not to say .slie's alive this day. Oh, it's too
true, ma'am. Word came di)wn from D.dniore to ^r:icpher>on,
and he's driving the doctor in to Dvmkehl to catch the train.'

'Dead!' Eiltu Macleod turned awr.y, and, approaching the
open window, stood there in stony silence. Slie saw Feiiius,
with Colin at his heels, alieady crossing the Braan by the
ste[)ping-stones he had rolled down himself before the Lodge to
make a quick cut to Dalmore. She knew where the boy was
going. She pictured hitn even entering the house, while slie
repeated to herself the one word — dead! The woman who had
supplanted her Iiad not long enjoyed the place she had usurped.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

,'or.
tilt'
•e!'
her

too

the

gus,

the

h.ul

nt'id ! Tlmt briglit, sweet, gracious vvdiiiati, whose girlish
iHaiuy had made iiiatiy wuiuh-r at Macdtniahi's hnk. Dead !
It \v;is an awful tlmtight. lU-r hard, ])i(md luotith (jiiivcri'd,
lint with griff, for she felt none, litit with th»' sheer vioh'iiee of
ilif |ili\>ical and mental shook. Meanwhile, Fergns was nin-
iiiii'i with all his might up to Dalnicre, There was tuihody
ahoiit the outhouses, and when he got round to the Iront
till ranee he found tlie door wide opeii. As he stepped into
the liall he was struck by the strange brooding siU-nce in the
liniise. lie started when the clock struck eight. Colin liad
his tail between his legs, and was suspiciously sniffing the air.
Siuhleidy, without any warning, he gave vent to a long, inoimilul
hiwi. which made Fergus shiver, and brought two servants
hiirrving up iVoni the kitchen to see what it meant.

'It's oidy Colin, Christina,' said the boy, with a faint, sickly
smile ; ami, taking Inm by the collar, he dragged him out to the
stalije and shut him in.

'Is it true that my uncle's wife is dead, Hamish?' he asked
the stable-boy, who was lounging at the coach-house door with
his hands in his pockets.

ILnnish nodded stolidly; and Fergtis went away round to the
fioiit door again, and entered the house. He (15 a not ktiow
what he wanted, or what made him stay, lie could not believe
that Aunt Edith, who only a few days ago had stopped lier
carriage on the road to lean out and kiss him, could be lying
ciild and still, as he remembered seeing his fiither lie at the
iiiatise of Meiklemore. lie waiited to see his Uncle Graham or
Sheila, just to make sure that this terrible thing had really
h:i]tpened. He looked into the dining-room, but it was empty.
Ihedoorof his uncle's own room on the t)p[)Osite side of the
Cdiridor was wide open, and there was nobody in it. With
i.iiiM'iess step and l)ated breath, Fergus crept upstairs to the
(li.iwing-room. He heard t!ie sound of whispering voices and
liunying leet on the upper floor, but nobody came to disiurb
liiin. 'I'he drawing-room door was a little ajar, and wdien he
l^"krd in, he saw crouched up on the deerskin rug a little figure
ill a eiumpled white frock. It was Slit ila, poor motherless
lamb! fast asleep, with the big tears lying wet on her white

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SHEILA,

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clic'cks, and fringing ])er long brown laslies. It was past
her bi'd-tinic, but tlicy bad Jbrgotten all about lier ; wliile slic,
poor cbild ! bad forgotten }ier sorrow in tlie deep sbimlicr of
cbildiiood. A hunp r<.>sc in the boy's throat, and ho tnrneil
away. Not given niuch to tears, his eyes were full at sight ot'
Slieila. Just as he slipped away downstairs, lie met Mrs.
Cameron, the housekeeper, who looked surprised to see him.

'Where have ye come frotn, Maister Fergus?' she ;•. .ked, in a
whisper. 'This is a sad, sad day for Dalmore. Will you come
uj) and see our sweet leddy ? She's like a angel in her sleej).'

The boy shivered, but there was a fascination in the
thought, lie could not really believe th.it Aunt Edith wil^
dead imless his own eyts convinced him. So he nodded, and
followed the housekeeper upstairs once more. Their work
was done in the chamber of death. Loving hands had per-
formed the last service on earth for the beloved mistress of
Dalmore, and when Fergus stole softly, fearfully almost, into
the room behind the servant, he was conscious of a curious
peace which fell upon liim. The blinds were drawn, but the
sunshine she had loved stole through, and made a mellow
radiance in the room. They had removed frotn the room
everything which could suggest the brief, sharp struggle which
had snap[)ed the thread of life, and there she lay white, calm,
peaceful, with her hands folded, and a sprig of wi ile heather
on her breast. The face was uncovered, and it seemed to
Fergus that she looked as if she had been asleep ; there
was even a faint smile on the sweet mouth. She had left a
blessed memory behind, even in the heart of the boy to whom
her smile and her motherly kindness had been like the wine of
life. If Ellen Macleod had but known what was passing in her
son's heart at that moment, she would have been jealous of her
rival even in death. But iliat was a thing Fergiis Macleud
never spoke of until years after, and it was to one who shaied
with him the regret that a life so precious should have been
so pi'ematurely ended.

'That will do, thank you, Mrs. Cameron,' he said gently.
'Would you let me have a bit of that heather just to keep, that
little bit touching her hand ? '

•>

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

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pint'iinnd. As Fergus r.bich'od went (h.wnstairs he kissed tlic
sjtriu' of white heather, and in that kiss a vo\v was hid. \\\\\\\
it \v;is we may not yet know, V)'.it it made a man of oir lici .
.iiid lillcd 1dm with a maidy resolve.

lie did not jio b.ick to the drawing-room. Young thonLili

lit' wa^, he frit that slccj) was merciful to Sheila. 'J'hcrc wi nid

lit' jilciity ot'limc to-morrow lor lier to cry her heart (jut ani w

f-r wliat she had lost. Tlic sun had set when he went out "t'

il'iiiis ;ig;dii, and the sky hcvoiid ( Jlt'n(|uai(di was a wonder of

Lili'ii'iis loveliness. There s( t'ine(l to be a soletnn hiish in ilie

.lie. but there was nothing sad or melanchoiy to add to the

laiiiial giief. Nay, it \v;is ;is if the Ang(d of Death, in his >wirt

]i,i^-;iue, had lel't an abiding peace on Dalmore. Fergus went

til the >tidile for Colin, and turned his face down the hid. lint

tiie (hi::' woidd not fcdinw. He rushed to and fro, whinin ;

iii;e;ivilv, and finally set ofT round by the stable and up thri.ngh

ihr tlis towards the crest of Crom Creagh. P^ergus had the

iiiiiii>^ity to follow him. not l)eing in any special hurry to go

h.i k to Siioiineii. He fidt, thoiiL;h he could not exj)ress or

uiidii>tand it, that his mother woidd break the spell of peace

wMch lini:(ied about Dalmore, and that she woidd fret him

■ iiid make him iiii>eiable about his atint. II(! was only a (diild,

hin cNpciience was teaching him. He had visions and j)erce])-

tinii> t'.ir beyond his years. He coidd even weigh mttives in

till' halaiice, and discriminate between ri^jht and wrong, justice

;iiid injustice, with marvellous [trecision. He had thus no ical

t'liildhood. But for the whoh'Sonie itiibiences of the out-door

wnrld ill which he lived so much, he must have grown up an

unnatural, uidoveable being. But nature is a kind mo'lni.

SJic -a\ed her boy. (\)liii was far ahead, leaping over he rhei

:i!id hru' ken, and cleariiui tlu* burns aiul the boulders with lied

^ti'p, as if he had an etid in view. At la^t Fergus lost sight oi

liiiii. hut, fdllowing in his wake, came upon a sight which made

liini suddeidy biu'st intj tears. There was the solitary, mouiu-

hil figure of his Uncle Graham, sitting on a boulder under the

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frowiiincr ornst of Crom Creagli, with liis liearl deep buried in
his liiuuls, Hglitiiig his lone, silent l)attle wIktc no eye but
(lod's could see hitn. But the t';uthrul dog, with a keenness of
iiHuitiitu which seemed more thiin instinct, had found him our,
iiiid now lay at his feet with his head on his knees, winning
jiiteoiisly, with his almost human eyes fixed upon the bowed

he.'ld.

Fergus crept up to his uncle's side, laid his arm round his
luek. and whispered ')r(»kenly, —

'Oh, Uncle (iniham, don't cry!'

A shudder ran through Graham Macdonald's stalwart rr.ime,
aiid :i deep gioin escaped his lips. He moved his hand, and it
ttiuched Colin's head. He never spoke, but. putted the taithful
cnllie, and then looked up at Fergus with a strange, melancholy
sniik".

' Ay, Fergus lad,' was all he said ; and then his eye wande'ed
away i)eyond the root" of Dalmore to the sweet valley of (ilen-
(juiiich, where the loch lay gemmed with the ruddy blush ot
the sunset on its breast. It was a picture she had loved, and
never again would her eyes rest upon it. It had lost its beauty
for him. From that day the world was a changed world for
Macdonald of Dalmore,

I- )

! I

CHAPTER X.

ESTRANGED.

Go ! T)arkon not, by alien voire an<l look,
The place made sacred by her nicniory !

aT was all over. Tlie Lady of Dalmnre had been

borne to her rest at SIii;in by the strong arms of

those -wlio loved her, and laid down on the green

hillside within sight of the silver loch, while Blind

Rob's pipes played tlie mournful notes of 'The Land o' the

heal.' It was a great gatliering — a 'beautit'u' buryin',' the

Faiild wives said to each other, as they sobbed over the

untimely end of the sweet Lady of Dalniore. It was as if

n:itii:e mourned with her human creatures, for a dreary, wet

mist hung low over mountain, moor, and loch, like a [>all.

And when it was all over, Graham Macdonald went back to

his dreary home, where a white-faced child in a black fiock

was wandering desolately through the house, crying for the

mother that would never come again.

From the upper window at Shonnen, Ellen Macleod watclied

the fiuieral train leavi; Daltnore and wend its way along by the

Ai.'hnatauhl road towards Shian. But the intervening distance

\v;is too wide to permit lier to distinguish the dilFerent carriages

anii e(|uipa'ies which niade up the long, imposing train. It was

a giL'ut gathering, for even in the few short months Edith

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Macdonald had reigned in Dalmore she had made for herself
many iViends. Fergus was very wet wlien he retJirned fd
Slionnen hite in the afternoon, for the mist- wraiths had drooped
tlicir wings lower and lower, until they too drofiped tears for
the Lady of Dalmore. After he had clianged his dress and
eoine to the dining-r<)om, his mother found him absent and
uncommunicative.

'It was a great burying, Fergus,' she said. 'I could not
make out the coaches. Who were all there?'

' I don't know, mother. It was a great crowd.'

' Who let down the coffin, then ? You can surely teli
Jl.at;

' Uncle Graham at the head, mother, and I was at the foof,
beside Sir Douglas Murray. Lord Dunloch was at one side,
and General Macpherson at the other. I don't know the
ivst.'

' What ministers had you at the house? '

' I dor.'t know them, mother, except Mr. Macfarlane. There
were others there, I think,' said the boy wearily, for 'he
(jiiestioning hurt him. lie had been sufficiently saddened bv
the event of the day. He coidd not bear to discuss eveiv
tiifling element in it, as his mother evidently desired. She w.is
consumed with curiosity — had, indeed, felt a kind of surprised
chagrin at the great turn-out of well-known people at her
sister-in-law's burying.

' Were there any ladies at the house?'

'Only Lady Ailsa Murray.'

' Did you hear anything about any arrangements? Is the
little gill to go to Murrayshaugh ? '

'Siieila? Oh, I don't think so. I hope not,' said Feraus
(jnickly. 'Uncle Graham won't let her, I am sure. 8lii'
s;it on his knee all the time of the service in the diniim-

I'oom.

Dinner was served just then, and the subject was laid aside.
I>iit ICIlen Macleod pondered certain things in her mind for
the rest of that day. The violence of the shock the sudddi
death had given her had worn off, and she had felt a strange

i\ w

ESTRANGED.

tlirill that very aHernoon when the funeral train passed by;
for the interloper was gone, and there was notliing now to stand
lift ween Fergus Miiclcod and Dalmore. She liad already
scttltd in lier own mind that the child Sheila would rtturn to
thf Muirays; for of course she had not the shadow of a claim
to expect a home at Dalmore. And, after a time, when the
way was smoothed, and past differences between her brother
iiiid herself healed by a little diplomacy on her part, she
j)i(tured herself and Fergus reinstalled at Dalmore.

It had been a trial of no ordinary kind for her proud spirit
ti stoop to the obscurity of Shonnen Lodge. She had not
spnken to Macdonald for montlis, but she had no doubt that he
wnuld feel the need of her help at this crisis.

littween the death and the burying, however, no message
lia'l come from Dalmore — not even a formal notification of the
evt nt — neither was she asked up to the house for the service of
th" funeral day. She knew that Lady Ailsa had come up the
(lav after Mrs. Macdonald's death, and had not returned to
Muira^sliaugh. So she attributed the lack of attention shown
to herself to the officious interference of Lady Murray, and
resolved to bide her time until Dalmore should be restored to
solitude. A few more days passed by, and as no message came
fnnii Dalmore, Ellen Macleod made up her mind to go up and
find out for herself how matters stood. She had no means of
knowing whether her brother was alone, or whether Lady
Murray still remained, and her curiosity could no longer be
I'lstiained.

Fergus had gone off for a long day's fishing on the loch ; so,
larly in the afternoon, Ellen ALicIeod left Shotmen, and, crossing
'iver by Fergus's step|)ing-stones, walked slowly up to Dalniore.
Siie had not crossed the Girion Brig for eleven months, sitice
'ill' day she had left Dalmore, a week before her brother's
niaiiiage. She was not a sentimental woman, and she felt no
111 ill of feeling as she entered upon the familiar carriage-way.
Hi r interest in Dalmore was of a very practical kind, chiefly
'iKKJe up of j)ride and greed.

But she did think, when she reached the tableland and turned

pi < II tl

SHEILA.

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into the avrniic pr.'ito. that the pliice liad never lookfd so bonnie.
It liad ncvtT Ix-cii kept in siicli condition in licr diiy. Tlicre
was nut a weed nor a l>iire spot on llie sniootli tiravel, ;mil the
tiiif was closelv shaven, aiul looked like tint-st velvet. Edith

si '

had |)l;inted some Dijnn rose-trees before the door, and they had
taken kindly to the soil, and were covered with bloom and bnd.
On either side of the door Were two huge terra-cotta vases
filled with white heather, a mass of delicate bloon). Wherever
Edith Macdon.dd was, she gathered pretty things about her, and
she had loved her new hon)e with a loving pride, and fonnd
di'light in its adornment. As for Macdonald, though he did
not understand all she did, he knew that never had the liouse
been so pleasant to live in Ah ! it had been blessed by"^he
sunshine of a sweet woman's presence only long enough to make
the desolation more awful to bear.

These frivolities about the outside of Dalmore did not please
Ellen .\b»cleod. 'Any cottar can cover his walls with roses,'
she said to herself, thinking tliey detracted from the dignity
of Dalmore. She hesitat<'d at the open door, not knowing
why she should hesitate. Her hand even was on the bell to
announce her presence ; but, with a short laugh, she hastily
recovered herself, and walked in. Why should she crave
admission to Dalmore? She knew where she would be likt'ly
to find her brother, but she elected to seek her way to the
drawi?)g-room, possil)ly to see what changes the new wife had
wrought there. She scarcely knew the room, ihongh the
furnishinirs were the same ; but the things were all shif'ed

~ TO

from the places they had occupied for a hundred years or more,
and there were some pert, new-fangled little chairs and tallies
standing in every odd corner, and so many plants and cut
flowers that it was more like a greeidiouse than the sulier
reception-room at Dalmore. The faded nioieen curtiiins weH'
all removed from the windows, and in their place hangings ol"
some dainty Indian niu^lin, tied back with broad hamls nf
bright yellow riWbon, swayed to and fro in tin* gentle antumii
wind. But, woist of all, there was a tine new piano, a semi-
grand, with a beautil'uUy inlaid ebony case, open, as the poor

ESTRANGED.

l;i(ly Imd Ij'ft it, with licr music scatfort'd about, and a pi c-
(Veil t)M the rack ahovt^ \\ut k«'ys.

Kill ji Maclt'od had the ciiiioxify to go fuiw.ird and h>t.k ir
the rnaki'i's iiiinn', and whtu shi' saw it was an Eiaitl .she
iKtuiu'd, knowiiii: wliat it nuiNt have c<ist.

'Oh, what a fool he must have l)eeii, wlien lie all'>wed nil
this!' .Nhe muttered to herself, as she took a tinal survey of tie
loiini ere she lelt it, thou'jh she did not know it, lor the l;isi
lime. 'I'll sweep away all that llimsy nonsense, and sen I i at k
the plants to their [)roper place. I hope she hasn't t(jrn up liie
L'nod moreen cui tains, that cost a guinea a yard it' they cosi a
licnny.'

SIh! drew the door behind her, and, sweeping majesticall\
downstairs, made her way to the hhrary door.

In the hall Anne Hoss met her, and stared in blank amaze-
iiH-rit. But Mrs. Maeleod, without dei^Miing to notice her,
turned the door-handle of the library door, and marciieti in.
Miicdonald was sitting at his escritoire, with his back to the
(lnur.

At the first glance his sister was struck V)y his b< nt shmlders
and the greyness of his hair. From behind he looked like an
iild man.

She had advanced into the room before he turned Ids head.
When he did look round, he rose at once, jiu^hed his chair to
I'lie side, and looked her stiaight in the face. There was neither
iicognition nor friendliness iti that look.

'Well,' he said curtly, 'what do you want?'

The brief, keen question, the icy coldness of his manner, and
the flash in his deep-set eye, were slii^htly disconcerting to Ellen
Mae'eod, though she was not a timid woman.

'You needn't snap my head off', Macdonald,' she said, with
idiiiirable coolness, and sitting down as she spoke. 'I've come
to talk matters over with you.'

'What matters?'

' Family affairs, of course. I was sorry to bear of your loss,
thoiu^h you may not believe it.'

A slight, very slight, smile, which had nothing pleasant in it,

f,,

If! '

ii'

Ill

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SHEILA.

curled Mjicdonald's straiciht upper lip. It was all the answer or
thanks she received. 'I have no family affairs to discuss with
you, KUen,' he said brielly. ' So you have had your walk in

vain.

' You have not been very civil to me at this time, Macdonald,'
^aid Ellen Macleod, determined to tak<' a hisxh hand or none.
' 1 say nothiiin about not receivinjx any notice of the event, or
about the sli^^ht put upon me by your asking a stranger to
dispense your hospitalities at tliis time. I have nothing against
Lady Murray ; I know her to be a kind friend both in sickness
and health ; but whatever difference was between us, Macdonald,
my pl.ice was to be at Dalmore on Friday.'

Macdonald's brow darkened, his li{)s twitched, and his nostrils
dilated with the passion he was trying to hold and curli. It
was her memory which helped him in this moment of keen
trial.

' Ellen,' he said, and his voice shook with the very violence
of the effort he was making to restrain his anger, ' I wish to
have no words with you, and I cannot conceive for wli.it
reason you should have forced yourself upon me at this time.
You had better go (juickly away back to Shonnen. 1 ;iiii
quite capable of managing my own alTairs without yciur
interference.'

But Ellen Macleod had no such intention. She had been so
accustomed in the past to her brother's tits of anger and to his
use of strong language, that his moderate speech and ap[)aieiit
calmness completely deceived her.

*I don't want to interfere with your management of your
affairs. I only want to know something of your plans. I
ruppose the child will go back to the Murrays?'

'What child V

* Your wife's, the little girl Murray. Her father's people
will be going to take her?'

' What is that to you? '

' Oh, nothing much, of course. If you are going to keep her
for a while, of course I have no business, and I'll do my duty
by her.'

lUil

ESTRANGED.

' Yo)i will ? *

' Yes. Df)n't be a fool, Macdonald. You cannot bo con-
i('in|iliitini; anytliitig so absurd as to live l)«»n' alone wln'u I am
Mldiic :it S!ionn«'n. The sooner we slip back into the old way
iht' better. It will be in your interest as well as mine.'

• I :iiM very much obliged to you, but it will be better for us
lioth. ii"W that we are apart, to ke«'p so,' he s;iid (piietly, thoiiL'h
he wa"^ tempted to express himself nuich more stroiiL'ly. Ml*
;iMV .'<»(»d l('( Tmg has promi)ted you to come here to-day, 1
ti ;iiii; yoti lor it, and I wish you good-day.'

Kihii Macleod rose to her t'eet. Amazement, indignation,
iiii'K'dulity possessed her.

' Do you mean to say 1 am not to come back to Dalmorc,
Macdoiiald ; that the place is to be at the mercy of servants ?
Ynii don't know what you are doing. They'll devour your
Milistance, and rob you right and left. Have you taken leave
lit your senses?'

'No, but you evidently have/ he said angrily. 'Do you
know, that for you to come here after — after all that is past'
(lie (hired not mention his wife's name), * expecting to be even
civilly spoken to, is a height of presimiption I scarcely imagined
t'Vi II you to be capable of? While I am in my right mind,
Ellin M.icleod, you shall never enter this house as resident or
L'ucst, though you are my sister. You have never acted a
sister's part to n.e.'

Ellt'U Mjicleod's long thin lips grew pale with passion. Her
lint Highland blood was up. She positively glared at the cold,
o.ilin countenance of her brother, as if shs3 could have slain
i.ini where he stood.

'So this is what Edith Murray, with her sneaking ways, has
'•'lit'? 1 shall be hearing next that Dalmore is to go to her

!lll(t

Mli>

' Ilnjd your tongue ! How dare you take that name on your
thundered Macdonald, his face purple with righteous

iii-'i'. his eyes flashing, and the veins on his ft)rehead
^.Hiding out like knotted cords. 'The place she sanctified,
made a heme such as it never was, and never will

' j

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100

SHEILA,

:i|

be a;inin, is do^pcriitcd witlj your prcsoncp. (lot out of niv
si^'lit, woiriaii ! h'st 1 forgot iiiyst'll', and lift my liatid agilin^l
you.'

' NN'cll, I po, l)uf T leave my curse upon yoti and Dalmorel'
slie almost scrcaTMcd ; for lier an,i;<'r had risen to wliife licaf, and.
pallu'riiij; In-r skirts in lier hand, she swept our of ilie roi>iii.
As sh»! shmincd the door alter her, a thrill of cliiMish hniLditir
came in throMirh the open door, and, as she stej)ped into tin-
hall, Sheila, with her hands fnll of wild (lowers, came daneiiiL'
in. She stopped short at sight of the tall, dark-hrowed wom.iii,
sweeping like a Nemesis through the hall. At sight of tlit-
sweet, iimocent bahy lace uplifted in wonder upon her, an evil
spirit seemed to enter info Kllen Maclcod, and, lifting lier hand,
she gave the child a blow on her bare white shoulder, whiih
made lier scream out in terror and pain. Aunt Ailsa, who had
been up Crom Creagh with her little pet, and had but liiig( it d
at the door to j)ick somt^ dead buds from Edith's rose-lrees,
apjieared in the doorway, and saw the act.

' May God forgive you, Ellen Macleod ! ' she said, ber fair face
(lushing in shame and unger. ' You are a cruel, wicked
woman ! '

Then slie sprang forward, and gathered the bairn close to li< r
sweet, motherly breast, and pressed lier loving lips to the red
mark Ellen Macleod's cruel hand had made. Macdonald heard
the scream, and came out into the hall just as Lady Ailsa had
lifted Sheila in her arms.

' What is it ? ' he asked ; and at sound of her father's vuice
Sheila raised her tearful face, and pointed to her arm.

'Oh, pa[)a! a black woman struck me. I am so frightened.'

Macdonald took the child in his arms, and bent his daik laco
ov. r her. Ailsa Murray saw that liis featiu'es were siill work-
ing convulsively, and that he seemed under the inlluence (4'
stiong feeling. She surmised that a stormy interview had just
passed between the brother and sister, but her delicacy pre-
vented her alluding to it.

Macdonald himself broke the awkward silence.

* Edith bade me keep the bairn away from Ellen Macleod,

ESTRANGED.

lOI

Ai'«.'>,' ).<• sni'l ; •and, Gxl knows, slie had need. She is a
(■(•:ii liil wHii.in.'

I.i'iv AiUa siiihctl, and followed Macdonald to tlie lihrajv.
liii' nc( iincnct' lia«l made an ojiporinniiy for lier to spc-ik
( Miii'.Tiiiii'r Sheila's t'uture.

'It is time 1 was honu', ^facdonald. My hoys are wearyin.
I'.i' ine and fur Slieila. Shu is ex[)ected at Murraysliaiign.'

•Is she?'

h;idv Ail-^a fancied Macd<inrdd's arms ti'jlitened roniid the
(•!;iM, wIk) chm^ to iiini with a cunlidence which had no fear
ill it.

•Sir Donjilas and I liave discn?sod tlie matter. We will
A'\y\ Sheihi, and you know she will he like our own.'

• Vmi ;ire veiy kind, hut Sh»'ila hejon^s to me.'

hidy Ailsa looked a little put out. 'i.' there is any clnnce
lit vi'iu' sister cominiz even occasionally to Dalmore, I am afraid
I iiiii>t insist on taking Sheila away,' she said firmly. ' 1 can-
nnt li;ive her sulij"Cted— to — that.'

'You need not he afraid. Ellen ^^lcl('od has set foot for
till' last time in Dalmore. Edith left the child to me, hut if
it will please you hetter. Sheila herself shall decide.'

Ill' sat down, and placed Sheila on his knee. She was not
inurli linrt, and her sohhini; h.id ceased.

'Listen to me, bairn,' he said. 'Aunt Ailsa is poinc away
lioine, and she wants to take you away to Murrayshauyh to
live Jiliogelher.'

Sheila frravely nodded.

* You will have a great many advantages there, my haiin.
I'll' Aunt Ailsa loves you very much, and you would have
V'ur cDii ins to play with. Dahnure is a very dull place.
llii'ii' is only me.'

' And Fergus,' put in Sheila promptly. ' Do you want me
to L'li away, papa? '

'Xo, Sheila. I want you to choose for yourself,' was all
he s;iiil, and would not tempt her even by one persuasive or
enileiiiing word.

Sheila sat up, as if she felt the gravity of the moment. She

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SHEILA.

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ludkod towards Aunt AiLsa, who was standing; by tlio tal)I«',
uiili a sli^'litly fxpi'cfant siiiile on lu-r lace Tlicn slu- Indkr.l
;it Macdonald's ^'rave, sf( vn faco, wliicih was plonirlu-d with tin
liiit'S of grief, and as if some iDfiiifion told licr who jittdcd Imi
most, she j»ut her arms round his neck, and hid her lace on l.i>
lii'iid hrcast.

Sheila's choice was made.

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CHAPTER XI.

A WILY rLOTTEIl.

No TTieans too hnmlile, roa<l too str'pp,
For whon ho cannot walk, lio'll cn'(,'i».

J. li. G. Selkirk.

HE month of October caino. Pi'ter Crorar br;:.'in
tlie tracliing in AclinaluiiM Jij.'ain, biit Fcr<.'U9
Maclcod was not sent to share tlie advantaircs t)f
the Faiikl school. Neither were the h'ssmis at tlie
nian^i! renewed, uiul time hnn^, heavily enon-jU on his liainls.
The schools were all open in Perth for the winter session, and
K li'ii Madeod had rpiito determined that FerLius should fi^o to
Pi'itii, but she could not surmount the dillieulty of petting
hackward and forward to Slionneii. It was im[)osvible the
Ixiy ciiu'd walk the distance between Dunkeld and Anudree
tuici! a d.iy afrer the train had brought him from Ptrth; and
slit' was in a dilemma. Donald, the; pony, was still eating his
Inad otF ill Dal more stable, never out except when Sheila
ucoa>i(itially got on his back. All communication had cea^^ed
bi't.veen Slionnen and Dalmore. After all the excit<'ment and
the siir of the mournful event was over, an unbrok<'n stillness
siitl. (1 down on Dalmoie. Ellen Maelcod had never seen lier
lirotlier since that fruitless visit to Dalmore, l)ut she heard them
say he was a changed man. lie was seldom S(!en out of doors,
aud Jessie told her that the housemaid at Dalmore assured her

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SHEILA.

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tlu' Lniid selflom Ift tlie house. Many pitied flip motliprloss
little girl, left in the care of smh a nmddy, rniscralile ni.in ;
but tliey iiiijilit have sf)aied their ])iiy, f«>r she was perfectly
ha])|jy. Macdoiiald unUenr only to her, and the two seemed to
liavf come to a most peif'ect and beautiful imderstandinj;. Slic
nnssed Feigns very much, it is true, and often spoke of him, but
her father did not enc urage her. For the time lieing tlieie
was a tirm. fast bariier drawn betwixt Shonnen and Dalmore.

Angus M'Bean, always on the h»ok - out, and cogni-ar.t
of everythiiig going on in the country-side, got to know of
tlie strait Mrs. Rhicleod wa^: in about her boy's eductiioit,
and made a nice little plan, which was to relieve her
and be ot ultimate benefit to hiiuself. In the factot's
eyes Fergus Macleod was the future Laird of Dalmore, and,

as such, a |)erson ot no mean im|)ortance

5o.

having: la

his plan, Angus M'Bean made bold to walk over to Shonnen,
one fine, hard night, to have a little private talk with Mis.
Macleod. The factor was a very diplomatic man, and it \\as

us p

s\\(\\ never 10 quarrel with

any

hodi

The co'tars could

not, with truth, say they had ever seen him in a passion, l»iit
he had a cold, pitiU'ss way <»f getting the better of every "i!-:
who argM<'d with him, that tiny feared him quite a>< much as
if he gave way to anger. Now, though An^us M'Ban w
employed in and supposed to be devoted to the LairtlV inteie>ts,
it was to his ultimate advantjige to keep on good terms with
the lady at Shonnen, and then-fore he determintd to be of
service to lu-r in this dillieulty if he could.

'Good-evening, Mr. M'Bean,' said Fllen Mad ')d, greeting
him vt-ry cordially, for it was a rare occurrence to see a tact'
fiom iho cmter world in th solitude of Shonnen. '1 hope yuii
aie all well at Aiichloy ? '

'.Ml very well, thank you. IIow are you. Mr. Fergus? A
big, tall gcntli'inan he has grown of late, hasn't he, ma'am?'

'There's nothing to hinder his growth,' s.-dd his mother.
• Pull in the aiT^-chiir for Mr. M'Bean, Fergus, and go to your
losoiis. There is frost in the air to-night, surely ; it feels
chi

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A WILY PLOTTER.

105

'Ay, it is taking in the roads airendy,' said M'Bonn, ;is lie
stretched out Ins iiands to the cheerful tire. ' We have long,
cold winters in tlie s»^rath.'

'Cold enough,' answered Mrs. !Macleod, resnmiiifr l.cr
kiiittiiijr. 'Anything fresh about Aucliloy or Achnafiiuld ? '

'Nothing in Auchloy, but there's aye a stir in the FjiuM,'
lini'ihed tlie factor. 'I have conie for a little talk wiih vm.
it you will kindly grant me the piivilege, Mrs. Mach-nd.'

' Sufely. 'J'ake your books to the kitchen beside Jis^ic
Mackenzie, Fergus, and stay till I bid you come back.'

Notliinil loth — lor he had no special regard I'or the factor —
Feriius gathered up his books and reined.

'A fine, tall, handsome fellow,' repeated Angus M'Bean.
' Ile'I! be a man in no time. He is jiursuing his stu(li(s at
home, I see. Perhaps he did not get much advantage from
I'l'ier Crerar?'

'Oh, he learned well enough at the Fauld school, but it.
could not go on, Mr. M'Mean,' said Ellen Macleod significahtly,
';in(l he had spirit enougli not to like it. It's not a convenient
jihice tl'is for bringing up children in.'

'That's just what I feel. We've been posiiively in a (ix
.iboiit our own Angus,' said the factor. ' IL- hates Peter
Crerar, and was learning nothing from him. We have jii.ide
lip our minds to send him to Perth Academy, and he goes down
on Monday.'

'And how are you to manage with him? He cannot come
liDiiie every day,' said Ellen Macleod, 1. ying down her knitting,
iiiKi looking with interest at the factor.

'Oh no, ma'am; that would be impossible. lie is to l)i(Ie
in Perth. We have taken lodgings for him with a respeeiable,
L'liiteel person, a widow woman who has come down in i!ie
wuild. And I made bold to c»>me over to-night, to see if yott
w mid not consider whether the lads could not go togethei- and
>liaie the lodging. They have always been very fiiendly.' ^11 i I
the fiictor, stretching a point, tor ' Puddin" was always mti-
ni'ig down Fergus Macleod at Auchloy. 'Of course.' adih'l
MBean modestly, 'we feel that he would be greatly honound

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in liu. ing ^ir. Fergus for a school companion, and if ii is
presnrnpiiious on my part to make the suggestion, I ask your
j);irdon. But I said to Mrs. M'Bean, •' Whatever may have
hiippt'iied, we still owe respect to Mrs. Macleod, and if v.'«^
can be of service to her, it need not interfere with our duty in
otlKT quarters.'"

' You are a good man, and a kind friend, Angus M'Beaii,
said Ellen Macleod quickly, ' and I shall gratefully accept your
offi-r for my son. Although circumstances are changed with
me, I am thankful to say it will not stint me to pay the half of
the lodging, and one day I htjpe to repay your kindness in a
more substantial way than by words of thanks.'

' Don't speak of it, ma'am, I entreat you,' said M'Bean
effusively, * The kindness and the hcmour received are all on
one side. So that is settled : and, if quite convenient for you,
I can drive Mr. Fergus, with his trunk, down with Angus on
Monday afternoon. 1 am to go in to Perth to see them nicely
settled, and if you would care to go, ma'am' —

' Oh no. thaidi you. I have the fullest confidence in you,
Mr. M'Bean. You have relieved my mind of a heavy load.
That 1 should have to say that the Laird of Dalmore lias cast
off the responsibility of his sister's latlierless boy ! '

' Ah well, ma'am, you see, when strangers step in, the
consequences are always more or less disastrous,' said M'Bi an
sympathetically. ' U'hen the Laird honoured me with his
ci>ntidence anent his marriage, I made bold, though respect-
fully, as a servant should, to warn him against these coi;m-
quences. Bit a wilful man must have his way.'

It cost Anuus M'Bean no effort or qualm of conscience to tell
a good, straightforward lie; for the Laird had never alluded to
his marriage to the factor even in the most distant way, and
as to lis^.iiing to his advice, had il been proffered, he miiili'
have knocked him into the Girron burn, provided it had b» t i
at hand.

Ellen Macleod — shrewd, keen, clever woman though she \v;.s
— was completely taken in by the smooth-tongued factor, whom
even Fergus disliked and distrusted.

' fy^%d

A WILY PLOTTER,

107

'The Laird seem- to have made a hermit of him>elf since his
wife's dt'atl.,' slie said presi-ntly. ' He is not taking that
iiitt'icst in liis aflairs incumbent upon him.'

' \(). I have said to my witV more tlian once that I wouhi
not !)e surpiiscd to see a new hiird in Dalniore before very
IdiiL',' said M'Bean cautiously, and keeping his eye furtively
ti\i(l on the face of the woman before him.

8 .e started visibly.

' Is my brother ill in his health, Mr. INI'Bean ? In spite of his
iinhrotherly treatment of me, which I cannot think you are
iL'iiorant of, I have a sisterly interest in him. I pray you, tell
lilt' liow he is.'

'lie has no positive ailment, except brooding over liis loss.
But we know Avhat happens when a strong man gives up his
interest out of doors, and sits p( rpetually in the house. You
have not seen him of late, then V '

' No; for Sabbath after Sabbath the Dalmore pew is empty,
save for the child and her nursi;,' said Ellen Macl'jod, com-
jiressitiii her thin lips till they were like a thread.

Aiiuus M'Bean saw at once where the sore spot lay, and
tie;i>uied it in his mind for future consideraMon.

'lie looks much older, then. You would ncarcely know
liiin. Foi-give my presum[)tion, but it is out of respect for
tlie house 1 speak. It is a shame that Alastair Munay's
rhild should er.jov the privileges of Dalmore, while its rightful
lieir learns his lessons beside the kitchen file in a place like
thiv

Kilcn Macleod's colour rose hotly, and her Ii[)S twitched.
Ii \v,i> such a relief to allude to the wrong which was eating
iiei lieart out, that she forgot her usual haughty pride, and
^[11 ke out freely to a servant.

' Ay ; it is, as you say, a sliame and a black disgrace ! ' she
s;ii i tieicely. ' lint do you think that for this no punishment
wili lall on Dalmon* ? Heaven is more just than men, si> let
iliat white-faced girl beware. And let the Murrays watch
'li>iii>elves also, if they think to leather their nest from
Dalinure.'

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* It is a snd and difTiciilt case, ma'am ; and though I am
bound to do the Laird's woik outside, my sympathies aiui
s'M'vice are at your command,' said the iactor imj)r('s>ivt.'lv.
' There is no way whereby this child could be removed from
Daliiiore? '

* N(» ; but if Macdonald's health is failing he must be watched,
Angus M'Bean, or these vultures from Murray shaugh will get
Dalmore among their fingers.'

'Oh no, Mrs. Macleod ; the Laird will never put DalnKMu
past your son.'

' Will he not? I tell you he is fit enough to leave it to his
wife's child. He has been a fool ever since he married — a
soft, silly fool ; and he worshipped her as no human l)eirig
should worship another, and so, in righteous wrath, Ilejiven took
her away. / am perfectly powerless, Angus MBean, sd
you must watch over the interest and the honour of Dalnioie.
And if my sou ever conies to his own, you shall not be
forgotten.'

' I am honoured by your confidence, ma'am. Rest assured it
is not misplaced,' said the factor, as he rose to his feet. ' [
hope, however, that the Laird will never do anything so un-
befitting a Macdonald.'

Ellen Macleod shook her head.

' My confidence in him is destroyed,' she said. 'Tell me, Air.
M'Bean, how matters are on the estate. Jessie, my maid, tells
me the cottars in the Fauld are grumbling a good deal.'

'True enough. They are an ill-conditioned set. Goodness
knows what demands they'll have at rent-day this }e;ir.
Donald Macalpine wants a new smiddy, and the precenrcn- r.
roof on his byre ; and that body, Janet Metizies, is to ask lur
rent down because she's got Jock's bairnies home. A paek of
wolves, Mrs. ^Liclcod. They'd tear Dalmore to pieces, ;inil
fight over its division. If I had my way I'd clean out the
whole clachan.'

' That'll never be,' said Ellen Macleod, shaking her head.
' Time sare indeed changed from what they v re in my father,
the old Laird's time. They said he was a hard man, and yet

A WILY PLOTTER.

109

there never was a giuriilile from a tenant in the place. I
would like to \v>\i tlie cottars in Achnafaiild liow they would
like to pay tithes in kind over and above their rents. ;is tin \
do in Shiaii and all up the glen to Kannoch. I thiid< iiivmIi
tlu'V need ;i liarder liand thun Macdonald's on them. 'I'Imii
must be money in the Faiild.'

'Money! Thousands of pounds, if there's a jx'miiv. li^
;in Tuda ly greed that's got possession of tlieni, and Tin i"
vour opinion, tliat the Laiid's too soft witli them. I eaii i. !l
yoy, Mrs. Mach'od, I don t eat the bread of ease. Yoiili
not hear a good word of me from one end of the glen to ihc
other.'

With which remarkably true statement, delivered in a
tone of injured but conscious virtue and innoeiMiec, Mr.
Angus M'Bcan took his leave, well pleased with his nighi's
niis>ion. But he would need to go very warily, and not
lose sight of his interest with ^lacdonald. There is always
dim^nT in the way of the man who tries to sit between two

Stiiols.

.So the difTiculty about Fergus's schooling was solved vtrv
FUfisfactorily — for his mother, at least. The Vjoy himself
received the first intimation of it from Puddin', whom he met
late on the Saturdav afternoon on the Corrymuekloch road.
Now that the fishing was over, Fergus wearied, and the weatl.er
was getting cold for Sheila, and so they ke[)t tryst but seldom
at the Girron Brig. The boy used to haunt the road below
Dalniore, hoping for a .sight of his uncle; but the familiar >ight
of giacei'ul Mora and her stalwart rider was not often seen now
aljour Amulree.

Piiduin' was riding, but drew rein straight before Fergus,
grinning broadly.

'80 we're gaun' to Perth schule, you an' me, on Monday,'
lie said in the broad Scotch wdiich sometimes vexed his lailiei,
wiio yearned after gentility.

'Ii's a lie,' said Fergus, with the plain, unvarnished eamloui-
of one boy to another.

'No, it's no'. You ask yer mither. It's the vera same

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SHEILA,

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ln(l;.riii's. It's a' settlod,' said Piuldin', grinning still. *T]u>y
niicht lia'c iiskcd us wiK'ther or no' first.'

' I don't bi'licve a word of it, Piiddin' M'Bean ; and if it !>;
true, I won't go,' said Fergus serenely, and went away wliistlinj.
with liis haiiils in liis j)ockets, thinking tlie joke was ont' u\
Puddin's I'eehlest attempts. For they had been such hal
fiicnds at Achnafauld that the idea of occupying th(! sani •
lodgings seemed the height of .absurdity. Fergus passed on tn
the brig, stood by the parapet for a few minutes watching t
steady flow of tlie burn, growing big with the first of t
'spati'S,' and then, without thinking very much what he wa>
doing, crossed over, and began to ascend the liill to Dahuon'.
1 believe Dalmore was never a moment out of tlie laddie'^
heart, lie thouglit of it in his Avaking liours, and di'eamed (.f
it when he slept. He loved that ])lace above anyihitig in lln-
world. He went on and on. Colin met him at the head of
the aj){)roach with a joyous bark, and bounded before him into
the liouse. Hearing tho unusual noise, Tory took up \\w
chorus in the drawing-room, and Sheila came running down
to see what the commotion was.

'Oh, Fergus, Fergus! I am so glad to see you!' she cried,
her face ail aglow with delight. * Oh, come in, and I'll
tell papa. How nice it is to see you, Fergus! Come awav
in.'

Slie clasped her two hands through his arm, and looked u]*
into his face with perfect adoration in her eyes. Dear b dins.
how they loved each other! They knew nothing of j('aloll^y.
and hate, and dissension. Oh that they could remain igiioiant
of them for ever !

' It seems so long since T saw ycm, Fergus. Why don't y
come up? When I see Colin trotting over to Shonnen, I wi
he could speak and tell you to come.'

' Yon never come down to the brig, though,' said Feri^us
reproach fu.ly.

* Aunt Ailsa was up, Fergus, and she told Anne Ross not td
Jet me out when there was any Avet on the grass, so I have just
to play caltie and doggie with Tory in the drawing-room.

(lU

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A WILY PLOTTER.

Ill

Tory is a vory funny little dog, but I'd rather hv out with

}

•on.

* I should tliink so. Is Uncle Graham in ? '
' Yt'S ; it will soon be tea-time. Papa always has tea with
mo, and then I have dinner with him. And is it true you are
L'uing away to school on Monday ? '

'I never heard of it till this very day. Puddin' M'Bt'an told
me. I met him at the brig just now. He Fays I'm to live in
his lo(li:ings,' said Fergus laughingly. 'Ilulloa, Torv ! lie's
fur Itiiiger, Sheila, and far too fat. A lazy rascal, isn't he?'

'Oh no Here's papa. Isn't it nice, papa? Fergus has
come, and we'll have tea together,' said Sheila, lunning to
meet Macdonald, and taking him by the hand.

Fergus ran to meet his uncle, too, and was struck by
his aged appearance and by th'3 melancholy expression on his
face.

' Well, Fergus, lad, glad to see you. I was saying to Slu ila
to-day you'd be up to say good-bye. So Puddin' and you have
huiied past grievances, and are going to keep each other corn-
[lariy in Perth? A very sensible arrangement. You can have
a set-to wlien the lessons weary you.'

' Uncle Graham,' cried Fergus hotly, ' I ni ver heard a
thing about it. I cant be going, or I wi>ul(l have known.'

But even as he sj)()ke he rernend)ered noficitig a kind of
e.Ntra work going on at Shonnen, and a great turning out and
mendin;, of clothes.

' May be not, boy. It was the factor who told me it
was all arranged ; but surely your mother would have told
you.'

The boy's face flushed, and he dashed away a bitter tear
which started in his eye. Oh, but Ellen Macleod was making
a grievous and terrible mistake. She was treating the boy as
if lie vere a machine, a thing wit!iout feeling or desire, wiiich
^lu' could move about at will. And yet she expected filial
duly, filial affection, and respect in return.

S e frequently reminded Fergus of the scriptural injunction
to children concerning their duty to their parents, but forgot

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SHEILA,

to t.ike fo luT own soul, for her guitling, the correspond'mg
iiijiiiic.tion ti jKirtMifs.

Fiom tlie beginning her tniining of the boy was a mistake.
Sin liiid tlic making or marring of a fine character in her
liands.

Let US pi ay it may not be completely and iiretiievably
marred.

I ■ I : t [

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CHAPTER Xn.

FACTOR AND LAIRD.

Like onr shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Young.

'VE come up to see Avbat I'm to say to these folks
to-moiro\v, sir,' Siiicl Angus M'Bean to the Laird
in tlie lihiaiy at Dalmore. It was the 5th of
Di^ctMubiT, and the snow hiy two f«.'et deep on the
and immense drifts stretched from side to side of
(•\|KiM'(l ro;ids, which were level with tlie dry stone dykes.
TliL' (itli of Dt'ccmber was the rent-day on Findowie and Dal-
iimrc. Angus M'lJean had quite settled in his mind what he
\va> to s y to the malcontents, but of course it behoved him
lo make the form of consulting the Laird. Macdonald had but
a laii-nid intere'it in these affairs. lie was indeed a changed
mill, like one whose interest iu life was dead. It lay buried
^vi u l;is love in the old graveyard at Sliian.

'Oh, jiy, some repairs tln-y wanted. What are they?'
:i-k (1 Macdonald, rousing hinisclf up when the factor spoke.
lie was siitiiJL', as he would sit for hours, by the fire, with hi.s
Liliou's on his knees and his head in his hands.

'Donald Macalpine wants a new smiddy, no less. He com-
yh'm> (jf the chinniey — the smoke won't go up. I bade hitu
l^^u^•k a luii'k out of the side. He says it's dark, and I tuld
I'lm to knock souje more out of the wall opposite the door.*

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'A now sniiddy!' snid tlic Laird, witli a grim smilo. 'Loss
will liavo to serve Donald, I doiihf, in these hard tiiiies.
Could we not repaii tlh- j)lace for him ? '

' No, it would he a sinful waste of money. The smiddy is
as good as ever it was. You can go alotig and see it for yniii--
self. I'll tell you what I think. Donald M'Glashan lias iii.iijc
such a hotuiii! penny m tlie smiddy that he's not caring alxnit
it now. Four pound ten for the croft and the smiildy is fur
too little, Laird, according as they an' paying now. The rents
are rising instead of falling up hy Killin and Hannoch.'

'So I'm told. \N'elI, you can say to Donald if lie isn't
pleased he can quit,' said the Laird. * VV^hat next?'

' Ewan M'Fadyen's hyre. Ls he to get a new roof on it?
There's only a hit hole ;it the east {•• d wMhtc the snow cm
blow through, because he was too lazy to thaik it in tin- hack
end. As I said to him, "Is the Lairtl to pay money out of his
pock(!t for your idle habits? " lie maun jusr divot it until next
year,' said the factor, without giving the Luird time to put .a
a word. 'He lias a tine crop of oats this year, and his liav
was about the best; then he has i\vo pounds from the kirk, ;in'
yet lie's aye seeking. We'll let him girn. Jenny Menzits liiis
got two bairns, her brother's weans from Glasgow, and w.itits
her rent down a pound for their keep. What do you think
of that for Jenny, Laird ? '

' Jenny's gleg,' said tlie Laird, with an absent smile. ' I heard
of the bairns. The lad is a trifle queer, and not stronu. No
doubt she'll have her ow'ii to do with the bairns. Take the
pound off. What next?'

' Sir, I don't think it would be right to take it oiT
Jenny Menzies' rent. It's very moderate, and she iiiakts
a heap by her spinning. The bairns will be more a litlp
than a hinder, and if we favour her the rest will have cause to
gruml)Ie.'

' Take the pound off,' repeated the Laird quietly. ' Wiiat's
next ? '

' Kob Macnaughton is for a roof on Rory Macalpine's olii
house for him to set up another loom in. That shows liow
the wind blows. They count nothing on the land, Laird, and

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FACTOR AND LAIRD,

fs has
wants
think

heard
r. N^'
iku the

it ofT
niakt'S
a ht'lp
;ause to

What's

AS lloW

Ird, and

w^c your houses for their own ends. If stockincr-weaving pays
so »v»*ll, K't them build houses for tliem'Jclves, say I.'

'CtTtainly, certainly,' said the Laird quickly. 'I hope
that's all, M'Bean. These grumblings weary me. It is only
(if latr tlu'y seem to have arisen. What is their cause? '

'.luxt what I've often said, sir: the folk have gotten into
itih', fushionless ways, and they'd take the land for nothing and
not lie content. It would be far less bother and better pay
aiiionp; big farms. At the rent-time, Laird, I could wish me
wiiiil would rise and blaw the Fauld to the bottom o' Loch
Fraochie. It's all toil and little thanks for tht-.i. Findowie's
net half the trouble.'

' Well, well, you're among the grumblers, too, Angus,' said
the Laird. ' But your job pays you very well. Any back
n nts to-niorrow ? '

' Ay, that's another thing. What am I to say to James
Stewart at Turrich ? He's nine pounds back, and three for
this tack makes twelve. I don't expect he'll pay the half of it.'

'Tiirricli! Oh, that's the man with the sickly wife and ten
bairns. Well, money can't be very plentiful with him, Angus.'

' Far too many of them, sir. If he'd set them off to service,
there would be fewer mouths to feed. And he's wanting more
land, too. He says if he had Little Turrich croft and another
licrse, he could make it pay. But it's all nonsense. He wants
1 ittle Turrich for Rob, the ne'er-do-weel son of his that wants
to marry Mrs. M'Bean's bit servant lass. A bonnie pair they'd
niake, an' a bonnie bungle o' Little Turrich, as I told them.
Ihit we'll see what old Jamie brings the morn. I think that's
a", Laird.'

' An' plenty ; too much, Angus. How's the lad getting on
at the school ? '

' Very well, but he can't keep up with Mr. Fergus, as is
iiardly to be expected,' said the factor smoothly.

'Then he can't be doing much, for my nephew is no scholar.
hut do they 'gree ? ' asked the Laird dryly.

' I never hear anything about it if they don't,' said th^
tactnr. with a laugh. 'Laddies are aye bickering. Is little
Miss Murray very well ? '

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' Miss M;i('(lim;il(l is,' rctunnd tlio Liiird, witli cniplmMs.
*Slit' is Mi'^s M;K'(|oiiiil(l now, M'hiiiii, yoii can h !l ihc fdlk.'

Ajil'Us M'licaii c'oiild only ncxl liis luiui in silent in-kiinw-
IcdLMnt-nt (if tilt' Kaiid's sj)c<'cli. But lie inadr a noti* of it t'nr
fuiuic consideration, and lor comniunication to Kllcn Miiclcdd,
It would he a line tit-ltit lor her. Au^'us M*Bean hcL'aii to
wonder if he had done wisely itj payitig so much atteiui' ii ;it
Shotuieti. If necessary, lie could easily shy olF; in the nuaii-

tnne, he would wait and see.

' I ho|te the lady who lias come to look art<'r Miss Mac-
donald's education is giving satisfaction?' he said iti<iuirinLdv.

'Oil yes; the child is loud of her, and it kce[)s her frnm
wearying.'

'Mrs. M'Bean would l)e i)le.'ispd to see Miss Macdonald :iiid
her governess at Auchloy. It would he a nice walk on a line
day,' said the factor, as he rose to go.

' They couHne themsi'Ives to l)alnu)re .md to the post reail,

The whisky is on the tal

1 thiidv; but I'll fell *heni.
An^ius; help yourself.'

'Thank you, sir; your very good liealth, and Miss Mac-
(h)nald's, and j)rosperity to Dalmore,' said the factor as lie
tossed off his glass.

'Thank you. Good-night. Look up after the business is
done,' said the Laird.

' I'll be sure to do that. I wish it was over,' said tlie factor.
and he was perfectly sincere in what he said, lient-day Wiis
never a very pleasant one for Angus M'Bean, for he was
generally obliged to listen to some very plain statements of
fact concerning himself. Left alone, Macdonald returned to
his solitary musing, and sat K»ng by the fire, indeed until it

over his lost

sand

became smouldering ashes in the grate, broodmg
happiness, and making the weight of his sorrow a thou
times heavier. He had no one to rouse liim out of hiinsclt.
Sheihi was but a child, and did not fully undersfaml wliy the
sliadow should dwell so continuously on iier father's hrnw.
Her bounding step, sweet smile, and bright, bairnly ways never
failed to rouse him at times; but now that the governess liau
come to Dulniore, the two were a little separated. Lady Ailsa

FACTOR AND LAIRD.

117

liMi] sii2rp<'Sti'(l, nnd indi'cd insisted tlwit it* Shtilu were to rcninin
at Daliiion', a young lady wiio could bo govt-rnt'ss and com-
paiiinn to tlie solitary cliild must he «'n;.'ag«'d. Macdonald did
ii-it ilciiiur, ami the minister's dauglitcr tViHu Logio Murray
caiiic to Dalmore. She was a hriglit, lia[)[)y creature, to wIkhh
Slnila took kindly at once. So the winter promised well tor
the haiiii ; hut with the short dreary days and long solitary
I'VcniiiL's, when the wintry winds howled fiercely round on the
ixpesed headland on whicli Dalniore stood, the shadows seemed
tn tall yt't mor»' darkly down upon Macdonald's heart.

Angus M'liean, the factor, had an oflice in his house at
Aiicliloy, where the estate business was transacted and the
rn Is received. Hitherto the rents had been j)unciually paid,
iiiid that without nuich gnnnbling, though bit by l>it the
[iiivileges were being wrested from the cottars in Aclnial'iuld.
It was (lone very gradually, little liy little, but it was the thin
('(li:e (if the wedge which Angus MBean meant to drive home.
Fii>t, the fishing on tlu; loch had beeri preserved ; a small thing
ill itsilt", and not of much importance, s(.'eing the cottars did not
I'U'atly patronize the s[)orr, but it served as a straw to show
h(i\v tin* wind blew. Then a fence would be removed which
wmild take off a bit of the common pasture and encilose it with
the factor's land; and then it became an impossiliility to get
any lepairs at. the hands of the Laird. They paid well lor their
crofts,— al)OUt d«puble in proportion per acre to wliat Angus
M'lieaii paid for Auchloy, — and it might have been thought it
^vas only a fair thing for the Laird to uphold the buildings in
tilt' claclian. Certainly it had been the custom for yi'ars for the
cottars to keep up their meagre steadings, for which purpose
tlicv were welcome to obtain wood free of chan:e iVom the
haiid's saw-mill on the Quaich. But the mill was at the V(M'y
Ii'ikI i)f the glen, a very sore road, and the few horses in the
I" nikl had enough to do on the land without carting wood.

S) tlie steadirigs, in spite of thatching and patching, were
f;iiiiiig into disreputable disrepair.

Angus M'Bean, as we have seen, went through the form of
ciinsuliing the Laird, whose remarks he twisted and turncid into
iiiuiiiii-s to suit his own ends.

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About twelve o'clock next day there Avas a gathering in the
Miiiddy to discuss matters before the men should proceed to the
I actor's office. There would be about a dozen men, conspicuous
imiung tliem Ewan the precentor, dressed in a rusty bhick
coat, and big Sandy Maclean, in close conference with Donald
Macidpine the siinth, who was holding forth at a great rati-
;d)()Ut the condition of the smiddy.

Tiie bottle was passing fieely, and already Ewan M'Fadyen
was getting conspicuously talkative and cheery.

'God bless my soul, lads!' he said; * wha's Angus M'Benn
that we should feel our equilibrium vibrate in his presence?
If he doesn't think fit to accept the honorarium we offer, let
him go and hide his diminished head in the loch.'

' That wad suit you, Ewan : ye're unco drouthy this
iiiornin',' said Rob Macnaughton the stocking-weaver, dryly.
lie was a long, gaunt, strange-looking man, with a shaggy
black beard, and a gleaming, restless black eye. He did not
often appear in any of the smiddy conclaves; but, as he had
a grievance and a request also to lay before the factor when
he paid his rent, he had stepped over to see what was

gomg on.

' Listen to the immortal breathings of the Bard of Achnafauld,'
said Ewan, in his most grandiloquent style.

When Ewan had been imbibing even moderately, his
I hicjuence and verbosity became even yet more remarkable than
usual.

' Hand yer blethers, Ewan, y.n* hear what's gaun on,' said
Donald Macalpine hastily. ' We're discussin' what's to be done
if none of us gets any satisfaction from the Laird. Look at the
smiddy, lads, and say what ye think of its condition. There's
t'.at nmckle draught in't that it wad take a' the peat mosses in
I he Glen to keep the furnace gaun. I'm sure it's but reasonable
It) a>k something done.'

• The powers that be will doubtless have another version of
the story,' said Ewan M'Fadyen. 'If they won't repair the
< ast end of my 'oyre, we'll need to gie Meg quarters in the
kitchen. Well, Janet Menzies, my woman, what for should ye
enter into the solemn assemblage of the elders ? * he added, as

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FACTOR AND LAIRD.

119

tlio doorway was darkcnod by a little wizened woman in a
short nown and ' soo-])ackit ' mutch.

•It's alter twel' ; are ye no' craun west the glen ?' sh(» asked,
in a shrill voice. 'Anjius M 'Bean '11 be gaspin' for his silK-r.
lli> liaund's like a niuukle wame, aye gantin'.'

'llae ye gotten your pickle to help the hole, Jenny?' asked
Satidv Maclean slyly. For answer Jenny turned out the old
vt'K king-foot she held in her hand, and showed three ,ery dirty
piiuii<l notes.

'That's every penny he gets frae me,' she said shrilly. 'It
was Laird Macdonald's wyte that Jtc^' Menzies had to leave
till' Kauld, and me wi' the land to manage.'

'But it wasna the Laird's wyte that Jock married a wife,
Jiuict,' said Sandy, who, in his big, slow, lumbering fashion,
enjoyed a joke.

' No ; but if Jock had bidden in the Fauld there wad hae
neither been wife nor weans, an' I'd tell Laird Macdonald that
gin I saw him.'

There was something almost uncanny in the old creature's
gesture and look as she sharply replied to Sandy's mild chafling.
She was supposed not to V)e quite right, and most folk pitied
the poor bairns who had been sent to her care. Jock, her
in- ther, had been a queer callant also, and such an inveterate
poacher, that the glen had got too hot for him. Some of the
.'tiitlemen at tlie lodge in the shooting season had got him a
place in Glasgow, in v/hich city he took to himself a wife. But
lie had never done much good there, and his diiid^iiig haliits
-iidrteued his days. His Avife died befoT'e him, and the orphans
were left in Jenny's care. This woman was a thorn in tiie
I'l-ili of Angus M'Bean. It is not too much to say that a
111 rtal enmity existed between them. The factor feared her wild
tiiiiper and her unbridled tongue. Vhen she was in a })assiiin
^lie had a knack of recalling certain unpleasant incidents
Connected with his youth, which he preferred to forget. He
Was \\\<.\ watoliing, eager for a chance to get her evicted from
till- Faidd, but as yet had been unable to find any excuse.

That was a busy morning at Auchloy. Peter Crerar had
liiti'ly been employed occasionally to help the factor with his

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5i^j?// A.

books, nnd of course was in attendance on the rent-day. Very
early poor Jamie Stewart ciinie over from TuiMicli, anxious to
hear tlie Laird's decision about Little Turrich. It was a niiiiier
of moment, to him to keep liis eldest son at liorae, but the hid
Wiis anxious to marry, and it was impossible to divide the
croft. He hiid seven pounds in his pocket, which he presented
to Atijius M'Bean wirli a trembhng h.ind.

' Five pounds sliorf, Jamie, tliat means a stiik or two ewes
for the Laird,' said An^ius pleasantly. 'Ye might just have
had the beastie sohl ; it would have saved tr(iul)Ie.'

'I canna sell a beastie the noo, Mr. M'Bean ; the Laird maiin
just w;dt,' said Jamie quietly. 'What said he abouc Little
Turricli ? '

' Do ye think the Laird's a fool, Jamie Stewart ? If ye canna
pay for five acres, how could ye p;iy for seven? Give hini
his receipt for seven pounds, Peter Crerar. Tiiere's somebody
else waitiu'j^ at the door.'

' But did ye explain aboot the horse and what bob wantii?'
asked Jamie Stewart.

'The Laird has mair to think of than your affairs, J.miie
Stewart. 'Ihey would gie him but little satisfncion. A\v;i'
back lO Turrich, and 111 be owre some day to wale a beastie
for the rent.'

A shadow came upon the old man's face, but he was of a
meek disposition, and retired without a w-ord. As he went
ouo, Janet Menzies pushed herself into the room, and, with a
curious leer at Angus M'Bean, drew out her three pound-
notes.

'T'.ere ye are, my man; there's yer siller, an' muckle gnid
rriay it dae ye,' she said, in her shrill voice, which was hateful
to Angus M'Bean.

'Ihree pounds, Janet? where's the other one? The Laird
has n( t let down your rent, that I'm aware of.'

' Y'.'ll get nae mair fiae me. Did ye tell him that I had
gotten Jock's bairns to keep ? '

' I did ; but we can't keep them for you, so out wi' your
other pound, my woman, without more ado.'

'No' anither penny, an' its no' wi' my will ye got that. What

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FACTOR AND LAIRD.

121

I wnnt to kon i^, what you pny for Anchloy, Anirns AI'Bean,
and li(H) many l)ittncks ye are iliicvin' t'rae the Faiihl ? '

Aiviiis M'Rean swore at tlie woman, and she snii'ed a qiiit-t
smile to herself; nothing pleased her better than to see the
factor aniiered.

'My woman, ye'll pay for yer impertinence. D'ye ken whi
ve're speakiii' to? Tlie Laird shall ktm o'd, an' if ye liide anirher
viar in the Fauld, I'm mistaken. Gie the aiild (l»-il her receijit,
I'cicr, an' let her take her ill tf)ngue outside. Come in, Ivvan
M'Fadvin. I see ye ke»kin' through tlie keyliole wi' yer ski IK-
e'e. Come in an' pit doon yer bawbees. No, if ye want yer
hvre to keep out the snaw ye maun divf t ir, the Laird savs.
Yr notdna preach ; I haena time to li>ien to yer maunderin's.
Yf'iv owre weel afF, an' dinna ken o' it.'

With such grim pleasantries the factor received and dismissed
the tenants. Every request was refused, every grievance
scouted and laughed at.

And he laid it all at the Laird's door, putting words in his
mouth he had never uttered.

So the seeds of disunion were sown, and Achnafauld was
set against Dalmore.

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CHAPTER XIIL

FORESIIADOWINGS.

Man's inlmnianity to man
Makey countless thousauds mourn.

o »

Burns.

you know \vhore l\I;ilcolm is, Ks'tie?

'Malcoini! Oil, Mr Fergus, is it you? He is
at tlio potatoes, hjliall I run and tell Mm you
want him?' asked Kate Menzies, blushing all over
at the unexpected sight of Fergus Macleod in the doorway,
when her plump round arms were bare to the elbow, preparatory
to beginning the weekly leaking.

* That's the Shonnen lad's voice. What for should he no'
cross my door-stane. Has his hire made him ower prood to
sit doon by a Fauld i..gle?' cried a shrill, uncanny voice from
the depths of a big cliair by the heartliside.

Jenny Menzies had lost the power of arm and limb through
rlienmaties, but her toni^ue was just as ready, and her temper
as ^lery as ever. Although she was so helpless, and so utieily
depeiidi'iit oa her niece, she was not in the least grateful lor
any seivice rendered by the girl's willing hands. When too
angry to sj)eak, she would throw whatever enme handiest at
her — peats oftener than ai.vthing, for her chair stood close by
the ])< at bin.

'Ei:, is that you, Jenny?' cried Fergus, with a laugh. 'I

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FORESHADO WINGS.

123

tliounrlit you might be sict-jiiiig. IIuw is the world using ydu.

ehV

As lie spoke, the big luindsonie hid stalked into the little kitchen
jind took the old woman's hand in a kindly grip, which pliasid
her well, though it hurt her poor swollen joints not a little.

' Kh, callant, ye hae grown in sjjlte o' yer hire an' yer toeii^
jiieat. Ech, what a year or twa can dae for brats o' bairns.'

It was tru<», a few years had indeed wrought wondrdU"^
cliaiiges in the young folk who make the chief interest of tlii>
liistorv. We let't Katie .Men/ies a i)airn, and we find her, when
we cioss the bridge of these few years, a comi'ly, womanly .uirl
dl' tii'teen She had a woman's work tf) do, and a woman's care
iiiid forethought to ext-rcise, wdiich had doul)tless given her a
iii.iiurlfv of aj)pearance and manner sh^ might not otherwise
li.ivf attaini'd so ea'ly. She was a sweet-iooking young inaiden.
wiili a c'ear, healthy-hued face, a bright, speaking blue eye, and
a iiiil'py snnle. Her dri'ss, a striped skirt and a light calico
^lii.i tgowii, with a wdiite handkerchief folded round her sweet
ilir. at and crossed on her bosom, was ))eculiarly and mridestiv
iHcoiuing. It was no wonder they called Katie Menzies the
I'Miiiijist lass in Achnafauld. As for Fercus Macleod, at sixteen
li • iiiid almost attained a man's height, though his loose figure
111 I yet to till up and make breadth proportionate to the length.
His t';i(;e was not so ruddy as it had been when he lived
iiii-tantly in the open air, but its hue was perfectly healthv,
ami liis clear grey eyes blight and undimmed as of yore.

'Sit down upon a seat, Feriius Macleod, if ye be the same
i.i'Mit' ye aye were,' said Jenny ^^en2;ies brustpudy. 'Sit down,
! siy. and gie's the news. I ken naetldng. Afy limnn'i's o'
1 ;i rii> never tell a thing, and n(jw that I'm laid aside? the
iiic'iHii' tbjk thiidv I'm deid.'

Kaiii' Turned to her baking with a twinkle in her happy eye,
wliiiji Fergus caught and smilfd too. lie looketl at Katie wrli
•i\v\\\ interest. How bonnie and sweet she was ! He wondeied
lit' !iad not thought of it before.

'So ye are gaun awa to the college, I hear,' pursued Jenny.
' Wliat ar." they to mak' o' ye?'

' I don't know. I am going to the college just now to please

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my inntlipr. And I'll have to do sometliing for my llvinfr,'
said Fergus, with a slight cloud on his brow, for the sorc
sultjcct was a sore sulgect still.

' An' what's to coiik? o' Dalinore, eh ? The auld Laird's sair
fjii'cd, they sny ; never oot the hoose.'

' So I hi'ar. I have not seen my uncle for a long time,' said
Fir,i:us hastily. 'I can't sit a long lime, Jenny, for I've to go
rwuiid the Fanld, and I want a talk witli Malcolm.'

' An' when are ye gaun away?*

'On Mondav.'

' An' when did ye come?'

' Ye>terday.'

' They dinna gie ye muckle rest for the soles o' yer feet. Is
the factor's son gaun wi' ye?'

' He is going to college, but his classes will be different.
We'll not see much of each other.'

' lies idled aboot a' the simmer, an' plajcd a heap o' mischief
in the Fauld. Malcolm fair hates him. Oor Malky's m;i\l>i'
no' a' there, but he has ta'en tlie size o' Puddin' M'Be;in,' s.iiil
the old woman, with ;i kind of grim delight. 'D'ye ken wliu's
Laird o' Didmon; now. Master Feriiur.?'

'No,' said F'ergus, looking slightly surprised.

'Him up at Auchloy. Eh, lad, it's time ye were at hanie
to look efter what should be yer ain. If ye are ower lang,
there'll no' be muckle to divide. An' there's a young aiie
comin' up that'll be waur nor the auld ane. If ye are a true
Macdonald, lad, ye'll see to it that the factorship disna jiass
fiae father to son. We ktn a' aboot it liere. Gang to Donald
M'Glashan, or Rob Macnaughton, or Dugald M'Tavish. They'll
a' gie ye the same story.'

' It is surely not so bad as that, Jenny,' said Fergus, tryinu'
to speak cheerfully, as he rose to his feet. * I can't believe that
my uncle is not able to manage his ov/n affairs. Good-day to
you. Good-day. Katie, come out, will you, and let me see
\\lit're Malcolm is?'

Katie wiped her hands and followed him out to the
door.

' Katie,' said Fergus soberly, ' I've heard a great deal about

•I fit

FORE SHADO II INGS.

12!

Anprus M'P.ciMi's way of going on. Is it really true that lie
()n])i('sscs tilt' folk in the Fiiuld V '

Tears staitcd in Katie's eyes. 'Ay, it's quite true, M.istcr
Ft'ii:u>. I wondcreil, indeed, that auiuie didna say iih re.
IIt''s lieen very haid on us. He seems to hate u^, and waiit>
us out of the ])lace. Mr. Ffrgu<, I'm perfectly feiire(l ^vhile^
iit Maleolm. Oh, try and speak to him. You know he is m
([Ueer laddie, and wlu^n he gets into Ids awfu' j)assions, if lie
welt' to see the factor or Angus, he mioht kill them I whiles
wish we had bidden in Glasca, though 1 lik(! the Fiiuld. It's
yiand to live in sic a l)oniiie place, anmng sii* kind neebors.'

'I'll try what I can do, Katie,' said Fergus, with deejilv
clouding ijrow, for he felt himself very helpless. He \\;is
growing u}), and understood many things which had puz/led
liiiii in boyhood. He loved tlie old folk in the Fauid, I'or they
had known him since he was a baiin.

'Have ye seen Miss Sheila this tinie, Mr. Fergus?' asked
Katie. ' iShe is to go away to the boarding-school soon, she
says.'

' No, I have not seen her. Does she come often to the
Fauld ? '

'Oh yes; twice or thrice a week. She is so kind to auntie.
If it werena for what she brings, Mr. Fergus, we couldna live.
We hrd to put away the sheep and the cow too, for we had
no grass.'

' What's become of the hill. Is the pasture not as good as
it ence was? '

' Ay, but we daurna put a beast on it. Oh, it's hard time*;,
Mr. Fergus. But there's auntie cryin'. Speak to Malky, will
ye, an' V)id him be more patient. I whiles think that he
angers Mr. M'Bean more than he need.'

•I'll try, Katie; don't be vexed,' said Fergus, and shook her'
liy the hand, for they had been bairns together at the Faidd
iSihoul, and nobody could help liking Katie.

He hesitated just a moment ; desire drew him to the
smith's shop, but he knew he would get the information he
w.inted without ado Irom Kob Macnaughton, the stockini:-
wt'uver. So lie ran across the road and lifted the sneck of

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Fergus

Rob's door. All the other doors in the Faiild stood open
sumnier and winti-r in the daytime, but Rob's was aye sliut.
The hK)m seemed to be silent, and when lie pushed open the
kitchen door, there was Rob, with his little table belbre tiie
fire, taking his solitary tea. He was not in any way chanL'ed,
unless tlie biji, gaunt, shuffling figure seemed to have grown
more loose and thin-looking; but there was not a grey hair in
his head, nor any sign of approaching age on his grim, stern
face. I

' It's you,' he said, fixing his keen eye on Fergus, hut
without any sign of recognition. 'If ye be comiti' in, shut
the door.'

'Well, Rob, how are you? Well enough, I see. I'm not
forgetting my old friends. I have only been at Shonnen for
two days, and here I am.'

' So I see ; ye've grown. Ye are a man now
Miicleod. Sit down if ye are to bide a bit.'

' Yes. I'm going to bide a bit. I've come to you seeking
authentic information,' he said, in his quick, impetuous fashion.
' Rol), is it true that times are getting hard for the Fauld lulk.
Tell me all about it.'

A slow, bitter smile came upon Rob Macnaughton's grim
face. He took up his saucer and drank all his tea, and then
lilted the table back to the wall.

'I've gi'en up parritch,' he said laconically; 'when ye've to
buy milk, tea's cheaper, and it takes less time to make. So
ye've been hearing some rumblings o' the thunder that some-
times shakes the clachan ? '

'I've been at Jenny Menzies's. Katie says they're positively
ill off. Rob, did my vmcle give orders that their beasts were
not to go on the liill?'

'There's no hill now, lad. It's fenced in as the lands of
Auehloy. There's a new laird. But, as ye've been away,
ye've maybe not heard of the change.'

'It's abominable, perfectly abominable 1 ' cried the lad hotly
' If you knew my uncle as I know him, Rob, you would be
peiCectly mad at Angus M'Bean. My uncle is so kind, a
kinder man never breathed, only, of course, he is just If he

FORESHADO WINGS.

127

knew the true stnte of afTairs, lie would set tlicm rit^lit iiixfantlv.
Til ir'> to liim myself and tell hitn how ymi are »'p]>r('>sed.'

' 1 niistloubt not your word, Frr^Mis, for I renienii)er Laird
Macdoiiald as u ju>l man, thoii;^]i not generous. It is oiilv
jiistioe \VM want. Justice w<tuld enai)le us to livi'. Ir lia>
come to this, Fer<ius Maclend, tliat the s[)()iler and tln'
(iplircssors have turned the hearts of tlie people to ^'all wiihiu
tlitii), and that they can stand it no more. The day i^ eoniwiijr.
iiav, it is drawing very near, when the snell winds shall whi>tle
iIu'mUi:!! the rent roofs of Achnafauld, and where theie lia»
hccn the hum of peace and ])lenty, with the music of bairns'
Vdiccs, there shall be but the cryin' o' tiie burn an' the soui::liiu'
()' tlie birk'<, and the liomes wliere pi-ace and neighbourly
kindness dwelt shall become the haunt of the cattle and the
deer.

'Some day this house, Fergus ^lacleod, where my forebears
dwelt long before there was a Macdonald set fout upon the soil,
will he a rent ruin, a cattle-pen, maybe, for tin; stock of the
Liird of Anchlov. But let him beware. Let him not thiidc
he stands firm. For the tears and the curses of the people ho
hath so grievously oppressed shall ascend to heaven, and hath
not the Lord, whom mayhap we have forgotten in our
l)ro><perity, said, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay"?'

riie poet's eye shone with the peculiar fire which Fergus
rt 'H'lubered used to awe him in boyhood, when Kob would forget
hi> j)iesence, and half chant, lialf recite his weird G.ielic ballads
ami the superstitious legends in which he delighted.

'You are poetical, but not practical, Kob,' said the lad
quietly. 'Have the Fauld folk thought of anything to do in
self-defence? I wish you'd tell me everything. I may be able
to do something to help you.'

Kol) laid the points of his fingers together in a peculiar way.
and looked over them at the lad with a touch of compassion.

'You? Lad, ye are too o[)en and guileless to fight the devil.
My advice to you is, steer clear of Angus M'Bean. The onl\-
thing that would save the Fauld would be if the Laird were to
die now, and leave the ])Iace to you. It is yours by right.
She is a sweet bairn, they say, that comes down fron^ Dalmore ;

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l)Ut s}>e is not of your blood. Tlie place is yours by rij^ht, but
it never will !)»• y"urs, Fergus Macleod, as long as tliiit ill inuti
bidfS in the glen,'

Ml I li.id the power I'd mnke short woik of hitn,' s;ii(l
Fergus, iuid he cl"nched his hands ; for the interests of liis
heart — nay, of his life — were boiuid up in the place and the
people iunotig whom his boyhood had been spent. No nioiral
knew what it had been for the lad to dwell away from ilicsc
hills and gleiis, and to give his attention to books. He had
gained more sense now, however; and, knowing that education
and knowledge are powers which have no equal, he had ceased
to kick over the traces, and was quiet in scholastic harness.
But meanwhile, oh, what things were happening in the glen !

'Do you mind Jamie Stewart, that was in Tuir''<*>, Fergus?'

' Yes, fine.'

' Well, in the spring-time there — ye ken what the March
blasts are up Glenquaich — he was put out of Turiich —
evicted, I think, is the new-fangled word they used. He was
back in hit rent about ten pounds, I think; but there was stuff
and beasts to pay it over and above. And the wife had to be
caiTiec* out, bed and all, and laid down at the dyke-side abuve
the drift. What think ye o' that, Fergus Macleod ? '

Tears — tt-ars of anger and burning indignation — stood in the
boy's honest eyes.

'And what became of them, Rob?'

'The Laird of Garrows gave them a house and a croft, and
there they are biding in the meantime till things are settled.
But I would lay this thing before you, Fergus Macleod, for ye
are a ju>t, fair-minded lad, wi' mair nor a man's sense. Two
iiuiidred y(>ars ago — ay, and more — the Stewarts abode in
Turrieh, and farmed their own lands. At the '45 Turrich went
out to tight wi' Charlie, : nd died on Cidloden, and then the
place was confiscated, they culled it, but we are honest folk,
and speak in an honest tongue. So Macdonald that was in
Dalinore, a Royalist, though he bore one of the best Highland
names, seized upon Turrich an' a' the lands up the glen. An'
syne, when the blast blew past, and Turrich's wife an' bairns
came ba'dv to the glen, they found their home stolen from them,

FORES II A DO WINGS,

12<)

iitid fli.'it thry hiu] no ]i;i1»ir;ifl«in on flic Oicc dC ilic ciitli. I'mi
t'ui till- liivf tlH'V hole to tl (' j)I.i('(' (?♦' tl.t'ir hirtli, tlicy ii «•!< it
iipdii MacMlonalil's tt'iins, ami hcciiiic tillers of tlH-ii- own » i'
(iticf iiion', hut paying tillu-s in nunicy and kind for t c
Icmnc.

'Is all that true. Rol)?'

'Tiiu!? Ay, and that's but one caso. Not that w',.
prniiihliii«!. Wi* arc willing to pay a fair rctit it' .vc (mh hm
iiiiikf a living,' said Rob, growing niorc j)ia('tical. 'At 'in
liiiii' that was easy, for the Laiid nicddh-d not with us. I
know not, Fergus, wh) Ani-us M'l^caii should have s'c ai' i!!
will ;it tlif place and the folk among whoin he was horn. 11 s
tatt.cr was a i\ni' niati ; but a good niaii may have an ill yon.
Tlit'K! aie folk, Fergus, who make good servants, hut canna
nil". It sweeps them o(F their feet. Anchloy is one. But he
li.is a long account to settle wi' the Almighty at the la^t d .y.
I'll rather be Jamie Stewart, landless and friendless, than
Alliens M'Bean of Auchloy.'

Fergus Macleod hid his lace in his hands. These things
weighed upon his heart.

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CHAPTER XIV.

MALCOLM.

A rndp, wild soul,
To whom the wlii.s|»(iin;^ hrooze,
The silriit liills, tlic nisliing tide,
Spoke \vit|i strange voices.

■

OES my uncle never come to the Faiild now, T\ob?'
Fergus ask(>cl at length.

'No. Tliey say he's sore spent, and cannot livp

long. He lost his spirit, lad, ."hen liis lady died.'

*And what do you tliink will he the end v. It all?' said the

hoy, with a burst of wistful earnestness very touching to

behold.

'The end will be as T said. The four winds of heaven will
sweep through the Fauld, and will not be heard by the cars (if
living mortal in the place,' said Rob. ' Ye mind of Peter
Crerar, the ^cho(>lMlast('r, that was clerk, too, to the factor?'

' How could I have forgotten Peter, Rob, when I was at Lis
school for six months?'

' Well, him and his brother David and his uncle, lang John
M'Fadyen that was in Easter Lyninore, went away in the
spring across the st-as to Upper Canada ; and what think ye was
their errand, lad ? '

Fergus shook his head, his eyes fixed on Rob with the most
intense interest.

ISO

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MALCOLM.

i3»

'It was to sov ulmt inanrn-r of country it is: to view the
hiiul, :iN tlu' Isratlitrs vit-wod tlie land of Canaan ; and no later
uoiif than )(*>ti'i(lay K'tters came to tlie Faidd, and it's a praud
r.|i(irf. So there'll he a lieap of spinning and weaving in the
F.tuld this winttT, Fergus Macleod.'

'Wliat for?'

•To jirejjare against the day when the folk shall rise in a
hodv and go forth from their own land to a land tlu'y know nut
and have never seen. But it couldna well be harder till them
tliiin this has heen.'

' Vcui don't mean to say, Rob Macnaughton, that they're
gditii! to emigrate y

'Yes; after due consideration, that is what decision we have
arrived at, and it is a wise one. I shall not myself leave
Acliiuifaidd, because I can aye get bite and sup, and I have
Miiii.' siller laid by. But for the young men and the fathers of
fiiiiiilics it is a wise plan, Fergus, that they should leave before
th-v lire cleared out, as they certainly will be, by the corbie at
Audiloy, if they bide muckle latiger in the place.*

' l)()i'> tny uncle know of this?*

' I know not, Fergus. Auchloy himself has an inkling of it.*

'And who are going, Kob? Tell me quick. Oh, I can
hardly believe it ! *

• 1 III re's all tlie Stewarts, and the Creiiir>, and Kwan
M'Fadyeii. Of Donald Macalpine I'm not sure, for his
liiisiiR'ss is good, and cannot be meddled with by Angus
MBeaii. And there's big Sandy Maclean an* a' his folks, and
wiL' Sandy Maclean down by at Wester Coila, an' a heap more
wiiose names I canna mind.'

'Are they all from Dalmore folk, Rob? Are there no dis-
iiiiitt'iits among Shian or Garrows cottars .^ '

Nut tliut I've heard of. Cameron of Garrows and Campbell
"t Sliiaii deal straight with their own people, and there is not
"i" l\iM,L!, evil tongue of Angus M'Bean to come between.
1' i.;ii-« M.ioleod, if ever }ou come to your own, or have name
lid laiuis ill your hand, take warning by what has haj»pened
'"It- aiiiDug the folk ye have kent all your days. Let no man
C'liiic tii-tweeii you and your tnik, and then there will be

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justice dono. Are ye for off? I misdoubt, Luldip, I liave liiid
a heavy sorrow on your young lieart, l)ut bear ir litrlitly, ;is it is
not of your own doing. If ye come in by another day, Til let
ye liear my \\\\ al)out the desol.itioti of the Fauhl. It has hcin
wrung from me i)y ihe vex itions of tlie folk. They tliink \\w
thrawn, and say my heart is like the netlier millstane, imt tluv
dituia ken that the strong currents lin wi' nae muckle din, aiil
that I'm wae, wae for Achnafauld, an' the leal huaris that have
kent no other hame.'

' Kob,' said Feigus, turning back at the door, 'do you ever
see or speak with Malcolui Menzies? Katie says she is anxious
about him.'

'She may be; the lad has a fine spirit that's easy fretted.
I've whiles a dwam about him mysei'. There's a mortal hatred
between Angus M'Bean and him.'

'Are the Menzies not among the intending emigrants?'

Rob shook his head.

'Jenny Menzies couldna sail the seas with her stiff joints now,
and the bairns maun bide behind wi' her. They say M.ilcnhii
Menzies is daft, Fergus; but diinia you believe it. He has tlie
music of the winds an' of the nuinin' waters in his soul. The
puir chield is a poet, an' disna ken what a' the clangour an' the
jumble means. He'll find his w»'ird yet, Fergus, an' there will
be peace of mind when the music that's in him finds its v liee,
Fergus. He'll laraw nae mair wi' Angus MBean, and vex hi>;
sister's soul, for he'll hae that within him that'll make him ;it
peace with all men.'

'Does he come in by to you, Kob?'

'Whiles, an' sits an' greets an' greets as if he were a hiss
bairn instead of a muckle haiiin wi' the strength o' twa men.
Then I pit the bolt in the door, an' gie him my rhynu^ :iii
sangs or the lad's fair be>ide himsel' wi' delight. Daft I ii;i.
there's no' muckle daftness about Malcolm Menzies. H^"
maybe surprise us a' some day.' (*,

Til go, then, Kob, and look out for Malcolm. I'd TiKe well
to see him before I go to the college.'

' Does the thought of the gown an' the pulpit no' set up your
birse now as it did, Fergus ? '

nts now,

M;ilci>lin

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MALCOLM.

'I'll never be a minister, Rob, tliongh I should cnst peats for
iiiv jivinu. But I have more sense tlian that, and I know that
nitlidiir learning a man can do but little in the world. My
iiiMiJicr knows iny mind is made up, but she is anxious for me
ru tiikc niv decree in arts at Edinlmrsh.'

• Ye art' a sensible lad, but ye promised wee! as a bairn,' said
IJ.il), looking into the fine, open, lionest countenance of the boy
with a strange, softened glance. -Gin ye were but Laird o'
Kiiidowie an' Dalniore, there would be less talk about the terlies
acriiss the sea. Guid e'en, Fergus, an' may every blessing
L'uiili' ye.

Fi'igus nodded and strode off, while Rob put his bolt in the
(joor and went back to his loom. Fergus Macleod wondered
wlicn lie heard folk speak i>f Rob Macnaughton as a dull, sour,
iiioios" being, with whom it was iuipossil)li» to convei'se.
Children's hands could open the locked door of Rob's heart, and
])ii-h it hack on its rusty hinges, and he whom the child can
Idvc is never bad.

Fergus lan over the stepping stones, never looking back,
tioiiLiJi he lieai'd the smith's jolly voice calling him. He knew
liiar. it" they inveigled him in, Donald and Maty bet\ve<-n theiu
wuiili! keej) him an hour at the fireside. Behind Janet Menzies's
cdtia'je he saw Malcolm woiking alone in the potato diilis,
iliniiLili it was so dark he could not possibly see to do his woik
well. Ftigus gave a loud, shiill whistle, and stood u[) on a
liitlc hillock at the buin-side, so that Malcolm might see him.
Till' tall, loos«dy-lnuig figure gave a start and stood up, lookinj:
I'linul to see where the whistle came from. Catching si^ht of
ii i\;iis, Malcolm put down his grai{) and creel, and came slowly
lip ilie drill. He was an odd fi,:iute in his louijh homespun,
iii-> tiouser legs warped round with straw I'opes to k"ep out the
hiihI, and his biji, sprawlin'j; feet encased in he ivv cIol's. The
I'liiaiiis of a red 'Fam o' Shanter hung on to a tul't of haif on his
'■i'"\\ti, leaving the big f'orelu'ad bare. His large melancholy
''i-> had a somewhat wandering look in them, and theic was a
'^•ak look about the mouth. He was not a robust lad, but
^\h('ii it pleased him, or when he was roused into a jiassion, he
cuuld exhibit a terrible strength. His appearance was singular

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in the extreme. It was, indeed, difficult to believe that he was
bonnie Katie's brother; but he was very dear to Katie, and she
was tlu» apple of Malcolm's eye. His love for her was indtM il
more like the worship of a lover than the sober affection of ;i
brother. He was pitied in the Faiild, but not much taken
notice of except by Rob Macnaughton, who had found the key
to that half-wild, sensitive^ passionate nature.

A gleam of pleased recognition came in his face when lie
came near to Fergus Macleod, for whom he had a strong rejiaid.
Fergus had never laughed at or teased the poor, shy, queer lad.
whom everybody else treated as a half-wit, and Malcolm Menzies
was capable of intense gratitude

' Halloa, Malky, what a man you've grown,' cried Fergus
cheerily. ' I'm sure you can't see to lift potatoes now. Come
on up the road a bit with me ; I want to speak to you, and I
haven't time to wait.'

' When did ye come back ? ' asked Malcolm, with a slow
smile of pleasure on his sunburned face.

' Why, yesterday, and I'm going away on Monday. I've been
in seeing Aunt Jenny and Katie. How are you getting on,
Malky ? '

' Oh, fine,' cried Malcolm, and dropped his eyes down on the
ground. He walked usually thus, in a kind of shuffling gair,
with his hands in his pockets. Rob Macnaughton used to watch
him whiles, and think what a revelation these brooding thoughts
would be could they be laid bare.

' You are getting to be a grand farmer, they say, Malcolm.
You work all your aunt's croft yourself, don't you?'

' Ay ; I could dae't twice ower noo,' said the lad, with
emphasis ; * we've nae beasts noo. It's dreich work without a
beast aboot the place.'

' Oh, but you'll get beasts again, Malky,' said Fergus cheerily,
for he did not wish to get him on to the vexed question of the
crofts. ' I want to hear about how you're getting on with your
lessons. Can you write yet?'

' Yes, an' read an' a' ; Katie learned me. She writes a
graund haund,' said Malcohn proudly.

' Ay, Katie's as clever as she's l)onnie ; we are all proud of

MALCOLM.

^35

Katie,' snid Fergus cheerily. ' And has Rob succeeded in teach-
ing you Gaelic yet ? '

' Some o'd,' said Malcolm, with a grin of delight ; ' but it's
awt'u' ill. liob's a graund man.'

' Yes, he is. And when are we to see your poetry, Malky ?
1 know it is in you.'

A dark red flush rose slowly over the lad's face, and Fergus
wondered to see his mouth tremble.

'My poetry ! hoots, Rob jist havers.'

'Never a bit of liim, Malky ; Rob knows what's what. Make
up a song about Katie. I'm sure you could never get a finer

subject.'

'Katie thinks my sangs graunder than Rob's,' said Mal-
colm, betrayed into confidence by Fergus Macleod's cheery
sympathy.

'Of course; an' so maybe will I, though the Gaelic is a want,
li's a sphndid language, Malcolm ; I'm learning it myself, bur
it's worse than Greek or Latin. Well, are you going to let nic
have one of your songs, eh ? '

' No' the nicht,' siiid Malcolm, actually trembling. Poor
Liddie ! nobc v knew what his 'sangs' were to him. Even
Rob Miicnaughton, a poet himself, only partially understood.

'Have you any books of poetry in the house, Malcolm? I
could get some for you in Edinburgh,' said Fergus kindly.

' 1 have Ossian,' said Malcolm proudly. ' Rob said he wad
gie me it wh.n I could read it, and I can read it now.'

'Can you really? and do you like Ossian, Malcolm?' asktd
Fergus curiously, for it always seemed a lot of nonsense to him
— a rej)eating of long fine-sounding sentences without meaning
Our Fergus was a very common])lace young man, only very
honest and kind and true, which all jioets are not.

'Like Ossian? I should just tliink it. He's graund,' s;iid
Malcolm, stretching himself up, for these were his own thenics.
' He lived up by at the heid of the loch, ye ken, and he's buried
in the sma' glen.'

'A hit of him, eh, Malky? Some say he's buried down at
till' Humbling Biig, but we won't quarrel over Ossian's grave.
Have you ever heard of Sir Walter Scott, Malky ? '

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■lilMi

' K'oh \vliil(>s spcul^s fiboot liitn.'

' He \v;is H ^M'ciit 111.111. I'll seiid yf)U onp of his books. It is
Ciillcd WdL'Ciif'ii, and is written about Gk'nquaich. He otici^
st<>j)j)eil in tiie inn at Amulree, but nobody knew. Would yuu

bkc t

o rcac

1 it?

' Ay Wild I.'

' Well, ril send it. Stick i.ito your books, and maybe you'll
be Sir Malcnliu MtMizies some day. Never mind anything else.
\\'liaf are ye mukiiig such a face at, Malky ? '

In tlie grey distance a horse and rider were rapidly approach-

e wa>i alwavs

iiig. and Fergus recognised Puddin' M'Bean
called Puddin' vet, to distinjiuish him from hi-^ father. Puddin'
li.id developed into a very genteel ycumg gentleman, and liad
all the airs of a college- ored man. He would never be good-
lonkiug, for, though much thinner, his figure was still too
broadly proportioned to be elegant, and his hair was as red
and his face as fri'ckled as ever. He was going away to Edm-
bur<rh to serve a time in the office of a \\'riter to the ISi^tiet,

liat time are

and also to attend some law classes, all with a view to lilting
himself to be factor on an estate.

' llulloa, Macleod ! been at the Fauld, eh? ' he said, drawing
in his pony sharjjly, and turning him round till his hintl legs
were dangerously lU'ar to Malcnhn Mt-nzies. ' W
you uoing off on Monday? I've been up at Dahnore.'

' Have you? ' a^ked Fergus stiffly.

' Yes. I was asked up to tea with Miss Macdonald,'
said Puddin', g'oiying in the words. ' Get out of tlie
way, Malcolm Meiizies. Don't you see you're annoying my
pony ? *

' Wliat div T care?' a^ked Malcolm, and there was positively
a malignant look (<n his face.

•Gi't out <if the way, or I'll let you taste my whip-end,' said
Pi.d dn' angrily, but Fergus giipj)ed him by tlie arm.

Mali'olm Mt'iizies is with me,

d tl

le roaii is not yours,

Mlicai),' he said (juietly, but meaningly. 'Ill punch your
lieail if you don't ride on.'

' ( )ji, very Will. I beg ycuir pardon, and Mr. ^bdcolm
Meiizies's pardon likewise,' said Angus scoffingly. 'Judge a

MALCOLM.

ni.in bv the company he kecjis. I dun't juhniro yours, F.i-ti-
M.icledd.'

And, hcinp; ."t a safe distance, Puddui' laiiglied a nnu-kin/
liiiigli, ^v^icli made Fergus long to let him feel tiie weight nf li-
strong rijiit arm.

'Never mind him, Malky. He knows no better,' said Fii jus
siHitliingly, for he saw that Ids C()m|ianioii's passion was lisiiu.
» Wlicre were we at? Oh, ahuut Sir W;dter iScott.'

'I'll he into him some day, ., V if I begin Fll nt)' let him nil
easy, damn him,' said Malcolm, with a scowl.

It gav(* Fergus quite a shock to hear an oatli fall froi.. tie-
lips of Malcolm Menzies, but he *ook no notice of it.

'Never mind him, Malky. He's just as iin]>udent to me, ;nid
I never think of nunding him. Do you mind the da) I tliiiislcd
liini. aiul the other day I dookit liim for telling on you, wIk ri
we were all at Peter Crerar's school?'

Bnt the cloud would not lift from Malcolm's Ijrow. It v,';is
indeed as Rob had s;dd. He cherished a mortal hatied against
the M'Bians, both father and son.

'Malky, do you ever tell Mi-^s Slieila about your songs when
she comes down?' a-ked Fergus, making one more ejloit to
chaiiLie the subject. To his unspeakalile aninzenient, Midcoltn,
itisU'ad of giving an answer, turned round and ran off' ;is it
pursued by something evil.

Fergus looked after him a moment, not without ap])rehen-
sion lest it was Puddin' he was after; but Malcohn turned olf
the road, and cut through the moss at Luunore towards ilie
Fauld.

Fergus langlied. Malcolm was certainly (pieer. He did not,
however, comiect his extraordinary aeiion in any w;iy with i! c
II: ..;ion of Slieila's name. Fergus (juirkened his pace when i i->
cniii|)Mnion left him, and his heait was full of biiternesN. He
iciheiuliered the fact that Angus M'Bean should be an invited
-iie>t at Didmore. The factt)r's son, ill-initured, loutish Angus
M"l)e,in. drinking tea with Sheila in the diawing-room ! Sui(l\
leih hiid not exagLierated, and the M'Beans had too suie a luid
•'11 Dalmore. For two or three years now Fergus had seen \er\'
hiile of iSlieila, and iiad spoken with his uncle only once since

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SHEILA.

the previous Christmas. He was never asked to Dalmore, nnd
liis mother never encouraged l)im to go. Nevertheless, wIumi
li-; c;ime to the school corner that night, he turned along the
Crieff road towards the Girron Brig, He had an errand to
Uidniore.

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CHAPTER XY.

UNCLE GRAHAM.

And whispering tongues can poison truth.

COLERTBCE.

j|^€/f^^\^ HEN Fergus reacbod the house, he did not at once
^A^ vv'-ll, enter, as he had been wont to do, witbout jrivinj]:
^, i!^ '^fiil any notice or his presence. He was now almost a
— --—- straiiLTcr in Dalniore, and, besides, tbe familiar
freedom of cliildliood liad jiiven jibico to tbe sliyness of
youth. So, after looking about him with an interest quite as
kit n it less boisterous than of yore, lie pulled tlie hall bell.
A strange servant who did not know him answered to his
summons.

'Can I see the Laiid — Mr, Macdcmald?' he a>ked.

' 1 don't know, .sii-. 'Ibe Laiid sees very iew. But I can
lake your mejsjige and your n;ime.'

'Perhaps I can see Miss Macdonald tlien,' said Fergus
quickly. ' My name is ]\hicleod. You do not know me, 1
see. I live at Shonnen Lodiie.*

'Oh, 1 beg i)ardon!' said tlie woman. 'Come in. Miss
Macdonald is in the drawing-iooni with ber govei'ness.'

'Tliank yon, I can go uj) ; 1 know the wa\ ,' said the lad, with

a smile. 'You need not tell my uncle; Miss Macdonald \\ill

take me to him.'

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It was a simple tiling, and the woman cniild nnt be expoctcil
to know liim, yet his rcocjition cliilU'd the ali'cady full hc.ivt of
Feiv'is M;icU'0(l. Inch l>y inch he w:is dril'tin'j: away t'loni
Daimore, and now he w;i.s vei'ily a stranger within its cifcv
He p.iiiscd on the drawing-room liinding, for tiie memory of
the l;is« lime he liad been in the house swept ov(!r him. h
was indeed tiiKi that he liad not been within Dalniure since \\w
day of his aunt's burying.

There was no sound issuing from the dr.iwing-room ; if it
Jiekl two occu[)iints, they were; not conversing. But with ;i
light, somewhat hesitating kiiock, Fergus opened the door \\\v\
went in. By the fire, deeply engrossed in the pages of a hook,
was a young girl two long phiits of bright brown hiiir

hanging d,"-" ' .. oack, and a sweet girlish face supported in
..., while her dark eyes eageily scaimed the fascinntinL'
Waverlet/, which was even then creating a great talk in tlic
district. Could that l)e Sheila, the little mite in pinafores, wiio
had come with such joyous anticif)ations with her motln i to
Daimore! The years had changed her, and yet dealt tend.'ily
with her ; as he looked, Fergus thought he had never seen a
creature more passing fair.

She was so engrossed that she did not hear him come in,
but when Tory, grown old and cross, gave a short waiiiiiiL'
bark, Sheila looked round in surprise, and then sprang to
her feet.

' Fergus, Fergus, is it really you ? ' she cried, with all the
old frankness, and she advanced towards him with boih Imm'
hands outstretched, There was all the faindiarity of childi.ond
mingling curiously with the shyness of young girlhood in lu r
look and action.

' Yes ; I thought you would have forgotten all about inf,
Sheila,' said Fergus, and they shook hatuls quietly ; tlun a
curious constraint fill unon tiu'm. The old haiinly love was
still between them, but the years had raised a little banirr
which could not be hritlgt^d all at once.

'Your governess is not with you, Sheila?' said Fergus then.

' She was here a little ago. She has gotui to her own room.
Have you come to stay at Shonnen for a while ? *

UNCLE GRAHAM.

141

'No. I nm going away to Edinhur^h on A' 'l-'iv. I)i(i
Aiifins M'BiMii not tell you? I met him riding Ikhiic fnii'

liTf,

' He s;ii(l lie was going, hut we never sjjoke of yoii. W L, 1
!i (landy lie lias grown!' said Sheila, with a little lau-h. ul.ic
hhiicIkiw put Fergus more at his ease.

' Av, he has a great conceit. I have come iij) fnuii ;j
Faul I, Sheila. Katie Menzies told me you were going aw

t(l X'llOdl.

'Yes. for a year to London, Fergus. I don't want lo -.
hut Aunt Ailsa has insisted on it. She says I mu^t >«■<■ s, m
tiling more; and two of her other nieces, her ludilicr's L:i -
tVi'iii SutTolk, are at the same school. I don't like to 1. a\.

' How is Uncle Graham ? He is just like a shadow to me now .
Shi'ila. I hear people speaking about him, but nobody sn nis
to know very much aliout him.'

' He is not very well, poor papa.' Sheila's eyes filled with
tcMis. SIk! was only a gii'l yet, but she had acted a won-an s
jiart ill Dalmore. Like Fergus, she had known very liiih- of
the oidinary pursuits and joys of childhood.

' Can I see him ? '

'Of couise. Will you come just now? He will have had
liis dinner. We do not all dine together now because p.ipa is
not able.'

' Does he ever speak about me, Sheila ?'

' Not often. I don't think you have behaved very well to
liiiii, Frigus. You never come to see him when yt)U are at

SllMhlU'Il.'

' I had to obey my mother, Sheila. She will be angry to-
niiilit wiien she knows I am here.'

■"^lieila was silent. She too, like Fergus, was bcLiinnitig to
iindrixrand things. She knew what had built up the baiiier
it'iween Shonnen and Dalmore.

' I heard a great lot of strange things at the Fauld to-
'liy. Sheila. Did you know the folks are talking ol' haxiiiu ii ?'

' ^ »•>, I know. Oh, Fergus Macleod, everything \> going
wrong!' said Sheila, her tears starting afresh.

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' Docs Uncle Gralinm know about it ? Sircly bo will never
})rniiit it.'

' lie knows, but he is very angry with the poor peojijc ; I
do not know why,' said Sheila pcrjilexedly. ' Tliey must
have l)ehaved very i)ad]y to him, but I can't believe it.'

' Nor I. Somebody is telling lies about them. Sheila,' siiid
Fergus hotly. 'That is why I have come up. I want to tell
n)y luicle how hardly they are used.'

' Perhaps you will be able to prevent them going away,' said
Slicila hopefully. ' Will you come now to his room ? He siis
always in the library, and has bis bed in the little parlour off it.'

' Very well,' .^aid Fergus, rising readily, his heart beuimiiriL'
to beat with a little nervousness at the prosj)ect of seeing Ms
uncle. So the two went down-stairs again side by side, lint
never speaking a worth Even in these early days they luol<
a handsome, well-matched l)air, tlie ruddy lace, blue ey<s, ii
yellow hair of Fergus contrasting well wiih Sheila's d;irk Icvi
ness. She was yet in her unformed girlhood, in spite of Ik r
quiet, diiiuified, womanly way, but it was a girlhood lull ol
loveli"st promise.

Sheila gave a low soft knock at the library door and tin ii
opened it, siunifying to Fergus t(j remain a moment in the shadow
of tbe doorway, till slie should annoimce his j)resence.

The sombre, dismal appearance of the room, with ah its
comforts, chilled Fergus Macleod, it seemed to speak so Ion I'y
ot' a man's broken hopes and retirement from tlu^ world. In
the big old red heather chair close to the gleaming hearth s;it
Macdonahl, a feeble old man.

' Diar pajia, have you had your dinner?' Sheila asked,
and when she reached his side, she smoothed his grey hair hack
I'rom his forehead with her white soft hand.

'Yes, such as it was. What is it, Sheila ? '

' I have brought some one to see you — some one who loves
you very nuich. It is Fergus. Come in, Fergus.'

FtTgus came forward, and his eyes filled with tears as lie
extended his hand to his uncle.

' How are you, Uncle Graham? We have not seen each other
for a long time.'

UNCLE GRAHAM,

•Xo.'

M.icdonnld's koon eye scnnned the boy with a look wliioli
W'lulcl liiivt.' read his soul. It sccinccl to (|iit'sii()M liis siuocrity,
.'iiid his olijcct in cominp; to Didinore. ' W'liii'. (h) you want,
lad? Something, I'll be bound, or you v.ould not he her*'.'

The tone was not harsh, but, it iinplied distruNt and sus-
picii)n, which Fergus keenly felt. Sheila, conscious of it too,
>li|i[)('d away out of the room.

• 1 wantt'd to see you. Uncle Graham, Oh, how changed
you art*! Surely you are very ill.'

'Tlicy say I have no ailment, and that yotuig doctor who
lias come to Duiikt'ld told me yesterday that it was a sin for
iiic to sit here, and that if I had only the desire I might i)e
quire well. It was an honest advice, but the young man does
imt know. You have grown. What are you about now ?'

Macdonald was intimately acquainted with the whole w^ay
of life at. Shonnen, and knew every movenu'Ut made l)y his
si>ter and her son, thanks to Mr. Angus M'Bean, but it pleased
liiiii to qnotion Fergus himself.

' I am going away to the college in Edinburgh on Monday,
Uncle (iraham, to study for >ny degree.'

' Ah, are we to see you in the pulpit in Amulree Kii k yet,
then ? '

' No, not that degree. I'll never make a minister,' said
Fergus quickly.

'Then what are ye to make of yourself?' asked the old man,
bending his brows keenly on the boy's face.

' I don't know yet, Uncle Graham. 1 daresay I shall get
something to do,' said Fergus bravely, though his heart was
full to hursting. Never had his uncle r^ ceived him so coldly,
;iiid treated him with such scorn tul harshness. What did it
moan ?

' And what's your mother saying to it now ? '

' Nothing ; she knows I am not to be a minister at any
rate.'

' Ay, perhaps she has other views,' said Macdonald drily.
'So you think me changed, boy? and why not? I am an old
man, sixty-three in November.'

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SIIEH.A,

' TliJit is not very (tld, Uncle '^irali.-ini. Tlioro nrp jOonfy
iiH'ti lar older cvi'ii in Aciniarauld. Lodk at Donald M'(Jlasli;iii's
father, and Ilnddie Ma(;le;m |)ast seventy, and WilJi.ini Snilicr-
land eiijlily-une, and can build dvkes yet,* said Fergus cliecr-
I'ully.

'So you are still sib to all the Fanld (oik, atul tliey tlnnk you
a fiiM' younjr fellow, no doul)t, and make a liero and a martyr
of yoii, said Macdi'iiald, again with that su'^picions liarshiievs
which so vexed the heart ot" tiiC boy, because lie conid not
undersiand it. lie was not yet sufliciently versed in tlie gnili!
of iIm' World to comprehend or even suspect the undirliandiMl
villany of Angus M Bean. He did not like the man, ceriaiiilv,
bur had not tlie remotest idea of the way he had worked
uptin his uncle, and poisoned his mind against all irutli and
right.

' I have always gone back and forward to the Fanld,
Uncle (itaham, more since the winter I went to Peter
Crerar's school,' he said in surprise. ' I was there to-day.
They are in a sad way at the Fauld. Do you know about
them ? '

' What about them ? '

'That they are so hardly dealt with, they are thinking of
leaving tin; place.'

'Let them go! an ungrateful pack! let them go! and a
good riddance,' said Macdotiald fiercely. 'Their greed and
their idleness surjiasses anything, and makes the blood lioil.
Their pockets are lined with gold, they have bardi accounts in
CriefF and Aberleldy bigger than mine, but they have a pauper's
soul, every man among them.'

Fergus was terrified at the violence of his uncle's anger, and
sat >ilent.

' Of course you are on their side. I have heard of you,
t.h(mgh you have kept wisely away from Dalmore, Fergus.
You are young, and easily imposed upon, and so are to be
excused. The Fanld cottars are like the daughters of tlie
horseleech. They have but one cry, and that is. Give ! I have
given them of my substance, potatoes for their seed, and for-
given them arrears, while they fed their beasts on my pastures

UNCLE GRAHAM,

;m(1 l)iirP('(l my jiojits, and liiiifilu'd in my face. Tluit nood
v,.iv:iiit Jiud laiililul liit'iid, Angus M'licati, lias opened my
.•\ts, !ind niiw I kiKiw tlit-m Inr what tliey are. And I never
liriiid lieiter news than that they an; going off t<» tins new-
t'.ih'jlt'd count I y, because there tliey'll learn the lesson they
lii'lily doerve.'

Fergus was silent still. In face of these remark>«, delivered
with an inlensity wddcli too clearly indicated the strength of
his iiticle's conviction, he felt it useless to say a word. He had
iidt, indeed, anything ready to re[)ly, though he felt in his
inmost Siiul the untruth atid injustice of the opinions expressed.
It was titdy since Angus M'Bean had begun to grind the cottars
iiiiih'r his rule that they had uttered a complaint, lie had
t.ikcii the loch tishing from them, and the hill j)aslure, and had
f\('ii ilueafened to levy a tax on the [)eat mosses. And though
tlirsi' privileges, which had been theirs from time itnmemorial,
li;i(l Ix't'ti wi'ested from them, the lents were maintained and
I'Vt'ii added to when any tack rati out, and not a peimy woidd
he s|i(iid in rej)airing the miserable homesteads and outhouses
ill \\w place. It was not to be expected that the cottars, being
liut human, could bear these things in sili'nce. No doubt they
iii'.d their faults: some of them wer(! lazy, and believed in
L'eitiiig as nnich as possil)le for their money, but they were
ill the main honest, hard-working, uiuitfending folk, who did
their duty as thev knew how. But An^us M'Bean had tried
iliein lieyoiid their endurance, and they had rebelled.

' I have found out the nustake of small holdings, Fergus
Miclcdd. The actual money counted up may amount to more
than t!.e rental of big farms, i)ut the ])rivileges the cottars get
si/oii eat up tiie priitits. Before I die, there will be a change
en the lands ot' Findowie and Dalinore, and whoever ct)mes
iitief iiie \vill lie sj)aied the cottar ])est.'

Fergus sat sdeiit still. lie thought of many things to say,
hut seemed to be toiiLnie-tied. His uncle's keen eyes never f^r
a iiieiiuMit left his fiice. He saw (li>ajiproval in its expression,

ii'i'l it iiritated him, even more than openly expressed contra-
diet inn.

'\ou are young, Fergus, as I said, and (Nisily imposed upon.

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Altlinugh you may never have land to look after, you mny 1h.
ill the way when a good advice will be of use. Tnat all
men as enen)ies till you prove them friends, and even
tiien trust them no further than you see them. You aiv
disapproving what I say. Some day you Avill remember it,
and know I was right. Now, what did you come here lor
to iiitilit '? '

' 1 came,' said Fergus boldly, then turning liis fearl^-vs
Idue eyes on his uncle's face, ' to tell you how Aiiu'Us
M'Beau oppresses the folk. He is a wicked and cruel
mail, and he tells lies about them to you. You can be \\\vz\s
if you like. Uncle Graham; I know I am speaking the tnuli.'

' Ay, ay ! it is but as Angus said. He is a shrewd man.
hid ye not come up, Fergus, to see whether I was near my
end .'' Are ye hungering after the place, like your neighhuurs
in the Fauld?'

Young though he was, Fergus ISIacleod understood and
keenly felt the insinuation his uncle made. He sprang up, the
ruddy colour deepening on his face, atid turned about without
a word to seek the door. He had his hot temper too, and was
easily roused to anger.

' Come back, ye whelp ! that touches ye on the sore hit,'
said Macdonald, grimly enjoying the boy's discomfiture. 'Come
back and sit down. Be honest now, Fergus Macleod. Have
ye not begun to think what fine things you would do ^vele
you Lidrd of Dalinore ? '

' Uncle Graham, I'm going away home. Good-night,' said
Fergus quietly.

' What are ye greetin' for, ye big bairn ? I would like
ye none the less were ye to tell me honestly. It's hut
wliat 1 expect,' said Macdotiald gruffly, yet with more real
kindness than he had yet shown. ' What are ye looking at
now ? '

' At that,' said Fergus, pointing with his forefinger to a
portrait of his uncle's wife which hung above the lirepLice, and
which he never remembered having seen before.

Graham Macdonald's eye foilMved the lad's gesture niui
glance, and his head fell down upon his breast. If xVnjjus

,J^

UNCLE GRAHAM.

M'Rcan liad only known it, tlie sweet pathetic month and the
ii.ild I'ves of that sf)eaking likeness were the strongest barrier
in tli<' way of liis liigli-handed dealing with the people.

Av. had the mistress of Dalmore but lived, there had been
litttcr diiys for the people of Achnafauld.

' Leave me, boy, just now,' said Macdonald at leniith, while
Fiiiius stood irresolute at the door, his heart yearning over
liis uncle. ' Come again when you are at Shonnen ; Sheila
likrs to see you.'

And with that Fergus had to be content. He had no heart
(o L'o hack to the drawing-room, but Sheila, listening for his
vti p. came running down to say good-bye.

'Are you not coming up a little while, Fergus?' she asked
timidly.

' No ; my mother will wonder why I have been so long.
r.(K)d-bye, Sheila; I hope you will like the boarding-school.'

' I don't think I shall,' she said, as she gave him her hand.

Poor bairns ! they were both miserable, they did not know
wliv.

' You'll come back a fine lady, Sheila, who has forgotten all
al)()iit her old chum,' said Fergus.

' Xo, no, I won't. Oh, Fergus Macleod, T wish the days we
used to fish in the Girron Burn, you and Colin and me, could
come buck, I am so lonely up here by mvself.'

"You have Uncle Graham and Puddin' M'Bean,' said Feri^us,
"vitii a kind of subdued viciousness which gave his feelings
immense relief. Then, though her eyes were w(!t, a peal of
hiuiiliter broke from Sheila's lips which woke a thousand sweet
wiioes through the quiet house.

•You might give me a kiss for Colin's sake,' said Fergus in
:i iliu'cr, shy way. 'We won't likely sco each other for a long
liiiii','

' 1 11 kiss you for your own sake, Fergus,' said Sheila frankly
:ind sweetly, and without a shade of embarrassment. In many
\ '\\vi% she was but a child still.

It was many a long day before they kissed each other again.

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III;

CHAPTER XVI.

MOTHER AND SON.

He must f^ain his end
Although in gjuning lie oll'end
Or even sacrifice a friend.

J. B. Sf.lTvIKK.

HE ye.ars had dealt very gently with Ellen Mnclcnd.

1^1'

She had not much to trouUlc her in her hm
Shoniien. Her means wei'e sufficient for lur iic
and Fergus wa? her only anxiety. She had trai

liim to strict obedience, and liad hitherto had no reason t

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He had mnui to Perth, and sliared Pndiii!

M'iieans lodiiiiig without savim? a Avord, thouali lie I'l Ir
keenly. The close intimacy of that semi-home life had nut
all increased Fergus Macleod's liking for the cowardly boy w
had made himself so obnoxious to the Fauld bairns. I'jur

sti'led these feelings, and did his best to cret alon2; conifoi
with AiiLMis when they were at school.

lahlv

Amuus, Avho had a wholesome me]

mory or the smart pnm-
lent Fei'giis had twice inflicted upon him, left him in ]h;i
But though tl>e boys ate, and learned, and slept togetlur,

tlli'V

were in no sense of the w'ord chums, and it was a mi^tak'' i"
])ut them together. Tliat trial, one of no ordinary kinti l"i'

•d fain

Fergus, Avas now past, and ins college days pronuse
those he had spent at school. He need not see aiiyil
Puddin' unless he liked, and that was something. Ellen M

143

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MOTHER AND SON.

149

liad not relinqnishod the hope of seeing Fergus a Tninisr(>r yet,
thiiULili she liad learned to liold l)er peace about it. Sh(> had
;ils() another hope, of uliich slu^ said even h'ss, Tlic (mly
nt'ison to whom she spoke of it with any freedom was Angus
M Bean, tlie factor. 'J'hat astute incHvidual was playinu a
duulili' game, which in the end wouhl result in his own dis-
cnintiture. In the meantime, however, he was llourishing like
ilM' provt'rhial grfcn bay tree. The house of Auchloy had
Ihcu enlarged and adorned until it looked more hke a small
iiiaiisinii than a farmer's abode. Mrs. M'Bean had now her
ciKik and housi-maid, with whom, ])oor body, she had but a
Miirv time. A drawing-room furnished in green satin and
lulnrned by numerous white starched tidies and woollen mats
was at once the anxiety and the pride of her life. Then the
twe Miss M'Beans were being educated ;it a select school in
IVrth, from which they would shortly return, full of airs, if
lot of graces, to further exercise the spirit of their plain but truly
gdod-hearted mother. Had Mrs. M'Bean not stood in mortal
tririir of her spouse, she would have given him a piece of her
mind about his dealings with the peasantry, of which she did
not at all aj)[)rove. Iler sympathies were entindy with her old
iiiit:ld)()urs in the Fauld, and she gave them many substantial
cxpii'sslons of it out of her husband's knowledge.

It was half-past seven that night when Fergus opened the
iraidtMi gate at Shonnen. He had walked round by the road and
across the Anuilree Bridge, the night beinnr too dark lor him
to cross the Braan by the stepping-stones. He had not hurried
on his way, lK)wever, being engrossed by his own thoughts.
lli're Were many things weighing on the boy's mind and heart.

'Y(aiare very kite, Fergus,' his mother said, in her habitually
>tvti(' V(jice. Fergus could certaiidy not associate anything
I'liiilit with his mother. She still wore the repulsive head-
divss which, as a child, had frightened him, the only alteration
'"■iiiii that she had cut off the long crape which used to hang
'l"W!i her hack.

'Oh, mother, I am very sorry! I hope you did not wait,'
(1 ii d Fergus in his quick way, the spread table reminding him
ot tea.

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SHEILA.

' Of course T waited. King the bell for Jessie Mackenzie to
bring in the teapot, and tell me where you have been.'

Tea was still on the table in the dining-room, and his motlkr
severely sitting by the fire waiting.

Fergus was so accustomed to be cross-examined, and to give
a minute account of his doings, that he thought nothing of ir,

' I was at the Fauld, mother, seeing all the old pt'()j)lc.
Jenny Menzies can't stand or walk now with her rheumatism.
Hut Katie is a great help. Mother, you wouldn't know Katie
Menzies now, she is such a bonnie girl.'

' Seeing I never saw her, I don't suppose I should,' said Ellen
Macleod drily.

' You know who she is, though, mother,' said Fergus, with
his mouth full. 'And Malcolm is quite a man. Then I saw
l{ob Macnnughton, and that was all. Oh, mother, just think I
The folks are speaking about emigrating, of going away tu
America, actually. Isn't it fearful ? '

'What's set them to think of that?' asked Ellen Macleod
quietly, though she knew the whole affairs of the Fauld better
than Fergus could tell her. It was long since she had heard
the emigration rumour.

' Oh, the shameful way they are treated by Angus M'Bean'
cried Fergus hotly. ' You wouldn't believe how they are
treated. Do you know, mother, there is hardly a horse or ;i
cow in the Fauld now, and not a sheep? The hill pasture is
taken from them. It's perfectly abominable the way Angus
M'Bean is doing, and the worst of it all is, that he has made
Uncle Graham believe they are to blame. Mother, I do think
he is a horrid, bad, greedy man.'

' So they've stuffed your head finely for you at the Fauld.'
said Ellen Macleod, with that curious smile of hers, which was
no smile at all. ' Did you never hear that every story has two
>i(les, Fergus? '

' Oh, I know, but anybody can see whose side is riglit.
Moiher, how can they make a living and pay their rents otF
these little crofts, when they've nothing to feed a beast on?'

' They wouldn't say anything about their spinning and
weaving. Go up to Tirchardie Mill when you've time, Fergus,

MOTHER AND SON.

151

.and soe what Walter Luchlan has to say about the Fauld folks
and tlu'ir earnings.'

'But, motlicr, thoy can't spin and weave when they've no
uoi'l. nor sheep to cli[)?' maintained Feigus hotly.

'They spin flax yet, though.'

'Yes, hut, if they groAV flax on their crofts, they can't grow
corn and j)otatoes,' said Fergus shrewdly. 'Oh, mother, you
know I am riLiht, and it's a cruel shame the way they aie
treated — that's what I think,'

'Were you anywhere else than the Fauld, then? I thought
you bad nuiybe gone up to Auchloy to your tea.'

'0 no, thank you! I've seen plenty of Puddin' ; and his
sisters are awful, mother. You should hear their fine English,'
said Fergus, with boyish candour. ' But I've been up at
Dalniore.'

'At Dalmore ! ' Ellen IMacleod's brow darkened. 'What
were you doing there ? '

' I went to see Uncle Graham.'

'And did you see him?' she asked, her curiosity getting the
better of her annoyance.

' Yis, I saw him.'

' Is it true he is as ill as they say ? '

'Mother, I don't think Uncle Graham will live long,' said
Fergus, and his lips quivered. Menu^ry was faithful in the
boy's true heart. The sad changes the years had wrought
could not destroy his old-time confidence, his old-time love for
Uncle Graliam.

' What did he say to you? '

'Xut very much. He does not care about me now, I think,'
said Fergus, in a low, uncertain voice, for there was a lump in
liis throiit.

' Did ii think he would ? ' asked his mother, in bitter scorn,
'lour (hty is past, my lad. Did you see the girl, his daughter,
as he calls her?'

'Yes, I saw Sheila.'

•It is she who has turned your uncle against you, and who
tas supplanted you in Dalmore.'

'1 don't care for that. I don't believe it. I like Sheila,

't *"-:''.f,)

•I;;:

11 i

ill;t

■I!

! i

Ill

'■i

' «.'

i i

il 'I'

i i

' 1

:• '

]i'

u -J

i I

152

SFTEILA,

Slic is a<; dilTcrcnt from Bessie and Kafo ^I'Roan ns nip-lit from
(1 iv. 1 lun'cr saw a nicer girl in my life than Slicila, .-ind Ini
very sorry for lier. She is miseiahle up in tli;ir lonely Iniusi-.'

' Pxiy, you liave a craven spirit. lluw will you lonk w n'li
\niir iincl(^ is carried to Sliian, and that chit is lady uf
1 'alniore ? '

'I di'u't know,' said Fergus, in a low voice. 'She Avili hi-
iviml to the people, anyway. She won't believe all Angus
Mli.an tells her.'

' Ferjzus Macleod, vou have a causeless resentment aa-;iinsr
Angus M'lWjm, Avlio is your true friend atid mine,' said Kllcn
Miicleod, in a low, imjnessive voice. 'You are sixteen imd a
li.ilf yeiirs old, and should undei stand things now, so I sluiU
spe;ik plainly to you. Angus M-Bean is doinii Ids utmost to
W(,rk a^^ainst the influence that cirl :md the Mum^vs have over
\<iuv uncle. I don't bl.iine her much as yet. for she is xouul';
hut the Murrays are doing their utmost to get your uncle to
make her his heiress, and if they succeed, you will be a nameless
beggar on the face of the eartli.'

'Oh, mother, I am not a beggar just now. I shall not he
any worse off then, sliall I?' asked Fergus, not greatly
impressed by his mother's speech.

' Boy, you make me think sliame for you,' slie cried, growing
white with passion. 'Have you no ambition for your>ell ?
Will you be perfectly well ])leased to see Sheila Muriay and
her horde of relatives ruling in Dahnore. Your heritage !
What right have they with it? If Graham Macdonald wilfully
passes over his own kindred at the last, a curse will dwell upen
Dahnore. I will invoke it if none else will,'

Ah, Ellen Macleod ! it is long since your evil resentment
cursed Dalmore. By the memory of her who sleeps in the
old graveyard at Shian, spare the innocent bairn who never did
you harm.

' Mother, I suppose Uncle Graham can do what he liki s with
his own,' said Fergus wejuily. 'Iwoitid bke very well to he
Laird of Dalmore, for I like the place bi'tier than any ))lace in
the world. But I'm not going ti> beg for it, nor seek to turn
Sheila out. If you knew Sheila, mother, you would leel the

MOTHER AND SON.

153

sfimp as me. T can work for my living, and koep you and
iiivscif, too, yet; wait till you S(m;.'

TImsc words woie more bitter than gall to tlio proud,
iiiiiliitioiis li^art of Ellen Maclcod. She almost hated the ])oy
for Ills lack of sjiirir, not knowing, poor blind crtatnre, that he
w,is allowing a nol)le, generous, unselfish spirit a king might
liavc envied. \\'ith all her harsh training, she had not btn-n
alili' to warp or curb that pure soul, which had a heritage
giciittr and more to be desired than any eai thiy estate.

She rose from her seat and flounct-d out of the room, leaving
FerLMis ])erplexed and more miserable than ever.

lie drew in a chair to the fire and sat dnwn to think over
wliat his mother had said, l)ut his reverie was soon broken by
a ]iar<i knock at the front door. When he heard Angus
M'Bean's voice asking for his mother, he rose up hurriedly and
ran off np-stairs to his own little room, feeling that he could not
Icar to meet the factor just then. He shut the door and sat
down by the window, and, leaning his head on his hand, looked
out away across by Amulree, to where a bonnie moon was rising
iihdve Crom Creagh. Its light did not as yet touch Dalmore,
l)Ut lie kni'W the exact spot where the house stood, and he had
no need of light to guide his eyes to it. Ay, the lad loved
Dalmore with a great love, and he knew that to call it his iionui,
and to have in his hand the welfare of the folk aniontj:; whom he
had been reared, woidd be the happiest destiny he could ask on
earth. But tiiough he knew that there was a grain of truth in
what his mother had said, and that Sheila stood between him
iind Dalmore, it made no difference in his feeling towards her.
They had been bairns together, all in all to each other in the
I'liiL"^ d lys of that first beautiful summer when they had imide
:ic(|uainfance fiist, and the tie of bairnly love is one which is
not ( ;iMly severed. It would take even more than separation
tVoiu Dalmore to break the sweet spell of the old trysts by the
(iirron Briu. He heard Annus M'Bean ffo into the dining-
iiiom and his mother join him there; then the door was shut,
and only the subdued murmur of voices indicated that they
wt'if in conversation.

Kilen Macleod was always courteous to Angus M'Bean, and

1 '

. i\

I I

)iii

154

SHEILA.

\) I

Ix'lievf'd him to be her true friend, while he was only seckitig
to serve liis own ends. Ho knew the Laird was failing dailv,
and as lie had as yet no idea what were his intentions r^jiardini,'
his properly and estate, it behoved him to keep on good terms
with both Slioniien and Dahnore. He hoped, however, tor his own
sake, that Sheila was to be the heiress. A weak, inexperiencid
i^irl wouh] be much more easily dealt with than EUen Maclcod
and her high-spirited, generous-minded boy. If Fergus Mac-
li'od ever became Laird of Dahnore, Angus M'Bean had a g(j(i(i
LMiess that his own day would be over. Tlierefure it behoved
him to make hay while the sun shone.

' A fine night, but cold. Winter will be upon us before we
know where we are,' said the factor, as he shook hands with
Mrs. Macleod. 'It's a winter moon that's up to-night.'

'Is it? Fergus has just come in. Excuse the table. Will
you have n cup of tea ? '

'No, thank you; just come from it. We have a lively
house just now with Angus and the girls. They are aye
squabbling, and the piano goes from morning till night,' said
the factor rather proudly. 'I don't know what the wife and I
will do next week when the young folks leave us.'

'Are your daughters going back to school? They will be
quite accomplished young ladies,' said Ellen Macleod, not with-
out a touch of amused scorn. She was often amused at the
conceits of the factor, and certainly thought his ideas above his
position.

' They are smart girls, I own, and I'm expecting Angus to do
great tilings at college. I hope he and Mr. Fergus will con-
tinue to be friendly, and to keep each other out of bad
company.'

' 1 am not afraid of my son,' said Ellen Macleod rather
haughtily. 'He has been up at Dahnore seeing his uncle
to-nii:hl.'

' Has he ? And what — how did they get on ? ' asked the
factor nervously, not at all sure about what might have bei-n
the meaning or issue of the interview.

' The boy was grieved to see his uncle so ill. He thinks him
dying. Is the Laird so far spent, Mr. M'Bean ? '

MOTHER AND SO IT.

^SS

'I — I really can't tell. Of couisti I am sooini^ him ofti

or course he is weak, hut that young Doctor Culharrl, who lias
conu' to Diiiikeld, — a clever fi'llow they say, — acltially told me
yfwtcrday, the Laird had not a single ailment, and that ho
iiiiL'lit live twenty years yet, it* he would only make up his
mind to do it. But I myself don't think, Mrs. Macleod, that
lie will Ia>t as many weeks.'

'Mr. M'Bcan,' said Ellen Macleod, with a slislit hesitation
(for slit' had her own piide, and it sometimes retninded her that
it wa-i scarcely fit that she should discuss family mrtters with a
Mrv;iiit), 'have you ever heard the Laird say aught about
I» iliii'iiT V Is it likely he will leave the place to Alastair

II IT. I

V s child V

•The l^ord ffji'hid ! ' said the factor quickly. 'There is
il iiilit that slu; will get a good slice of it — Findowie, perhaps.
Ih' was suggcsling to me something about repairing the old

1^1' nil it. But he'll never pass by Mr. Fergus, his own flesh

IIIKl

hjlHK

lias he ever spoken about it to vou at all?

W.ll

no, n

>p(
ot exactlv : but, of course, I can see his di'ift,

-\\\'\ the factor, not choosing to confess that he was as com-
I'hiflv ignorant of Macdonald's intentions as Ellen Macleod

IhTSclV.

' Well, it would be a sin and a shame ; but mark me, Anjrus

M-

)can. It won

not trrea

tiy

surprise me.

Fergus is in a

t- i'll

Mf \v;iy about this talk of emigration in the Fauld.
' 1 knew he would be. Ht^'s got a soft heart, and they've
'-'Ot 1(11111(1 him completely. Some day I expect Mr. Fergus
will thank me for ridding Dalmore of these discontented cottars.
Tiny are a great toil and anxiety, I'm getting my blessings in
Aclinafauld just now, Mrs. Macleod. They're all on my tap,
ninl tlicv'vc even threatened me with bullets, to sav nothin<jf df
Ewaii M' Fadyen's lang-nebi)it maledictions, which are feai-
siiiiie to listen to. I hope the emigration craze will only luild.

HMc s one nes

t I

would like cle;;neu out amoncr the rest, aiu

tht

that's the Merzies's. That Malcolm's no' canny. Were he in
the town, he would be in an asylum.'
'Fergus is especially fond of the Menzies's,' said Ellen Mac-

y\' .i.f

f(i

\x\

■M

■■ii:

if*i

ai^W

.]'ini,H

SHEILA,

lend, with a sliiilit smilo. ' I do not comprclipncl tlie boy. TI"
li.is not i( soul iil)ov(! tlio Jill'Mii's of the c^fMnmoii folk. lie
wdiild rafluT sit an hour \viili the stocking weaver than he
Liiird of Didinorc'

' Ill's l)iit a lad. Edinlmrfrli will bring liim to bis Icvt I.'
Slid tli<' faelor kiiowini'ly. 'Take my word for it, Mi-s. Mac-
liMxl, he'll meet tin' gentry in ICdinbnruh, innl learn to hi' jikui 1
<it' his lUdther's folks. I'm no' feared for Mr. Feruns beiiiL' aMr
to u|th()ld his j)()>ition in Dahnore ; and he'll change? his ideas,
tno, aixnit the Fatdd folk.'

' He is their enthusiastic advocate in the meantime, at am
rate. None of the lawyers have ever been at Dahnore that ym
know of, then ? '

'No; and Magjie ^blcintosh, that was with my wife at
Anchloy, and is kitclnn-niaid at Dahnore, brings all the news.
I'll h't ye ken, ma'am, whatever happens. I'm yours and Mr.
Fergus's luunble servant, and I hope to see ye yet where ye
>hi)uld be, and should aye hae been,' said the factor, in liis
lilandest mood.

Stijuiore that Ellen Macleod shoidd believe in X\w sinccritv of
such a man. In the wide world, Angus M'Bean of Auchloy
would serve but one master, and that was — Self.

'.' i:

CHAPTER XVII.

CIIUMS.

A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of yoiitli are long, long thonprhts.

L(JNU FELLOW.

KRGUS had rebelled against sharing longings in
Edinburgh with Angus M'Beim, and so the open-
ing of the University session found him doiiiiciied
alone in a small but comfortable room in tlw t(>|) flat
(if a house in ^lontagu Street. It seemed strange to the b(>y at
lii>t to be confined to so small a space, but fiom his window lie
could catch a glimpse of the corner of Arthur's Seat, and the
grim outline of Salisbury Crags, and that view was the gi'i-atest
(Minfort the Highland boy had in town. It remin(U-d him of
liunu'. It nuist not be supposed, however, that he was at all
inix'iahle in Edinburgh. At fii'st the change and its constant
'itistle were delightful to him ; there was so much to see in sjjaie
!i nrs and on holidays, that he never wearied, even for home.

He speedily made acquaintance among the students, and
htcanip very friendly with a big, good-natured lad, with a smih-
.•ind a kindly eyi^ which seemed familiar to Fergus. "When he
learned his name he knew at once where lie had seen these eyes
before. The lad was Alastair Murray, from ^lunayshaugh ;
aiul he was his mother's son. Young Murray was b(.arded with
a very select family in Great King Street, and lived in a very

187

H|i

■M\

'[ 1

i ■

lll

till

ilfij

158

SHEILA.

!' i

(lifTcnMit style from Fitlhis ; l)iu tluit did not prevent tlio two
frniii Ix'coii'ini!; ijis('|>ariil)lu duims. Ahisijiir was snpposiMl to
h(! studying for his dcLM't'e likewise, hut was too itlle and e;isv-
iniiided to oppress himself nuich with books. The lads sat side
hy side in the Iliun.'uiify class room, hut Alastair took in very
liltK; of the learned professor's lectures. Fer<^us, however, did
his best. He was conscientious in everything, and, as he liad
i)i'en sent to college to learn, he did learn. liut on half-
holidays and Saturdays, Alastair and he took long walks to-
gether all over Edinburgh and its beautiful environs, and were
as chummy and as devoted to each other as boys of that age
can be. Alastair wrote home when the spirit moved him, and
his letters were filled with Fergus Macleod ; and when I.ady
Ailsa read them, she smiled a V)it quiet smile to herself, and
wrote; back to her boy to keep up his friendship with Fertnis,
and b(; as kind to him as possible. In her own mind she knew
that old Time, the stern and jnst, would heap revenges on Klleii
Macleod's liead, and that the bairns among them, if let alone,
would heal the old sores. Fergus had no sweet mother to
whom he could pour out his boyish confidences. He wrote
home dutifully every Saturday morning, faithfully rehear>ing
his week's work; and, though he might mention that he was
going for a stroll to Craigmillar Castle, or a ramble through the
Pentlands, he never by any cliance Avrote down the name of
Alastair Murray. lie liad an uneasy feeling that his motIi<r
would not approve of liis intimacy with Lady Ailsa's son ; and
yet when Alastair was such a jolly fellow, to whom his b()3'ish
affection went out, how could he cast him off? So the winter
went by, and cemented yet more closely the tie of fiiendsiiip
between them. Each was utterly devoted to the other, and
each believed the other the best fellow in the world. At
(Christmas, Alastair Murray went home, but Fergus had to
remain over the holidays in town. The journey was long and
expensive; besides, the v^orld about Amubee in the latter end
of December was shut in by drifts, wdiich were no mean rivals
to the hills themselves. The hawthorn bloom had been thick
and white in Stratlibraan all through the summer, and the haws
ruddy on the boughs later on, and they had not belied their

CHUMS,

'59

promise of a snowy Cliristni:is. So FtTjrus wnndorcd abotif tlic
town in tlie liolidiiys, tliinkinjj: how u<,'ly it looked, with its
ti;iiii|ih'd snow and sinoky, murky at tnosphcrt', ;iiid thought nf
till' wild hcantics of Aiimlrcc, of the ti'iidcr outlines of liie
wic.ith'^ in the roads, and even pictured the wild winds swirliiiLf
tlic ihil'ts in Ghn Lochan liku an unseen liand stiriin<^ a wiieh's
(.•.luiilroi). The wee glen at the liead of Locli Fraochie was a
tViiisoiiie plact; in a snowstorm, Fergus kiuMV. lie went oflen
to the Quei'u's Park to slide on the lochs, and thought them
iiiniii ill comparison with his own Fraochie, which all the winter
tinoiigh was a vast curlimr-ground. He was glid when the
ncexs was over, and the students came V)ack to town. Alastair
\\,is not at college on the first day, hut next morning, when
Fergus was walking briskly up and down the (piadraipjle at
lunch-time, he felt Alastair's big hand slap him on the
back.

' Ilulloa, Fergie ! '

'lli'lloa! got back, Alastnir?' said Fergus heartily. Then
tlicy linked arms, and went round and round ilie ([Uadrjuigle to
excliiinixe news. Of course Alastair had the most to give, l'i>r
L.idy Ailsa always made Christmas a ha})py time for her boys,
and grudged them no enjoyment.

'Oh, I say, Fergie, there's an awful din going on up at your
place,' >-aid Alastair suddenly. ' The folks have all left their
faruis, iuid they're going off to America. 1 heard them talking
al)i)Ut it at home.'

Insiantly Fergus was breathlessly interested. Though his
liidtlicr wrote to him regularly, she never mentioned anything
aliiiut the Fauld folks, nor any matters connected with the
est ale.

'Are they going soon? Tell me all about it, Alastair,
.piirk!'

' Oh, I don't know much. But surely your uncle has a
lueaii sneak of a fellow for a factor. Hasn't he ])Ut them out ?
1 tluiiiglit my mother said that.'

' lie's helped anyway. Yes, he's a mean sneak,' said Fergus
gloomily, but with an angry flash of his eye. 'But they can't
go over the Atlantic just now.'

iii'lliH

,1 ti

5» ► '

i k

^;^i

!< !| ;

t ■
It

I- 1

1!,'

i I i' 1

i6o

SHEILA.

'Why not? I tliink they are going just now; at least,
lhi'\'r(' out of their places.'

'Well, iait ir is Upper Canada they are going to, and the
^liips can't get up the St, La\.i'ence for tlie ice,' said Fei'.'uv.
' If they all' out of their farms, wliere are they living?'

'Oh, 1 don't knon'. Doesn't your mother tell you all these
snit of things when she writes? Mine does.'

'iSlie didn't tell me anything about this. Oh, Alastair, I
wish I conld get home!' said Fergus, in a tone of such painful
iiicpiiry that Alastair lov^ked at him in amazement.

'What for, Fergie?'

' To see what's going on. It'll be April before I'm honio,
;iii(l if they're all away I don't kr.ow wliat I'll do.'

' lint how does it matter to you? You aren't the Laird,' said
Alastair, in ratlier a perplexed voice.

'No; l)Uf I like all these folks. There's Donald M'niaslinn.
and old Diigald, and Rob Macnaughton, only I don't think
he'll i^e going. I wish I could see them, if only to say
goo l-bye.'

'Oh, well, perhaps they won't be going till the sprinir,
i"or the ice,' said Alastair, who was not very clear on that
])oint, 'Likely the\'ll all be there when you get back. The
session ends on the 28th of Match, and jolly glad I'll he wlitn
it comes. It's not much more than two months, Fergie, so
cheer uj).'

But Fergus was very down-liearted all day, and whenever lie
got home to Jiis lodgings, he wrote a hasty letter to his motlicr,
asking for all the news about the Fauld. In his ab>()rhin.r
iiiten st about the cottars, he forgot his usual reticence re^.mi-
iiig Alastair, and just wrote down that he had brought tin-
iKW.s back from Murrayshaugh. Ellen Madeod had herself to
blanu^ foi- the way in wiiich Fergus withheld his confidence from
her. When had she encouraged it, or shown herself in thelit'lit
of a syiin)athetic, interested I'riend to her boy? She had frez< ii
the mainspiings of l\i:. fn-sh, warm, im])ulsive young heart V'Wi
aiio, ;iiid could scarcely resent its lukewarmne?s now. Fei,L;u>;
knew the name of Murray was distasteful to her, and, un'W"
Worldly wise even in his young boyhood, refrained Irom i.ilhct

CHUMS.

i6i

in'j it upon lior. At tlio ONpiry of n week liis motlur's iisu il
Ictifi- ;iMivi'(!, aii(], tlioiigli Aw sijiiitii'd her reciipt of liis fMia

cpi

>il('. she men

■'}•

s;ii(

1 I

at >lu* did iidt coiUMTU Inrscll" with

iffiiiis Aviiicli wiTt' not licr own.

It*

liad nolt'd the naii'C n

ui lav

but

did ni't take notice o

f ir

in lirr it'|il\-

In ilie lieat of liis di-^appointnunf and cairer di'>ifL' to kiow
ii'idlv what was uoiiiir on in Aolniafaidd, Fergus >at down
and iiuliti d a h;isty, bi\i«.h screed to Kob Maciiau:jliton, ilie
stoikiiiii-weaver. asking liiin to send liiui a long Itiicr iellin<i-
111! that had iian^piied in the Faidd since he left the (ileii.
Tli;it Idler Kob Macnaiuhton tuasiired ainnivj^ his most

iii('ci(>u> tNicunnius

till

Ins (i\nig d;iy

111 ;i (lav or two there c.nne back an answ r, wri'teii in ralur

;i (T.iinitid

nils

teady

hniKi

Md-'aUfii, the precentor, havn

le>s a ])er>ona'j(' tlian

]•:

wan

iLT tak

n it upiiti h insclt to re| Iv

oil 1)1 half of Rob. who w.is ci n ined to his bed with rlieiiniati>ni,
and could not hold the pen in his still' tingiis. Ikhtiin atism
minion coniiiiuint in Achnafauld in the winter time — ■

\va^ a C'

the iiiobt atmospliere, a

d til

.-b

le low-JMiitr, (lani!) sitnacon (

-f tl

]iiiiis('<, accounted for it. This letter (jf Kwan's, written in his
most giMiidiloijuent style, is (juite worthy of ])ublicati()n. Fergus

kt'pt it long ill his possession as
hut that it is still extant aniun^
Dalinure.

a ouiiositv, aiK

1 I

am not suie

the papers in the library at

aciinafaild,
Glenquaich, Amuluke, by Dunkeld,

The 1 6tb day of January,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight, Anno Domini.

To Mr. Fergus Macleod, at the College, in Edinburgh.

Rr,sri:crKD Sii?, —

I ani organized by my disabled friend, Mr. Robert Mac-
n.Tii-litoii, to indite a suital)le and peimanent reply to your
liniKdiiid conumiiiication aneiit the agitation which has sho ken
iliis liaiiilet, nay, this entire gUn, frum east or west, to i's solid
f'lii ilatidii. This I will make it my endeavour to do to the utmost
"f my tiileiable ability, and do but prefer a iiumble reiiiu st that a
f-tii'lfiit of so great and philosophical a college wdl l)e pleased lo
I'lotik iiiid pass by any slight deviation frum the straight ec|uih-

iiVl

biiuin of 'irauiraatical correctneBS.

I'.-fj

■ ■;i

• I

' I 1

l62

SHEILA.

V\i

;) f| ;

Rob Macnaughton, bi-iTu/ in liaste, roqnosts mc not to .li-sipatc
voiir attention with my fine Ijinguago, wliicli, I coiitVss, I am u
niastor of, bnt 1 take it ui>nn nie to venture tlie suppMsition tlnu
even in my tinest .style I sliall liaidly be e(\ual to the occasion. I
will endeavour, liowcViT, in ae([uie^cence with K'olTs desire, to
inform you briefly what the facts of this interesting case .uc. as
follows, viz. : — That the following responsible liea>ls of huusehuMs —
viz. : —

James Stewart, formerly of Turrich ;

Alexander Maclean, cottar in Achnafauld;

Tiiomas Maciiaughton, do. do.

Kory Mach ;in, do. do.

AVilliam Cierar, do. do.

Douald Macalpine, do. and blacksmith ;

and the undersigned, viz. Ewan M'Fadyen, cottar, and also
precentor, viz. leailcr of the ))raise in the kirk of Annilrcc, have
resolved anddetermincd in a sclcnm league and covenant, on aic 'imt
of the o[)pressiori and in])idenee of that upstart and c ntemjitilile
truckler, Angii.s M'Hean in Aiiehloy, to turn our respi'ciive iia>ks
upon the land of our birth and breeding, and cros.s the seas to a new
and unexplored region which knows not Joseph, and thus our fauiiiii'S
have agreed to, and it is our tixed intention to shake the dust fiom
off our feet in the sj)ring-time, — that vernate season when all naiure
rtjiiiiH'S, excei)t oinselves, — and with every symptom of re.-pect lu
Mr. l^'ergus Macleod,

His humble servant,

Ewan M'Fadykn.

I'he close of Ewan's epistle bore unmistakeable traces ii
liaste. Rob, indeed, had lost patience ^vitb his sciilx's
verbosity, and bad thrown a book at bis head. But, in >]iite
of the long words and fine-sounding phrases, the meaning was
perfectly clear. It wjis indeed clear that Angns M'liean liail
succeeded in coniplettdy souring the small tenants in Daliunre.
And they, foreseeing no pros])ect of any betterment in tlieir
situation, had Avisely resolved to gird up their loins while tliev
bad vet a little left in tlieir wallets, and seek a home in thai^
di>tant land of which such good rej)orts had rcaelu'd tliein,'
Now that he knew the worst, Fei'gns Celt more (!oiite'iti(lj
although wearying to get home to lii-ar fuller piirticulats. ;

lie had seen Puddin' M'liean several times in EdinbuiLil j
but did not consort at all with him. Alastair Murray, wlie. i.l

CHUMS.

163

spite of his good-nature, had a pride of his own, declined to
-;;iii(l on ;iny footing with tlie factor's son at Auchh)y. Tliat
!(Mi-li!iirod fellow from Glenquaich did not find favour in the
ivi's (if liaiulsome, high-born Ala^tair Murray.

The hiief spring session passed at length, and on i.he 28th of
March Fergus Macleod returned home. Alastair, Angus
Mlican, and he travelled by the same train. The Highland
liiK! was bt'iiig formed, and had now reached Ballinluig, so
iliMt tlu' lads got home all the way to Dunkeld by train.
riif factor's smart dogcart was in waiting lor young Angus,
ilic fiictur himself driving.

'llulloa! how are you, Mr. Fergus? Jump up,' said the
lictor tamiliarly, when Fergus came off the plaifoim. Hut,
111 his amazement, Fergus only gave him a haughty little

' Xo, rhank you, I'm going to walk. Here's your traj),
Alasiair,' he said, turning away from the M'Beans and speak-
ing to his friend.

' But, Mr. Fergus, Mrs. Macleod said I was to bring you up,'
siiii the factor. ' Come.'

' Xn, thank you,' repeated Fergus. 'Tell my mother I'm
walking, and that I'll be up before it's dark.'

'All light,' said Angus M'Bean, trying to speak pleasantly.
ihoiigji he was very angry. ' He's trying to show off befoic
\iiiiiig Muriayshaugh, but I'll take it out of him,' he added ti»
ills son. ' In with you, Angus, and let's off.'

' You can't walk all that distance, Fergie,' said Alastair, in
ciincern. 'Come on home with me, and you'll get Dick's
|inny.'

'<) no, Alastair. Ten miles! I'll walk that in two hours
in 1 a half easily,' cried Fergus cheerily. ' Good-bye ; I hope
We II see each other in the liolidays,'

'See each other! of course. If the weather keeps like this,
ilierell he some rare fishing in the Logie. Of course you'll
■nine ovi'r for a few days. My mother will settle all that.'

■So they shook hands and parttul, Alastair to drive raj)idly
'|"nii' t(i the hearty, loving welcome of Murrayshaugh, and
Ki'LMis to trudge manfully up the brae and throngh Strath-

! I :

if .

' i

^4.

i I

" i I.!

''I'f^

) •'

I* >i'i

164

SHE/LA.

11 :

1'^

h' I

' I I

1 K

' 11

M;i!in to Anmlree. Tlie LainVs ncpliew w.ilkou afoot, carrvjnnr

ha'.

while tlio T> ird's fjictor cnvcrcd tlu; luiU's with t

!!■

ih'ct thoroiighhrt'd for wiiich the spoil of the cottars had {);ii(l.
Tht,' l)rit'l' soreness Fergus liad felt at the station so(,n wnw
• ifT, and he began to take interest in what was al)out him.
Xt'ver liad tlie green and lovely Athole woods seemed so ]i, los-
ing fiiir as tliey did th'^t April day, to the country hoy wImim-
ryes liad grown weary of the town. He turned ba^k aj;iin
and again to look at the rugged face of Ciaiaybarns, which ^\M^
cImiIkhI with the rich mosaic of hi-r sjjring-tide hues. The
Lireen baid-cs of the noble Tay were like finest enn-rald vchct.
and the river itself flashed and rippled in the suidiLiht, liil its
beauty filh'd tlie boy's whole soul. He was neither an ;iriivt
nor a poet, but he felt it all in liis soul, and loved the hind ol
his birth better tlian an\ thitig in tlie woild, lie had to stuj)
;it one part of the road and look away u[) the glen past Dali^uisc
and Dowally to the green braes of Tullymet and the pmph hills
in the distance, a jdcturc whose marrow he had never seen.
He saw the trouts leaping in the gleaming pools in the Bia;ni,
which were shaded by the drooping birch trees and the l^oMcii
tassels of the larches, and his young heart leajied too, for ilie
w rid was a lovely world, and life was all before him. So mi
he trudged pa.>t Trochrie, and on to Drumour and Tomiiaiiiew,
wlieie the landsca[)e grew more bare and treeU'Ss. though iiMt
! >» beautiful in the eyes of Fergus Maeleuvl. When he got up
to the crest of the brae by Dalreoch, he saw Crom Creagh. aiid
'he sunset shafts oi' golden liudit falling athwart the win(h>w> ol
Dalniore. Then he dashed his hand across his eyes, foi thi y
were wet. God guide the boy! he had an earnest heart, .-iikI
already he had been sorely tried. Just then lie met 'Yoin
Macniiughton, the blind ])iper, dressed m his kilt, away to
play at a marriage in Biillinreich, and of course he li;id '"
s^md and crack a l.ut with him. for the piper knew the hi 1 ^
foot before he came up. It was about eight o'ch)ck, and. tli''
sun being down, a soft golden h;ize enveloped the whole ,Lih n.
when Fergus Macleod laid his hand on the gate of Shoinn ti.
He felt no thrill of deliglit as he did so, for he had no leve tm'
the [>lace, nor had it ever possessed for him any of the attrac-

CHUMS,

165

tinn*! of home. ITis inotluT was watcliiiiG: for liim, and canu^
iiiir to tlie door to meet liiin with but a chilly welcome on lui-

lijf.

• ^'e are a fool, Fergus, to walk tlie road ye miirlit h.-pi'
I .1 ini. Whether is it pricU? or thrawuucss that makes yuii >
s. rr) civil to Mr. M'Beau of Auchloy?*

!;:t

/tl

I (

'!f"P"*i

^^i^A

'I!

111 !■

1 i
i

1 ll

1., !l I

CHAPTER XVIIL

HOME AGAIN.

The short but simple annals of the poor.

Gray.

is^Kinui

LLEN MACLEOD was glad to see her son, however,
in spite of her scanty welcome, and wlien he sat
down to tea her eye viewed liim witli kt-eii ] I'uli'.
He had grown a manly fellow, and there uas tlic
dawn of manhood in his look and manner. Fi*rgus \vas m*
longer a boy, to be chidden and ordered even by his nioilicr.
So she alluded no more to his refusal to ride up in Angus
M'Bean's trap.

'Mother, what's all this about the Fauld?' he asked, in liis
quick way, * Are they really going away ? I can't beUcvo it.'

' Oh, it's true enough. They go to Gla<5g()W, I'm toUl, the
day after to-morrow. Silly fools, they don't know when tiny
are well off. So Lady Ailsa's son brought you the news. Ave
you intimate with him, Fergus?'

'O yes; Alastair is a splendid fellow, mother!' said Fergus
enthusiastically. ' We are the best of chums, and spiiid our
Saturdays together, always.'

' It seems as if you purposely made friendships and did
things to vex me, Fergus. The Murrays are not your true
friends. Have you forgotten that this lad and Sheila Munaj/
are full cousins ? *

";,'

^ 1

/-'■

//OAfiL AGAIiV.

167

'No; lint, motlior, I can't make any difTeri^nce. I can't
always inind tliat pcojjlc are not my friends, as you say, I like
Ala-lair, and always will. And as for being Sheila's cousin,' he
added, with a light laugh, 'we a-ree perfectly about her.
Slieila is everybody's chum at Murraysliaugh ; but she's mine
too, wlien she's in Amulree.'

These wor^ls were bitter as gall to Ellen Macleod, but slie
passed them by in silence.

'Mother, I'm going to run along to the Fault!; 1 nuist see
tlie old folks. 1 won't be more than an hour, and it is quite
light yet.'

'All right! I would not keep you from your friends,' slie said,
with a slight touch of scorn. 'I heard of the letter you wrote
to the stocking- weaver. It was not wisely done, Fergu-;.'

•Why? Oh, mother, I had such a letter from E\v;iii
M'Fadyen ! ' cried Fergus mirthfully. 'It is in my ])ag. We
can >ee it after. It is full of the longest words you ever saw or
heard of. Rob's cripple h'g was botlKuing him, and his rheu-
matic arm, so that he could not Avrite.'

'I am not much interested in these ungrateful people,' wa.-
the cold reply. ' I want to hear about your college life.
Angus M"Bean has done very wtdl, his father tills nie.'

'1 know nothing about him, except that he M-ent with fellows
who could not do him any good,' said Fergus coolly. 'Of
coiuse he did not belong to our set. Puddiu' soon found his
level in Edinburgh College, mother. X cad is soon spotted

lere

' What do you moan by these strange, ill-bred words, Fergus ? '

'I beg your pardon, mother. One can't help picking up a
liitle slang. I meant to say that an ungentlemanly fellow is
Soon marked; and, in sjiite of his fine clothes and airs. Pnddin'
will never be anything but just Puddin' M'Bean. How aie
Bessie and Kate? Do you ever sih' tliem? '

"Occasionally. 'J'hey are well-hrt'd girls. Angus M'lV'an
has credit by his family.'

'I am alad to hear it,' said Fergus carelessly. 'Oh, mother,
li"\v honnie Anuilree is looking just now, with all the green
leaves on the manse trees! '

:;3^

I (

168

SHEILA.

:i :

Ffruus Siiid tli<' rmnsp trees, l)iit lie was tliiiiking and spe.'ilvinT
' I tl,«' wonds !il)(iiit D.'iiiiKire.

' ri.clr (Jr;di;mi is no worse, is lie?'

' Xot that I know of,' an^iwcred liis niotlier. * Yon won't
^ta\ laii', tlnri, if \oii are jjoing. Ivt-menilx'r, you owe a duty
lo nie. You have Ix-en awav fi'oin me more than n\ iminrlis.'

oil,' said 1'

'And jollv Lilid to iret home, 1 can toll y

eiifcniy

Ml' I

shaKe

^\o, 1
hands

^n'r.

onT.

I only

want to ask loi

k r<

CTLMIS

loin.

smith, and have a

peep

Kar

i nzifS.

8t) saying, Fergus caught i^ his cap and ran ont wdusthncr.

I IS spiiMts oveitliiwinii' with tliejoy of l)eii)g once more at. Iioiin
ill' missed Cohn at his he(ds. That faiihlnl I'ri nd wa

s nmv

dead, and there was no doi: at- Dahnore hut poor I'ory. wlio in
his old age had grow, very dyspeptic, and consequintly was
Very lazv and cross.

Kllen Macleod wi nt out to the door and watched tlie lail's
fine figUK^ as he mai'ehe(l aloncr the stony road towaids Kii.l ih

watci.ed lum with all a mot

iher's

)ii(le

She 1

ove(

liim more

in his inih'pendent young matdiood than she had loved iiiiu ii
Ids childhood Ilis spirit and his pride matched her

own.

though it, was ol' a mi-llower and more heautiliil type. Feiirus
never looked hack, hut strode on, with many a glance, it is tiiic,
over the moors to Dahnoie, al)out which the grey inght-shadows

was

It;

were gatherinn' sof'th', as if in j)ity for the old house which
now so doolaie a home. 'J"he loch was lying darkly in tl
slij'.dow too, for the sunset glow never touched it; l)Ut it was
Wiiolly l)eaii'ifiil in the eves of the lad, as he st'-od a nionn-nt
on the ol I hi'idiie and watched it and the I'iver which fh

(!('■ i) and SI

lent

swil

saw the iiiLT liunui

y I

lly l»el

ow,

e coil

hi ah

no-t

■ well SO
a' C\' lie

)ike naitinff to an

d f

ro \\\ the irleaimiii:

<lepths lK'h)w tlie i)ridge ; for hy some strange means pike had
come to Loch Fiaochie, and ludjied to devour the trcmt wliicli
UM'd to he netted for the folks who stayed over the protiaci'd
eMminunion serviees at Amulree. Over the hridj^e and up
t'lriiU'jh the lmji-sv patli went Feriius, and came upon Malc'liii
Mriizies, workings though it was nearly daik, on the potato
land, preparing it for the seed.

HOME AGAIN.

169

'lIuUo, Miilky ! liore T am ng;iin. No liolidnys for yon, my
])()V, ell ? l)i) you ever [live yourself a icst ? '

' 1 (limia need it. I m li^st woikiii' hard. Ir keeps mo doon,
;i-i Kiltie >ays,' said Malcolm, as lie stood up, Ids lace all aglow
with pleasui'i' at siiiht of his old compMuion and defender.

'Yell are looking much big^iT and sUongur, MalUy. How's

Kiitii

' Km lie's fine.

' And Aunt Jenny, eh ? *

'Fine too, though she catinn rise noo, nor liclp liorsel'.'
' So you are to lose a lot of your neighbours, MalUy' The
FauM will he didl enoticrh without them all.'

Ay ; hut I'm gled lioh Maenaughton has a cripple
Ti; keep him at home,' laughed Fergus.

OU .'Ui

arc not Lronigr either.

m very ghK

' I wad iraiifT if it -werena for KaHe, Mr. Fe'-iru?

ilcolni, \v

ith

a curious gleam m Ins

ey(

ler

aiie

Siiid
iles I

cajina hide here hardly. The factors ayc^ nicddlin wi' me.
Ih' says I canna ferm the land, but I see weel eiieucli he's
wanin' us out o' this Fauld an' a'.'

' Xever mind him, Malky ; he can't put you out unless you
are wiHins: to 20.*

I (li

nna Ken

lie savs lie'Il rise the rent, an' it's ower dear

already. We've to pay ibr horse wark too, ye ken, an' that
di>na pay. Is Puddin' hame fiae the cnllege too?'

'Yes; but you mustn't call liim Puddin' now, Malcolm, he is
siK'li ;i fine young gentleman. II

e Wears a gi

dd fi

nger nnyf anc

lias a silver-topped cane,' said Fergus, with a liugh.

I 1

lope he

'11 1

)ide oot o my roac

id Malcolm, in a low

voice

' Ye'U be gann to stop at hame tbr a while

now

'For a month, Malkv ; but I mu^t awav over to IJob's. I
a lot o' them at the smith's. Is Donald le.illy going away?'

see

Ay; and there's a man frae Finciouie comiu' up to the

siiialdv,

'M.lky, if the Laird had been quite well, these things would
'lit l)e,' said Feruus soberlv. 'I believe the factor does things
111 my uncle's name which Ik^ never sanctioned.'

' We ken that, but we'll be waur some day,' said Malky

(Hi

I i

■\\

\.\

\ .

1
1,

( -'

)

[te|i

lyo

SHEILA,

' Hi

s I'

(piictly, ns he went back to liis work. Fergus crossed over tlie
Imiiii and passed by Jenny's door, nieunitii^ to look in and see
Kaiii' last of all. A.s, he neared the sndddy door, he heard ;.
loud burst of laughter, which did not seem to indicate ihik;);
heaviness of heart. It was Ewaii M'Fadyen, holding Ibith as
usual in his solcnu), bombastic style, to the great amuseniciit of
the others. Mary Macalpiue, the smith's wife, looking out ut
the door, caught si^ht of Fergus.

' Ik-re's the young Laird,' she cried, for by that title was the
laddie now known in the FauUl.

' \V(dl, how are you all .-* Mary, you are looking splendid!'
cried F('r>:us, stepping across the smiddy doorstep, when he \v;is
immediate ly surrcinded by l^onald and all the rest, eager to
shake him by the hand.

' \\ h'lt were you all laughing at?' asked Fergus, wlieii Ik;
could get bi'cath to speak. '1 thought you'd be all in very had
spii'its.'

'Nay, for we arc now free from the hand of the oppressor,'
said Ewan solemnly; but the tear stood in Mary Macalpiiie's
eye.

''i\ll Maistcr Fergus about Kory Maclean bein' shf)t in tlic
Sma' (ilcn, Ewiin,' said young Kob Stewart, whose father had
been iu Tui-rioh.

'Tell it yourself, Kob, or you, Donald,' said Fergus to tlie
snnth. 'If Ewan begins, dear knows where he'll end. Who
shot Kory ? '

'Ay, that's it — wha shot Rory ? ' replied the smith, his side^
shaking with laughter, 'lie was comin' thro' the sma' glen frae
CrieiT tiie ithcr nicht wi' his cairt. He had a bottle o' barm in
his oxter, an' the heat o' his arm garred the cork fice oot wi" a
lood report. It was a dark uicht, an' Rory, a nnickle sartcliicM.
as ye ken, Maister Fergus, thccht the deil was efter liim. "i'
that somebody had killed him deid wi' a gunshot. So he lit
the beast staunin' i' the glen, an' gaed aff on his hale legs to ti:'
slu'idierd's hoose at the Biig o' N».'Wton, an' gied them a teniil''
fricht. lie said he was mortally hurt, an' began to tell tin m
boo his gear was to be pairted. But the slie[)herd, secin
the barm rinnin' ower his leg, says, "The bluid's unco whin,

HOME AGAIN.

171

Hnrv

But it was liinff or I

was convince

(] 1

i€ wasna

;ilH'

i ii;i

111

t's a (inccr story, Donald,' said Fcrans, lauuliinp ; 'l>iir
I \() ■(' jiot sonictliiiiir to laiijjrli at. It M.'t'ins scricus

1 iiiiiuii to ino that you a

n. all

"^oiiii; away from

tl.c V

iMld

We've got till' v.'arst l)miit owci noo, lad,' said iliu sniitli.
Tliat we liavcna, .smith,' put in Kwan.

' For \sv. have yet
tit pliiugh the utd<nown tracts of the va>ty deep, and that'll he
vtTV severe upon the cqui

stniiiachs.'

libriuni, to hav nothiiii; about our

'When do you go away from the Glen?' aski'd Fergus,
.iviiiL; no attention to Kwan. In serious moments, when he
wanted information, he was sonutinies inn)atient of th.e pre-
(ciiMir's It'ng-wiiid(!d sentences.

' Nc' the morn, hut on Wednesday moinin', Maisfor Fertrus,'
.siiil the smith, 'we'll gang cot o' the Glen — four-an' twenty
souls o' us, an' a heap o' gear. We're no pretendin' WH-'re gam

'(it licLmars,

lister FelLTUs.

e are on

•y ?■

uin so

that

'11

iio' he heggars. Coidd we hae made a leevin' ava, we wad hae
hiddiii i' the Glen. Look at Mary there, she'll hae her een
LM lit tell oot or ever they see the last o' Glenrpiaich.'

Tlic smith's voice faltered t(>o, and a silence fell upon the
liitlt' conijiany. Strong, roolute men though they were, it was
no liLilit thinii for them to turn their hacks on their ' bairn's-

haiiii'

which is ever the dearest we know.

• li'^ just awful to think yoii are going away from tlie F;iuhl,'
\\\ !*'■ iLius hurriedly. ' I — I wish I was the Laird ; things

wiudd he dilferent
k(

Ay, we ken that; but ye hae gotten a lesson, ^^:li■>ter
JUS, \\\^ it' ye ever con)e to \()ur ain, ye'U ken to live an' \v\

I1V(

an 110 treat t(

ilks as if tln'V were waur than brute beasts
ut si'Mse,' said the smith. ' When y(> see the aidd Laird,
Mai-^tfi' Feriius, tell him we <raed oot no' blamin' him, ibr wlien

\\\\\\

if was 111 Ins liea

1th t;

iniu;s w

erena ill wi' us; liut tell him

W<'

111! a cui'se on that lilack deil at Auchloy, an' that Dalmore'll
iicMT jtrosper or he gets the road.'

A shadow darkened the doorway, a face hioked in, with a
111' "king smile. The factor himself, sneaking about to overhear

• I (

T72

SHEILA.

\i I

cliMru'o rrninrks, lind fiot tlio listener's portion, thou'jli not for
the first, time in Aclin;ifiiiil(l.

l'\'rgiis tan out, Imt tlio fjietor Wiis not to Ix; seen. Tlim lie
crossed tli(? roiid, lifted the sneck of Kol)*!! door, and went in.

ire

lere

K..1)?

Ay, lad, I'm here; ye

are welcome

as rl

le sun \\\ liairst.

)i)

Conuj in; thoiiLih I'm not ahle to meet ye at the dooi-.'

Fertrns j)ushed open the door of the litth; ki'chen, and tlicic

was Hob sitting at the fii'e, with the deal taltle hefure liiiii

coveri'd with hits of paj^er, whiK lie had an old copybook htl'oiv

him and a pen behind his ear.

' Are you makitiLr poetry, Uob ? I'll disturb you.' '

* Never mind. Sit down, lad ; blithe am I to se(! your face'

' I'm glad to see you, too, Rob, but I'm not able to bear tln'
folks going away. It's a terrible, terrible shame !'

The lad threw himself into a ciha'r, and oiu; dry, (piiok s(
broke from his lips. A peculiar kindm-ss gleamed in the dark
eye of the stocking-weaver as it rested on the boy's bent lieinl.

'Ay, lad, this is but the l;e<iinnin' o' the desnlaii(tn of wliich
I spoke to you before,' he said. ' 'i'here's nobody coming tn till
the places of them that's going away, save the smid(i\, sn \(iu

can imagine what like the place will be — a rickle o' emj)ty li I'S

where the beasts o' tin* field can shelter, bur where hum.iii lodt
doesna, enter. I'm no' tired o' life, Fergu> Macleod, but I liavt'
no doire to livi' to see the complete dooiifa' o' Achnafauld.'

'What's to become of the land, then, liob?'

• Ve need hardly ask. 'Ww. big feek o't gangs in wi' Aucliley.'

sail

1 1

till),

inir 1

ilroppmg his more poetical language, and spe;ikii:jr

1 1:

sharply to the point. 'Then Tunieh and Little Tunicli arc let
tie giiher wi' some o' the crofts at Kiidoch. But 1 jaltniM'
,\ngiis M'liian is waitin' or the folk be safely awa or he shows
his hauiid.'

' It's a sad business. It just makes n»e miserable,' said

F»'igus, ri>ing wearily. ' I must go home, for I promised
my mother not to stay long. I'll be along to-morrow,
(iood-bye just now.

K.)h

'Mr. Fertrus,' said the stockinjr- weaver, 'I dinna want to

push my nose into the affairs o' my betters, but they say

the

;: ^ ^'

HOME AGAIN.

173

\ I

jiiild L.iird's a dfcin' iii;im, an' I wad hut advice ye to tiy ai
liMik <l'i(i' ycr aiii. 1 k<'ii ycr pride, n»y lad, l)ur flM'n'> whil.
\vi' li;ii' to j)it <loinj a linn foot on pride to dac uii;!!^ iifli
(Imir voii up to Dalniorf, an' sco what's wiiaf. an' m •■ ilcii
ii;n' writiii' dune up tlu'ic that shouhhia he. Aiilius .M'li' an
ii.vci' (lot o' I)ahnor<', an' thi-re'll niayi)e he niair ronic oM iii.i

\y\\\ or yours wad

,\er\ tliiti'i s all wroncr,

Rol

), sale:

1 I'

orLius hop' l<'-> V

oliiikiiig iiis Iicad as he went out hy the door. lis l.ic
liii'.'lirt'iicd a litih* at sit:lit of Katie, homiie and winM^nic a> <'i
\iMf. 'illiiiLT tlic wati-r-pilclicrs at the wtdh and wlicti ho wct.i
iiji to licr lie iiad even a iiiiht, jesting word to lm'ccI Inf. Kaim

was Liraift'id to liun i"r

\v,i>

Ljlad and ph-ased to si'e Idni. She

.i> kind wav with Maloohn, wiio luul so Irw rriciids.
Tlicv >tood hut a few minutes, talkillL^ of couisc. ahnut li

our ahsorhin^r suliject of interest in tiie ciachaii ; tliin, liiddinir
lid' i^nnihiu'jht, and refusinj^ her invitation to co 1 e in and -ic
lirr MUi't, he turned up the path to tlie road wliicii >kiitrd \\\>-
Miiidi side of the locli. Ju^t at the turn he Jiiot vnnnj An n-,
liis Iiands in Ids jxickcts, i-ufhii^- away at a eiL'ar, w.ili all

with

till- aiiN of a fooU.>h ixty who tliought Idniself a in.ii. To !(•

Miiv, .\ti'jus was now in his twduieth yi-ar, and »o, |icrhap>.

\v,i> j i-iili((l in thinking himself quite grown-up. liul lif liad

I.') more than a hoy's sens(!.
'lliilloa, Ft'i\inis, you know where tlie villaGrt"^ hrljcs aic to he

fiiiiinl,' he .said offensively. 'Quite a picture, 'pon my woid.

JiiC'ih at the well sort of thing.'

' Piiddin', you are a perfect idiot,' said Fergus iiotly. 'I'he
V idea of such a tljiuK in connection with Kaiie .Menxies was

lull ;ili,sui'(

'Oil, of course, a fellow always is when he tramps on anetlnf
tf!l"\v's toes. I nuisf be down to see the swet-t Kaiic: a preti\

i;iil. "|i'"i honour

le is a rejiiilar ru>lic heautv

All. tl

ill il

'HI Up vuur nionkej,
II;i, 1

key. You have a sneakiii-jr al'.;r Inr, ilitii

I >

''■r

.M-

|j an,

MIS was so mad, he could willingly have knocked t'e
fellow down, but, lellecting thai it was (.nl , !',: n*
he only gave his hps a kind of h.iugliiy eiiil, w.icii

?■!

I ( I

Illi

174

SHEILA,

1 1

somcliow nijule Anp:iis reddfn. It seorncd to riipasiirp a distinicc
between llu'in. Feriius acMually looked at liiiii as if lie wcr,.
';"neat!i contempt. Jiefore he could say anytlt'msj, FerLins Iml
p.issed on, and was walking with a long, striding slej) u[i li,,'

He was quite out of sorts. Everytliing seemed to eon^pir.
lo vex him. Even Puddin's s'upid jeering had left a rank,!!.-
sting. lie Ava Iked on until he had ])a.s.>ed the swelliiiLr inn,,;.
which hi 1 Dalniore, and he could see its lights gleaming throiiii,
the darkening niiiht. Thoughts seemed to lii' upon him ih' n
like a great flood — Dalmore at the mercy of aliens and sei\;ini-:
(Mcn Sheila, who might have been its guardian angel, \va> t'.u-
away in a London school; and in that lonely house his unck
was left to die, without a loving hand, or the suiile of kiln ni
kin about his bed. That was of lar greater moment to Feijn.
Macleod thau the dividing of the estate. It seemed, indeen.
uiore than he could bear.

<^^f^^:'^

:r-

CIIAPTETl XTX.

THE LAST MKETIN'G,

Wnlcincj tlie Tncrnorirs that sloop

In llio heart's siU'iice lung and deep.

ACDOXALD of Dalmore was confined to liis bed
now for the gi'catcr part of the day If ht; h;i:l a
specific disease, the doctors di<l not name ir, i)ii',
though he suffered great weakness of body, i;is
mental faculties were unclouded, lie knew everything that
was going on on his estates, at least, in so far as Angus Mhcnu
kept him acquainted with it. There were some thin-s, ot
course, wliich that wily individual kept to himsi If. Tne hfit r
wliicli Fer<:;us ^Faclcod liad written to Kob Maciiau'ihtoii liad
li'MMi (hily discussed in the library at Dalmore. Kw,;u
M'fadyen, who could keep nothing to himself, had taken care

1) a('(

[Uaint the factor witli its contents, particularly witli tl

iiit rcfening to him. When it was turned over again, with the
tutor's own suitable end)ellishments, it had assumed the form
"t" a tirade aixaiust tlic Laird himsi It". So Macdoiiahl was more

aiitli

immI th

lan usual against Ins nepiu

t h

'W,

'J'liat saUKi evenin-j; h

II'' home, and, after passing ])y the smiddy, whei'e he '-aw
I' I JUS, the factor betook himself up the Cotrymnckloch load

Dill

nore

e was sue

h a

cf)n'-tant visitor there, that

IIS

^''i:ill;iL'S !Ul(

1 C

oin^s Were scarci

notice*

e 'jeneral

eaiuruJ without seeking admittance, and made his own way t

174

';m

i' iiii

Tf ■

..1. L

176

SHEILA.

tin' lihnirv, or wherever tli(? Liiird happened to lie. Tlierc ^v;ls
i:iil)()(ly to cii.'i]lt'iig(^ him but Tory, which he u>uiilly did with
111 'iiv a h.irk and snail, for the animal hated him. Just ;is iIim
tat;inr was walking across the h;dl that eveiiin'r, ^hi"- ic
Macintosli, the maid, catne up from tlie kiichi-n.

' \\'<ll, Maiiuie,' he said lamiUarly, 'anything new?'

'X'l" mueh ; hut Cokpdionn, llie Avriter, was here tlie (];i\-,
and lie's to he liack on Saturday,' she said huriiedly. ' I
tlioclit \-e wad hkc to k(Mi.'

' or course, orcouix'. I'll see yoii again, Maggie,' said tlie
factor care!e>-ly. 'The L;drd's up the night?'

' No, sir ; iic's ill his bed.'

'All right, I'll just go in; thank you, Maggie,' he said, and
turned the handle of the library door.

M;icdoiiaM was sitting up in his bed, a poor, thin, wasted
sh.idoA', with his grey hairs stragL'ling about his biow. and Jiis
keen, (h'cp-set eyes ]ieeiing out wiih a peculiar brilliancy whieii
struck evt'ii Annus M'Bean. Tlie Laird was ctMtainlv worse,

' (Jood evening, Angus; sit down,' s;iid the Laird, in liis
usual (piiet, lutlier lisiless voice. 'Anything fresh? '

Not much, sir. Mr. Feruus Macleod returned to Slioniif

to iil'4ht,

' Ay, you told me he was coming. He'll be in a terrible way
abwut this exodus from the Faiild.'

'Yes; lie's down among them holding a council of war in the
sniiddy,' said the factor, with a hartl laugh. ' I was ]),is>ini: by
ail' I overlieard some of their sayings. I think he was lU'giiig
them not to hurry, for things would soon be different.'

'Ay : what did he mean?' asked the Laird.

'lie meant, and, itideed, said that when he was Laird tliinL's
would be ditTerent. Tlie ungrateful young rascal, thai 1
should say it of him ; but it roused my anger. Laird, after wliai
you -lid for him in the jiast.'

• 80 the lad, yoiuig as he is, is waiting on dead nieii's
already ? said the Laird grimly. ' Tell him from nie, if y<' I
AiiLiiis, that a wise henwife duesna count her chickens bel
they are hatchtvl.'

' I woiildiia like to take it upon myself to tell him that,

suni'-i

Ike

elf

THE LAST MEETIXG,

177

niiT.

L i il. Of course lie i*; the direct liclr ; but I liope he'll be an
,,1,| iiiiii bclnie lie writes hiinselt' Liiird of D.iliiiore,' s lid tlic
i;i : ii' viiiootldv. IL' was gasping to know the wherct-iit' of
|),\i,l ('(('(julioiin the writer's visit to Dalniore, but had not
ill.' lai'f to ask the question diicctly at the Laird.

'And they are going away when';:' ujxni Wediu'sday nior
> i'. tlie poor silly bodies'?' asked Macdonald. ' Do tliey thiidv
'(•\"ll get land and a living for nothing in another country any
ic tiian in Gletiquaicli '? '

•Tiit-y certainly expect tliat, sir; that's why they are

•Will, well, let them go. They are not going empty-handed
fiiiMi ijir place, ye were saying?'

• N'nt rliey. 1 wish ye saw the kists upon kists of linen and
!• r kimws what })acked in the houses. They've strippet the
(I'll. Liird, an' \'et they're c luntin' themselves ill-used.'

}■

IIIM (

^\'^•ll, well, I don't grudge them their gear; they 11 m.iybe
I it all,' said the L;iird, and his restless eves wandered about

111 ,is if seeking ibr something. ' 80 the lad's come home ?
(.'oiiie up, Angus, when ye see him. I wouldua mind a
'Aiinl with him aLrain, tlxumh he does think me a Tartar, lie's

iiii' 1(1(1
! ' ; , 1

;i i.'Ki (I

f spirit, Fergus Macleod, Ye caniia deny that, Aug

'lt'\e call it spirit,' said the factor rather soui'ly, 'he has
li'l'cd to tuin the folk anainst Dalniore, that's certain, ftjr I've

lie. 'id hill) wuli niv own ea'.'S.

llic

ell, he's honest at any rate. Ye liad better leave
ViiL" . I ani tucd to-ni<iht, and cannot be troubled with

'C'"5

:ili_\ 111 Ml- lalk.'

' lla\e ve been thinking; much about business to-dav, sir'?'
ilie (.•K;!()r a>ked, as he rose to his feet, loth to go till he could
(■aii\ soiiieihiiig definite with him.

' N't more than usual. Good-night. Mind and tell Fergus
t(i C'liiie up,' s.iid the Laird, and turned his face to the wall.
'"" liicic was nothinLr for An<lU^ M"I>ean but to go, which he

I'l. riluciantlv enouuh. II

H woiik

1 have uiven a yieat deal to

ii a

111 what was Mr. Cohpilioun's eriand to Dalmore. As he
^\' lit (iir, Mis. Cameron, the liousekeej)er, went into the Lai il's
tooai. biie was constant and faitliful in hci attendance upon

I I

Ill 'tw^i

178

SHEILA.

liini for tlie sake of her mistress, whose memory she worshipped
sfill.

' Is that yoii, Cameron? '

' Av, sir, it's me.'

' What time is it?'

' Twenty minutes from nine, sir.'

' It's too Lite to-night, then. The first tiling in the morn-
ing, bid Laclihm yoke the pair in the carriage, and go over to
.Murraysliaugli for Lady Ailsa.'

'Lady Ailsa, sir! Ai-e ye worse the night?'

'^hlyhe. I want Lady Ailsa to come and bide liers',
Cameron. She will not refuse me. She was here seven ycais
ago l)iding when August comes. Ye can send what message ye
like to ^hu'rayshang^l, but she'll understand.'

'Sir, would y-^u like to see Miss Sheila?' asked the hoiHt-
kceper.

' Ay, that's wliat I want. Lady Ailsa will arrange aliout i;.
I want no strangers about Dalmore, Cameron, oidy L;id-. Ails.i
and my bairn. And when Angus M'Bean comes to liu" duor
axain, see that he doesna iiet in or I cive leave. He conies m
here as if the place were his owmi.'

The latter order gave Mrs. Cameron the most lively siitis-
faction. She did not at all approve cl" Angus M-Px^an. She
ki e\v (piite well wdiat all these oviieis i.ortended ; indeed, >^l)e
could see that the Laird was drawi'"- .lear his end. Siic was
right glad to think that it was to Lady Aiha he luiiied oiico
more in his hour of need, for slie Avas a giod woman and a tine
friend. Angus M'Bean had left the h;dl door open, and the
night wind was blowing coldly in. So Cameron cio-Sfd over to
shut it before she went down-stairs. She aot a ftiuht by seeing
a figure on the doorstep, just within the shadow of the porcli.

' it's you, Mr. Fergus. Bless me, what a fricht you gave iiie!
Come in, come in.'

'I {^on't think I can come in. I was coming up by Cmry-
mrckloch, and I thought I would just run up and ask f >r my
un'h\ >rrs. Cameron. Tell me just how he i> ? '

•'i'li;'.; [ wi'I. Come in, Mr. Fi-rgiis, just into the gimroom,
it u.) I'viilhe'r,'' said the housekeeper, who loved the bo\', and li.iu

THE LAST MEETING,

179

n. She

•oil, '>he

S'lK' was

ed once

il a true

111(1 tlie

over to

V seeing

)(ii'ch.
ive me

Ciiiry-
fur my

luul ll'lli

never forfrntten Lis demeanour that day lie came to Dalmore
\\]\< w liis uncle's wife died. ' Did ye meet Mr. M'Bean ? He's
ji^r this minute gone.'

• I saw liim, l)ut he didn't see me. I came up the footj)ath,
a id was at the stable corner when he went down the avenue,'
Ft I'lius answered, as he followed the housekeeper into the gim-
iiHiin, which was now never used. It had been Fergus
Macleod's favourite haunt in the old days, when nothing had
I'Mint' between himself and Uncle Graham.

• riie Laird's far through, Mr. Fergus,' said the housekeeper
sidlv. ' lie was just giving me orders to send to Murrayshaugh
I'mi' Lady Ailsa. Miss Sheila will be coming home invmediately,
likely.'

• Is my uncle dying, Mrs. Cameron ? ' asked Fergus, in a
jiaiiit'ul whisper, for she had given him an unexpected shock.

• I fear it, Mr. Fergus. 1 cannot think he will last many
days.'

' Could — oh, do you think he would see me, Mrs. Cameron ?
I catuiot bear to think I may never see him again.'

' I'll ask him. Fm sure he will see you. Eh, laddie, had ye
been aye at Dalmore, I believe this would never have happened,'
she said, as she went out of the room, and once more returned
to the Laird's chamber.

'Are ye sleeping, sir?' she asked.

' No ; wdiat now ? ' asked ALicdonald rather peevishly.

'There's somebody come to ask for ye, sir, and won fain
see ye,' she said, bending over him.

' Ay ; who's that ? '

' Mr. Fergu^, from Shonnen.'

' Hid him come in, and turn uj) the lamp,' said tlie Laird
quiekly. ' Give me a mouthful of the wine before h' comes in.
Ay. that'll do.'

Fergus had scarcely any hope that his uncle would see him,
and was surprised when Mrs. Cameron brought him the friendly
liii'>sa<jt'.

He entered the sick-room with his cap in his hand, half
"•hvly, half eagerly, as if not knowing exactly how to ■ jmport
liliiist if. There was a barrier now between him and the uncle

W\r

\ ..

\ \

i8o

SHEILA.

,i ■ -
V.

who had boen the lioio nm] fViciid rf liis cliiMish rhivs. U,.
w;is nrrcjitly shocked by iiis uncle's cli;iniitMl jipix-araiice. It was
oidy six Tiiontlis since he had seen liim bi fore, but in that tiiiic
a marked change had been wroiiglit.

' Well, lad, have ye come to see the old man again? We'll
not be hei'e very long now,' said Macdonald, with a griui smile.
' Ye are a big, buiidly 'jhield. Sit ye d(.)wn, sir yc down.'

Fergus took the wasted hand of his uncle between his tw(»
strong palms and pressed it, but was unable to speak. (Jraliam
Macdonald saw what was in the boy's iieart, I'cu' it Sjxike in liis
earnest eye, and he wondered i hat he h;ei believed au'iht ill of liim.

' Sit ye down, sit ye down,' he saiil ([uickly, cnice nu»rt'. -Sn
ye've gotten home? not u whit the wiser for your college Inif.
I'll be^)ound.'

' Ay, Uncle Graham, I've learned something,' answenMJ
Fergus, with a gh-am of his own Ijright smile. ' Fvi' learned
what like a town's life is, and to be glad that I'm a lliglilaiid-
man.'

' Well, that's something. Did ye r.N et cuir gentleman factnr
out V)y as ye came up?' asked Giaham Macdonald, with a
curious, dry smiie.

' I saw him, Uncle Graham, but he didn't see me,' Fimliiis
answen'd quietly.

'That was mayl'e as well. He wouldna be sair pleased to sec
you at Dalmore. A\'ell, lad. lie's made a clearance of the Faiiid.
He says it'll be better for Dalmoi'e, but I'll no' live to ^e.■
whether he be .i true proi)het. They have given me a hi!
amount of bcjlluT this while, Fergus. They think I'm a hai(i
laird, bu' th; y iu'e .vaur tenants. They have served nie ill.
Feriius.'

' Unc' ' Giah.MM.' — ;'i his cfreat earnestness Feraus laid lii-«
young, siioni: h.siui on his unck''s arm, — ''you don't know the
right way. f «': i l;ei') it if you are angry. Angus M'' 'ii
ha*^ not t'dd you 'lie trtith al-ouf vh.e Fauhl folks. Tli(_ ;•■■
trieil to do well. , :'t he would not let them; he has just luni'd
them ;ut. Uncle Graham. At least, he made it impos>ihie I'T
t'lem to live witii any coiulbrt in the })lace, and they wne
ublig.'d to leave bei'o;e they lost everything,'

jA.a

THE LAST MEETING.

i8i

' Yo nre a poiTect liiulical, liuldic. Yu'il no' npliold tho Inirds
lit all." said Macdonald, not ill-pleased with his lu-phew's bold
sjid'cli.

• I cin't uphold what's -wronfr. Undo drahnin ; and I sny the
F.iiild folks have not been li^litlv ti'catcd. Oli, if voii could
(iiiiv LH't up and go down to sec for yniir,>('lt'I 1 liavo been
(liiwn sccin'j thcni all to-night, and do you know what nicssagt'
Ditiiiild M'Cilashan sent up t(j yon?'

'No; what was it? An honest chap, the sm'th, biU lazy,
!('iiil)lv lazy. Wants to eat lor nothing, lint what did he
>;■ y ? ' "

•Ih' ^aid I was to tell you thry went out not blaming you,
for tlicv were cpiite cornlbrtable when you looked alter your
own afl'airs. He said, too,' added the lad, a little hesitatingly,
not kiKiwin!! how his uncle niiuht receive the latter t)art of
Donald's message, ' that a curse would lie on Dahnort' till
Aii'ius M'Heun was put away.'

'Ay, ay, and he said that?' said the Laird, with a hollow,
mirthlt'ss laugh. 'There's no love lost betwixt the Kauld folk
;inil Aucldoy. A\'ell, well, Donald may be no' far wrang. Well,
F.'i;.;us, ye see me far through. And are you to be Laird of
Dalniore ? '

'Xo, Uncle Giaham — I don't know. I wish you would get
^vdl.'

' lluu'll never be,' said the Laird, in alow voice. 'Fergus
Maclcod, wdiatever your lot may be, lay one thing to heart.
Marry yonng, lad, for if ye Avait as long as I waited, ye set your
luind owre firmly on your wife, and if she be t.dven as mine
Wiis. ii's death to you. Fergus, I believe ye never bore me a
grii'lm- or an ill-will because I married.'

' Unelc Graham, I loved her,' said the boy simply, but witli
an canicstness inexpressibly toucliing.

' Lad, ye can teach your elders a lesson, yet ye havona had
:i iliaiice. Hut ye are the son (»f the minister of Meiklernore,
wli'i was too good for this world.' said the Laird nuisingly.
' b'll me, do you an' your mother agree?'

'Agroe! of course.*

' \\ ell, ye are the first Ellen Macleod has ever 'greed with,'

t ..iii

\X.IAU.^

lS2

SHEILA,

fill

•

; \

: . i .

I u

saifl the Laird primlv. ' You and Slieila used to ho lliick.
didn't ye? Tiie biiirii had aye a jzreat speidcin' ah(;nt ye.'

Ferfi;us sruilcd somewliat baslilu'ly, being just at the sensitive
ajre. The Laird smiled loo, very faintly, at the risiDjr colour in
the lad's face. A new and pleasant thought had struck liini,
but he did not put it into words.

'And what's all this college lore to do for you, Fergus?' he
asked. ' What are ye to do for a living? '

' T don't know yet, Uncle Graham. 1 wanted to go and work
when 1 came I'rom Perth, but mother wanted me to go to ct»l!c2('.'

'Ay, her notions are high,' said the Laird dryly. 'Never-
theless, ye must obey your mother, I suppose. A cliap hke
ycui will never want, Fergtis Macleod. Ye will make a name
and a place for yourself wherever ye be.'

Fergus Macleod's face flu->hed with pride and y)leasure at liis
uncle's praise. He still retained liis old a<lmiration for the
Laird, and his commendation meant a great deal.

'I'll not be afraid to work, at nny rate, uncle, I'm so strong.'

'Ay, ye look it. But what would ye like best to do?'

' Farm land,' responded Fergus promptly. ' I won't work at
anything that'll take me to the town.'

' Ay, ay. Well, well. Ye may get your heart's desire, ar.d
ye may no'. I'm tir<^d, Fergus, and maun bid ye good-night.
Come uj) the morn and see nie. You've fairly turned vdur
back on Dabnore,'

' But no' my face, Uncle Graham ; for it's the first place I
look over to when I'm at Shonnen, and the last at niglit,' said
Fergus, laughing, as he rose to his feet. He had not felt so
1 appy for a long time. Confidence seemed to be restored
between himself and Uncle Giaham.

' Good-niiiht, then. Bid Mistress Cameron come to me as
you go down. Ay, ay, ye are a buirdly chield. In five years
there'll not he your marrow in Glenquaich or Strathbraiui.
An' she's a sw^^et bairn. Good-niirht. Come airain the morn.'
said Macdonah' somewhat drowsily ; and when Fergus left him
he closed his eyes, but muttered half under his breath, ' Ay, ay,
a buirdly chield. and she's a bonnie bairn. It wad make a'
richt for Dalmore.'

THE LAST MEETING.

18-

Ofrcn ^^MC(^on!ll(l l.'ipscd into tlie bir.ad Scotcli, espoci:i11v in
inniiK nts of stronLT rcclinir. \\'li('n Mis. Camt^ion canu' into tlic
KiDin. nIic was siirpiiscd to set' two lairjo tears slowly rolling down
till' Laird's cliciks. 'Is that yoii, Cameron ?' lio said, sitiin-j:
n[) will: Midden cnerLfy. 'Bring me I'rom the lihrary the
wiitin'j-pa*! an I a i)road sheet of paper, with pen and ink. and
M't tiie lamp here on this table.'

The lion^<d<eeper opened the lil)rary door and bronglit tin*

rem

iIkmI articU'S, then propped u[) the Lair 1 among his pil

lows

to make a comt'oitahh' ])0>ition Ibr writing.

le was lint

wil

to d(

tlioiu a natural curiosity as to what he was gom
(lid not often now have a pen in his hand.

'Tiiat'll do, Cameron. Is the hand-bell near ? I'll ring it
\vli''n I want yi',' said the Laird, so she was obliged to withdraw,

Ii vas quite half an hour before the bell rang, but when she
ret' i4ie(l there were no signs of any written papers to be seen
lie hade her take away the things, and as she did so she
ved that a half of the sheet she had ])r()vided was gone,

iiii^ 1

ana iliUt the ink was still wet on the pen the Laird had used.

I I

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CnAPTER XX.

ill

i.-

; I

m ' ^

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.

I will speak daggers to lier.

Ilamht.

riOSE cnrrinGre is that away np to DalnTTo, I
woikLt?' said Kllcn MacJ<'Oil lialt' aloud, as siic w.is
standing at liiT bedroom window on ihc* ini[)('r llat
at Slionnen next niorninir.

' It's tlie carriage liiat went fur Lady Ailsa, ma'am,' said
Jessie Mackenzie, the maid, who was busy dusting llx" room.

' Lady Ailsa! Has she come to Dalmore?'

* Yes, ma'am. Tlii-y tohl me at the inn this morn, ig, vlun
I was over for the milk, that the Laird was worse, and had sttit
for Ladv Ailsa.'

Ellen Maclcod bit her lips. Scarcely before a servant coiilil
she keep back the utterance of her angry thought.

'Get on v/ith your dusting there, Jessie, and be sharp almut
it. Do you know it is twelve o'clock in the day?' she said
sharply, as she epiitted the room and went hastily down-staiis.
Fergus Avas sitting on the doorstep carefully examining iiis
tishing-tackle, for it was a mild, bright morning, and the hums
were in splendid order.

' Ferirus, did vour uncle tell you last ni'jht lie had sent for
Lady Ailsa ? ' she asked sharj)ly.

*No, mother; he didn't say anything about her.'

164

"»\i nl ,1,1

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.

i8S

Will, tlicrc slic is awMy up. llf is worsp tlils rnoniiii;

sMi' S

i\s. Miiil / iiiu not ciillt'd. r>iit I'll iro, KciLms MmcIco,!,

Ill *hit

tc III Ailsii Mui'i'.'iy. 1 li.ivi; a liuht in D.iliiinrc wiiicl

'}'

I SlU'

Il'lf.

FiTiTMs (Iropjx'd Ills red .ind looked nj) into liis niotlici'N fucc
wirli !i striin'ie, sad, pcrplfxed exjin'ssion. 'riicic \v;is a hidilfn
Kiitii 111 s*, a ti-iiil)lt.! (icjith of rrvciiLT' I'nl, an;jry t'cclinu in tli.
r, sliaip words she nttcred. l>nt lie had no I'i'ilit lo s[)c;ik,

iml

l;n|- t" >a\' w

hat she slioidd do, so \w tniiird to \\\< wnik a'-aiii

W 1 ! 1 1

a siiih. And Ellen M.iclcod, in the heat ol" her arn:e

f.iit on her honnet and niafcdied away up to Dalmorc. L.idy
.\il-a was eaiiujjr a morsel of lunch in the dininu-rnoni when the
Timit hliick fitxure of FJIi*n Macieod stalked in hrtUri' hir.
I,;i'iv AiUa saw the ihnnder on her brow, hut was altsi.Iuiely

ihb'i'rss ol the occ

f th

asion. She was a iienile little wmnan. hnt

\vA iiiinil ui mattei's ot light or wrong, and ei.iiUl he very
liiM\e when she had tlie a[)proval of iier own conscience. She
1 (liiiie no wrong to Ellen Macieod or her boy, and had ikj

li;ii

ercM-H

)n to fear lier.

(iood moianng, Ellen,' she said quietly, and without ofTeiiiicr

t I ri^e or shake hands, for she could nut foruef the list tiiiu

iiii

y had met. 'It is a long drive fidin Munayshaiigh. I ai

i| lite liuii

t2iy,

on t you sit down

' It' i please, I su])pose I may, in niv brother's house, T^ady
Ail>a.' said Ellen Macieod icily. ' I shall just uo up and lay

llMile

iiiy l)onnet. As my i)roilier is so ill, I shall just stay,
t) .N'lyiiig, she marched out ot' the ro(

mi.

leti tile door

(•:"S d a smile of arnnsement rippled across Lady Ail>a's face,
t it soon passed, and siie looked perjilexed.
' riiat is wdiat in Alastair's slang would l)e called a "go," she
lo lu'i'stdt". ' Now, what am I to do':' Klleii >bacleod as
as told me to ((uit. I>ut am I to have poor Maednnald
•I' 'en ler mercies'? She'll fiiiihten him into a fit; and then

h!l

n:,1'

I ei'c s Mieila, poor darling; shell be home m two day-'. .No,
I must >tav, now 1 am here, whatever the conseipieiices.' lint
lii'i hnicli Wiis sjioiled. Her appe iie had vanished at sight of
I'.'leii .\bu'|eod's sour \isa'je, and she sat with her elbows on the
r;ihle, wondering gre; tly what was going on up-stairs.

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IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

A<^

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1.25

•^ 1^ 12.2

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1.6

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Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80

(7)6) 872-45C3

S5§

"4^>.

i86

SHEILA.

i I

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1 ' f

Ellon Mnclc'.d Wiilki'd up-st.-iirs, entered one of iIk cucst-
cliiinibeis, and laid olT Iicr l)()nnet and sliawl. Her luird ficc
wa«< very re-oluie. She knew she had a battle to fiiihr, l»tit ^lic
w;is aimed for it, and intended to win. She was not jinjn.: to
8t;ind i)y and see her son's heiitajie parted iinioni; aliens wiilii.in
inakiiiii :in efTirt to save it. As she ciinie our of ihe room. Mr>
CaiiMTon met her, and started as if she h:id S(;eii a tilmsi.

'Don'r look so scared, Cumeron,' said Ellen Macleod, M-itli a
cliiily smile. 'I liave come to nurse my brother. He has
moved from his oM rooms, I see. Where is he?'

' In the little parlour off the library, ma'am,' s lid r'amiMdn.
civilly enou^di, but her heart sntdc witliin her. She had i evir
personally e\])erienced Mrs. Macleod's rule, for there wa^ iup
liou<ekeeper in Dalm ^re in her day, but she had heard sulliuicnt
about her to make iier dread her (;oming to tlie house.

She watched her jxo down and enter the library. ^Vlien tin-
door closed, Cameron rushed down to the drawing-room with a
pih^ of houseliold napery on her aim.

'Oh, L;idy Ailsa,' she cried, ahnost before she was in the
room, 'do you know who has come? Mrs. Macleod tVdiii
Shoiuien, and she's away in to the Laird.'

'Hush, Cameron! nevermind. Mrs. Macleod is the Laird's
sister.' said Lady Ailsa quietly. ' We cannot question her rijrlit
to see him if she wishes. I wish you would order a iire for me
in my own room. It is much colder liere than at Murrays-
haujrh.'

'() yes, my lady, I'll do that; and you'll stay? You won't
go away and leave me with Mrs. Macleod?'

'I nuist stay until Miss Maedonald comes now, at any rate,
Cameron,' said Lady Ailsa, with a slight smile.

'The laird v/as asking a little ago if you were ready to see
him, mv lady. Will you go in?'

' Not until Mrs. Macleod comes out,' said Lady Ailsa. ' When
she sees how spent he is, she surely will not stay long.'

Meanwhile, Ellen Macleod had passed through the lihraiy
and enleied her brotiier's sick-room. It was much darkened;
for he had passed a restless, troubled night, and in tiie morniiiLT
had begj^ed them to shut in the windows, and he would try to

AN UNWELCOME EXTRUDER,

IS;

s1pi|). lit' was MW.'ikciifil from a li^lit doze by tlic heavy
ni^'l'iii-'' (»f a woman's dress in tlie rminu

•Is tliat you, Ails.-i y ' lie a^-ked rceMy. ' Cemo in; never
iiiiml ilie windows; we can talk (|uite well in the dark. I have
;i lot to say to yoTi. I am so ;.dad you ha' c come.'

' L.idv AiUa is in the house, Macd<>nald ; hut I am \our
-ist( r, l-!llen Macleod, come o\-er from Shonnen to see you. I
;ilii i:;ie\e(l to see voU SO clianiretl."

Siie spnke with unwonted sol'ine^s, for she was teiriMv
1 hv tiie rava'jes the waited veai's had made on the oiiee

s M'f K('(

■> .ilwaii Laii'd of Dalniore. lint the very sound of her voice
!• n-i'd tl>e (hinir man into a passion teii-iMe to see. In his
I 1 'J s liiude he had Iconded o\ei- t!ie past, and ma,L!nitied the
iiakiml ti"atment his sister had hotnwed ujx'n his wife, nniil it
!i i| Imm'iiiic a nioi'tal ollence whicli he would not t'ortziNc even
I'll liic \ci'i:e ot' the ti'ravc.

• Yuii — you dare!' he cried, in a chokinji voice. '(!et ( ut
"I'liix siijl,) ; J would ii(»t ciiise ynii for the hoy's sake, thoULih
I kiio.v not how you ever hore such a son. L

cuvc mc, woman,

Tie violence of his anifer, the |»ui'])le flush in his face, th(>
^\II liicsN ( f his eye, frightened Kllen Ma<'leod, and she heat a
i.isiy letreat into the adjiiiuiuL'' room. Tlien Macdonald took
t I' liaml-hell and shook it with tremendous I'orce, which made
Mr-. Ciiiieron drop her napery on the hall (lour and run t

t'.c luoiii.

\\ liat ar(^ you about, Cameron, that yoii allow whoever

ijc ISCS

(111 '!'

to enter the house and come to mv room 'i ' hi' tluiidered,

^^i'l s(,iii,.tliiiij_r (,f liis old streiiLith and vi,Li<inr. 'Lock the

and let no one come in until I Ldve permission.'

'Sir, I dared not keep Mrs. Macleod our,' said Cameron,

trtiiihliiiLr, Dot with neryousness for herself, but with appichcn-

sii'ii tor her master, who was neailv in a fit.

' ^\ hy not? Wiiere is Lady Aiha":' Send her here. W hut
i>< she 'j(»»id for if not to keej) the lioiise in order'/ Tell hei
to Ml- that Mrs, Macleod leave> the house.'

Pltasant words for a sister to hear! Ellen >bicleod, sta

tid-

ing hy the library table, clutched her bunds, and her white lips

ill

I '

1,1

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•il

;li

Mm,,'

? 'W If"

l.<t i

188

SHEILA.

Ix'cnmc like ii tlironfl. Sli(? wns wholly and cnicll)' injured in
Im'I' own cvts. She was one of those self-rijiiitcoiis |)<'i><Mns wl,,,
neve, take home hlamt' ti> themselves. Slie re^ai'ded Macdiiti;ilil
a'^ ilic prey of seir->e<'kinir, <:reedy outsiders, who liad tiiriiiil
him a'jain.Nt his own. Her heart was a tumult of dark iIuhuIiIn,
uiiielicved hy a sinirh? kindly ini|)nlse. Her face harih-iicil vd
mure. She "atliered her skirt's in iier hand, and went, our Ijv

the wav she

had come.

At ill" diuiiej-rooui door Ladv A

iN;i

was ^landing iistenin'j, afraid lest Ellen Macleod's vi>ii had
done the Laird some harm.

For some extraordinary reason, Lady Ailsa, my presene

(' i«

U'tr a<ireeai)le to my brother, slie Sidd, with a daik ^cnui.

Perl.

lans you, AViio aie ^ucli a nnvUt

ips y.
can explain it

'Ued

lerson \\\

ilMior'

Yt's, 1 can ixplain if, Ellen Macleod, said T.ady Ailsi

'I pass over the insiiniation vnu

(luietlv, Itut with enipliasis

V
i.d^e a-jai st me, and will only ask }ou to go liack in nu

Did \()\\ do one act of kindness or ev

SIN years jiiro.

u•^!iee to the

lear W' man

our

brotl

ler marru'i

IIKMV

en nf
Do

you )-emend)er after her death what sympathy you had fr
her orphan child? You and I met last in this very li;il!,
Ellen Macleod, and Maedonald saw how you greeted tli"
pitor child, whose desolate condition nnght have a])i)ealeil to
your hi-art. Maedonald has not forgotten these tilings, iinr

lave

' Nt)r have I,' said Ellen Macleod, in the heat of passion. 'I
knew Well enough what you are schendng for, Ailsa Murray.
lint I shall watch you. If I can help it, that woman's cliiM

diall

never reiun \\\

Dal

more.

' Were it not that she found a father in Graham Maedonald.
and that her heart cleaves to him, 1 should say it was a daik
day for her when she crossed the threshold of Dalmore,' >aiil

idy Ailsa sa(

Hy,

I ask no more f

rom
ove

Maedonald hut that

will give Sheila back to those who love her. The more needful
shi' is of anything we have to share with her, the more wtdcnnu'

^he will be to it, and she knows it.

If II

lave one wish m tnis

world, Ellen Macleod, it is that, after Sheila parts from l>'r
father, — and that parting, 1 fear, is near at hand, — she may li:i\ e

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.

189

no m

ore deiillngs with tliis house or wiih any bearing it'

A sneering sniiU', wliicli stting Lady Ailsa to the ([iiiclx, \s\\\
Ellt 11 Maclcod's only reply to tliat passionate sj)eech. At that
nient, Cameron, trembling and anxious, appeared at tlie

ino

libiiiry door.
•Oil, my lady, please come in. The T.aird will not be (piiet

}

(lU come.

He is

s much worse.

le Saul, witli at) expressivt

jilaiice at Mrs. Macleod, who instantly entered the diiiiiig-
luiiiii and slammed ihe d(>or.

nil

Lady .Vilsa at once went to tlie l.aird's room, and, sifti
ilowii by the bed, laid her cool, snfi hand on his fevered brow,

lsl:c was an angel in a sick-room

her

eve

movemen

t, tl

le s(»

swaving of her garments even, seemed to waft peace to the
MilTeier blessed by her presence.

• Not a word, Macdonald, not one until you are quiet,' she
said, with that sweet authority it was a deiight to obey.

' Ye-^, yes,' she added soothingly, ' she is jjone. She will not
come here again, and I am going to stay till 8heila comes.'

He lay l)ack among his pillows, contented by Inr presence

i hy the assurance she so readily gave. In the bri"f silence
h ensued, she too noticed the cliansre wroutiht since she
s.iw liim last a few we(d<s after Sheila left Dalmore. He was

;il1(

WlllC

^til

aliourini; under the excitement his s'ster had caused, his
ireathlnj: was hurried and diilicult, and his eyes rolling rest-

U'^^IV. w

idle hi> hands and head wu-re in a buininii fever,

You'll stay and take care of SheilaV he said at lenyith, in a

liuniec

1 wl

iisner.

' Yes, yes ; Sheila belongs to us. Sin; will be your legacy
to nie, will she not?' asked Lady xVilsa, with a f.iint, sad
smile.

lie nodded.

'Her mother would wish it. but she was not afraid to leave

lier with !ne. Do you remendier when you wanted to tak<' her

ii\v;iv to Murravsliauuh, but the bairn would rather bide with

» . "...

iiie, said Macdonald, snuling a little too. He was nuich quii'tif

alii'ady, and Lady Ailsa believed it would be better to alluw

I'ini tu talk a little, provided dangerous topics were avoided.

It '

•♦ ?

If .
If' il

I)':

if'' ^^

(si Kill

! ^

190

SHEILA,

' Yes, I ronif-mbcr. Ay, Slirila loves you with a dungliter's
liivf. Tliis will he a sore shock to lu-r.'

' You li!iv(! sent for lier? '

' Yes, Sir Douglas liiuiself has fione for her. He has some
business whicli made the journey not unprofital)le.'

' lliiw soon will she b(; here?'

* To-morrow, perhaps in the evening, if there is no delny.*

'Ay, ay; nohody knows what it was to me to ict her away;
but I did not want to l)e seKish.'

' 'f I could have foreseen this, ^^acdonald, I wculd have hccii
till' last to have advocated sending her from you. I did it fnr
the besf.'

' I know that you are a good womnn and a true friend, Ail<;i
Murray. Hlin snid so. You'll see that I am laid in the siiiiif
grave. Pioniise that.'

' Yes, yes.'

Lady Ailsa's tejirs choked her utterance. There was some-
thing indescril)ably pathetic in the man's intense, luidying di-vo-
tit>u to tiie memory of his wife. lie had indeed loved imt
wisely but too well.

' I know now, h)oking back, that 1 have done but sorry dufv
in the world since she left me,' he said, after a moment. ' If 1
had it to do again, I would try to bestir myself. But it w;is so
sudden, so awful, it took the heart clean out of me. They
will not punish me, will they, by parting us in the other woild?

' Who are <//e//, Macdonahl V God is very merciful, far iniuv
merciful to us, in spite of our shortcomings, than we are to
each other,' said Lady Ailsa reverently. * lie forgives unto
seventy times seven.'

' lie will forgive me, then,' said Macdonald, in a striuiijo,
drowsy tone. 'It'll be all right about Sheila, Ailsa. Nobody
c;ni touch her.'

' Miicdonald, I hope you have not forgotten your own.' said
Lady Ailsa quickly, for a dread seized her that the 1/ ni's
faculiies were wandering. ' Don't let your love for Sheila make
you unjust to others. I hope that tine lad, Fergus Macleod,
will (ill your place as worthily as Laird of Dahnore.'

Macdonald muttered a few words she could not nuike out,

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.

19'

anil tlicn, turning on liis pillow, closed liis eves. lie l.iy so -si ill
she feared lie had slii)i)ed away, but when she laid her hand on
his lieart, it was still IVeldy pui.siiig.

Fn.iii that hour a weight lay upon Lady Ailsa's heart. Sho
hoped, nay, the hope was almost a passionate prayer, that, in his
aiiLaT and sore pain against his sister, ^^acd()naM had not
vi>lted the mother's sin upon the head of her noble, generuus-
htai ted son, and cut him off I'rom Duliuore.

I .

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Ijjl

CHAPTER XXI,

* FAREWELL TO LOCIIABER.'

'•^

There's a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea ;
But the weary ne'er return to their ain couutrie.

GiLFILLAN.

HE day wore on, and Ferfjus waited at Shonnon for
his mother's return. When it grew grey durk, he
put on his cap and sauntered away up hy Ainuln'e,
to see if she was in siglil; on the road. Tlio inn
was very busy, for the folks had gathered in at the ph»;imiii;^
to discuss the affairs of the place. There was plenty to talk
about: the dejiarture of the Fauld folks, and the Laird's
mortal illness, gave lise to that morbid speculation in which
the soul of the village gossip delights. Fergus heard his own
name as he passed by the open door, but only smiled a litilc
and ])ass<'d on. Ills interest was centrt-d in Dalmore. Wliit
could be keeping his mother? What if a reconciliation has
been e(Tecte<t between her and his uncle? The thoiiirht malti
his ])ulses tingle, fur it opened up a new and beautitiil vista.
lie saw liis uncle restored to health, himself and his mother at
home iiLiain in Dalmore, and Sheila with them. Ah, it was
only a bright dream, never to be fulfilled. He passed on to
the school, and sanntered along in the swc t spring dusk to the
Girron Brig, and, after pausing for a few minutes to watch
his old friends the trouts playing themselves in the cool, clear

'FAREWELL TO LOCILABFR:

i9.>

liftlo currents, ]ie crossed over and nc^nn to o'lnil) tin- liill tn
tin' Innisc. lie seemed iiii|)ell»*d to it wiil.diir \\\\\ active di ^iic
on liis own part. 'I'lieie were preen iniils and tendir \imiiij
sheets on jdl the trees, and tlie iiirds. liai Itinucrs of si tn'n :•.
were twitteiing in every iMMiLdi. Tlie tartli \\\\< I'liU of |.i n, .•
— it was the sprinii-tinie of the year. As Kerens inrnei i. n I
tiie ?«liar[) curve of t)ie aveime, he saw a li'jiire wJUmil' t'> mpI
fro hefere tlie house, and reco<ini«ie<l l.ady Ailsa Mm ray, tlmn.-Ii
lie liad not seen her (nr years. When she tiirrie(l Aw saw liim.
and canie to hum t h'ln with a kind sndle and oni-t i (tcdifil han I.
She did not like Kllen Maeh'iid, Imt slie was too just a Wwman
to ;illnw this to prejudice lier aiiainst tlie son.

' 11"W are you, Fi-rutis? 1 am so glad to see yoti. It is
([iii"' a long time siiice w«; met.'

'Yes; hut you are ju-t the same,* said Fi'i-^us (piiekly, an I
his eye shone, for the kind, hweet, niolherly tone went to his
lirart.

'A little older, I think,' she said gently. 'You are grown
iilauist out of all recogiuiion. 1 have heen anxious to see xou
t'ur ;i long time. Alastair sj)e;iks so much about you.'

'Yes; Alastair is mv chum.'

' I ;im clad of it. You will be ?ible to conu» dowi) to
Mnrra\sliaugh, I liojie, before the holidays are over. You
have come to a'^k for your uncle, I suj)pose ? '

'Yes, atid to see why my mother stays so long. Is the heie,
Lady Ailsa? '

'Yes.' A cloud crossed the sunshine on Lady Ailsi's face.
'If
very ill, Fergus.

you go into the liouse you will see her. Your uncle i.«

I know he is, Lady Ailsa,' answered the boy, and turned hi-

cice aw

'^y-

You saw him last nisht, I think, Mrs. Cameron said?

cs.

'Fergus,' said Lady Ailsa, and she laid her white, gentl
hiind on his arm, and bent her soft eyes lull on his face. ' I
yeur true tViend, mv bov. You believe I wish von well."

I kl

now u, said lU'igus. Aviili hoxish impulsiveness.
From the drawing-room window, Ellen Macleod saw the two

> (

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N !

194

SHEILA.

togctlicr, and wonderotl wliat was passinfr between tliem. Lalv
Ailsa's action, and tlie canu'st, Ix-autiful look on Feiijiis's w^.
luriied face, struck her. &ht liad never called fortli sucli a
Itiok on her son's lace.

*I am L'rowiiig very anxious almut some things, Fer:^ii>.'
continued Lady Ailsa. 'You know your uncle Ciiiinut live
joiin; now ? '

Fergus nodded.

•r douht there will be trouble pbout the paiting of DahiiDre.
Do you think you are your uncle's heir?'

'I don't know, Lady Ailsa. There is Slieila,' said the lal.
and his lip (juivered. She was tiiuching a very tender part.

' Fergus, I pray that Graham Macddnald has not dune tliis
wrong!' said Lady Ailsa ])assi(inat»'ly. 'Sheila has no ri,:^lii td
Dalmore, and it would make a fearl'ul dispeace. If it is doiH'.
there is nothing to remedy it now, unless there should W a
miraculous betterment in your unehi's condition. W'liaftvt r
happens, Fergus, you will know that neither Sheila nnr lur
relatives had any desire alter Giaham Macdonald's posse>-inii<.
It is my prayer that she will be restored to us penniless. We
love her for herself.'

' But if Uncle (Iraliam wished Sheila to have Dalmore, Lndy
Ailsa, we can't help it. I would rather Sheila had it tiian .-mv-
body. She is so good and kind to the peophi in Achnafaiiid.'

' God bless you, Fergus Macleod ! I pray to see you L.iiid
of Dalmore,' said Lady Ail>a, with full eyes, and, bending (inun.
she kissed the boy's bread iorehead with a mother's kiss: ami
Ellen Macleod saw her do it, and hated her yet wwtw. .\"t
content with all she had done, would she try to win the buy
over, and make him a traitor to his race ?

When Fergus went into the house, he found his mother in
no amialjle mood. Her self-chosen position was not envi,ihl«'
nor pleasant. She had forced herself into the house, and knew
that it was only because its master believed her to be <rone that
there was peace in the sick-room. But she had set hersll'a
task, and, with the indomitable will which ruled her, she wuiiM
perform it to the bitter end.

' What is it nowV she asked Fergus, when he came into tl.e

'FAREWELL TO LOCH AD ER.'

«95

(Irrnvin^-rnnm. 'I saw you and Lady Ailsa talking (juii.-
ciiiitidciilially. Wliat was she s:iyitig to you?'

•Not nuicli, mother. Are yon }.M)ing to stay liere all night ? '

' Y«'S. My |ihice is here until your uncle's end comes. It
,vill not be very long. But you nuist go back to Shoniien and
'ilk'- (ari! of the hon^e.'

' lliive you seen Uncle Graham, mother?'

' Yes. His heart is completely poisoned against us, Fergus
Miicleod. These Murrays have worked tiitir will with him.
1 (loiilit you will be the sufferer; but I will hold my peaee
iiiiiil all is over, and the result known. There is no use for
Villi waiiijig here.'

'No. I am going,' said Fergus, but still lingered, looking
aliout the jiretty quaint rooni, which was filled with sweet
lufiiiories of Sheila and her niothe*'

'A honnie gimcrackery they've made of this room,' said
Kllt'ii Macleod grimly. 'If this is fashionable taste, preserve
me fioin it! Good-night then, Fergus. If I am not down
myself in the morning, send Jessie up with some things for me;
she will know what to biing.'

St) Fergus had just to go away back by the road ho had
come. He had no heart to go along to Achnafauld, for he
knew the folks would be sad enough in spirit over the parting
fioni the only homes they had ever known. He went to bed
ciily, leaving strict injunctions with Jessie Mackenzie to awake
liiiii at five o'clock, 'i'he carts were to leave the Fauld at six
n'clnck, to convey the folks down to Dunkeld station in time
'I' get the first train. The ship in which they were to cross
liic iicean was to sail from the Broomielaw late that night,
"!• liefore sunrise next morning. Nevtr had fairer morning
iliiuncd than the second of April; the sunsliin(! and the joyful
••liiiiu> of the birds awoke Fergus, and he was up before Jessie
w;is stirring down-stairs. When he pulled up the blind, the
im lining sun was glittering on the loch and lighting up tin;
i' iiiiie trees about Achnafauld, as if to make the place look its
';' ' -t Cor the eyes that weie to look upon it for the last tinif.

i It' w;is no siiiu of mourning anywhere: the snn was up, ti o

y brilliantly blue, save where the fleecy shafts relieved ir

1 1

'ii:.

! ■

fl)

.11

:F!I

('Mi'

if 'i: if C,

i()6

SIIEir.A.

II «■'

llj

v%'l

and tlioro wns a soft wost wind sflirini)^ all flip ynnnpr h'Mvcn,
jmd \vliis|i('i iii«r of tlit* siinuncr. It wjis idiiiost 'mi|H >sil)|(. to
b«» sad iiiiiid Micli lii^lii and sunsliiiM', and Fcilmis fi-h <_r|;|,l
for tlic (•xd(>' ^akcs, kii()\viii<r tlicir licarts woidd he In avy
I'tidULdi wiilioiit any dcprtssin;/ inflnciiccs iVctin wiiliuiit. I'iimh
lli«' liij-di windows of the F^odL'c lie could see ri^dit a(Mu>s tin'
liver t'» Aolinalauld. and wlicu tlm carts, live in iiuiiiImi'. set
out in a loiit^ stiinii fioin the claclian, lie ran liuiiicilv
(lown-staiis ro awaken Jessie, and to L'et on Ids honis. II,'

anted to l)e down the load a hit It 'Core he liad to hid t

I' III

fiood-hye, for all the Aniulree folks would he out, and he (lid
not want theni to hear anything he nught say. lie w.ilk'd
slowly, ol'ten loiikin<r back to s<'e the little train '■raihinllv
aj)|)roaehin,!X Ainidree. He could hear the distant strains nf

ewi

the pipes, and guessed that it was hlind K(»l) playing a lai
blast for his tViends and coniradfs, wlm were g<»ii!g to a land
where the sound of the pibroch would never rinij in their ears

save \\\ memo

None.

When out of" sight, Fergus sat down on a heap of stones and
)egan whiilling a stick with his knife, tf) keep his fingers in

((ccuiiation,

for I

le was growing curious

nervous anu exci

itrd.

He had laid this thing to heart, and Avas convinced in his own
mind that a grievous wrong had been done to the Fauld Inlks
It seemed a long time before the rumble of the carts souiidrd
in the near distance. There were so many hand-sliakiuL's, and
then a halt had to be made at the inn, where M'DoUL'all iia\f
them a glass all round for auld ac(|uaiutauce' sake. Hut on
they came at last, and then Fergus got uj) to his feet, foi- his
heaitwas full In the first cart were Jamie Stewart and liis
ailing wife, wrap[)ed in so many shawls that sle.' looked like a

nuimmy

but 1

ler pa

le f;

ice wor

e a contented look, as if slif wvw

WiiO

Ldad to get away from the place. Her bairns were all with lur,
and by her side her daughter-in-law, young Kob's wifi
had looked t'orwaid to being mistress of Little Turrioh. In tic
second cart, the smith's broad face shone red and rosy uti'l'T
his big Tam o' Shanter; bu* Mary's eyes were swollen and red.
ft)r she had bidden good-bye for ever to a wee grave in tlif
kirkyard at Shitui, where her first and last bairn slept,

! \.

r'^EWr.lJ^ TO LOCnABER.

197

y- \\

Slif Ii.'kI a root of licatluT fnuii that littlo iiumuhI in lur ki^f,
iiii'l it \\as licr Impc and pi'aycr lliat that root WdiiM tak"- kiiully
to (';iiiaili:iM >oil, atii| s<> inak)' a iiii of Ik iiic for tier in tin.
^iiiiijf land. ICwaii Ml-'adycii's <oiil Imd lailril Kiin at ilic la^t
III iiiiriit, >o ln' was not of" tip' nninlur, l.iit tin r»' was a L'oodly
h.iiid, — livc-aiid-twfiity souls in all, — lii^j lirawiiy nn 11, sonsy
\vi\r^. and itomiic licaltliy-raccil haiiii*, who wi iild makf a Liiaiid
li\iii'i for themselves nnder fair cnndi imis aii\ wheie. 'Ih'* ■.aiii
wiiiid he entirely theirs, the h>ss to the cniintry that was K-ttin;.'
S(i much of its lies! i)lood jrd forth fioni it.

'Thtre he is. bless liim ! ' tin'y eriid, :is Frruns stood >tili in
till' road, and took oil" his bonnet as he l-isi- tlnni i^rettin;.'.
Tliin le>h the |)i()i'r ceased Ins strain, ami the caits cnne to

a >

ir. p(i(|

landsiill, and a score of hamU w<re oii'streiclied to bid

-h\e to the 'young Laird,' a.s he was alw.tys called in tin*

,in <i

' W'l! kenned ye wad ttirti ii]) to wn^h us wed, lad.' cii.d the
Miiiili. ' We'll never forget ye, M.d-M'r l-'erLMi-. Ve Ikk; ayo
licrii o(ir freen'.'

'X'l, don't lor^et me. Some dav, wln-n Ww a man, I'll (•< uk;

(iUt ami see you a 1,' answi

fed F

d tl

ei'j:n>, aiifl tiiere was a sns-

iriMiis trem'iliii.j in his voice

for t

le W'>nn'n w^re all cr\ nej,

.iiiii he eonid see (|uite well that the men werci l"ee|in;4 the trial
unite as keenly, if they made less outward siuii,

'Cheri- u|)!' cried Fergus. 'You'll all gr(nv ricli and be
l.iiids in your (twn right out there'

'.\\, ay; but if we had our clioiee, lad, we ken wliaur we
Wild fain be, an' uiuUt winch laird,' said iJory Maidean, stroking
lii< long yeiluw beard, and looking wlih monrniul signilicance at

Fcl;jUS.

'but we hae miudNle to be thaid<fnl f^r, f-r we are no' gaun
til a mw coiuiMv like beutrars,' said the >miih. ' Fh, lad, Jidm

T-r."'-'i

iii^on will never shae y' ur mecr wlieii ye g(

t her as I

wad. He'll never be tl smiih; but he'll hae Sume fun wi'
tlic ^nrdd\- lum.'

This made a bit laugh .nmong tliem. and before it had quite
diid away the carts moved on, and leib stmek u[) ' Lochaber no
mure.' Then all eyes were turned back, for in a moment the

\s\

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198

SHEILA.

ill

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Kfeper's Wood would hi.de bonnie Glenquaicli from their siL-hr
for evermore.

Then Fergus, with the salt tears blinding his eyes, waviMi w
last good-bye, and turned back towards Shonnen. And so ilio lii>t
pioneers from Glenquaich set out for that, tar land across tin-
seas which was to be a kinder mother to tliem than old ScotJMiiil
had been. As th.e carts lumbered slowly down Dalreocli l)r;ii'
to the strains of Rob's mournful piping, a carriage and p.iir cmi,'
rapidly up the road. It was closed, but at the souud of the
pipes a fair young face peered out in wondering surprise. ' Oh.
Uncle Douglas, tell him to stop ! ' she cried excitedly. ' It is the
])eopie of Achnafauld going away to America, I am sure. I niu^t
stu-ak to them.'

Sir Douglas, a little cross and tired with his hurried journey-
ing, gave the order rather ungraciously, and when the carriaue
stopped Sheila opened the door and ran up the road to meet the
carts. At sight of her a cheer broke forth from the travilltrs
ll)e women ceased their low, mournful crooning of a Gaelic diiLTf,
and their faces brightened at sight of that sweet, eiiiii-r
young faco, in which love and sorrow for them was so plaiii'y
expressed.

She had to go round and round shaking hands wirh every
one, though I do not think she spoke many words. Her heart
was full to overflowing, and she was just beginning to realize
how fraught life is with hard experiences and bitter sorrows.
But it was a satisfaction to her and to them to have that la^t
good-bye. Sir Douglas Murray leaned back in the carriage, and
did not look out while that scene was being enacted. Alastaii's
child waa a very odd little girl, he had thought more than oiice
since they had begu • their hurried journey to Dalmore, but he
did not trouble himself about her.

' W^ll, my dear, have you got your leave-takings over?' he
said good-humouredly, when she' took 1 er seat again beside him.

' Yes, uncle,' was all she said, in a y^r\ quiet, self-posst's^e(l
manner.

He wondered why she was not crying over it, but her f ic"
was very grave and white, and she folded her hands on her
knees, and sat up in a curious, composed way, which made her

* FAREWELL TO LOCHABER:

iv9

undo look at licr .Tg;iin. Siie was certainly odd. She liad tin-
d;giiity and self-coiniiiand of a person thrice her years.

Oh, Uncle Doiifrlas, tell him to stop again!' she cried quite
suddenly, just when they were past the inn. 'There is Ferurns ;
I must st{)[) and speak to Fergus.'

' My dear Sheila, you are a perfect nuisance,' said Sir Douglas,
'When do you su})[)Ose we'll get to Dahuore at this rate ? '

But Sheila never heard him. She was leaning hall' out of the
ciriiage window, with her hat pushed back, and the swiet
ninruing wind tossing h.er brown hair on her white brow, hrr
yyt'S shining with real gladness at sight of her old companion
and fiiv'n^

' Slieila I ' cried Fercrus, and with a bound he was at the
carriage door, and they clasped hands in silence, though tiieir
eyes were eloquently speaking.

'Oh, Fergus, I met the people. Did you see them'? All tlic
little Stewarts, and poor Eppie Maclean, with her lame leg.
How awfully lonely and empty the Faidd Avill be, won't it, now ? '

'Ay, it will,' Fergus said a little gruffly, to hide the emotion
he had not mastered yet.

'And poor papa,' said Slieila, the tears W(dling in her s ft,
henutiful eyas. 'Oh, Fergus, how sad it is to live in this Wf>rl(l,
i.n'' it?'

Poor young things! Their early days were being darkly
shadowed. The reality and solemn earnestness of human life
was being forced upon them before tliey had tasted mi;cdi of its
gladsome joy.

' Were you going up to Daimoie, Fergus? Will you cnuu*
inV There's only Uncle Douglas,' said Sheila, but ' Uncle
Douglas' never looked out.

'No, I was not going up just now. I'll come up by and by,
Sheiia, and see you.'

'Oh, do, very soon, dear Fergus! Good-bye just now,' said
Slu'ila, and then the carriage rolled on again, and Fergus was
It ft alone in the road. But sonudiow Slieila had comforted him.
'Sill- alone understood and shared his feelings for the Fauld folk,
iiiul it is a great thing when an earnest soul tinds its fellow ; of
cuurse it can have but one issue, but the bairns were too young

:fil

i ■'!
I ., 1 1,1 If

f \

\ i

if!'!'

i, I

200

SHEILA.

!' t

! ■

If!

yet to know the mcnnincr of ih<^ cuiinns yparninir eacli Imrl
tuwaids tlic otlier. Ali, tliey would untlcrstjmd it soon enoujli.

Slicila lUMcr .sjxikn anotluT word till tlicy drov*? up to tiie
door r.f DalmojH, and she sprang Avitli a gn-at sol) into Aunt
Ailsa'': arms.

'My dailin-j-, kocp quiet! D ai't trend)le so, my swept,' said
Aunt AiUa, in tlio>ie eN(jui><ite, tender toties which were like
snittst music. 'Come in, come in; you are so tired, my
})re(;ii)as. But Atmt Ailsa is here,'

'Yes, M's, I wdl l)e cpiiet. Can I see papa just now, Aunt
Ailsa? ! don't think I can wait.'

' Only till you eat a morsel of l>ieakfast, dear.'

'Aunt Ailsa. I couldn't t^ke it. Jt w. iild choke me. I nm
not hun.ury or tir"<l or anything. Just let me 1:0 to papa. Oli,
anntie, such a long, hmg, lung journey! It seems like jears
since we left L ndon.'

'Yes, dear, you were anxious to he home. I am so thankful
you have come. Just in time, Sheila, just iti tine to say
good -be.'

'I knew it,' said Sheila quietly, as slie hiid off her hat, and
smoothed her hiight hair with hurried hands. 'Aunt Ailsa,
I ought never to have gone aw.iy. I shall never foigive
mvself.'

' Hush, liu-li ! that was for the best. This way, Sheila. Have
you lorgo't'-n win r^' papa's rooms are?'

At that mouient Ellen Macleod came sweeping down the front
staiicase. Sheila tndv lo(»ked at her tor a moment witli startled
ej/es, and then {>assed thrt>ugli the library door. She wo loiejer
feared the siroiiL'', hi ick-browed woman whom Fer^'US ca'ieil
'niotht-r,' liut the memory of that cruel blow was buincd into
her heart.

'dust go in, Sheila. I shall wait here. I think the doctor is
in wlii-pt r. d Lady Ailsa.

Sheila no(hh d. and walked wi,h steady step into the chamber
of the dying I.aird.

The doctor and the housekei'per were standing by the Ix'd.
Macdonahl, after a paroxysm of breathlessness, was lying whiu-
»*..d still as death. Sheila stepped forwaid and silently knelt

TAREIVRI L TO LOCHABER:

■2C I

(Inwn l>y tlie bed. Slic hkuIc no noise, Imr tlio sense of Ikt
litlovcd jJi'HSt'nce w:is wiili Mncdon.ild, Jind lie opened his evt •^.
The oilier two silently willidrew. Then Sheila bent over ;iiiii
htiil her quiverinj; lij)s to his brow.

' l',i|i;i ! oil, dear napa ! '

'Mv Sheila! My ain biiirn ! It is well,' snid the Laird, in
tones ol' deep cont<'nt. He hiid his feeble liaiid on her bonnir
liciid, ;ind his lips moved. He was blessing her. She lelf it.
tlinii'ih she could not hear any woids.

'riiei'i

thi

d th

Ji-r

e was a deep silence in tne room, and then a s'l
stniL'gle (harbinger of the end) shook Macdonald's was'eJ t' am
(iiice more.

'do away. Sheila; {ro(»«l-bye,' he said, with extreme (lilHcidt\

'(•ru'us-

— be good to 1

iim ; \v

ill in—'

;isi

He stopped aiul pointed vaguely round hitn. It was a
ctTiiit. Sheila shivered and lell upon luir knees, coveiin^i Ik r
face with her hands. 'J'he others came hurriedlv in. Aiii:t
Ailsa put her arm round the kneeling girl and laid her i^uitl-
liaiid on her head. Sir Douj-las stcid by with tulded ann«^, and
ill a lew minutes the last strucf.de was over, and Macdonald had
closed his eyes lor ever ou Dulmore.

II.

\\\y

1 5

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1 ,

,il

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i '

I 1 y.

I i \

CHAPTER XXII.
sheila's inheritance.

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley.

Burks.

In the library of Dalmore, on the afternoon of the
fifth of April, there was gathered a party of nine
persons. They Avere Sir Donpl.*; ;ind Lady Murray,
with their son Alustair, imd >i <-ii;i, Ellen Macltod
and Fergus, Mr. Macfarlane, the minister of Amulroe, Antrus
M'Bean, the factor, and David Colqulioun, the writer from
Perth. All were in deep mourning , the gentlemen had just
returned from tlie churcliyard at Shian, where they had laid the
Laiid of Dalmore to his rest. Dinner was also over. Mr.
Colqulioun had suggested that dinner should be served l)efnro
the will was read, knowing very well that after the scene wliieli
would take place in the library these nine persons would iitvcr
a<iain break bread under the same roof-tree. For tiie liist
time for many years, Ellen Macleod once more presided .it ilio
table in the house of Dalmore. She was very gracious, even
to the Murrays ; she believed that their day was coniplctrly
over. She did not wish it more fervently than they ; tiieir Infi'
was that Ferius Macleod would prove to be his uncle's sule
heir. They loved Sheila as their own child, and wished ! r
nothing more than to take her awav from Dalmore with tlitiii.
as such, that very night. Lady Ailsa hoped and even prayed

203

SHEILA'S INHERITANCE.

203

for it, hut did not expect it. A great fear lay upon her. She
ate nothing at tlie tahle, and could scarcely t;ike i)!irt in
tlic (jtiiet desultory talk wliicli heguiled the liour. She w;is
almost sick with ai)prehension, when they rose at length iind
tik'd into the library. There was no lingering at the tal)le, the
meal being purely formal. The moment dessert was ovt-r,
Kllfii Macleod rose and led the way from the room. ISlie
loitke ' niiijestic in her stiff, trailing robe of black silk, wiih its
heavy trimmings of crnpe. She moved with a consciousness of
power and place, wliich gav»; Lady Ailsa a kind of fearsome
anniscment. Sheila looked exquisitely lovely in her phiin
hlack frock, kept close by her aunt, and sat beside her on tlie
settee which stood in the square window of the library. Ellen
Macleod seated herself near the table ; the gentlemen all stood.
There was an air of expectancy about them all, and Angus
M'Bean was visibly excited. The two young ])ersons most
deeply and imujediately interested were the most unconscious
j)resent.

' We are all ready, Mr. Colquhoun,' said Ellen Macleod,
when the laywer seemed to hesitate a little as he opened uut
the bundle of documents he held in his hand.

'Yes, madam; I shall not detain you long,' replied the
lawyer courteously. 'Tlie will itself is very brief and simjjle;
whether it wil' oe satisfactory or not to all present I cannot

sav.

He cleared liis throat a little, and straightened his high
collar as if it impeded his utterance. Lady AiUa clasped her
hands ahnosi convulsively over Sheila's, and leaned forward, her
fact' pale with her intense excitement. Ellen Macleod had her
hands placidly folded on the table; her face wore an ex{)iession
of expectant complacency. Fergus was standing in the little
corner window with his hack to the company. He could see
right up Glenquaich to the trees at Shiau, and the surdi:;ht
^vas stiiking on tlie little burying-ground. Tie even fancied he
could !see the mound of the new-made grave. The lawyer's
Voice recalled his wandering thonjjhts.

' I, Graham Janu'S Macdonald of Dalmore and Findowie,
declare this to be my last will and testament, for which all other

i:ii

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\ i'

M^^'

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i'li

204

SHEILA.

■f, i' I

(locnmonts whatsoever must be set aside. I leave to Jmc
Cjiiiieron, mv liousckeeper, the sum of two hundred pound-, for
li'T taiihliil aftcndnnci' U[)oii me. To Joljti Mactailaiii', t >•
minister of Anudrcc, two Innidi'ed ponnds, on coiidiii<>n tli;ir li,.
iieis as trnsfc'c! on my estate; to my nej)hew, FcrLiu^ Macl.ol.
jn'cscjitly residing at Shonnen Lodge, a thonsand poutnN. n.
ftoek the farm of wiiich he spoke to me; and histiv, to m
well beloved daughter, Siicihi Murray Macdotiald, the land-- an I
esiates of Dalniore and Findowie, together with all l'uiiii»liii:;^
and plate and plenishing, and the entire residue of m\ ot.it.v.
both personal and monetary, absolutely for her own us- ;ui.|
beii< lit. I only ask that she shall retain Angns M'l>e,ui of
AuL'hIoy as her steward until she shall reach the at'e cf
twenty-one, when she can act uj)on her own discretion.'

There was a moment's al)Solute silence wdn n the la v \ ir
cea-;ed sj)eaking. He was the fh"st to break it by rising and
approaching Sheila with outstretched hatid.

'I Congratulate you, Miss Murray Mact^onald, upon \(i)u'
iidu ritance,' he said. Then Ellen Macleod rose slowlv ;"i(l
niajistically from her seat and faced those in the f'rwur window.
Iuv(duntaiily Sir Dou;^las moved towards his wile. Frii:iis
turned from his post and looked at his mother's face. It \\a<
al)><iilutely colourless, but her eyes were like burninu coal.
Bnth hands, held straightly by her sides, were clenciied until
the nails w. re driven into the palms.

'David Colquhoun,' she said, and her very voice seenn'(l
chanued, 'I give notice that in my son's name I contest this
will;

' Madam, if I may be permitted to advise, I say no,' said tlic
lawyer cpuetly. 'The will is perfectly valid, and not unjust.'

'Not unjust!' screamed Ellen Macleod, her anger biu-tini
forth like a fierce flame. 'Not unjust, David Colquhoun. Inr
a man to ])ass by and slight his own for those who have no
claim upon him! No^ unjust! There is no court in Scotland
which, knowing the circumstances, would hesitate to set it
a."-ide on account of undue influence. My brother's long illness
weakened his intellect, and these people have turned it to their
own advantage,'

SHEILAS INHERITANCE.

205

hill (•

' Have a cnro, Mrs. ^fach'od ; your cli.'iffrcs are !i(tioii;i1iIi','
gjiitl 'Sir Ddiiulas Miiiray, witli li;iUL;lity siitTiioss. ' Be |iI»;imm1
to rcim inber of \vhoin you are spfakinj/, aiul he 1

tMl.-l'lll.'

'1 know very well of 'vvliom I atn spfakinir, Sii I)..!i.'';i»
Mmiay, Init I do not so jKiiticiilarly blaiiu* you,' j«ahl I", ■ m
M;iL'lt'()cl, swe«'pi?io; liim a liitlc liauiility c;,iirt>('y, wliuli m m
liis ])rnu(l cluck ri'ddcn. ' Ails;i Murray, will you an-w. 1 n-- .1
(|ii'>iinny Do you con^^idcr the will which has just 1 ini nn 1
its iicrt'i-'-tly lair anil jii^t ?'

Lady Ailsa rost^, and Sheila, slijiping her hand from h. 1
iiiiiit's, went across the room to Fer-iu^*. Fi r a iiM'imnt h. 1

act 1(1

u wa*! scarcely noticed. Ellen Macleod enijrn-Md

!i:t(iition.

K'Nii Macleod, it has been my unceasini; hope and |tiM\ir

tl at Macdonald would not make Sheila his heir

ess, sail

1 I.

;i(i\'

All

Ail>a Si((llv

I 1

lave never ceast

■d to

ur^e uiioii linn lii^

Ilij'licW a
drath.'

claim. It is to

a greater grii-t" ewn than hi.>

' Tliese are fine words, Ailsa Murray, but they are oidy
wdiils,' said hllen Macleod, with a bitter sneer. ' liut ht tiiat
\\iiit<'-f';iced child not be too proud of he*" iidieiii;itu!e. 1 hcii-
i> a cuise — the curse of the wronged and the roljhed — upon

iiiiio'c aiui upon tier,

\V(i

•■\

hocik at these two, Ellen Macleod, aiul if you h.ivc ;i

man's heart pray to God to forgive ytnu* cruelty,' said L.idv
Ailsii, with brimniing eyes, and pointing to the window rcct-ss
wlnre Sheila and Fergus stood side by side. Sheila with her
slim pirlish hand laid upon the arm of Fergus, and her sweei

t's uplifted to his face.

Tlie iibrupt silence arrested Sheila. She looked round, and
ilnii crossed the r(H)m again with a steady stej). There was a
fliiri.ity and grace aV)out her which impressed all pri'xMit. Sin-
Mijiptd into the little circle, and directly faced ' iu^ lawyer and
tile angry unstress of Shonnen. There was a ' n-alld'^^s sii-nc' ,
wliieli her sweet young voice immediately binke.

'Mr. Colquhor.n,' she said clearly and distinctly, 'am I ih'
mistress of Dalmore ? '

' t

illi

;.fl

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i ■

k^M. i .■

Mjl.

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206

SHEILA,

V'-

Tlie Lawyer bowed liis lioad. He had witnessed many curious
scenes, but never one like this.

' Cm I do what 1 like wiih it? '

' It is l)( qncathed to you absobitely for your own u*<e juk]
benefit, Mi^s Murray Macdonald,' he answered, {[U(»firi«r tlii'
terms of the will. Slieila turned aside. As slie passed hv
Ellen Macleod she drew in her dress, lest it should touch the
stiff, aggressive skirts of that relentless woman.

' FerLiiis, ycu hear !' she said, touching Fergus on tlie aiii)
again. 'Dalmore is mine. I give it to you, so it does imt
belong to me any more. 1 know you love it, dear Fergus, ami
I give it to you.'

There was something indescribably pathetic in the look wliicli
passed between these two young things, just standing on tlie
threshold of manhood and womanhood, and too early tliiu>t
upon its cares.

Fergus never spoke ; but those who were present long
remembered the expression upon his face.

' You're a brick, Sheil.i ! ' cried the boyish, matter-of-fact voice
of Alastair Murray. It broke the str. in. Sheila smiled wioilv.
and with tottering steps came back to Lady Ail>a and fell
upon her breast.

'Take me away, Aunt Ailsa, take me away! ' she sobbed, Ikt
whole form shaking. ' I am afraid of her. Take me awiiy.'

Lady Ailsa wound her arm about the girl's quiveiing foiin
and led her out of the room. When the door closed there was
an awkward and uncomfortable pause. Ellen M.icleod w;is
rebuked in her inmost heart, but it suited her to assume a
haughty scorn of th(: whole proceedings.

' Gentlemen, I fancy we need not prolong this interview ? ' said
the lawyer, looking inquiringly round.

' I sliould iniiigine not. It has not been particularly pleasant.
thanks to you, madam,' said Sir Douglas, looking fixedly at
Ellen Macleod.

She merely shrugged her shoulders in reply.

' Mr. Colquhoun, 1 repeat that I intend to contest this will,'
she said pointedly to the lawyer.

* Madam, no respectable practitioner would assist you, nmcli

SHEILA'S JNJJERJJANCE.

207

li'ss any cotirt of justice entertain your cliiini,' retorted tlic
LiuvtT, for she wearied and dis<iusted liim. ' lioides, yi.iir smm,
I liiiicy, would not support the claim you would raise on hi>
liolialf.''

' Mv son has a craven spirit. He sliould have flunij hack thi-
iiivuhiiig offiT in ll)e tcetl) of the chihl wlio made it,' said I'lllni
^hl(•lt'()(l, lier anger rising again. ' Heccive a gift of liis own,
indeed, and to stand hy tamely and hear it! 1 am ashamc 1 nt'
mv sun, Mr. Cohiuhoun.'

'Unless I am mistaken, I.l is asjiamed of yv»w,' said ilic
hiuvcr shortly. He was grieved and sorry for the hny. who
li;id hi'cn obliged to witness this unseemly seem! and kc p
silerit. There was a look of inten*je misery on his fac, noted
liv all present. He turned about when the lawyer spcd^c, and
wear out of the room. Alastair slipped after him, and outside
the doer caught him and put his arm through his.

• Never mind, old boy, don't take on,' he said eagerly and
;ifFeciiomitely. * Everybody understands you, and — ' He
piuised suddenly, for it would hardly do to say aiiythitig to
Feiifiis about his own mother.

'And what a mother! ' as Alastair remarked juivattdy to his
brothers that night. ' I tell you it's i"()Ugh on a fellow having
Micdi an out-and-out Tautar of a mother.'

'Alastair,' said Fergus wearily, 'let me alone. I — I can't
speak to you just now.'

'I see you're dreadfully cut up, but don't nnnd. Everybody
knows you're a brick,' said Alastair quickly. ' But, I say, \m\{
.Slieila a stuimer, and didn't she give it hot to— '

Aimther abrupt pause.

' I'd better gt't out, or I'll put my foot in it,' mutteicd
Ahi^tair to himself. Fergus had not noticed it, however. But
what lu- thought of iSheila nobody would ever know until the
<l;iy came when he told Sheila herself. But that chance did not
C'lnie I'or a long time.

' Well, I'll leave you, for I see I'm a bore. Mind you
|iiuiiiised to come over to Miu'rayshaugh, and don't be cut up.
hil all come right — everything always does.' "With whicn
ciieerful philosophy good-natured Alastair shook his friend

! I if 111

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I I /'

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208

SHEILA,

\v:irm]y by tlie linnd find departed. Ft-rf^us w.ilkcd on a few
steps, ;)ii>l then, tiiidiiii^ lie w.is hegiiininpf to desc'i-iid the
liill, he piiiisetl for a inonieiit as if imdeci(h-d what to d •. H..
iMtiked across to Shonnen. There was no comfort tliere. His
mother woidd lolOw soon; and, God lielp the hul ! at th;it
niomi-nt he shrank from his mother with iii;? Avhole sonl. Me
ttirned round, and cut liis way throuLrli tlie thicket to the
heathery st«'ep l)ehind the house. Up, up. At ti»e very crest
i»f Crom Crea}j;lj lie wouhl be safe, lie must ')e alone lur a
liille, for there was a tumult raging in his soul, lie took
notice as Ik^ went of the fi'esh green sh<K»ts on tlu' In-ather, .-md
th;it here and there a daisy atid a l)Uttercup were in flower, 'llic
sweet spring day was parsing fair and full of diviiu'st promi*:!',
but his mind was dull ;uid fui'lorn. He felt very des hiti' upon
the face of the earth. His siror\ir young limbs soon climhed the
steep ascent, and among the boulders ami rougl) bracken on the
very summit of the hill he sat him ilowii. A ewe and Iut
iwin lainV)>, grown strong and sturdy with the geiual snn, eyed
hitu in mild surprise, but did not ap{)ear timid in his presence.
He Silt down on Ji stone, and, taking off his Ciif), allowed tlie
grand healthful wind to blow about him. Even in the ah-
s.»lute calm of a summer's day it was always breezy up Croin
(-reagh.

Away up bonnie Glenquaich the sun shone radiantly, the
loch glowed and flashetl like burnished silver, and the winding
I'iver made a silver tiiread, too, among the green meadow-liinds
on either side. He was looking straight down on Achnalauld,
and rnechanicidly counted sixteen 'reeking lums' where there
had been formerly four-and -twenty. There were seven empty
houses in the dachan, and the beginning of Hob's prophecy \v;is
t'ullilled. Glenquaich! which he loved and had hoped to cnll
his own. That biief, bright dream was over, and it belonL-ed to
Sheila now. Memories crowded upon the lad, for when liope
seems (juenched memory sometimes has a healing touch. Tin'V
were tender memoiies of Uncle Graham and of his sweet wile,
who were sleeping now side by side in Shian, reunited hy
death.

Through the blinding tears which had broken down tlic

\\\

SHEILA'S IMIERITAACE.

209

iiii-rrahlc sftmy v\\\\\\ tliiit luid linund lijin in tin; hoiist", lie
iiiociitly cauirht svA\\ tif a lior^c and rider cri^siiiL' the (lirrmi
iiiijr. It was Aiijfiis M-Iican, tli<' lactur, away lioiiic to A* cldoy.
Av, ay," lie was iniitfrriiij: t(t liiiiiscir. ' Onc-aiid-twciity ! It's
;i |>iiir rushiuiilcbs fowl that cuiiua feather its nest in Hve

i''i

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CHAPTER XXIIL

' I

PLANS.

pusillnnininus licart, bo rninfortcfl,

And, like ft clicririil tiiivellir, take the road,

Singing Lcsiilc the hedge.

E. B. BUOWNINO.

ADY AILSA took Sheila up to the drawijiir-rnnm,
nnd k)(;k('d tlie door from within. Sittiiiij down
on a Cdiicli, slie drew tlu^ poor sobbing cliild to licr
side, and let her cry until cahnness canio of its
own accord.

'There now, Sheila, you are better now,' she said briLditJy.
A pretty way, young lady, to receive the annuuncenient tliat
you are a groat heiress.'

'Aunt Ailsa, never, never say that as/ain,' said Sheila (piickl".
*I am 7iot a great heiress. Did }uu not lu-ar me j:i\ing it all
up to poor Fergus ? '

'Yes, I heard and loved you for it, my darling. Tli< re
was liaidly a dry eye in the room. Fergus hiiii';ilf \uil
never lurget it, or I am mistaken in him. But, Sheila, lisii-U
to me.'

' Yes, Aunt Ailsa.'

'You can no more set aside your father's will than — tluin —
any one else,' said Lady Ail?a, not caring to mention Elltn
Macleod's name. ' You must be Lady of Dalniore and

PLANS.

21 I

ig It all

Tll.TO

.elf vill

a, lisun

-tlian —

)\\ Elltn

ore and

Findnwio, wlipther you will or no. Chocr up, my darling, it is
ii(»t a tiling to break your lieart about, I am sure.'

' Hut Ferguo, Aunt Ailsa? '

' My <lear, Fergus will be the very last to grudge you your
piiod t'nrtune. 1 saw it in his eye. He is uot his mother's son
in tliat, Sheila. And then, who knows, you may make it up
ti) liiiii some day.'

' If I can, I will, Aunt Ailsa,' said the girl, grown nuich
iimrc composed, but still looking as it' the thing weighed upon
lirr licait. 'Just at the last papa s[)oke ot* Fergus, and I
ilinHi:lit he said son)ething about a will. Perha[)s he regretted
he liiid not made it different. Aunt Ailsa, it is not fair that I
>li()uld have Dalmore, you know; though he called me his
(laiiglifer, I was not really that.'

'You gave him a daugliter's duty and love, Sheila. My
tliild, I assure you there is nothing to mak(^ yourself miserable
alHuit,' said Lady Ailsa. 'You are old enough to understand
things now, and when I tell you that Fergus has l)een pun-
i>lie'l fcr his mother's sake, you will know quite well it is true.
Slie was very unkind to your poor papa once when she had no
cause.

' l^)or Fergus ! ' repeated Sheila, her heart aching for her
old friend and playmate. It seemed to her a far greater
sorrow to him to have such a mother than to have lost
iJalinore.

'Aiuit Ailsa, wasn't it curious that papa mentioned in his
will that Mr. M'Bean must stay on?' said Sheila musingly.

' Yes, that is a pity ; but we can see about that after-
wards.'

' If I had known this morning, when I met the people from
the Fauld at Ballinreich, I should have asked them to go back,'
>ai(l Slu'ila, a new thought striking her.

' Ay, very soon you will begin to exercise your privileges,
Sliuila,' «aid Lady Ailsa, with a smile. ' We women are very
tond of the sweets of power. But I must go and see what your
uiicKi is about ; he will be chaf'ng to get away. I suppose we
must leave you behind ? '

' In this liouse alone, Aunt Ailsa. I should die,*

ili

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I ' 'ffifl

1 liffl

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*)

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III

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'■11'

If]!

2T2

SHEILA,

'Tlicn will yoTi go down to MiuT;iy>haiigli to-night?'

' If you will tiiki' me.'

' Of course I will. I saw Ala^fair's face fall in the liln.iiv
once or twice. 1 Taiieii'd lie thoiiglit this nionicntons dm
would make a serious change in his cousin, Thes'' hoys adi iv
you, .Sheila, stupid felluAvs ! but they never had a sister. Sli:ill
we go down now, then? '

' D(» vou thiidc she will be away?' askcnl Sheila fc-iifiilU
now beginning to tremble again. Ellen Macleod had lilled the
child's heart with terror six years before, and had renewi'd it
that day.

'Yes, yes. She will never stay; she knows the worst. I
fancy Ellen Macleod will never be in Didnun-e again uidi •«>
some utdooked-for transformation takes place,' said Lad\' Ai'-,i
hastily. 'You must be a brave little woman now, 81u'ii;i ;
remendier, you have a position to Uf)hold.'

Sheila sighed and shook her head. Her aunt thonglit Imw
frail and slender she looked in her mourning, and how ] ah'
and even careworn her sweet face. She was very youtig to
have such a responsibility laid upon her shouldei's. LonkjuL:
forward, Lady Ailsa could foresee nothing but greater caic and
again wished passionately that Graham Macdonald had ;ji\(ii
back Sheila penniless as he Inid leceived her from the Muiiavs.

She unlocked the drawing-room door, and they went (iowii-
stairs together again. The soimd of voices guided tliem to
the library; but, before letting Sheila enter. Lady Ailsa to ik
the precaution to lodk in and make sure that Ellen Macleod
had gone. In the far window. Sir Douglas, Mr. Mactailain'.
and Mr. Colquhoun were talking together over tlie will.
Alastair, after ])aiting with Fergus, had sauntered ronml to
the stables. Ellen Macleod had already crossed tlie (iiiioii
Wv'wi on her way back to Shonnen Lodtre. to which she ua>
condemned for the rest of her life. We will not seek to tVllnw
her there, nor to analyze her thoughts. '1 hey were as dark
as the depths of' the loch made drundie by a spate in winier.
But she was to be piti. d too.

'Well, young lady?' said Sir Douglas, tunnng kindly to
Sheila when they entered the room. ' I shouldn't have daixtl

PLANS.

to cnll you a perfect nuisance tlie other inoming had I known
what was in prospect for you.'

' Don't, Uncle Doupflas,' said Sheihi. tiyinp^ bravely to sii
liiit iiiakinf? rather a failure of it. • Where is Ahi^tair?'

111.'

Oil. anion;; tlie horses, likely. He wciu out ; ftcr Kei'ii
•shiila's face briiirhtened. SIu; was very fond of Al;

IMS.

s'a r

tliiiULdi he teased her unmercifully, and she knew he wniild
\ up poor Fergus. Had she only seen ])ooi' FerLriis then.

(•:!('(

tnlllllLT up

the rocky brow of Croni CreaLdi, \ith a dai-l

Im'II

his fi

ice

lier h

leart would have sunk wii

I h i ' 1 1

u*r.

< e'oil I
:<> did

r al.mut that lonely vigil, but that was long after, when
iiH'iiiory scarcely had a sting. In tlie nie.mtinie she was spart d

the full knowded<2;e of her old fi

riend s suU''n!i'jf

len are we to gu nunie, tnen

advcf] Sir Douidi

IS.

tiniiiiig to his wife. ' 1 have offered Mr. Colquhoun a drive,
hut unless we can start within an hour it will be of no use

to linn.

I daresay we can be ready, Sheila and I,' returned Lad\-

1}'
Ails.i. 'She will cfo down w

(.'(line up when there is any nee(

vith us to-night
1.'

we can easily

Sir PdU'ilas nodded, and the ladies again left the roo e
Wlii'e Sheila went uj) to prepare, Lady Ailsa rang the house

hel', and waited for her in the hall.

(nine in here, Mrs. Cameron,

sue

.lid, when the luui

kec'[u'r appeared, and, opening the dining-room door, ino;i
lici" to enter.

uileO

Ihe Laird's will has just been read, Mrs Canu^ron,' said

Lailv Ailsa at

one

Q. 'I think it rinlit to accpiaint you witli

the Contents. Miss Sheila has been left Lady of DalniDre.'
' (1(1(1 hless the poor dear bairn,' said Cameron, through her

tears.

' She is greatly up^^et. I am afraid the thouglit is more a
Luiet' than a joy to her at present. We will take her away
witli us to-night. Don't you think that will be best?'

' ^ es, my lady ; it would be terribly lonesome for her here.'
Siiiil Canieton. 'Pardon the question, Lady Ailsa, but is there
anything for ^rr. Feriius Macleod? '

and "■ Minds. It is an unspeakable regret to us all

A tho

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' 1;

214

SHEILA,

tliat he is not now Laird of Dalmore,' said Lady Ail?a, sponkin^
out quite fiankly to the faithful servant. 'I did what I couM
to persuade the Laird. I fear, Cameron, that the inno(( lu
often suffer for the guilty in this world.'

' What did i^he say? Did she hear it read, my lady? ' asked
Canif'ron, with an eagerness she could not repress.

'Yes; but what she said is not worth repetition, Camcion."
returned Lady Ailsa quietly. ' I am truly sorry for lur
boy.'

'And I, my lady, for oh, he has a true heart!' said tin;
housekeeper, with tears in her eyes, and thereupon recountrd
to Lady Ailsa what had happened on the day of Mrs. Mac-
donald's death, six years before.

' This will be a sore blow to him, my lady, for he wor5;]iips
the very stones that lie about Daltuore. But it is a great
joy to us to have such a sweet young lady as Miss Slieilu
over us.'

'She will be a gentle mistress, Cameron, and she will win
the service of love,' said Lady Ailsa, with a smile. 'I need not
ask you to look faithfidly to the house for her sake. She lias
not much interest in it just yet, but it will soon awaken. Li t
everything go on quietly as before, and you will heat from ine
from time to time. I do not expect that Sheila will stay very
long at Murrayshaugh.'

' Will she not go back to school, my lady ? '

' I think not. She is really very highly accomplished for her
years. We cannot lay any plans in the meantime, however,
but we will let you know of any arrangements in good time.'

'My lady, do you think Mrs. Macleod will come over?' asked
the housekeeper hesitatingly.

' I do not think so, but if she does you must be very firm.
She has no right in the house now. She has forfeited it by
her own actions. Say you have your orders to admit no one
without permission from your mistress, Miss Murray Mac-
donald.'

' Very well, my lady,' said Cameron, with evident relief

' Oh, Cameron, am I not forgetting a very important part of
to-day's proceedings ! Mr. Macdonald has left you two hundred

PLANS.

215

ponnfls for your fiiitlifiil service, and I am sure you deserve it.
I oitiviratulate you 'vvirli all my iieart.'

' No, no ; I only did my duty for my dear lady's sake, and
he was a good master too,' said Cameron hastily. ' I have
never had so good a place, nor people 1 loved so well. I hope
to live and die in Dahnore.'

'If you do, I hope you will see some happy clianiies to atone
for the sorrows you have seen in Dalmc^ie,' said Lady Ailsa,
and shook hands with the faithful servant as she turned
to £ro.

From that time, if not before, Jane Cameron would have laid
down her life for Dalmore and its sweet mistress. She felt
that an absolute trust was reposed in her, and that calls out
whatever is noble in the nature of gentle or simple.

Witiiin the hour the carriage rolled away from Dalmore.
Ferpus saw it cross tiie Girron Brig, but, as it was half closed,
he did not know Sheih. was within. Just after sundown lie
rose and took his Avay down, not straight to the house, but by
a slantino; sheep-track which brought him out at Corrvmuckloch
Inn. Then he went over the hill-road to Achnafauld. Any-
where, anywhere, rather tlian back to Shonncn. God helj) the
lad! he had a home which was no home; and his heart was
hungry within him for the love wliich blessed the lives of
others. When Alastair Mnrray had talked of his motlier, with
a l<jnd of disrespectful tenderness which was true honour, as
• the dear old mater,' Fergus had listened with a kind of vague,
yearning envy. Mis mother was a shadow on his life ; and yet
he loved her too, though not as he would and could have, if she
had allowed him. The grey night-shadcnvs were fa'ling about
Shian and the head of the loch when he reached th(^ brow of
the hill and saw the Glen before him once more. The sky was
sol't and tender, dapjded with rose-fringed clouds, with here
and there a bright star peeping out like gleams of heaveidy
promise. The air Avas full of peace, and laden with vague, subtle
odours suggestive of bursting bud and blade in some wofxl.
In the distance a cuckoo was calling sweetly to his mate,
and the mountain burns were dancing merrily in their rocky
beds ; making that pleasant, gurgling murmur which is some-

!"'»'(

11 ill

^ '}

iV.

i-, 'I

f ' \

I !

2l6

SHEILA.

times tlu> onlv sonnd to brciik tlie solemn solitTidos of tlic liills.
Ii w;i*< a fair woild. 'Jlic lad's Iiciirr fill('(l ;ip-;iiii at siLd't of tlii-
f;imiliar sti;itli, and at tlioniilit of tlio quiet griive at ^iiiaii, ;iii(l
of tin; exiles on tlie bosom of tlie broad Atlantic. In lii> lumli-
iH'ss and lieait-breidc sonietl ing jirompted liim to po to \vA\
^r.icmintrliton, "who always understood liini, a;id Avoidd s\mi]);i-
tliize with him, he knew. Before he turned into the nndii r(i;i(l
he toi>k a long survey light along to Anchlo}-, lest anv nf \Vy
M'i^eans should be coming on horsebindc or afo(>f. II. • could
not have i)orne to meet them then. But there w;is not a h\iiii
thing to be seen but two or three cows wandering about tli ■
ro:idside seeking a bite of young grjiss. He quickened his jkicm.
and in a few nniuites crossed the burn, regardless of weifimr
his feet, and lifted the sneck of Kt)l)'s door. The loom \v;is
busy, he heaid th" click, click, of the neeill.'s as he ent icil ;
but Rob heard liim, and, coming off his stool, joined him ni the
kitchen.

' Weel, lad ? '

' Put the bolt in the door, Rob, quick,' snid Fergus.

Rob did so, taking bis time over it, and then cjirried tin'
lamp from the shop into the kitchen. After he had set it npnii
the tal)le, he turned his keen eye full on the hid's face, lie
liad thrown bimself on a creepie by the hearthstone, and \\;i-
' glowerin" at the smouldering peats, as if iie h:i.d interest in
nothing else.

' Ye're a stranger, Maister Fergus,' said Rob slowly, w\,
reaching to the peat lire, he laid on some more luel, iIiouliIi the
night was close and wann. ' Maybe, though,' he added slu'.vly,
' it's the Laird I'm speakin' till ?'

' No, Rob, it's not the Laird,' said Fergus, with a strange,
slow, flickering smile.

' Aweel, if it's no' the Laird, he hasna the Laird's cares to
baud him doon, and the}"re no' sitia' in they times.' said lleh
cheerily, as he gave the peats a bit stir with his foot. lie was
keeidv watching the face ol' Ferjius all ihe while. lie saw that
the lad was sore vrxed about something, and that in a minute
it would all come out. He had a quick, warm, sympatiieiic
heart, this rough, morose stocking- weaver, because he luid the

PLANS.

217

pncf'-' soul. lie was nover roup:h, never mnrose, never any-

iliiii.: l>ut ijeiiial and iKipjiy-liearted wiili these two Vdimg

cicitiiri"^, Fergus and Slieil.i, liec;nise lie loved tiieni, and tiiey

n\('.l liiiii. He went a\v;iy hiick to the; shop after a moment,

iictciuling to look for his sjiectacles, and as he crossed the little

jiissii^c between the two ])la"es he heard a sol) break Iriim the

in 's |i|)s. It was the first wave of the tempest. The ])eiit

iiirii and aching heart found relief that night, ay, and comfort

lu, before Fergus Macleod left Kob Macnaiightoii's fireside.

,i'[j

'I'l.l

;if

p I

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ii •

t 'I

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE AWAKENING.

'Twixt summer ami her soul there seems to run
A power to feel together.

J. B. Selkirk.

IIEILA, Miss Gordon hns come home to the mnnse.
She is not stronjr, her father tells me, and has been
obliged to give up her siniation in Doncaster. I
^ am going in to Logie-Murray this afternoon to
see her.'

' May I go vith you, Aunt Ailsa?

* I was just going to ask you, my dear. You are moping too
much. You Avill enjoy the drive.'

' 01), Aunt Ailsa, 1 don't mope. I am very happy here,' said
Sheila quickly, but Aunt Ailsa only shook her head. She was
CDUcerned about Sheihi. It was more than two months since
Macdonald's death, and Sheila had been at Murrayshaugh all
the time. She had never expressed any desire to return to Dal-
more, even for a day, nor had she ever voluntarily spoken of thi'
place or of her special interest in it. Murrayshaugh was vi'iy
quiet during the summer months — Alastair in Edinburirh, ami
the other lads at Trinity College in Glenalmond. But for
Sheila Murrayshaugh had been a childless house, only she was
more of a woman now than a child. She had given up childi^li
pursuits, and even when the lads would come over from Gkn-

£18

THE A WAKENING.

219

almond sometimes to spend S;iturday, she did not care to share
their romps as of yore. She liad grown very (piiet and
womanly in lier ways, and woukl sew and knit for her aunt's
poor folk in Logif-Miirray, or pore over her lesson-hook>*,
lahoriously keeping up her German and Frencii hy fvadiiig tlie
literature of those countries. Or she would go out for hours
by herself with her sketcliing materials, and in tlie evenings
practise her music, which, however, was not a ta>k, hit :i
labour of perfect love. Sheila was a born musician. Alto-
lictln r, in her sixteenth year, Sheila w;is a model young lady,
lut Aunt Ail>a would r;ither have had the Sheila of old, wlin
tnif her frocks climbing trees and fences, and wet her feet
' L^uiiipiiiu ' with her cousins in the burns. The boys had lost
iliriv cbum, and Murraysluiugh its merry - h<>arted maiden.
L.ulv Ailsa saw that the inheritance was weighing on the
cliild's siioulders, and she did not know what to do with her,
or liow to act. Sometimes she rejiionstrated with her for
silting so closely over her books, then Sheila would say, with a
little liiilf sad, wholly pathetic smile, —

' Aunt AilsM, I hiive such a lot to learn.'

And once, Avhen Lady Ailsa had come upon her in the library
poring over one of Sir Douglas's

huge

volumes on est. f

mauMicnient, she had gf)ne to her own loom to have a good
ny. Sbe felt almost aiigiy with the dead for leaving such an
ii. culms on the young shoulders of the living.

Munavshaugh was a swi-et spot, — a low, large, commodious
linuse, nestling jimong trees on the low ground beside the
hi ie, wbich watered the beautiful ])olicies. In the eaily
iiinnths of summer, when the trees wore their freshest garb,
its sylvan loveliness couhl not be surpassed. But Sheila iv\\.
shut ill sometimes, and fancied it was difficult to breathe in the
olosL' sheltered air among the woods and waters. She loved
the lieiglits, the bare, grand solitudes, where nothing but the
heather grew. Dalmor(» was her ideal, and yet she did f.ot
set'k to return to it, her own home, an inheritance which
iiiibody could take away from her. The time had not come
yet, t)iit it was at hand. These quiet days at Murray.shaugh
seemed a kind of preparation for a coming change. I think

■i'fillf

! ill

ill!

2;o

SHEILA.

V ■

p: ::

L;i(1y Ail*n, who loved tlm bMirn with a motlier's love, felt
l»y and by lli;it thought was matuiing towards action, and >n
Icit ht-r ill ])< ace.

After limeheon that afternoon, Slicila and lier aniit sot out
in 1/idy Ailsa's pony carriage to drive throiijli the leafy ro.i.ls
to the xiMage. Sheihi to<,k the reins, and as Lady Ailsa It aiH'il
back among lier comfortable cushions and look' d at the stiaijlit,
lithe young fi'^ure, and tiie clear-cut, sweet lace, she gave an
invobiniaiy sigh.

' SJie'll make Sfime of the lads' hearts ache yet ; and what
about her own? She tak"S everything so terribly in earnest.'

' Sheila, my dear, do you know you are (juite a woman,' she
said presently, giving expression to a part of lier thought,

' 1 feel very old. Aunt Ailsa,' said Sheila quite soberly, and
Lady Ailsa laughed.

'My child, I ani forty-eight, and I am certain I never
had such a sober, careworn face. I could shake you, Slieila,
positively shake you.'

'Do it then, auntie,' said Sheila, laughing too. ' IIow well
Punch and Judy go together, don't they?'

' Yes ; they are very old too, but they take life easily, like
their mistress. What a ])leasant afternoon this is!'

' Delightlul ! We shall be out of the trees ])resently, and
see about us. Aunt Ails.i. 1 don't like trees vertj m\ich. Tin y
make the landscape pretty, but they seem to absorb the fre.sh-
ness of the air.'

' You talk like a book, child. I think Murrayshaiigh the
loveliest place in thewoild. IIow sweet Logie is looking this
afternoon. Look at the sun striking the spire on the kiik.
Conl'ess now. Sheila, it is a pretty picture.'

' Very, Aunt Ailsa. I thiidv I nuist come to the toll here
and sketeh the kiik,' said Sheila; but she was thiidvinir of
another kirk, bare, unlovely, uncomfortable wifhin and with-
out, but which was hallowed to her by many sweet memnrifs
which time would never dim. Punch and Judy, accusfoint^l to
follow the dictates of their own sweet wills, relaxed their
steady trot presently, and began to ascend very leisurely the
gentle slope of the road.

THE A WAKENING.

221

' Wlion did Miss Gordon come lionu>, .luntio?' nsl<o(l Sliiil;i.
still kt't'piiiij lier eyes fixed on the old kuk, whicli was batlied
ill tin- w;iiiii yellow sunli^flit.

( )ii S.iturday,
Is she very i

ill

\(), only lagged out. Teaching in a school is very hard

wor

Sheih

' I think it must be

am ve

sorry for the minister. It

ry sorry

IS a ve

j-y

dill

icu'f

ju'dl'lcm how to rear and etlueate ten children on u very lindted
income, Harriet's helj) will he sadly missed.'

Sheila was silent. Her aunt wondered what su(hh'n thought
liad brought that luminous light to her eyes. There was vcrv
litile said after that. Having reached the crest of the little hill,
Punch and Judy, with one accord, trotted gallantly down the

irae mtt) the' village, up tlie long, wnie, ])icturt scjue street, and
Irew up, with great satisfaction to themselves, at the white

LMtes ot the manse, oheua jumped out, ojjeiied tiie gate, and
led the ])onies up tlie short, shady avenue to the front door.
Tliere ^vas a basket chair on the lawn, from which a rather
ji;ile, delicat(^-l()oking girl rose and came forward to meet them.
Hit lace flushed with pleasure at sight of her old puj)il, and
Sheila's eyes filled as she kissed her. There was such a change,
sorry you are ill, dear Miss Gordon,' she said

am so

affectionately.

' Not very ill, only tired out, Sheila,' returned Han ict
Gordon. ' How are you. Lady Ailsa? Will you come uj) to

the drawing-room. Mamn)a is lying down in the study, I
think. The heat tries her.'

' Don't disturb her, then, on any account. It is you we have

conie to see, Harriet,' said Lady Ailsa

kindly.

Well, perhaps

\ve had better 1:0 in ; it is so suimv here.

'It is never too sunny lor me, Lady Ailsa,' said tlie ntinister's
(laughter. 'The spring winds in Doncaster shrivelled me up.'

She U'd the way into the manse, and up to the shabby but
hoiiu'-like di'awin<j-room, in which evervthinn; was lor use and
ciiinrurt and very little for ornament. Sheila thought it a very
pleasant room.

,-<

i ■

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SHEILA,

Tlien tlie minister liim-clf came up, a fine-lof)kin{» m.-m, witli
ji heiifVdlcnt face somewliaf marked with tlie lines of care. As
Lady Ailsa had said, the iiphriii^^iiig of a hu'L^e family on nnail
means was a prohjcm he was daily finding it, more dilliculi Im
>olve. Harriet's breakdown was a serious matter more \v;i\n
than one. Her post as head mistress of the Ilitrh School Inr
(iirls at Doncaster was very lucrative, hut the stiain hatl proved
too much. She was unfeignedly glad to see her old pupil, with
wiiom she had lived so happily for four years. lint she was
amazed to find her so changed. She had left her a cardis-,
liappy-hcarted girl, and now found her a woman, with a
womati's care and Ibrethoiight.

'May I come and see you again to-morrow, Miss Gordon?'
Sheila asked, when she saw her aunt preparing to go, after a
>liort stay.

'Sundy; come every day, dear Sheila. I feel as if I had to
make a new acquaintance with you. Do you reniendn'r our
hapj)y days at Dalmore?*

Sheila fluslied up quickly, but made no reply. Harriet
(ioidon could not but wonder why she was so sensitive alioiir
Dalmore.

'Aunt Ailsa, Mr. Gordon is not a very rich man, is he?'
a>kfd Sheila, as they drove away from the manse gate.

'Ni)t rich at all, my dear, quite poor, and ten children. O
dear me, I am so sorry for them! I see Hairiet feels dread-
fidly having to come home, and these three boys at college ari'
a dreadful drain upon poor Mr. Gordon's purse.'

' Aunt Ailsa, why are so many nice people poor and
uidiappy ?'

'They may be poor at the manse, but they are n(»t imhajjpy.
Shidla — far from it. I never saw a more united and aflection-
ate family. You must not run away with the idea that only
rich people are happy. It is quite the reverse.'

' Oh, Aunt Ailsa, I know that,' said Sheila, in a low voice,
anil then a little silence fell upon them.

'Are you not tired having me at Murrayshaugh, auntie?
asked Slieila, after a while.

'Just listen to that lark. I am sure he will strain his dear

I I

THE AWAKENING.

223

^v voice,

liftle tliroat,' said Aunt Ailsa iiiisclnevou'^ly, pointing with her
p;ii!isol up to the blue expanse, wliere a hirk was trilling his
sweet, noiNy song with all his might.

Slit'ila smiled.

' You are very naughty to huigh at mo, Atmt Ailsa, when
I ;ini so sober. 1 want to talk very much in earnest to
you.'

• Won't yoti talk very much in fun, just for a change? You
are far too solenm and sober. Sheila; and I am going to be
very angry with you from to-day.'

'You couldn't be angry if you tried, Aunt Ailsa,' said Sheila
quietly, and was silent again for a little, keeping her eyes on
the ponies' tossing heads.

'Amit Ailsa,' — Sheila dropped tlie reins and looked (juite
round into lier aunt's face, — ' I — I — think it is time for nu- to
1:0 hack to Dal more.'

'Yes, my dear; I have been waiting for it.'

'I — I think that perhaps papa woiUd not like me to .stay
away so long,' said Sheila, with a pathetic tremble in her v^ ier.
'It is as if I did not like it, and oh, 1 do, Aunt Ailsa — betti i-
than any place in the world ! '

' Yes, my dear, I understand.'

' I have been thinking such a great deal. Aunt Ailsa, often
till my head ached dreadfully, trying to make u[) my mind
whiit to do. I have been readino; in Uncle Douiihis's books.'

'Don't I know it? I saw you one day, and could have
wliijjped you, Sheila.'

'1 have been reading all about wills and everything.'

'What for? Your will was right enough, Sheila. Nothing
will set it aside.'

'1 know,' said Sheila, with a little sigh, 'and I can't give it
up either. It would not be right. But, Aunt Ailsa, I think
I'lijia was sorry after about Fergus. Just think if he nx-ant at
tlie end to give him Dalnioie, but could not make us under-
stiuid. Wouldn't it be dread/til /'

'Sheila, it is very wrong of you to say such things. If you
brood over this, you may do youiself sei'ious injury.'

'0 no, I won't. When I go to Dalmore, auntie, I am

; 1

i!|j||,|'

i
1

1 '

i W

mil

;t{i i

, I

224

SHEILA,

h ^ i

b j

■

\H)\n^ to look cvrrywlifTfi to see if tliore is any otlior will.
l*.;jt!i siiid soimMliiiiir iilmiit it.'

Lady Ailsii lisftMU'tl in vexed silence. She saw tliat tlic (jiij
was tiie slave of an idea wliicdi would cause her great tiduMc
and anxiety if slut hroodifd upon it.

' Vnii may look, dear, to satisfy yourself, but 1 atn (juifc siin-
yoii will never find what you seek. Now that it is all over,
WKidd it n(jt b(i much V)etter to try and h(; worthy of yoiii'
iidieritanct', and do your duty as its mistress, than to make
yourself and others nusuiable with these ideas? IShcila, ii is
not right.'

' Perhaps not. Aunt Ailsa, but I can't feel right about it.
Daliiioni (nif//it to belong to Fergus. I will never Ibrget that.'

' It may be his sonu' day if y«»u give it to him. Sheila,' said
Aunt Ailsa, with a snule, but Sheila did not understand, and
took the words in their literal sense.

' I'l'rhaps he may take it some day,' she said hopctaijy.
' Aunt Ailsa, do you think Miss Gordon would come ba(.'k to
D.dmore with me? 1 have to learn some things yet. 'Hk m
she could help them at home, and get strong herself at Dal-
m ire.'

Aunt Ailsa took the girl's grave, sweet face in her hands
and kissed it tenderly.

'God bless you, my darling, for ev r and ever. I see you
are to be a blessing to Dalmore.'

CHAPTER XXV.

HOME.

Nae birdio sweeter sings,

In u' the wail' wide,
Than the lintie 'mon<< tho whins

On our aiu hill-side.

Sadie.

OOD-BYE, then, Slieila. I shall come up snmo fine
day soon, and see how you are geftiiifj^ on,' said
Lady Ailsa. 'Harriet Gordon, see ihiit she is kfpt
in occupation. I leave her in your cart*.'
' I will look after her, Lady Ailsa,' said Harriet Gordon,
looking at Sheila with all her heiirt in her eyes. No need to
say huw readily the kind offer had been accepted at the manse.
Oiic(^ more care was lifted from the minister's heart. The
ptTlcct rest, the fine, pure, bracing air, and the plentiful table
.tt Dalmore would do more for his ailing daughter th;m even
tlic mother's care at home. "With ten mouths to fill every day,
it is no easy task to provide tempting dainties, even for one.

So the carriage rolled away from Murrayshaugh, and along
tlie smooth, "WTide road to Dunkeld, which was looking its
loveliest that sunny June day.

Sheila had not much to say while they drove ; but though
lier tongue wws silent her eyes were busy, and when they passed
^y the richly-wooded low grounds, and turned up Struthbraan^

hi' I

•Hi ' '

. 1
' (

' .: |i

! li' ij

:i^,

...lllll;*!

ill

*llf

■1 i

226

SHEILA.

% r.

Harriet Gordon saw lier look eagerly from side to side, notin.:
each familiar landmark with loving interest and pride.

It was a long drive, and Harriet was a little tired before tl cv
reached Aniulree.

'Oh, Miss Gordon ! just look at Dalmore with the snn on ir.
Isn't it lovely?' Sheihi cried, when they reached the top (f
liallinreich Brae, and saw the whole face of Crom Creasli, wiih
the old house lying snugly in its bosom, sheltered by daik pirK s
and waving, graceful birches. The snn was flashir in cvcrv
window, and from the tower the flag was waving fur the fu>t
time since it had been lowered at its master's death.

'That is to welcome you, SheiUi. They are glad their yomii:
lady is coming home,' said Miss Gordon, with a pleased smile

vSheila's eyes were full of tears. It would be but a soriy
welcome after all, returning to an empty house, which w;is
peopled only by memories and the shadowy forms of those wlm
' were not.' P>ut the few servants in chaige of the place l:;i(l
all gathered about the door, and Cameron, wearing a stiff i)la(k
silk gown and her best lace cap, came forward with a smile .ind
a tear to bid her young mistress welcome home. Siieihi looked
from one to another somewhat moiu'nfully, and replied to their
greetings in a low, quiet voice. It made the bairn feel her
resjionsibility yet more when she saw them standing so icsjiect-
fully before her — her own servants ! She was very young to be
mistress to anybody, and they saw what was her unuttered
thought, and every heart was sore A^r her.

' Tea is in the drawing-room. Miss Sheila,' said Mrs. Cameron.
' Let me help you, Miss Gordon. You look so white and tireii.'

' She is very tired, I am afraid. Will you be able to ciiHk! to
tea, Miss Gordon, or will you go and lie down fur awhile?'
asked Sheila kindly.

' I will just go up to my own room. I am very sorry to he
so useless, dear. I hope I shall be better soon.'

' O yes, I am sure you will. Take her uj), Cameron, and I
will go to the diawing loom for her tea,' said Sheila, thinking
of others' comfort before her own.

She took up the tea, and sat by her governess wliile she dia' k
it, and then, drawing down the blind and covering her up, s -e

i ^ i^ I !

i I

HOME,

227

h;i(l(' lier go to sleep, and ran downstairs. The honsekeepor
w;is waiting aboiit tlie landing, anxious to see and speak witli
iicr. She was so glad to see the bairn back to her own home
jigain.

'Do come into the drawing-room, while I am having tea,'
said iSlirila. * I want to hear all about everything. Oh, have
tlicv had any news from the folk who left the Fauld?*

' Yes, Miss Sheila ; aTbout a week ago, Rob Macnaughton had a
letter from the smith, and Ewan M'F;idyen, too, had one from
liis (limghter Annie, who married young Stewart of Turrich.
You'll remember her?'

' I did not know her, as she was a servant with the Miss
Ciniipbolls at Siiian ; and did they all get safe over that dreadful
sea .''

* Ail safe; and what do you think. Miss Sheila? sailing on the
sea m.ide old Mrs. Stewart quite well,' said the housekeeper,
(It'li'ihted to see the bairn so interested; 'and they are all in
good spirits, and not a bit sorry they left the Glen.'

' I'm glad of that. 1 hope thry will get on splendidly,' said
Sheila fervently; 'and all the other folks are quite well? Do
vou ever see Katie Menzies?'

' Only on Sundays at the kirk, Miss Sheila. A bonnic,
hounie lassie Katie has grown. I hope she'll have grace to
guide her. I'm whiles hearing what I dinna like ; — but let that
pass.'

' And Malcolm, who is so droll. How is Malcolm ? '

'Just as he was. What a size he has grown! six feet in his
stockings, if he is an inch. Miss Sheila, I am sure. And the
auld wife is as thrawn as ever.'

' Oh, I must go down and see them all, now I have come.'

' Yi)u are going to bide, then ? ' asked Mrs. Cameron
anxiously.

'Yes, I think so,' said Sheila, gr^^ving a little pale. 'You will
hi' very kind to poor Miss Gord(»n, Cameron, and give her all
■•'i'' i.ci'ds ? I want her to grow very strong in Dalinore.'

' 1 II do all I can, for she's a sweet yoimg lady, and fine
•■"iiiliaiiy she'll be for you,' said Cameron heartily. 'Oh, Mis-;
■"^lieibi, it's fell proud I am that ye are come home to your own.

I ,

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228

SHEILA,

It's been but a dull house all the summer through without

I :i

i\ \

I i

s
head.'

' Am I the head, C.'inieron ? ' asked Slieila, with a patliotic
little smile ; then, quite suddenly, showing the current of her
thoughts, sliR added, 'Fergus is not at Shonncn, is he?'

'No, Miss Sheihi; but he will be in three weeks' time, Jessie
Mackenzie was telling me yesterday. IJe is doing something
splendid at the college.'

' He is very clever. Of course he would do splendidly,' o.dd
Slieila com[)lacently. 'Oh, Cameron, don't you thiid< it would
have been grand if Fergus had been Laird of Dalmore? Then,
how happy I could have been at Murrayshaugh ; Aunt Ailsa's
little girl, and nothing more.'

' We are very well pleased with our young lady, Miss Sheila,'
said Cameron. 'There's not one in all Strathbraan or Glen-
quaich but what would say that.'

'Perhaps not; but all the same he ought to have had
it,' said Slieila, with, a sigh ; and then she told to the faithful
^e^vant the few words Macdonald had said on that dark day
he died, ove. which Sheila had brooded till she made herself
ill.

' I want you to help me to look, Cameron,' she said ; ' if there
was another will, and Dalmore should belong to Fergus, how
dreadful for me to be here ! '

' Miss Sheila,' said the housekeeper somewhat hesitatingly,
'I want to tell you something that happened two nights before
the Laird died. Master Fergus had been up to see him, and after
he was away the Laird bade me get him his writing things out
of the library. I gave them to him, and when he rang for me,
about halt an hour after, he had been writing something, for
the ink was wet in the pen, and he had dried something (jn the
blotting-pad, for it was quite clean when I gave it to him. But
he never said anything, and there was no sign of any papers
lying about.'

' It would be the will, Cameron ! I knew there was one ! '
cried Sheila excitedly, jumping up. ' Let us go and look every-
where in the library. Oh, we must find it ! We will lind it, I
!iiu sure.'

HOME.

229

the tahle, Shoilr

off

..I

Leaving her teacup half emptied
downstairs like ati arrow. The housekeeper followed her as
quickly as she could, and found her with a drawer open in the
L'lircrs secretidr".

' Look here, Miss Sheila,' s;iid Cameron. ' I put past this
hluttiiifr-pad, I don't know why. It has never been used since
the Laii'd had it, though Mr. Cohpdioun wrote a lot here after
the Laird died. Can you read it ? '

Sheila leaned on the housekeeper's slioulder, and fixed her
eves intently on the blotting-pad. The characters were strange,
cniinped-looking things, not easily deciphered, but she could
make nut (juite clearly the name of Fergus Macleod, and further
on, Daliiiore.

'Caiieron,' she said quite solemnly, 'this is the impress of
the will; let us hunt all over the rooms. It can't be out of
thes(! few rooms, unless papa gave it to some one.'

'That he didn't. Miss Sheila, for nobody saw him again
till Lady Ailsa came. Angus M'Bean was here upon the
Thursday, but I had the Laird'o orders not to hit liiiu in,
and l)oiinie angered he was at it, and gied me ill words
iiboot it. But when I have my orders I can be as firm as
tl. B;iss Rock.'

Sheila never answered. Her hands and eyes were busy
;ini(/ng the straggling pipers in the drawers, but, thougii they
seirched for an hour and more in every nook and cranny,
iiMiliinir was found of the missing will — if, 'nde(>d, it had ever
c-.isled. The child was grievously disappointed, but would
Mot (piite give up hope. She carried the preci( us blotting-
p id up to her cwn room, and locked it in her w:irdrobe
drawer. Then she went up to s(.'e whether Miss Gordon was
awake.

'I want to go along to Aclmafauld, Miss Gordon,' she said,
.^eiinnr that she was wide awake. ' Would it be too far to

W;ilky'

' Well, perhaps, to-night, it would, dear. If you could wait
till tlie morning, I would go with you.'

' I want to go to-night, thongli,' said Sheila. ' It will be light
for a long time yet, and Malcolm and Katie Menzies will convoy

I (

■< > i I

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230

SHEILA.

'■

me home. I have never been at the Fiiiild, Miss Gordon, >ince
last yejir, before I went to school.'

Sheibi's listless, brooding thonghtfulness seemed to li.ivf
vanislied utterly. She was alert now, anxious to b(> up ani
doing. The time for action hiid come. Harriet Gorduii, ,1 ft w
minutes later, watched the tall, slight, lissom figure, wjilkm.:
with swift, firm, purpo..e like step along the whi^e road from tlic
Girron Brig, and smiled a little. Uidoss she was very iinuli
mistaken, the peo{)lc's interests would be h)oked into, a' d as
they had never been looked into in any biird's time. Slicili
knew tlieir inner life, and would take a personal interest in all
their affairs. The governess, who, like most folk, disliked .md
distrusted Angus M'Bean, wondered how he would like tlie new-
rule. Though it was in the frail hands of a girl, it might be
ti)0 firm for his taste.

Sheila did not meet any one on the road but the iniikoepei's
herd, who, not recognising her, bade her turn his cattle about if
she met them ' wast the Glen.' She smiled, and, promising to do
so, walked rapidly on. It was delightful to be out in tlie^e
open roads, with the wide-spreading heathery moors on eitli<r
side, and the cool, fresh mountain breezes blowing about lier
like the elixir of life. How solemn and majestic the towering
peaks of the encircling hills! Looking back, the purple after-
glow from the sunset lay exquisitely on the Girron, while Toni-
nagrew was in darkest shadow. A gcdden shaft again tou'-luMl
the rugged shoulder of Craig Hulich. Light and slir.dow
excpiisitely blended or sharply contrasted gave to the landscape
a beauty second in Sheila's eyes to none. She only looked once
more to Craig Ilulich, sharply defined against the clear amber
sky ; she could not forget that in Shonnen dwelt a woman wlio
hated her with a terrible hatred, rendered doubly awlul to
Slieila, because it was the mother of Fergus Macleod wlio bore
such car.seless resentment against her. Away up the Glen the
beauty of the summer evening was seen in its most striking
aspect of perfect peace. There was not a ripple on the breast
of the loch, and the Quaich, like a thread of gold, watered the
low gi'een banks, where the lambs were frisking about tlieir
mothers, and as if rejoicing in the sweetness of a perfect summer

'^U

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HOME.

231

-nice

(lay. Tlie trees v.-ere green and lovely about Sliian ; but Sheila
cniild not look often there. Some day she would visit that
(jiiM't resting-place, but not yet.

Sli.- did not meet the cattle on the road, but, seeing tliem on
tlie slope of the brae leading over to Corryiuuckloch, she took
the trouble to go up and turn them about on their homeward
wav. The exeition heated her, and tliere was a lovely flush
on lier lace when she reached the Fauld and entered Janet
Meiizies' cottage.

* Wlia's that? ' asi.3d the old woman querulously; then she
added a sharp sentence in G.ieUc, which Sheila, of cour;.e, did
not understand. ' Katie, ye deil ! come here; there's a strange
wunuiiin at the door.'

' It's only me, Janet,' said Sheihi, coming forward. ' Don't
you know me? I missed you from your chair. Have you
been long in bed? '

'Ay, ower laug. So it's you, Miss Sheila?' said Janet, un-
graciously enough still. 'Katie, whaur are ye? Deil tak'
her! she's never in. But I daursay she'll be lielpin' some o'
them wi' their kye. A'thing but her ain duty. Sit down.
Are ye hame to Dalmore ?'

' Yes ; I only came to-day.'

'Jist aboot time, then, or ye needna ha' come ava.
Leddy Cameron and her set wad sune eat ye oot o' hoose
an' hanie,' said Janet grimly. ' Whaur hae ye been a' this
while?'

'At Murrayshaugh. Oh, here's Katie. How are you, Katie?'

'Miss Sheila!'

Katie blushed with pleasure, and somewhat shyly took the
proffered hand. Two fair young creatures both wer(», as they
•stood there, each contrasting well with the other. Katie, in her
fresh calico and spotless kerchief, her boimie iVice bronzed with
the sun, was as fair in her own way as the dainty young Lady
of Dalmore.

'How difierent you look, Miss Sheila! I think I shouldna
hae kent ye,' said Katie, knowing by the sweet, easy smile that
there was no inner change.

'You are different, too, Katie. Isn't she bonnie, Janet? '

,, '

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232

SHEILA.

' Ronnie ! I dinna spo't. Slie's fair enouch without ye tollin'
litT ony inair. The lads are bcjjfinnin' to rin about; a peilVct
licaii break, besides an end to wark.'

' Oh. Aunt Jan<-'t ! ' said Katie, growin"^ redder still. * Xt vt-r
mind her, Miss Sheila. You niusi see Malcolm. 1 think lie
is over at the stocking-weaver's.'

' Well, I'm going there, so never mind telling him, Katie.
Is your aunt always in her i»ed now?'

' Oo ay, aye abed ! ' grundiled the old woman. 'I'd ratlicr
be dei<l, and dune wi't. I dinna ken what pleasure ii can gie
the Almichty to keej) nie lyin', sair and weary, here.'

' Wheesht, auntie ! ' said Katie reprovingly ; but Sluila could
not help laughing at the odd speech.

'So word has come home from America, and they are to get
on idcely?' she said, to change the subject.

'So they say, so they say — ^just lees, I tell them. Wiia's to
ken what's true and what's lees, and sae m tickle water atwi'in
them?' said Jenny, in her usual cantankerous spirit. 'Ay,
Angus M'Bean's gcttiii' the auld place cleared oot in biaw
style. He's Laird o' Dalmore noo, ye ken.'

'Aunt Janet, dirnia be imj)udent,' said Katie, in a vexed tone.
'She's vvaur than she used to be, Miss Sheila, but nobody minds
her.'

'You dinna, onyway, ye jaud ! though I bro?ht ye up.
Folks' ain bairns are bad, they say, though I never had ony,
but ither folks' are a hanrle waur. Will ye tak' my advice,
Miss Sheila ? If ye are the Leddy o' Dalmore, as they say,
set that ill carle at Auchloy about his business. I ken him —
wha better? He's feart for my cravvin'. an' thocht he'd get
me shippet awa' to Canady; but Angus M'Bean an' me hae a
wee bit account to settle yet.'

her

CHAPTER XXVL

HE II OWN FOLK.

(

. ' Av,
Ltl biuw

Thou art no lingerer in a mon'irch's hall ;
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all !
A bearer of hope unto land and sea.

RE you gaun to bide at the big hoose noo, Miss

Sheila?' Katie asked, following Sheila to the door

when she went aw.iy.

'Yes, I think so. I have been a long time

away, Katie. How is Malcolm ? Is he quite strong

now ? '

' Only whiles,' answered Katie, with a sliadow on her fair

fncp. ' He gets himsel' into sic pnssions aboot naething, and

lie's as weak as water efter't, Miss Sheila. There's no' much to

l)f Tiuule off the Innd, but it's better than naethinG:. Ye'll no'

Ift Mr. M'Bean put auntie oot o' the hoose, an' tuk' the crol't

hac her ar Martimnas? *

'K.ifie Menzies 1 how could you tliiiik of such a dreadl'ul

tliuiir?' a>ki*d Sheila, in a shocked, soirowful voice.

' N\eel, Mr. M 'Bean's nye tellin' Malky this'll be his last

liiiirst,' said Kaiie, with teais in her eyP3. 'You should sec;

Milky after Mr. M'Bean's been speakin' till him. His ecn

[riow.r like fire, an' he fair shakes wi' rage. I'm teiritied

wiiiles for fear they fa' oot.'

ssa

■s \

>';;il

,11 Mi

(! '

bill

i<h

■

234

SHEILA.

'I'll see Miilcolm, Katie; and don*t you vex j^onrsclf about
iIm' house or the croft. Too many have left the Gh-n ah<'aily.
'I'here will be no more if I can help it,' said SKeila, wifli tlu;
IJi'ave decision of a woman. The assurance comforted Katie,
and she had a smile again as she said trood-bye. Sheila crossi(|
through the clachan, not, caring to look at all at the 'siniddy,'
where Donald and Mary had been AVont to weleotne her sd
V armly, and went straight to Rob Macnaugiiton's door. It
was shut as usual, but, after giving a light tap, she went in. It
w.'is never broad daylight in these little, low, thatched cottages,
and soon after sundown they had to light their lamps, liiit
Ikol) and Malcolm Menzies were sitting in the red glow of tjie
jieat (ire, and the little kitchen was full of curious shadows,
made by the bh-nding of daylight and firelight. It was a
few seconds before Sheila's eye got so accu>tomed to the
gloom that she could dij^cern the two figures sitting by the
hearth.

'It's oidy me, Rob,' she said, with a little laugh. 'Malcolm,
how are you? i can hardly see you.'

'Bless the bairn!' said the stocking-weaver, springing up.
' Ve came in that canny a moose wadna hear ye. Mahiolm
and me's at the Gaelic. He's ta'en the notion to learn it, an'
ii keeps him oot o' mischief.'

•Malcolm rose, blushing painfully, and shuffled awkwardly
back from the fireside, quite ignoring the kind hand Sheila
stretched out to him in greeting. A big, uncouth-looking
fellow Avas Malcolm still, — a man in height, but loose and
ill -hung, his bony cheeks gaunt and hollow, his eyes far
sunken in his liead, and his matted brown hair hanging in
tangles about his face, quite hiding the high forehead, which,
lii-ing always thus covered, was as white as snow, and soiiie-
linies, when he would push the hair aside, it showed in curimis
contrast against the swarthy, sunburnt hue of the lower pari
of his face.

' I have been in seeing your aunt and Katie, and I came over
to se(? you, Malcolm,' said Sheila. 'And how is he g-tiiiri
on with the Gaelic, Rob? How fond he is of learning new
things! '

HER OWN FOLK.

'lie's gettinp; on faster tlian I can tcacli liini,' said Rnb,
bii'-iving liimself Avlth tlie lamp on the tJ. ' '_'. 'But, faitli, lie
iisks lor cxplaiiatioiis I cuina pie liim. I'm no' a graniiiuiriaii,
\i' kcii; it's the liamert (Jaclic I teach,'

'Sit down, Malcohn ; don't po away becanee I have come in,'
s;ii(I Slieila kindly ; hut Malcolm, with a toss of his lomr hair,
Middcnly clutched his shanter, and disappeared like a shot out
ot' tlie door.

'He's a (jueer ano. Miss Sheila,' said Rob, with his dry lauph.
'Ye never ken whaur ye hat' him. Hnt I'm jist as weel pleased
lii"> uune. Sit doon, sit doon. So ye've come back, my bairnie,
t I ynur ain ? '

'I'lie harsh voice of tiie stocking-weaver becani(; soft and low
iis lie uttered the last sentence, and his rugged eyes loekeil with
a ]iefuliar tenderness at the sweet, refined face of the young
creature sitting hv Ids hearth.

'Yes, IJob,' said Sheila, with a catch in her voice; 'I came
hack to-day.'

'An' the aidd hoose seemed emptv, and the bit heart cried
(Hit for them that's awa'? Ay, ay,' said Rob-, as he stirred up
t!ie peats on tlie hearth to niaki; a cheery glow, 'it was a
haiiii that gaed awa, an' I see it's a woman that has come back.
I'ui she'll be guided and blessed, for the blessin' o' the Lord is
ui)en lier.'

Slieila sat very still ; feeling, indeed, as if some precious
hei ison was falling on her head,

' It is em])ty and sad, Rob,' she said at length; 'and oh, how
(lilTereiit it is here at the Fauld, too! There's only you and the
Meiizles where there used to be so many.'

' Ay. an' there'll be fewer, lie's to put Malcolm oot
tliey say, at the back-end: but afore that there'll maybe be
ail ill deed dune in the Glen that will bring a curse upon

It;

' lie will not put Malcolm out, Rob. I have come home,' said
Sheila; and Iut sweet mouth became proud and deteruiined, and
her >ofl eyes flashed with a brave resolve.

Hie stocking-weaver gave his knee r. great ship with his
hiuiiy hand, and chuckled merrily.

1 \

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236

SHEILA.

' Ay, ay, the bairn is a woman, an' lu's to get liis inafcli.
Sic fun!'

Slieila Imglipd a little, too. That curious chuckle of lioli's
was very contagious.

' Kob, will you take another pupil? /want to learn G;i( lie
too,' she said presently.

' You learn frae me ! Ye heard what I said, it's lituiu ri
Gaelic I teach ; I hitma grannnar.'

* Don't tell me that, Rob, when you can write sucli pei fcrr
little poems. I heard a great proftssor from EdinbuiL'^li ;ir
Murrayshaugh, one day, saying the}' were among the cla->ic
liierature of Scotland, and I felt dreadful because I had never
read them,' said Sheila quickly. ' I want you to teach me
your own Gaelic, because I w.int to be able to read your
poems, and to speak to the old people in the Glen in their
own tongue.'

'Bless the bairn!' said Rob, under his breath, and stoojied
over the peats again to hide the moisture in his eye. Tliose
outside who only knew the rough side of the stocking weav(r
would not have known him in such a mood as this, but Sheila
had never seen him in any other.

'I'm going to come about the Fauld a great deal, Koh.'
she said, rising presently to go. ' I want to get to know
everybody from Findowie up to Garrows. How loni: do
you suppose it will take me to make acquaintance wiili
them all?'

' I dinna ken. There's some o' them hardly worth the
tioul)lf», but ye'U find oot the ill wi' the guid. I see ye .ire
begiimin' weel, my bairn, an' the new Leddy of Dahnore is to
be such as was never seen.'

' Hush, Rob ! ' said Sheila, and her tears sprang again.

Rob sat long after she had left him, pondering the thing in Xw^
mind, with a dreamy expression on his face which betokem d
the deepest thought.

The new Lady of Dalmore was not to let the grass gnu
under her feet. Immediately after breakfast next morning th''
carriage was ordered, and great was the amazement of tic
coachman when he received his order to drive to the office of

HER OWN FOLK.

237

3 match.

of Itol.'s

•n Garlic

i liatiurt

\ peiTccr

le cla->i('
ad iu'vcr
;t'!icli 1)11'
L'ad yiMir
I in their

I stoopi.'d
?. Thiisc
g wcavi r
ut Sheila

?al, Roh;

to know

h)MLr do

MCI' with

orth the
le ye wx^'
ore is to

mg in his
)CtokeUeil

ass griiw
rning ih''

[It of the

office of

Mr. Colqiilioun, the lawyer in Perth. Miss Gordon was so far
recovered that sho was al)le to accompany her charge, hut slic
was quite ignorant of the ohjcct of tlie journey. She thoiii^hr
to lierself, however, that Lady Ailsa might have s]»aifd the
injunctions to keep Sheih'i in occupation. Tliere seemed tn \v
ii (hiiiger rather of lier attempting too mucli.

'I tldnk you shouhl get down at tlie Sahitation, Miss (itinhui,
and order our hmcli,' said Slieihi, wlien tliey reached IVi li.
' I will not be long at Mr. Colquhoun's.'

The governess assented, and Sheila went alone to the laww r's
dtfice. Needless to say, he was amazed to see her, hut his
jrrccting was most kii d. Tlie scene at Dalmore, througli which
his young client had carried herself so nohly, was still fresjj in
iiis memory.

'Yes, I am staying at Dahnore, Mr. Colquhoun,' slie said,
in answer to his first question, ' and I have come to ask you
^()I^u questions. There are a great numy things I want to
know.'

As she spoke, slie began to unfasten the string from a large
fliit parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was the blotting jjad
the Laird had used tlie last time he had a pen in liis hatid.
-Mr. Cohpdioun was perfectly amazed, but in a few words
Sheila explained the whole matter to him. Iler anxiety and
distress even were so genuine, that he treated her comniunica-
tiiin with a corresponding gravity, though it amused him very
much.

*My dear Miss Murray Macdonald,' he said, looking straight
into the earnest face, 'I entreat you not to trouble yourself
about tliis. I assure you Mr. Macdonald's mind w.is (piite
iiiade up. His decision about D dmore was unalteiable. Both
hidy Murray and I put Mr. Fergus Macleod's claim before
hitn, l)ut it was you he wished to heir Dalinore. The will
carrying that wish into effect was only drawn up three <l ys
hefore his death. It was impossible — at least, m(j>t inii)roM;ii le
— that he should change his mind. And sujjposing he hai,
wtMild he not have given the new will, when he made it, into
safe keeping, or j»ut it wdiere it would be found?'

' Well, perhaps,' said Sheila, but her tone was very doubllul.

1,'

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238

SHEILA.

* My (It'jir yonn? l.'uly, T -issur*' ynii it would vox and pricvo
yonr fatlicr if lie knew of the nee llcss anxiety you arc jtiivii,.:
yourscir,' s.iid tiic lawyer }j;ravel_, and kindly. 'And whv l.i.
so downcast about Mr. Ft-rgus Macicod ? Hi"' uncle (lid \\u\
torf!;et liiin, and lu' is a clever young fellow, with life all hciuif
him. He may make a far better ns(! of liis talents because Ik-
lias bis own way to carve. This very thing which is vcxiirj
you may be the making of him.'

Sheila's face brightened. This was a side of the quesiidti
which had never occurred to her before.

' So you must try and enjoy your inheritance. I am sine
Dalmore could never liave a sweeter mistress,' said the old
lawyer gallantly.

'Thet), if Dalmore is mine, I may do what 1 like; may 1,
Mr. Colquhoun ? '

*Yes. In very important matters you would refpiin,' to
consult Mr. Macfarlane, the minister, as your trustee.'

' Su[)pose, then, Mr. CoUjuhoun, that Mr. M'liean wInIkmI
to put the cottars out of the Fauld, could 1 prevent
him?'

'You are mistress of Dalmore; Angus M'Bean is ynnr
servant. Miss Murray Macdonald,' said the lawyer, with a dry
smile of enjoyment. He did not like Angus ^^'l)ean, and
foresaw that the new Lady was to clip the ambitious taettu's

wmgs.

'Then I may tell him, Mr. Colquhoun, that he is to leave
the Menzies alone, and all the rest of the folk ? If they \\\y
their rents, I wish them to stay.'

'You can tell him anything you like. It will do him good.'
said the lawyer briskly. ' And in any difficulty with him come
to me.'

'Thank you, that is all I wish to know,' said Sheila; and the
look of grave anxiety quite lifted off her face. The lawur
handed her to her carriage with a deference he did not always
pay to more important clients. She had roused his det j)' >r
interest and admiration.

Harriet Gordon was amazed at Sheila when she returned
to the hotel. She was so bright and happy, more like the

HER OWN FOLK.

239

(1 pricvo
'«' iiiviiiL'

wllV 111-

dill iKii

II Ih'Iiiiv
l';ill<-c lie

s vc.xiii'j

qiU'Stidii

iim Mill'
the old

; may 1,

quire to

1 \vi>lir(l
])rcvci!t

is }'"iir
:h a k\\\
eaii, and
IS tactdi'^

to Icavi'
they pay

rn good.'

ill! Ct'lllC

, and tlit*
e lawur
)t always
i dt'ipi>r

returned
like the

SIteila of long ngo. She talked paily all tlie way homo,
j)(iiiitin,2 out every object of interest in the snia' j,deu, — the
lliiniau camp, Ossiau's grave, and the Suklier's grave, — nut one
was t'nrgotten.

When they came near Corrymuckloch Inn, she stood up and
l.ade the coacliman go over the (»Id road to Auehlny. 1 hey
(liew tip at the factor's trimly kept lawn just as that genilem iti
uas sitting down to his substantial three o'clock diiuier. 'riie
two fme young la<lies, in their starched mu>lins and pio-sy
curls, immeiliat(dy (lew into a tremendous excitement at siijht
of tlie prancing horses at the dining-ioom window, atul hid
tlieinselves behind the curtairs to see who were in the
carriage.

Mrs. M'Bean would have hurried to the door to welcome
licr distinguished guest, but her hiisbaiul restrained her; and
when .Sheila asked f(>: the factor, she was shown into the bran-
new drawing-room like : n ordinary caller. Young though she
was, the child had her own pride, and felt that the factor might
at least have come to the door. She was standing by the table,
with her hand laid lightly on the fine embroidered cover, when
th(! door o[)ened, ami Mr. M'Bean entered, all smiles, to greet the
young Lady of Dalmnre. He had assumed a benign, almost
fatherly demeanour, which, however, was chilK-d by the grave,
somewhat haughty, look in the you?ig lady's face.

' (jood morning, Mr. M'Beat.,' she said (juieily.

' 6'ooc^morning, Miss Sheila. Pray be seated, and I will
tell Mrs. M'Bean and the girls to come in. They will
be charmed with your visit. WHitn did you come to
Dal more? '

'I Avish to speak to you, Mr. M'Bean,' said Sheila quite
pointedly. 'I came to Dalmore yesterday, and I was at the
Fauld last night. I heard from Malcolm Menzies that you
spoke of making them leave the croft soon. 1 hope you will
iievcr say such a thing to them again. And if they can makt?
iimre money with more land, they can have Kory Maclean's
croi't too. It is quite close by. I want the people to live
liajipy and comfortable in the Fauld, and I am going to stay
here and look after them now.'

I I

Mr,

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240

SHEILA,

Slieila dcliverpd tliis brave speech without a quaver in Ik 1
svvret young voice. Long afterwards, recalling that sccin'
slie wondered at her own leni' rity, and I.iiiglied over il(
recollection of the blank, dumbl'ouuded look on the Ikce >

Angus M'Bean.

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)vor 1 1 (
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, — -'^~.>>" V'

^^^^'Z^^Wi^

CHAPTER XXVII.

HER RESOLVE.

Oil, it is sad to feel our heart-spring gone,
To lose l)0]^.e, care not for the coming thing.

Batlet.

l^LLEX MACLEOD was dwelling alone in bitterness of
soul at Shonnen. After the Laird's death and the
reading of the will, Angus ^T'Bean paid no more
court to the hauahtv, dark- browed mi>tress of the
L mIjc, and riglit well did she know w ;y. It only added to the
W'i^lit of wrong wliich seemed licaped upon her If dark
il iiices from an angry eye could have done evil to Dalmore, its
Miniiiier beauty might well have been blasted; for often, often
'ill Ellen Macleod stand at the upper windows of the Lodge,
and iti iier heitrt curse the place and all who dwelt within it.
iiiir the curse causeless sliall not come. Peace dwelt upon
•ilniore, and its young mistress was happy with the happiness
A iii;li coiues of a contented, occupied, generous mind. The
f III 1 iiad lil'ted from off the child, and tliough occasionally the
1 I I'ear that she miiiht be unri'jliteously enjoying another's
' litujti ruse up to daiken tliPi sunshine for a little, it soon
I'l^-^eil. Occasionally she went to renew her search in the
haiijs rooms, and even tap tlie old walls, after reading some
talc of luysiery and crime, to seek for some secret cavity, but

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242

SHEILA.

■il V.

1:1

there was no romance of that kind about Dalmore. Tho olr]
house of Findowir, now a ruin, was said to be filh^l with
curious recesses and hidden rooms, and even to liave undtT-
p:round passages below tlie bed of the Braan, in wliicli tlic old
Laird of Findowie had liidden in the dark days jifter CnlKuJcii,
but there was no mystery of i-oma:ice or intrii^ue al)out DaliiKiro.
Angus M'Bean had verily got liis wings clipped. ]\Ir. Mac-
farlane, tlie minister of Amulree, and Sheila's only trustee, was
about as unfit lor discharging the bu>iness part of his engaire-
nient as a man could possibly l)e. lie was a stu(h'nt and a
rechise, whose whole soul was engrossed by the study of (^verv
'ology' except theoh)gy. He knew all the folk-lore of Perfhsliiic,
and liad tales about Aniuliee and Glenquaich at his finger-ends
wliich would make other folks' hair stand on end. He knew
the very paths the fugitives liad ttiken after Culloden, and the
caves in which they lud. And as for brownies and nailocks,
and other uncanny folk, he knew all their haunts, and every
old 'ploy' in which tlie legends of the inule-neuk gave them a
part. He was a kindly, honest, simple old man, who preached
practical discourses, unembellished by any rhetoiical disjihiy or
depth of I'casf.ning, yet finely suited to the needs of his iulk.
Why Maedonald had left him sole trustee was a mystery, unless
he had wished Sheila to have her own way absolutely. She
consulted Idm on every point, but it was only a foini. for lie
was with her, heart and soul, in her desire and plan to better the
condition of the poor cottars in the Glen. He had long dei)Ioied
the influence of Angus M'Bean with the old Laird, and had on
more than one occasion tieated that woithy to an unvainish((l
opinion, therefore he rejoiced that the old Laird's adnp'cd
daughter was beginning her leiun so well. So the woik of
' sweeping tiie Fauld off the face of the earth ' came to a sudden
etid, and the place took a new lease of life. Malcolm Men/ies
got Rory Maclean's croft, and a horse, also two cows. The
houses were repaired, and the wood driven from the head ot' the
Glen by horses jirovided at the expense of the estate. Were I
to attempt a description of Angus M'Bean's state of mind at
finding himself foiled by a young girl, I should sunply fail, so
we shall leave him alone.

HER RESOLVE,

243

Tho olrl
l«nl with
e uiultT-
!i till' old
Ciillodcn,
DaliiKirc.
Mr. Mac-
istee, was

tit and a
of cvci'v
'crtlisliiic,
iiecr-ciids
He knew
1, and tlir
nailorks,
111(1 cvciY
,'e tlic'iii a
prcatlicd
idisplay or
^ Ids folk.
■ry, unli'ss
(dy. She
ni, for lie
better tlie
T deploied
lid had on
ivalliishcd
s adnpjcd
i woik of
) a >iiddi'li
11 Mcn/ie>
jws. The
ead of the
Were I
iiiiiid at
)lv fail, so

ihton, the stockinji-weaver, wrote

ill^

occasion;
im with tlu' haj)pv

Rob Macnau
FerrjU-s Macleod in Edinburgh, acquain
changes taking place in the Glen, and Fergus rejoiced over it
all in a manly, generous spirit, but was not much surprised.
Sheila could never be anything but kind, and she knew and
lovi'd the folk just as he did. Fergus was not very happy in
Edinburgh. A part of his college life he eiijoye<i, for, as was
to be expected, he was a prime favourite with 'the fellows,'
hut he had no sympathy with the classical study he was
pursuing. His heart was not in it, and he felt that it was mere
waste of time and money for him to stay. He knew quite w ell
that, after the final settlement of his uncle's affairs, his mother
had again deci(ied that he should study for the Church, but ou
that point the lad was absolutely determined. As the long, hot
days of the summer session dragged away, he pondi-red the
whoh^ matter in his mind, engrossing his faculties with it in the
very lecture-ronms, while the rest were busy with their books,
and when the ludidays came, his mind was made up as to what
course he should pursue. He was just at the restless, un-
settled age when youth seeks constantly after some new thing.
His desire pointed that summer away across the sea to the new
country where the first pioneers from Glenquaich had giuie,
iind he asked no better destiny just then than to fdlow them,
and cast in his lot with theirs. Nothing but labouring with 1 is
hands, and earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, would
satisfy him; book learning and the classic shades of the gr. y
old cidlege were hateful to liim, though they were the precious
tilings of eartli to others. Alastair Murray enjoyed hiuiscdt'
Very well in Edinburgh, dabljling in agricultural chemistry, and
looking in occasionally at the law classes, but he had ii«>
jiiirticular end in view. 'J'here were jilenty like him, — lairds'
sous, who were supposed to get an insight into study whii h
would fit them for the whole management of their estates, but
who iiianiged to make their college days more a play-tinu;
than lesson-time. Angus M 'Bean belonged to a different class.
Ih' worked by fits and starts with all his might, when a more
than usually impressive letter from Auchloy progged him up ;
but he was an idle, dissipated young upstart, who spent his

1 i;

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ii!i, !

244

SHEILA,

evenings in questionable company, and imngined himself a firn^
' man about town.' Poor young fool ! in that idea, unfoitunatelv.
he did not stand alone. He found plenty of companions, alsn;
but Fergus seemed to be very much alone. Nobody could un-
derstand just how he felt, and altogether that was an unprofit-
able session for him, and he was glad when it came to an end.

It was a dreary, wet night when he trudged up the Idiitr
miles between Dunkeld and Amulree, leaving his bag to ec^nie
by the post-gig next i^'.wj. He had travelled himself from Edin-
burgh, Alastair being away for a week's fishing in the Lamrncr-
muirs with the young Laird of Weniyss, and Puddin' M-Bi an
deeming it wise to remain a day or two in town, imtil Mie
effects of the farewell su[)per had worn off, before he put in an
appearance at Auchloy, and subjected himself to the keen
paternal vision, Fergus felt rather dejected and miseiaUle as
he trudged along the sodden roads, and did not once loi k buck
that day at the mist-wreathed face of Craigybarns He was
rather inclined to turn his back on Scotland just thi'n, ha\iiip:
got himself into a ' drundie ' state of mind. He was just at
Ballocliraggan, when he heard a shout behind him, and, lookiiiir
back, he saw a farmer's gig coming up rapidly, and recoLMiisf-d
Donald Stewart, the farmer in Dalieoch on the Findowie side of
the Braan. Fergus did not know him very well, for he was
the largest farmer on the estate, and quite diflfcrent from tlic
cottars up the Glen. Dalreoch had very little to do with
Angus M''5ean, even, — his rt^nt being paid half-yearly to Mr.
Colquhoun at the office in Perth. Bur Fei'gus knew him by
repute as a fine man ; and indeed his face-, with its pleasant
smile and honest, kindly eye- was enough to win re?])ect and
liking anywhere.

' Jump up, Mr. Fergus,' he said heartily. * I was sure it
was }ou. If you had only sent me word I coidd liave ini t \ lU
at the train. There's nothing doing. We're just waiting tiiif
weather for the hay.'

' It has been a lot of rain, I see, Mr. Stewart,' answered
Fergus, jumping up, nothing loth, for he had not specially
enjoyed his tramp. 'AVhat a fine hurse ! She's a splendid
trutter, surely ? '

iself a fine
brtuniitcly.
lions, iilsd ;
' could uii-
n unprofit-
o an cikI.

p tilt' IdllLT
Ig to CCllU'

from Ed ill -
e Lamiiicr-
in' M-Bcaii
, until Mie
e put in an
tilt' kt'tTi
lisei'alik' as
i loi k hack
He was
len, lia\ii)2f
\vas just lit
nd, lookiiiL'
rt'C()i:nist'd
)\vit' side (if
for lie was
t from tlic
;o do with
irly to Mr.
lew him by
its pleasant
respect ami

was sure it
,ve mi't yiu
availing tine

,' answered

jt specially

a splendid

BE I? RESOLVE.

245-

'Ay, Nellie knows her work,' said the farner, nodding
affectionately over at the mare. 'An' she does it, uhich is
more than some folk do. You've got your holidays, Mr.
Feriius ? '

' Yes, two months, if I go back to college,' answered Fergus.

' Yt)U don't look very hardy. The hills will do ye good,'
said the farmer, looking kindly at the young man's somewhat
pale, thin face. Fergus had worried himself in Edinburgh,
and worry always tells.

' I don't like the town. What's going on up here ? ' a>ked
Fergus.

'No' much. Did the factors son not come over with ye? '

'No,' returned Fergus, but did not tell the reason why. He
was not a sneak or a tell-tale, though Angus w^ould have told
readily enough on him.

' And what will ye do with yourself all summer, do you
think?'

' I don't know yet. They're getting on better at the Fauld
now, Mr. Stewart ? *

'Ay; the factor's gotten anew master,' returned Mr. Stewart,
with a quiet laugh of enjoyment. 'It disna dae to ask him
lioo he likes the Leddy's hand on his bridle, Mr. Fergus.'

' It'll do him gdod. He's a mean tyrant,' said Fergus
savagely, glad to get liis vexation out on somebody.

'And ye dinna like the college?' said the farmer musingly.

'No. I'll tell you what, Mr. Stewart; I'm going away
after the Fauld folks to America,' said Fergus, impelled to
confide in his kind friend. ' I'm sick of this old country.
What can it do for a fellow ? '

'Ii'll do ye good, Mr. Fergus. You'll come back, and think
there's nae place like Scotland,' said the farmer, seeing there
was something amiss with the lad. ' No' yet, Nellie ; up the
brae, lass.'

' Oh, there's no need, Mr. Stewart. I can walk perfectly.'

'I ken, but I'll drive ye up. I've nothing to do, anyway, in
tliis rain. Up, Nellie ! Besides, it's a jileasure to drive ye.'

riio kind word, as well as the kind action, comforted the lad's
sore heart, and took the chill edge off his return to Amulree

.lii:-

iii

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if '■

',1 111

346

SHEILA.

y\\

I'' i

1 1

i I

■ A

I 1

I ■

PI * ^il

I i

il ,''

lie tjilked mnrt; heartily as they went up Ballinreich Brae, and
parted with Mr. Stewart at the Keeper's Wood with quite his
ohl smile and ringing laugh.

' I'll come down and give you a day at the hay for tms, Mr.
Stewart. It'll keep me from wearying, anyway.'

' All right ; see and come,' laughed the farmer, as he drove oif ;
and Fergus walked on rapidly to Shonnen. He was d-:id he
did not meet anybody on the road, but when he readied the
gate of Shonnen, he saw his mother Avatching for him at tin-
window. She was on the doorstep when he reached it, and her
eye shone as it fell on her fine young son — shone witii a
motlierly pride and affection which were perfectly justifiubh'.

'How are you, Fergus? I am glad you have come home,'
she said, as she shook him by the hand. No warmer greening
than the hand-shake, so eminently Scotch, ever passed between
tliem. 'You are early. Did you gts a drive part of the
way ?

' Yes, Mr. Stewart of Dalreoch drove me from Ballochraggau
up,' said Fergus. 'How are you, matlier? I hope you have a
go(((l tea. I'm perfectly famished.'

KlUm Macleod went into the dining-room with a more
buoyant step than usual, and a look of pleased satisfaction on
her face. Fergus's home-coming made a new interest in her
life.

' Angus M'Bean did not come with you ? ' she said, as they sat
down to tea.

' Xo ; Angus was hardly ready to come home. He is not
behaving himself as he might, mother. The lot he goes with
liail a spree last night, and I suppose he would have too nuich.

' You never keep company with that set, I hope, Fergus ? '

' Not I. You've only to look at me to know that,' replied
Fergus, with his mouth full. ' We'll have to drop M'Bt ati's
nickname, I doubt. He's as thin as a rake now. Anything
new about Amulree, mother?'

' Notliing. At least, I don't hear it. You are looking well —
nut like a hard student.'

' I'm not a hard student,' responded Fergus frankly. * Mother,
I hate the whole thing ! I feel perfectly mad listening to the

Br.ip, and
quite his

: tlits, ^Ir.

drove off;
-s dad he
ached the
im at till'
t, and her
le witli a
rifiiibh'.
ne home,'
r jGrreeting
1 between
rt of the

ochraGjfian
ou have a

I a more
action on
est in her

IS they sat

He is not

goes with

00 much.'

rirus? '

t,' repUed

M 'Bean's

Anything

ng well —

' Mother,
ng to the

HER RESOLVE.

247

old professors droning away about things I've no interest in. I
caiit jzo on with it.'

'There is nothing else for it, my son,' said Ellen Maclcod,
with a peculiar pressure of her long, thin lips. ' It is not what
you like, but what you can get to do, with you now.'

'Mother, it's a perfect waste of money, for Tin perfectly
cert:iin you could as soon make a minister out of Malcolm
>h'iizies as me, — indeed, sooner, for Rob says that he has a poet's
soul, whatever that may be. I'm a perfect clod, mother. I'd
rather hire to be a slieplierd with Ualreoch, even, than go on
at fliat old college.'

' 'I'liere is no use bringing up that vexed old question again,
Fergus,' said Ellen Maeleod. 'Your destiny is iixed, and you
can't shirk it. You are a gentleman's son, and though circum-
stances have made you poor, you nnist act a gentleman's part.
There is nothing for you but the Church.'

' ^'iiy there is, mother. Uncle Graham left me a thousand
pounds to stock a farm, he said,' cried Fergus, alluding to his
legacy for the first time. ' Mother, I've made up my mind.
I think I'll go out to Canada after the Fauld folks. A thousand
pounds will go further there than here, and there is no distinc-
tion. All men are gentlemen on the other side of the Atlantic.'

' Don't talk so absurdly, boy,' said Ellen Maeleod, with a
touch of her old impatient imperiousness. ' Do you think 1
would ever consent to your joining these people?'

Fergus reddened, and his brow clouded. Always the same!
Without sympathy or commiseration for his feelings, or as[)ira-
tions, or desires. Uis temper rose a little, for the M;icdonald
blood was hot, and he had reached an age when authority is
scarcely tolerable. His mother saw the struggle, but did mt
even admire the manliness which enabled him to keep silent out
of respect for her. She was a strange woman. She had no
interest, or tie, indeed, to bind her to life but her one son ; and
yet she took a pride in making him completely subservient to
her will. She would have him brave, manly, fearless, in every-
thing and towards all but herself. She sought from the m;in
the unquestioning obedience of the child. Mistaken woman 1
She would live to regret it. A certain latitude must be allowed

f 1 1

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248

SHEILA,

to youth; even the duty of the child to the pnrcnt becotnos
soiiH'tiines a matter to be settled by conscience. Tliere ar<',
alas! too ni;my disobedient eliiMren ; but tliere ;ire also incon-
siderate, tyr.mnicid j);irents. Ellen M;icleod soufxlit to be; ;i
despot, and, though lier kingdom held only one subject, slie Wiis
to find it a liard tiisk to rule.

A love of power is inborn in women, but it is tempered hy
the loving-kindness and gentleness of wom;inliood. h\it th<
Litter had never been characteristics of this strong d;ing]iter ot
a Highland rjice. We will watcli with interest the struL'-Lili'
between duty and inclination in the breast of Fergus MaclcuJ.

1 ■ ,!

1 (

CHAPTER XXVIII.

COUSINS.

And life is thorny, and youth is vain,
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.

, I

COLERIDOB.

HEILA, upon my word, you are the loveliest girl I
ever saw.'

* Oh, Alastair Murray, you stupid, stujjid boy 1
I think I shall set Tory on yoii. I don't
think Edinburgh has improved you one single bit. ILis it,
Tory ? '

Tory wngged his tail vigorously, and regnrded AList.'iir wifli
a meiincing gnnvl. The cousins were in the dr.iwing-rooni at
D;dmore. Ahistair had just ridden up on his pony witli a
message from his mother to Sheila, and, being impressed by 'he
great improvement in Sheila's appearance, had given vent to
his rapturous admiration in no measured terms.

It was evident Sheila was growing up, indeed, for at her
cousin's praise a sweet, conscious flush mantled lier cheek.
She d'd look very fair in her pure white gown, with its broad
black sash ; and what astonished Alastair most of all w;is that
she had coiled her h-ng plaits about her head, and m.tde her-
self look quite a woman.
* It's true, Sheila ; you're a perfect stunner 1 Be quiet, you

349

' 1

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i

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!'l

r '

I ..«

'5<5

SHEILA.

little b(>:ist ! ' ho addfd to Tory, who shnrponod his frrowl into a
l)!irk. ' I siiy, Sht'il.i, what a lot of fellows '11 Ix; sweet upon
y >u im!iiedi;it(dy ! /am, to befjriii with.'

Sheila liui^ihed ; ;ind the sweet sound filled the old room witli
a riugiug c-cho of gladness.

' Do you know you are frifrhtfully vulgiir, Alastair MurnivV
I oidv wish Aunt Ailsa heard you. Is that what she sent you
to say ? '

'No; but I suppose I may utter a few words on my own
account,' s;iid Alastair, in an ir.jured voice. ' You needn't
bother being stuck-up with me, you know, Sheila, because 1
won't stand it. Well, my mother wants to know when yon are
coming over, and / want to know if you are going to bury
yourself here for ever? '

Sheila's bright face grew grave at these questions.

' I am very busy just now, Alastair.'

' Yes, I know. You are the little old woman who lived in a
shoe,' said Alastair, in his comical, good-natured way, ' and I
siipi)ose we are of no account. Are we related to you, or art3
we not. Miss Murray Macdonald?'

* Oh, Alastair, do be serious for a moment. You have no
idea what a lot I have to do. I am so anxious to have these
houses sorted at the Fauld before winter, and unless I keep
going over and looking after it myself, there is notliing done.'

Alastair looked at his young cousin in amazement. She
spoke like an old woman, and looked, at that moment, as if
the whole care of a world rested on her slender shoulders.

'But, Sheila, haven't you a factor? "Whai's the use of all
the fellows you pay to do your work, if you have to look after
them?' he asked bluntly.

' You don't quite understand, and it would take too long to
exphun, Alastair,' said Siieila, smiling again. 'When does
Aunt Ailsa want me to come over? '

' As soon as you can. Cecily aiid Mabel are coming from
London. Perhaps that may induce you, if you won't come fur
w^',* said Alastair pointedly.

' Aunt Ailsa knows 1 would rather be at Murraysliaugh
than anywhere else in the world except here,' said Sheila.

CO USIXS.

25J

wl into a
»'et u|i()ii

)<)in witli

Murray?
sent yuu

my own

\ needn't

ecjiuse I

you are

to bury

ivcd in ;i
, ' iind I
Ci, or are

have no
ive these
s I keep
; done.'
nt. She
nt, as if
ers.

se of all
3ok after

) long to
ten does

ng from
come for

lysliaugh
I Sheila.

•But I will come ovi-r and stay for a few days with Cecily ;iii(l
Mabel very soon. Wlicti are they ooniing?'

'To-morrow. But I say, Slieil.i, are you really going to
stay here now? My mother says she thinks you are, l)iit I
didn't believe it.'

' Ves, Alastair, I am going to stay here now. It is home,'
said Sheila, and her eyes grew dim.

' How queer you are ! Don't you care for dancing, iind all
the fun and flirting other young ladies like? ft)r you are a
young lady now, Sheila, — more's the pity.'

'1 like fiui and frolic dt-arly, Alastair: but there is a crreat
deil of work to be done first,' said Sheila, with such a grave,
|iiro(.'(:u|>ied face that Alastair stared yet more. To him
S'lH ila was a great mystery. How any young girl, e«ij)ecially
(Hie so I right and beautiful as Sheila, should willingly bu y
'ieis( If in a phice like; Dalmore, and find her amusement in
the won-y and harassing detail of estate management, was a
mohlrin he could riot set hiniself to solve. He had heard
.1 jood deal about Sheila and her Quixotic ideas at Murjays-
li;iM.:li antl from outsiders, but Sheila herself perplexed him
[iitii'onn.llv.

• 1 don't know what will become of you, Sheila,' he said, a
tiille hopelessly, as he gnawed the head of his riding switch,
ai;d in<'ntally wished he could make growling Tory feel th*!
\\(ii:ht of it. Tory evidently felt the weight of his resjionsi-
liility, and did not approve of seeing a yoi'ing gentleman in t!ie
halniore di awing-room, especially when he expressed himself
with such unl)lushing candour.

IVig, good - natured Ahe^tair had a curious vein of soft
!=^eiitiinent in his nature, and he had always been in love with
his pretty cousin. I ft-ar he was now to learn that that early
I'lVe-niaking on the bonnie i»anks of the Logic was to have for
hiiii a more serious side.

' When will you come, Slieila, so that I may fetch you?'

'I'll send a note over, Alastair. I can't fix a day until 1 get
ihings in order for my absence,' said Sheila, with that delijhtfnl
giaviiy which sat so quaintly upon her. * Won't you have
aiiyiliing to eat after your lot g ride?'

25a

SHEILA.

'No, tlinnks; just rose fioiii (linner. Upon my word, Sliciln,
I ciiii't. get over tilt! cluingc in you.'

* I must say tbt; siuiu' of you. Vou are such a l>ig man.
We're all grown-uj),' iauglicd Slicilii. ' It' you will o.\cu*«' me
for a little, Alastair, I will put on my liahit and ride dowti as
far as liallinrficii with you. There are sonu; sick i)al)i<'S there
1 want to ask for. Scarlet fever, I fear, but I hope not.'

' All riglit. I don't care what it is, as long as it tak-s vou to
iialliru-eich, and I can ride by you,' s.iid Al.istair darinijlv.
Shi ila shook her linger at him as she ran out of the room.

She did not keep him waiting long, and when she returned,
in her dainty habit, with her bright, long ])liiits as of yore
li inging to her waist, and the very smartest of little hiits, just
far enough off her heiul to sliew tlie bright little ringlets on
her brow, Alastair was hopelessly 'done for;' and to the end
of his d;iys he never saw any one equal to Slu-ila, though he
was obliged to admire her f'-om a cousinly distance. Sin ila
was not a coquett(.', and her cousin's undisguised admiraiion
rather disconcerted her. She kninv she was fair, — her mii inr
told her so every day, — and she was glad, as she hsid a right to
be, to think she was [)leasant to l(Jok upon, but she was neiiher
vain nor affected ; a perfect naturalness was the child's chief
cliarm. Half child, half woman, she was wholly, irresistibly

wuMung.

' Have you seen Macleod since he came home ? ' asked
Alastair, as tliey cantered down the hill.

' No,' answered Sheila ; and perhaps it was the exertion she
was making to keep her pony in curb that brought the vivid
flu-h to her cheek.

' Poor Macleod ! I'm sorry for him. He's a fine chap, Sheila.
D iii't you believe atiy one who tells you anything else.'

Sheila could have laughed right out, but her lips only curved
in a curious little smile.

' And you know it's awful rough on a fellow, I always say, to
lia\e a mother like yon,' said Alastair, pointing over to Shonnen,
which looked dark in the strong shadow of Craig Ilulich.
• What do you suppose is to become of Macleod, Sheila? It
won't be very easy for him to settle down in Stralhbraan ;•* a

COC'S/XS.

253

fjirmor, tbnnfjii I've l)t'!inl liiiii spcik of it. ITis mother !nt';m«.
liim to l)t^ a miuister, Init I caii'i fancy Maclt'txl in the imljiit.
Can you ? '

'No,' answered Slieila, iind lier face was averted. She cmiM
not understand why it iMa(h' her feel so strangely to Iicai
iinothcr speak of Fergus, since scarcely an hour of the (l:i\
j.a^seii when she did not thiiik of him.

' Poor heggar ! I <nn sorry for him. He's dreadfully cut iij)
and down in the mouth sometimes,' continued Alastair, regaling
Slieila's cousinly ear with scraps from his college rej-'-rtoire. * I
rtiiiiy can't for the life of me think what's to become of him.
Can you V '

Poor Alastair! He was utterly unconscious that lie was
probing a sore, sore wound in his cousin's heart.

'I daresay he will find a jdace,' she said, with diiricidty, and
rather shortly, for she coidd hardly bear N\hat Alast.iir w;is
saying. It brought back all the old wretched feeling that she
liad no right in Dalmore, and that she had done a mortid wrong
to F'ergus Macleod.

' He's a s])lendid fellow, Fergus. We always says lu^ has no
head; but old Rolling Pin — that's our mathematicid professor —
tiild the governor ouce that he had a splendid head, but wanted
a|>pli('ation. Fact is, Sheila, he's rather put upon all round,
Ilulloa ! what are you crying for? '

' I wi-^h you'd hold your tongue about Fergus Macleod ! ' cried
Sheila indignantly. ' If you've nothing else to talk about, you

can ride on

t>y }'

ourse

If.

Alastair whistled.

' I beg your pardon. Sheila. How in the world was I to
kiK'W Ferg' s and you weren't sailing in the same; boat?' he
said, plunging dee[)er into the mire, and blissfully imconscious
of it. ' He's a little priggish and queer when you come to think
iif it. though the best fellow I know, I say, what times we'll
have when you come over! Are they jolly girls, the Desurts,
Shcihi? You should know them, \\hen you were at the smn^

.'hool.

es,

they

are vcr

nice.

I am scarry I spoke

so quick I \

Alastair,' said Sheila, turning to him with a lovely smile, which

254

SHEILA.

would have melted a much harder heart than his. * I am afraid
I am cross and horrid, but I didn't mean to be.'

'Oh, come now, Sheila, don't make me feel jjorfectly ashaimd.'
said Aiastair. ' I've .jough to bear with the pride I feel at
ridiiii^ with such a fine young lady. You sit splendidly, Slicila,
and what a pretty beast you have.'

' Papa bought it for my birthday just the week before he
died. Cameron told me, the last time he was able to be out df
bed was to go to the library window to see Rob Roy when he
was brought h^me,' said Sheila, in a low voice, and witli a
yearning look in her soft grey eyes, which told Aiastair lio-.v
much she still missed the dead.

' Never mind,' lie said quite tenderly, and laid his big hand
on Rob Roy's glossy neck, to show sympathy for his niistn><.
' We'll have as jolly a time as we ever had in our lives when
you come over to Murray shaugh.'

Sheila nodded, and they rode through Amulree in silence; a
handsome, well-matched pair, as more than one said who saw
them go by.

It was a lovely evening, the close of a perfect Angnst day.
The moors were purpling for the Twelfth, and evc;n or tliese
high lands there was a yellow tinge on the standing corn, wlmh
promised an early harvest. As they cantered up tlie shipe ov
the Keeper's Wood, and swept round to the brow of Ballinreic li
Brae, the whole strath opened out before them a vision ot'beaiiiy.
with the green meadows and golden fields on either side of the
river sloping up to the heather hills, wliich hemmed it in. The
atmosphere was gloriously clear, and there vvas not even a haze
of heat to obscure the view, and they could see, beyond the gieeii
stretches of the Athole woods, the dark face of CraigyliaruN
with its fir-crowned crest seeming to touch the pearly el aids.

' ('oiifess no. V, Sheila, Strathbraan is far bonnier than (ileii-
quaich,' said Aiastair teasingly ; but Sheila shook her head.

'It is pretty looking down, and CraigyDarns and Birnam Hill
are line, but there is no loch, and the hills don't seem so majt'stic

as ours.

'You adore Glenquaich, Sheila. I think it a heatlienish s.rr
of place, though Fergus says there is good fishing m tlie hichs,"

COUSINS.

■:d

s;iid Alastair. 'Oh, you go off here, do you? Well, doti'i
c;itc]i scarlet fever or anything to prevent you conihig over,
mind.'

Sheila laughed, and held out her hand, which Ahjstair took
witli :i flourish, and in fun raised it to liis li[)s.

' Danciiic: and deportment a la Francais, tauffht here,' lu-

laughed. 'Good-bye. I never saw anybody so jolly as you,
Sheila.'

' You are very jolly too, when you are not stupid,' said Sheila,
Avilh her sweetest smile, for she really liked Alastair, who liml
ahvays been kind to her at ^furrayshaugh.

So they parted, and Sheila rode slowly up the side of a

harlev field to the elachan of Ballinreieh. and, lea\injT h

■y

pony

111

charge of a village ui'chin, entered th<' house where the
cliildren were sick. SonieV)ody watched all her movements with
an interest of which she was (piite unconscious. Fergus was
strolling up General Wade's old road behind the Keeper's Wood,
and i'rom the hill had seen the riders (,n ihe I'oad, had heard
their merry laughter, and oljserved the aj)j)ai'ent tenderness of
their parting, lie Avas still in a restless, moody, irntable state
(tf mind, inclined to be at war with himself and all the world,
and when he saw Sheila and Alastair apparently so thoroughly
tisfied with each other, it gave him a kind (jf grim ple;isure.

Nobody cared
thtiu'dit. Of

yth

ung; tor nun ; even Mieila never jiave inni a

Alast;

had

to do th

course,

and he would win, being one of the luckiest fellows in tin; world.
After Sheila went up to Ballinreieh, he threw himself in the
heather, ; nd started the gr(juse, who flew up with a Avhirr and
a croak of al;irn). Curiously enough, he had chosen a s()Ot from
\s Inch he could have unobserved a full view of the elachan, and
could see Sheila when she came out of the house. When she
did so, and mounted her pony, \\o picked himself up rather
quickly, for, instead of turning back the way she had come, she
came slowly riding up the old road, and would see him whicli-
cvcr way he liked to turn. '1 hey had never met since that re-
markable night after Macdonald's burying, though they had
thought a great deal more about each other than either knew.
Sheila had not come far up the old road when she saw Fergus on

r .1

I:!!!'!'

1 '

1 iff' 1

.liilJ

KSil

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256

SHEILA.

tlic liill, and he noticed her give a start, and pnll np her pnny
as if h(! had stnnibk'd on a stone. He came slowly o\ cr the
hi'atlier to the road, and lifted his cap when he was -.viiliin a
lew yards of her.

' (lond-eveniiig, Miss Murray Macdonald,' he said, nf)f
knowing wliat evil thing prompted him to call her by licr
formal name. She flushed all over, and then became quite pale
liut she drew herself up in her saddle, and, instead of extending
her hand, she m'-rely acknowledged him by a distant little bon-,
Slicila showed very clearly that there was more of the woman
than the child about her now. His greeting had hurt her
sliar|)ly, but her pride canie to the rescue.

* Arc you not afraid to trust yoiir pony on these abominable
hill paths?' Fergus asked, as he walked by her side.

' I\ob Roy is very sure-footed,' Sheila answered stiffly, still
holding herself very straiglit, her sweet face white and cold-
looking. But there was a blinding mist before her eyes,
and she was obliged to keep her lashe?; down to hide it.

'I saw Murr.iy up. He didn't think it wor'h his while to
call, at Shonnen, though he and I are supposed to be friendly,'
said Fergus, with bitterness.

' It was my blame, perhaps : — he brought me a message from
Aunt Ailsa, and I offered to ridn as far as Ballinreich with Iniii,'
said Sheila (piietly ; but Fergus only gave a grunt. Shcili
looked at him in sheer amnzement. ^\'hat had come over him V
She liad thouglit when she saw him, what a delightfid t;dk they
miglit have over old times, and what a pleasiu'e it would be ti)
tell liim all she was doing and planning for Glenqu;dch. She
eonld n it help thiid'ciiig, girl-like, in the midst of her distres^eil
perplexity, what a h;in<ls()me, manly fellow lie had grown,
h;inilsomer even than Alastair, who was called 'Murray's braw
son ' in Slr;ithl"gie.

Tliey muv(>d on in perfect silence until they left the hill path
and were out on the road again. 'J'hen Fergus stopped.

' Good bye, tluii,' he said, standing still, and Hfting his
deliant eyes t > Sheila's sweet face. He hated himself, he hfited
hef, he hateil all tlie wnrld at that moment, poor fellow ! Life
seemed so haril ; it held nothing for him but vexations and dis-

COUS/NS.

257

licr pony

o\ cr the

5 witliin it

said, not
r by her
[iiite pale,
extending
ittle bon-.
le woman
hurt her

)ominabl(3

iffly, still
ind cold-
her eyos,

while to
friendly,'

sage from
vith him,'
Sheila
ver him ?
tidk they
iild be ti)
ch. Siie
(list rested
i grown,
ly's braw

liill path

fting his

h(^ liated

w ! Life

s and dis-

appointment and despair. He thonght tlie very per>p1(^ in ij' ■
(deii liad turned against him, and that they hail uiv(>n their
whole hive and alh'gianee ti) Sheila; and yet, as he li oke 1 at th
sweet, dear young face bent U[)(>ii him so an>i'iusly, and e e
ini])h»iingly, he h-nged to ask lier to forgi\ehiui, even to '
iiLrain to him the Sheila of old. To his distorted irn igin io
she seemed changed ; in reality, the cliange was ulmlly w"
him.

'I hope I shall see you again. Fergns,' she said, and oiler
her hand ; but he did not take it.

'No, you won't; I'm going away,' he answered aim. .•^
rudely.

' Where to?' asked SheiLi, with startled eyes.

' Atiy where, — to the devil, perhaps,' was his extraordinary
reply, and without another word he strode away.

1
1

' 1

,f
ft

III:

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Ti7?rti>iTiW[fr»i,,;^;,;;^;g

^/'■'^i^l

CHAPTER XXIX.

SCHEMING STILL.

An' oh ! it was a goodly tree
I socht to male' a biggin' o*.

Old Sono.

N the factor's hnsiness-room at Auchloy snt Ancriis

M'Bean and his hopeful son, in the grey dtisk of ;in

August evening. They were both smoking, and

had grown a little confidential over their jjipcs.

' If it's true that Macleod is going to America,' said the

factor, ' there's nothing in the way ; you have the ball at your

feet.'

'And suppose I don't want to kick it?' said young Angus,
as he blew the smoke-wreaths gr;icefully over his red head, ami
turned his sallow countenance towards his father.

' Oh, but you ■will kick it, utdess you are a perfect fool,' s.iid
tlic factor, assistin;i; himself to a nionthful of wliiskv and wiUrv.

I CD t/

' It's not a position to be despised. Uidess you're a pcTlVft

fool, as I said, you'd rather be a laird thnn a factor.'

'That's quite true; but it strikes me the ball would no<'<l a

prodigious amount of effort even to set it going,' said Pui in

reflectively. ' In the first place, she won't even speak to iiu'.

She looks at mc as if I were dirt.'

'Oh, nonsense! Miss Murray Macdonald is too well bred a

ao8

SCHEMING STILL.

259

vouTicr lady to do that,' corrected the factor bhindly, • Angus,
I'm convinced that I've pursued the wrong tactics for a while.
It never docs to oppose a woman, even a very youn": one. I
li( tiiin by trying to circumvent Miss Murray Macdonakl, and in
till' end she circumvented me. Think of the young chit making
li( rself mistress of all her legal rights and privileges before she
iiKi'le a move! I tell you, Angus, such a woman is worth the
winning.'

' She'd wear the breeks,' said Angus plainly ; ' at least, she'd
try. But if it was me slie had to deal with there would be a
louufh squabble. And so you think I might make myself Laird
(if Dalmore? Well, it would 1° a fine position; but I've no
(•liiiiice beside Macleod.'

' Nonsense ! besides, he's going away. I must give you a piece
(if advice. You must flatter her, and take a consuming interest
iti all her fads. Womcm swallow flattery the same as calves
swallow milk — wholesale, and when you do .become master of
n;ilniore, you can put your foot on all these little plans. Just
think! after all my worry and trouble with these Fauld fdks,
^ll(• lias made up her mind to build it up into a flourishing
(;(iininunity again. She doesn't approve of me, I can tell you;
l)ut she's fixed; she can't j)ut me off for three years yet, — at
liast. she won't, because the old man expressed the wish that I
sliouM stay. A lot can be done in three years, lad.'

'You're right; but suppose? I was willing to court Miss
Murray Macdonald, — mind, 1 don't say I am, but supposing I
was, — how am I to begin ? There is a gulf between Aucldoy and
Dahnore.'

The factor screwed his face up into a knowing wink.

' When I was two-and- twenty I didn't need a hint about
•■'iiirtiiig,' he said, with an ill-f'avourcid smile. 'If you want
'liatices you can make them. She's never out of the FauM.
\\ hat's to hinder you meeting her accidentally there, and taking
•I "hep interest in all that's going on?'

■ I'll think aliout it,' said Puddin', Avith rather a pleased,
<'\|ii('tant ex{)ressi<)n on his face. The idea pleaded him. He
Was hound to admire Sheila, as every one did, and the thought
"f iii.iking love to her was rather exciting. He was by no

: Ji

[1 '

',11

lit

[ '^l

I'll!

!6o

SHEILA.

means a novico in the art of lovr-innkinof, both nt liomo and in
town. He Ij.id, indeed, a love afTiiir going on in the (ilcn \\\<\
then, hnt he did not mind Iniving two strings to liis Iimw.
Piiddin' was an enterprising youth, and fillcil to tlie brim wiili
cnnsmninate conceit and conHch'nce in liimsclf.

' There's a lot of nests in Achnafanld I would like licvriiMl."
said the factor. 'That .Malcolm Mciizics, I hate tho vo-y siLjlit
of liim. If tlie a>dd wife were dead I'd fix liiin up.'

'You can't,' said PtuUVm' serenely; 'because Sheila lias
taken them up. Look what she's done for them this sunnner
J Iready.'

'True enougli, she has done a lot. If old Macfarlane liad
been any tiling but a gomeril, I would have had tlie wlu'le
tiling done, and the estalf; in splendid W(»rking order, \^\\\\\
does a minister know about business? Siie just winds Iiim
round her little finger. I whiles wonder, Angus, whether
the Laird had any iidding how things would turn out, and
whether he did it all to torment me. It was a queer will,
wasn't it?'

' It did for IMacleod, anyway, the insufferable prig ! ' said
Angus savagely. There was not much love lost between him
and Fergus Macleod. 'I won't believe he's off to America, till
I hear he has arrived there.'

* I hope he'll go. He might stand in your way,' said the
factor cautiously.

' lie Avould if he could, but he never goes near Dalmore.'

' No; there's a dryness, thank goodness! between Slionnen and
DaliiKjre. Ft-rgus Machiod's wife, whoever she may be, will
have an ill time of it with his m ther.'

' I'm mair frightened for the Mvrrrays, I confess, than Fergus
I'r liis mother,' continued the factor, after another sij) at his
lunilder. 'They'll look sharply afti^r their niece, I'm thinking.
1 saw young ^lurray up not long ago. If they muke a match
of it, we're done for, lad.'

' They won't, if I can help it. I'll make myself sweet to Miss
Sheila, first ciiance I get,' said Puddin', as he pushed back his
chair, and gave his fine collar a pull up. 'Anything to kill the
time ; it's a dull hole this for a fellow.'

SCHEMING STILL.

261

f" anrl in

ilcMl jllst

his 1)1 i\v.
a-iiii with

licvricil,"
<'i'y siiilit

loila liiis
suniiiicr

lane iiad

. What
nds him
Avhctlicr
out, and
.eer will,

g ! ' said
v^eon him
L'rica, till

said tlu'

ore.'

men and
be, will

n Fcrpfiis

p at liis

tliinkiii,^'.

a match

t to ^liss
back his
) kill the

' Why don't you shoot and fish, like other young men V '
;i>k('d his fatliiT.

'Too much of a bore, and deuced hard work besides,' said
AiiLiiis, with a yawn. ' I'll away JUid take a stroll up to the
Faidd, and see if I can fall in with Malcolm Menzics ; it is
LiiMid i'un to raise his birse, ami it needs mighty little rai>iiiL:
xiiiu'timcs. The fellow's more than half mad. lie should be
(Imwu at Murthly. 1 must tell him that.'

• Yt)ii'd better not go too far with him. lie had a graip up
at me the other ilay. \\'hen the passion's on him, he does not
caiv Avhat he does.'

' I'm not afraid of him,' said Angus, as he slouched indideiitly
out of the room. The factor was (lisapj)ointed in his son, who
iiad not turned out th(? smart lad he had lK»[)ed and expected him
to l»e. Not but that he was smart and dandified enough in his
appearance, and his tailor's bdls were lieavier than his (dass fees,
hut he had imt as yet disjdayed any brilliance of inttdhu-t, or
even an ordinary business c.ipaeity. So to marry him to Slicila
Macdonald was the present dream of tlie ambitious factor's days.
The two girls at Auchloy were iniseral'h; when their .imiable
hiMtlu-r was at home, and there were (piarrtdlings in tii ■ house
t'ldin morning till nigiit. lie was always jil)ing and jeering
at them, and playing all sorts of unmaidy tricks upon them.
Peer Mrs. M'Bean was sondy exercised by her grown-up family,
and thought regret fidly of the days when they were bairns at
lur knee, — thc^y hardly repaid her now for the toil of that
eaiiy lime.

l*u hlin' lounged out of the house with a Tam o' Slianter stuck
oil the back (.f his red head, an<l, still smoking, sauntered uj)
iIk' road to the Fauld. It was after sundown, and a bomiie
liar\('st nionn Wii^ r.sini:; above Crum Creauh, niakini^ a s ft.
sMdthi' g, e.\(jU!site light o\er j)urple moor and j)laciii loch ; out
I'li'iuin" had no siiul to admiri; any of nature's lair pi(-'tnre<.
lie hated Aiiciiloy, and but for one attraction could have
willed to turn his back tor ever on Gleiupuuch. The cdaehan
was veiy (juiet, though a subdued hum from the smiddy greeted
^\ngus as he passed by the oiul of Hob Macnaughton's house.
He walked leisurely up over the bridge and down the back way

• 1

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III

262

SHEILA.

!f ' '■!

!*:

! 1

I I

to Janet Menzi ' cottnge, which he entered without ceremony,
as if he were a priviU'ged visitor.

'That's you, wee M'Bean!' cried the invalid woman's sin ill
voice, the moment liis foot crossed the threshold. ' Kati(.''> no'
in, so ye needna fasli comin' further. An' if she wad due mv
biddin', she wadna speak to ye though she were in. Ye fdiiic
()' an ill kind.*

' Yes; b, \ I'; ,,tj improvement on the old stock, Jenny,' ^;iiii
Angus slyl_^ , ;., In put his head round the door. 'Till im
where Katie 1-, :iite ,( ";ood old soul!'

'No, I witina. If r/iu needs a convoy Malky can gang fnr
her. If he heard ye speerin' for her he'd break yer b;uk
for ye.'

'There would be Iwo at that, Jenny,' said Puddin', in his
bragging way. ' So she's out of the chichan, that she needs a
convoy? Ye've let the cat out of the bag already.'

'Have I? I didna say east or wast,' said the old woman
slirewdly. ' Awa ye go; ye are ower like yer faither to be a
bonnie sicht.'

' You ought to be glad of my comp:iny when they're all out.'
said Puddin', edging a little further in. ' Don't you weaiy
lying theie?'

' Weary ? Od ay ; but what's that to them ? I'll no' be 1mii,!X
noo. I telt Katie the day that she widna be lang or she'd line
auither eirand to Shian. I'll no' see the winter.'

' No fear of you ! you're as lively as ever, Jenny,' said x\np;us,
with a quiet chuckle, for she had unwittingly let out that Katii'
was away to Shian. ' Well, I won't bide to bother you. Tell
Malcolm I was asking for him.'

And, with a grin, Puddin' took himself off. He went down to
the loch side, and stood for a moment debating which way to
go, but probably Katie would come home by Garrows, for the
old road on the other side of the loch led through a lonely
wood, which would he rather gruesome after nightfall. He had
just decided to take the Garrows road when he saw Malcil n
coming over the bridge from Kiidoch, and stopped to have a
word witli him. He took a curious delight in aggravating pour
Malcolm, who seemed to grow more moody and strange every

SCHEMING STILL,

263

cereniotiv,

day. Even Rob, his faitliful triciul and .syniputlii/iicr, somctinu's
t'eiirod Ww lad was goini? ('lean out of his senses.

'Fine night, Sir Mah-oliii,' .siid Aiiuus bantiviuMfly, ilie
nionicut he was witliin hcariiii:-. 'Looking over your cxitu^ivc
policies, eh? Many pheasants on your moors, eh? W'tnild
yiiu give me a .shot for the First?'

' ^hlybe I will, I'uddiu' M'I>ean,' said Malcolm, with a
strange, slow .smile; and lu' li.xed hi.s gleaming eyes, witli a
curiou.s, furtive look, on the other's fac(.'.

'A thousand thanks, but I should not dure to intrude myselt
on Sir Malcolm and his distinguished 0(>mp:iny of friends,' said
Puddin', laughing at his own })()or attem[)t at wif ' lint you've
got round the .soft side of Miss Murray Macdonae,!. "ly ! \\ liat
a tine ste.iding you are getting! What if yoi sft match to
it some night when you are in one of yonr ta Uiis?'

'Ay, what if I did that, I'h ? It would be , 1) mnie lowe,'
said Malcolm (juietly; but his clenched ha> ^s were hegiiming
to tremble, and the anucr was rising'' within 1. in.

' You'd find yourself in Perth Penitentiary, or maybe in
Murthly Asylum, if you tried anythirig of the kind; but m ivbe
there are worse places than Murthly lor the like of you,' > ini
Angus, with a cruel, sneering smile. Instantly the blood riishe*!
to Malcolm's face, and, with a nuittered exclamation, he stooped
down and picked up a huge stone to hurl at his tormentor.
But Angus was too quick for him, and, with a liglit I lUgh, he
dodged round the end of the lu)use, and cut across the burn,
and out to the road. Malcolm, still muttering, and with his
iace convulsively working, followed more slowly, but wlu'U he
got round the corner Angus was out of sight. P(>or Malcolm
Monzies ! 'I he slruLiulino; gleams of intellect, which Rob
^lacnaughton had hoped woulJ grow brighter and cle.irer,
until manhood and \\\(\ full knowledge of his own inherent
power would finally dispcnvse the dark cloud which seemed
to ohscure the lad's mind, were becoming dim and far
between, Manhood brouglit no joy to the poor half-wit. no
glorious sense of mental or phy>ic;d strength. It seemed rather
to cast a deeper shadow on his heart. Even the Fauld folks
somewhat feared him at times, and bade the bairns sLeer clear

I I

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t ,

111

'* I

2>4

SI/J IL.U

t) liini. P()f)r M li'olin ! lie wnulil ;is sffn lia\c hnrnn d a clilM
;is (I (' of his own lainl)s, wlio knew his very voire jiiul step,
Ka:i(' was tlic only one who coiikl nuniiige liim riglilly, and he
w I'i'shipped lier.

iriif liad tlie poet's soul, ns Rob h:id so often held, it Imd
ni'vi'i" f >und a voice, lie liad grown tired of hooks, and even
the iMi(h' music of the (Jaelic had lost its charm. I'lit wlio
Mild I tell what mystic music the lad's soul felt and resjjotidcil
til out among tin* mountain solitudes, where the r j)ple of tin-
icirn or the shr 11 call of the curlew were the only au(hlili'
s iKids? He loved these wilds, and avoich'd mf)re thnn ever
ilie haunts and presence of men. Even his kind old trieml
the stoeking-weaver saw him hut seldom.

\\"\\\\ his li.uids thrust into his trousers pockets, he looked
into the house.

' \\ here's Katie? ' he asked his aunt.

'Oh, ye ken, ower to speer for 'lam Burns at "Wester Shian.
Tlii're was a lad speerin' for her enow, and that'll be meanin' to
pie her a convny.'

' Puddiu' M'Hean?' asked Malcolm angrily.

' M.iybe, an' maybe no'; an' if it was, can the lassie no' hac
a lid without you at her heels, Malcolm Menzies? Ye are a
lioiinie lad to tie yer sister up like that.'

' Did ye tell him Katie was at f'^hian?'

'Maylie I did, an' mayhe I didua. Come in an' shut the
door, an' |iit on some ])eats. Fin star\iu' lyin' here.'

l)Ut Malcolm paid no heed. The very thought that Puddiu'
Md'ean shadd dare to go to meet Katie filled him with a
l>urning indignation, and in a few minutes he was walking wi'h
long str des away west from the Fauld.

CHAPTER XXX.

LOVES YOUNG DHEAM.

iieamn to

Tlie morlo said, Love is cause of Imnnur nye,
Love iiiakeis cuwaids iiiuiiiiuod to piiivliiisL'

William DrxBAR.

BOUT half-wny botwoen Aiichlny and tlic bridfre at
Shian Angus M'liean nu't Knlic. IL^ liciirtl her,
before he saw lior, crooiiinyr a lovo-soiiir to herself,

c came swit

on,

not in tlie least timid
tlioiigli it was (lark, but anxions to be lionie for lier aunl's
sake. Katie might be thougiith'ss at times, but she liad a
warm, kind heart. She had on lii-r Sunday gown, a fine; brow

lerino, made witli a liiU skirt and a pointed Ijodice, cut open
at tiie neck, wliere 1 ly tlie wliite fohis of the ki-rchiel" Katie
Wire with such sweetness and grace. Ihr liat was ovi r lier
.'U'lii, and the night wnid was pLi\ ing at will witli her boiuTu:
li lir, and her fair clieek was flushed witjj the liealthful exercise
of her cjnick, steady walk. K;itie had grown a little vain of
lite, for folks were aye telling her how bonnie she Wiis, and,
l>"or 1 issie ! she had no gentle mother to warn her not to l;;y
Mich fl.ittery to herrt. But with all her little airs and conceits

1' WIS wlieil\ WMisomc and loveahie

1 1.

d.h

anc;

1 A

nirus

)eaii, tilt;

I'act r's son, hid begun to think more seriously about lur tlian
lie had ever thought about anybody in his life. And Katie?

StSfi

'*!}

I < II

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'i ■

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i ■

266

SHEILA.

Had the yours nu-llowod her old aversion to the Lid wlm had

tiiniicntcd her iit si-hool, iitid fven yot lost no opportunity (if
ii'isinu^ licr i)roth('r, who liad no ready ton<j;iio to answer bav-iiV
N\ I' shall see.

She stopped her son^ quite siuhh-iily wiien she lieard tin-
liMit iin the I'oad, and wlieii a sudden Hash of tiie nuxiii iVi'iii
Itehind a ehiud reveaU'd the Hjjure in the (Ustance. She hastih
put on her hat, and even — oh, vain Katie! — gave Ijer hair a ha>iy
sni(/oth, and h-t down her skirt, whicli slu' had gathered aliniii
her waist to save it fruin i!u' dusty road. Tliere was a (h-nnuc,
unconscious lnok in iier sweet face, and she even inana^n-d Id
give a litth' start of surj)rise when Angus M'liean stopjx-d in
front of lier, thougli siie had recogniseti his foot a humlrid
yards away.

'Oh, Mr. Aligns!' she said, being much mor(! civil to liiiii
liian Malcolm ever was, ' what are ye doing here?'

'What could I l)e doing except coming to meet you?' In-
said gallantly. ' Why didn't yon tell me last night that you
were going to Shi.ui, and I would liave come all tlie way?'

' Oh, that would have been ower much, besides auntie wonld
have heard,' said Katie shyly. ' How did ye find oot I was
at Siiian?'

' Your aunt told me,' said Puddin ' unblushingly. * She
knows I li-ive come to meet you, so there is no use being in
suih a luirry. It's not often I have the chance to speak to
you when there's nol)oily by.'

• Were ye in the hoose ? ' asked Katie.

' Yes, ot' course ; when I want to see you, Katie, I don't care
wlio knows,' said Angus, with gn-at emphasis. 'It's only you
that IS ashamed to be seen with me.'

'I'm no' asliamed,' began Katie hastily. 'But' —

Then slie stopped, and the sweet, hot colour flushed all Ikt
face.

'But what?' asked Angus, bending his face eagerly down
to hers.

' Dinna, Mr. Angus; ye ken what way,' said K=itic. in
distress. ' Ye ken what folks wad say if I were to walk out
wi' you, as ye are aye askin'.'

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

267

' Novor mind tlicin, Kiitif; tlicy won't do half so much for
ynii as I Would,' said Auf-Ms, drawiiijr her lialf'-uiiwilliii^ liaiid

llll'OtI

lih 1

us arm.

(' was ([uitc sincere ui w

hat

he SMHl

ntx

Jmvc Inr Katie Meu/ies was the puri'st and most (lonest tVcli
ilic I'aetnr's son had ever |u:iven house room in his sonu'wlmt
ciiililv heart. Slie was so sweet ami jiure herselt', her iullueuce
over him could not he for aiiytlnnfj; but {j^ood.

• \a\ us <x{) insiile thi' dyke and acro>s the nionr, instead of
kitpiii.u' to ijie road,' he su.Lr;^'ested presently. 'I donht Maleohn
will he cminj.^ to mec!t you, un
Nvhv.'

d he hates me, 1 don't km

Katie shivered.

' Ay, he's like to kill me \vln'n ho sees

nio speakin' to ye

>ii('

Mall<

<v s

aid, and he I'elt hei" hand tr(inl)le on his arm
iiwlu' (pieer ^•ettiti'; I'm whiles i'e;ir('(l at him mysel'.'

The impulse was on Anirus M-Be,ni to spcik slightiuLdy of
Malcolm, and to say tliat, Murtidy was the place for him. hut
111' Would not hurt Katie if he could help it, so he held his

ice.

Kati

\v sti pped over tlie ilrystone d} ke, and tliou^^ht, as

hk.

id th

111' liel[)ed lu'r, how dilTtrtnt he was from the Fauld lads, who

were so roiiy;ii and luicoutn

ith

d k

knew nothing of the

httk

attentions which all wi»men love. Katie was hankering after
Ix'lng a ladv, and had tjften watched Sheila Macdonald riding
(111 tlie roads, and felt a strange, bitter envy mingle with the

'o'-i

liive she b^re Imr. Why should one have so much and another
little? ^^ hen a young heart begins to qiu'stion the ordeihig

ot lite it is upon a perdous brmk, and needs a guiduig hand ;
Itiit Katie liad n(jne. So, in her discontented moments, Angus
M 'Bean's llattering attentions, bcst(jwed at first because it was
natural 'o hini to make love to every pretty giil who *vould
allow hirm, pleased and gratitled her. lie was gentlemanly in
iii> manners wiien lie hkeil, though he did not treat his nnither
or sisters to that side of his accomiilishments. But the pastime
hcgim in ludiday-time was like to have a serious endin'ji' for
;ill concerned. Katie had begun to think about Anaus M'Bean
'ia\ and night. Whatever he might be tc others, he was always
kind, teiidor, and considerate for her; then he was a gentl

leman,

Poor Katie ! these two words ' lady ' and ' gendemau ' were

4.:''",('

268

SHEILA.

i •!

!^ 1 i

llti

!!'■

II !i

words oi' PxngfTorated import to licr. Sho knew not! Idg^ of tlip
ladyliood of ruiiid and lioart wliicli is iinlciciKh nr of ;ill
outward circnnistMnces. Nor did slio dream ili.it liol) M.ic-
nimglitoii, tlie stockiiig-wcavor, stood upon a pinnacle ol'
gciitlcliood wliieli Angus M'lican, witli his town airs and most
silly conceits, woidd never reach.

'What a slianie if Malky goes all the way to Shian ! ' said
Katie, when they were away t'roni tlie road.

'Nevermind; it'll do him good,' said Angus (piiekly. 'Katie,
I want you to write to mo when I go back to Kdinburgh.'

' W'lieii do ye gang'?' asketl Katie, in a low voice.

'In tliree weeks. What a short holiday this has seemed! 1
used to weary at Auchloy, but not this time.'

'Ilaeye no'?' asked Katie; and her heart was beating. Ini-
slie knew quite well that lie meant she h :d kept iiim iVniu
veirying, ' Is young Mr. Macleod gaun b ick too?'

'1 don't know, and I don't care. Katie. Fergus Macleod and
I don't get on. The fellow's a prig, and thinks it's a sin to have
the least bit lark.'

'I aye thocht him very nice,' said Katie innocently. 'Div
ye tliink him an' NTiss Sheila '11 l»e man an' v.iie yet?'

'1 don't think it likely,' said An' us, a little conslrainedlv,
for he suddenly rt'inembei-ed that he was siipposetl to be a
suitor for Sheila's hand himself. But, with Katie's Inid
cluigiiig to his arm, and her bonnie, sweet lace lnoking iqi
shyly to his, lie did not seem to care a pin for Sheila or Imi-
iiil:efit;iiK'e. What if love for this little country gii'l.
wh'se j)ure he irt and sweet fice were her only dower, shoul I
make a man oi' I'udtlin' after all? He was certainly at \\\>
best with her.

'Some says she's to marry her cousin, yoimg Mr. Mtu'riy."
said Katie, who seemed to take an absorbing interest in Slieila'^
set leinent in life, ' Is he a nice chap, Mr. Angus?'

'.Nice enougli ; sot't a little,' said iVngus, in his off-hand w;i\.
— not. of course, caring to tell Katie how persistently ami
complerely Alastair Murray had ignored him in Ediidjnrgii.
' 1 sh nddn't care to marry Sheila Macdonald, Katie. Isn't she
a bit of a tartar ? '

LOVE'S YOULG DREAM.

269

him I'mii,

Mill

rr 111(1

She's :in nn.trd, that's what I think, Mr. Annus,' said Katie
[)ly. 'I never saw an)])()ily like her. I wisli I \va< rich an'

like her, an' could ride abuot on u Imrsc, an' i)ii,ld

u;i

rfnlk.'

* I'ci-haps you will some day, Katie.'
Katie slioi'k her liead.

'There's little cliance. I'll ha(; to bid(» in the I'auld a" inv
ys, likel\', k('ej)ing the hoosr an' milkiu' Miilkx's k\f.'
'Would v>>n hnive Malcolm it' 1 asked yon, KuticV'
Katie shook from head to foot, and in the ele.ir hum iil uht
lie iified lii'r (luestionitm' eves to her Io\cr's i'aee. iLci'i-

1 > »/

as a strange look on her t'ace — half" terror, half \vi i:di ring

ly. It was the look of a woman seeking to !•

as to ffive in return i'or her lo\''' and trust. An'-;ii> M-lMan

•enow wi:ai ;i mill

\v;is

(juite ill earnest, and his eyes met Ka-tie's without llincl

1 1 n LI".

Ih' meant no ill. It was an honest love he was olTering the
u'irl at his side. He had h'arned enough evil, no douitt, ammig
liis wild comrades in Edinburiih, but there was jji-ood lelt in

him s

tin.

o"J

'Oh, Mr. Angus, what are ye sayin'? What do you mean':^'
she asked almost pitcously.

'^^'hat I say, Katie. Will a ou b(^ my bonnie wee wil'e some
(lay, when I liave a homo to offer you ? '

A sob of gladness ])roke from Katie's lips, and she allowed
iiim to fold hi'r to his heart, and to kiss her as a man ki-ses the

weiiian of his choice

lev wt

•y

re ah

one in the \ast solitude (

the moorland, with the locli gleaming whitely in the hojlnw
and none to witness their betrothal but the stars that

Ix'lnw,

-«'(■ all and keet) silence

' I'ltt I'm no' fit,' whispered Katie at length, with all the
linmilify of love. 'Ye might marry somebody far grander an'

'iiiin'r.

' Xobody will ever be grand<'r or bonnier than you to me,
Katie/ said Ancus fondly. 'And I'll never niarrv anybody but
vuu. You do like me, don't }'ou, Katit'?'

'Oh, I do! I do ! ' sobbed Katie: and Aiigu< ehi'^ped her
cIdsc ag.dn, and strtiked her bonnie hair Vvdth a tender touch.

He had never felt as he did just then. All that was best in

iilifc

■- ?

i ■•*:;

f , ' ^

1 1

a '

* ■ '. / , .

1 i

: ■; ' y^ii .

■: ?

^: 1

;

1 .

.i':

i .i

i i'

i ..
I i:

NIf

270

SHEILA.

his nature rose to thv' surface, called f Ttli by the mystcrioiH
iiiliueiioe of this young creature, \\\w gave him tlio ini]irKit
trust of love. He even felt ashamed of iiis past life, of his idle
dreaming, and frivolous, evil waste of g>lden opportiniity. and
in a vague, uncertain kind of way made ;i vow for the tut me.
He would live a different life henceforth for Katie's sake.

' Katie, you're far better than nie, hut I'll l)e better. Tvc
wasted my time and behaved as I shouldna in Edinburgh, hut
I'll be difTerent this winter, you'll s(h>,' he said manfully.

If Katie had but known, she could have had no stronger prnni'
of her lover's sincerity tlian that whispered coid'ession and jiromiM'
of amendment. But she only looked u{) into his face and s:ii.l,
with all lier loving heart in her eyes, —

'I dinna, want ye to be ony better, for fear ye dinna hkc

me.

'But what'll they say at Auchloy ? ' asked Katie, wiili a
slight cloud on her brow, when, after a long lingering, they
went on again toAvards the light in the Fauhl.

'My mother Avill be delighted, I know,' said Angus at once.
' But, Katie, you'll need to leave it all to me. I'll make evcrv-
thing right. We'll need to keep it quiet for a little, you mu^t
mind, w ill you, Katie ? '

'Oil, no' me; I'll hand my tongue for ever if yoti like,' ■<\\\A
Katie. 'I'll be feared, ony way, for Malky kennin'. Hell he
in an awfu' r;ige.'

' Katie, I'm afraid I haven't treated Malcolm very well.
This very night I was teasing him. I won't do it again. Tin
a honid fellow, not half good enough for you.'

' Oh, dinna say that again!' phaded Katie. ' Ai\' Malkv's
awfu trick v.'

' Ay ; but I try to anger him,' said Angus, whose very nature
seemed to have undergone a change \\\ the la-t hour. ' I'll try
a. different plan with him. Maybe we'll win him to our side
.\nyway, you'll stick to me, won't you, Katie?'

'Ay,' said Katie, in a whisper; but there was a world of
confident resolve in that monosyllabic answer. Angus Mdji ;iii
felt like a difTerent man. He could not believe that a siiiiplc
declaration of love given and received could have wrought such

:ik

tU lJ'1,1:!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM,

271

\n' Malkv's

o our Mill'.

a clinnge. He had begun to pay attention to bonnie Katie
>r('ii/i('S more tlian a year before, to help to pass tlie lioIi(lii\^,
a lime wliieli liiins; so heavy on his liaiuls at Auchloy ; .iml
even at the beginning of this hohday, wlien he had Ix'en !«tnick
;iiu'\v by her winsome grace, he liad liad no idea of ihi-.
Fii.m jest to earnest it had verily been with liim, but it \v.,> ,1
lieautifiil earnest, which was to bear fruit in liis life. In sjiiie
of her littl(! weaknesses, Katie was a true woman at heart, and
was not found wanting when a crisis came.

' I'll go back to Edinburgli and work like blazes this winter,'
said Angus cheeiily, as they walked (»n hand in hand, but vt-iy
slowly, it must be confessed.

' What are ye learnin' at the college?' Katie asked.

' Faith, I haven't leartit much yet,' Angus icplied. ' I'm
suppiised to be learning to be a factor, '{'here's the law
classes, you know, I should attend. And then I have so nian\'
hours in the VV.S.'s olfice in Castle Street. But I've been
awfully idle.'

'And when ye are done wi' the college, will ye be like Mr.
M'Bean at Auchlo) ?'

'iSomething like it, Katie. I hope I'll be able to give \(»u
as good a house. What grand times we'll have, won't we?'

'Splendid!' answered Katie; but there was a vague feeling
of ap[)rehension haunting her even in the mid>t oi her
lia[)piness. She did not know what it was, but a little cloud
seemed suddenly to have arisen on the horizon and obscured
its brightness.

' You'll not weary, though it should l)e a long time, Katie ? and
you'll write often, and so will I; and I'll be b;ick at New Year.'

'But ye aremi goin' away for tliree weeks yet?'

'No, that's quite tnu', but I was oidy mentioning it. Is
this the Fauld already? What a short walk it has been !'

'i d(Jot it's Lite, for the smiddy lichl's oot, — and see, so is
Uoh Macnaughton's ! What o'clock is't ? '

'Ten miiuites past ten! Impossible! My watch must be
wrong!' exclaimed Angus, who could not believ > that two
h"urs had passed since he niet Katie just below Auchlo}-, not
two miles Irom the Fauld.

•iff;.

272

SHEILA.

^ %

' No, it's riclit ; I'll catch it,' said Katie. ' Guid-niclit ; dinna
keep me anitlicr ineenit.'

' [>ot inc come in and explain matters to tliem, and take the
scoMinjf,' said Angus anxiously.

M) no, that wad be far vvaur; Malky would be terrible mad.
Giiid riiclit ; ' and, scarcely ])eriiiittin'j a last kiss, Katie bounded
lliroiigh the clachan and into the house. Her aunt seenie-i to
be asleep, l)ut M ilcolin was sitting by the fire, feeding it with
peats, and wearing a very dark scowl on his face.

'A bonnic time o' niclit this!' he said, looking up at Katie.
* Are ye no' feared to stravaig the roads in the ni.;lit time
yi-rsel''? '

' No' me. Is auntie sleepin' ? ' asked Katie, glad to get off
so easily.

'Katie Menzies,' said Malcolm, rising, his two big nx.-'anclioly
eyes j/lowing bke live coal, 'if ye gang oot the hills wi'
Angus M'Beuu again, ill kill baith him an' you I*

i^5<^

TfPl'

'^^^^

I-

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN BITTEllNESS OF SOUL.

Somo natural toars they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them.

Milton.

^v||>ypOU liad better get your books looked out, Fergus;
Vmd I have cfot all tlie rest of your thiiiiz.s r(^:i(l\' ' siud
Ellen M.icleod to her son, after their early liinner
on the List day o*' Se})tend)er. Ferii'iis rus(; to his
fiM't, and pushed back ids chair. The question which liad been
in abey.int e all the holidays nnist be answered now.

'Then I am to go back to the university, am I?' he asked.

M)f coiu'se. Isn't that latlicr a superlluous 'uestiun?' she
a<ked, with slightly elevated brows.

' Mother, I ]Mte to go! EH never do any go . at it. I don't
tlii.:k I can be a n inisicr, ev(>n to please you.'

'And if you w^n't be a, minister, what, pray, a-^e you going
Id do?' she a^kcd, wiih a slight sneer. She ) ated to have iier
!>' \\> set a>iilo. Sinc(! Fergus could not b( Laird of Dahnoro,
1 le iu;\t best thing tor him was to f ill iw in Ids ^athei''s foot-
s e])s. Tne best fanulies in tne country weie pnmd to have
s iiiN i:i t .e Church.

' 1 I Id V ni ;ilriMdv, mother, what I would like,' said Fergus,
wiih sumeining of entreaty in ids voice. 'L •" me go away to

't.v

274

SHEILA.

.!l

I ' 1

■ i

■■ t

■ 1

\ 1

hi''

: ;

I ■;

' ' 1

I,: t

! I'

111

America, to sci; for myself wliat tlie n(3W ■world is like; nn'l
jx'r'iiiijK,' lie ;ul(]eil, \viili a slightly melancholy smile, 'I shall
c iini' l);iek a lictter lioy.'

'FefLTiis. I know nor what I have doiu? that I should have
siich an uiidutil'ul son,' said Klleu Macleod, with u touch of
|)assi()n. ' l'<'yi 1 have j)hinned, and scliemed, and even siniicd
tor VDU. I iiave exposed myself to insult and injury, in mv
eiide.-ivour to secure your riglits ior you. \N'here is ymir
Lii'atitude y Now that DahnoK; is out of your reach, you oii'jlit
til he thaidcfid that such an honourable and gentlemanly calliiii
is lipcu to you/

' I'm not denying tl:at it is a good profession,' said Fei'giiN
;i little sidlcnly. 'I'm only saying I'm not fir for it. Mother.
I sliould be a curse to the Church instead of u blessing to it, as
;i minister slxaild be,'

' Vou are only a foolish boy, who doesn't know wliat he i<
talking about.' his mother retorted cpiiekly. ' \\'hen you ar(> a
year or two older, you will discover that I acted for your go' d
Why, Fergus, a minister is on ecpial fbotitfg with the highest in
the land He sits down at the most exclusive tables in tlic
county. Just look at your own father. He was of no fhiiiily.
vet I married him. The Church levels all distinctiiins ; audyuii
ought to be thankful, I say, that it is open to yon.'

' lint, mother, that isn't the ])oint. 1 know all you say is
true, but / don't want to wear a black coat and sit down at the
exclusive tables in the county,' said Fergus hotly. 'I'm not lit
I'oi- any of it. Fd ratluu' take a shepherd's place any day, a^ I
sail! b(dbre, than be a miiuster.'

Fd'en "vTacleod did not speak for a moment. She was viiy
a'lgi ■,•. .ii;>l '. ;'ry determined, too. But she saw determinaiioii
as. stfi ng wrii^Mi on her son's brov/, and began to realize that
shti I ."d i-;;) Vin.^^r a child to deal with, but a man who claiiin'il
a man's ri.;ii;s to decide his oW!i course in life. Fergus \va<
now in ; twiMuieth year, and Inoked even ob^ His tall.

n)!(scular l-iure was ilrmlv set: his fice had los; fhe hnvi>li
ii> ik. He as a iiandsome, stal\.;n't, manl\' fellow-, who diil ii't
lack ('ecision of characti )• or (h'tcrmination. l>iit it is nut easy
10 set a det(!rmined will against a moth(;r ; and Fergus had liceii

IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL.

^IS

so long under complete rule that he had a hesitation in chiiniing
Ills own riglit of choice. But, whatever should he the result,
tl;-.' hi'-l's mind was absolutely fixed on the Church (juestion.
He knew that to hind hitn down by such trammels, and to lay
upon his shoulders grave responsibilities, which only the grace
of God can lighten, would be simply to ruin his life. He was
not without foresight and shrewdness, and he had seen and
knew of many melancholy examples, both of ' stickit ministers,*
jiii'l of those who, though in full charge, W(;re not only useless,
but who, by their inefficiency and unfitness, brought discredit
on the Church. He would not add another name to that
int'laiicholy roll. Wliatever his way of life, he would not make
a failure of it. And all his tastes and inclinations and pursuits,
though perfectly healthful and noble in themselves, were
not of a kind which would sanctify the sacred calling of a
minister.

' You had better look out your books,' said Ellen Macleod
([uite calmly, just as if the whole thing had been amicably
settled. 'Isn't it upon Tuesday morning you will need to go?
and this is Saturday. There is no use having a bustle and
confMsion at the end.'

Fergus bit his lip. Undutiful, angry words rose to his lips.
Had he been less noble and self-denying he would have had no
sciuple in uttering them. Possibly they might have done
L^ood. I believe there are occasions and circimistances in
uhich filial obedience ceases to be a duty. But Fergus did
hold his peace, though the effort was tremendous. He picked
up his cap and ran out of the house, feeling at that moment
that nothing but the fresh wind of heaven would give him
relief It was a fine, mild autumn day. There was little
sunshine, but a kind of subdued brightness seemed to pervade
the soft light clouds in the sky. The air was perfectly motion-
less and still ; every sound in the far distance sounded clearly
iind distinctly, as if it were just at hand. The bleating of a
■>\u•v\^ up on the very pinnacle of Craig Hidich sounded so
close to Fergus, that involuntarily be started and looked round.
llie sunmier was over. The bloom was fading on the heather,
and there were no fresh buds on the wild fl< wers by the vvay-

ti ill I.

276

SHEILA.

Hit

i \ M^
■

ij ^ ^ '^-'^

) ; 1

side. The summer had been early, winter would be early t' 0.
Most of the sportsriH'U had left Stralhbraan and Glcnquaidi,
and the remaining grouse possessed tlie heather in pence,
Fergus noticed all tln-e litth; things wliich went to ni;ike nj)
the .suni of a quiet day among tiie ijills. He even looked at
the dappled clouds moving eastward, and wondered how iotei it
would be before rain came. Tlie corn was all in stooks on tlie
crofts, but in these low-lying fndds, exposed to tiie wet iVdiii
the loch, it took long to winnow. Farming in Glenquaich was
certaiidy a trial of patience and faith,

II(^ walked on almost uncnscionsly l)y the rough, stony ro;id
to Kinloch, and through the clachan, quickening his step a
little, not wishing to s[)eak with any of the folks. Theie were
lew but bairns and old folk about, indeed, for all the able liaii'ls
were in the harvest-field. 'J'he road which led to Shian. l>v
the loch-side, cat tlirough a bonnie birch Avood for about lialt'
a mile, — a picturesque walk indeed, for the loch lay i)elow,
gleaming whitelv throuirh the drooi)ing l)ranches. Rowans
Were hanging in ripe red clusters, and even the V)ramljie was
taking on its richer purj)le hue. It was the birds' harvest as
well as the harvest of the cottars in GleiKpiidch.

Fergus walked leisurely, with his hands in his pockets; but
he t'jok long, swinging strides, and, without any plan or effurt,
he seemed to come quite near to Shian shortly after he lelt the
Lo(^ge. He took iq) over the fields behind the old house of
Shiat^, and came down on the kirkyard by a short cut. It was
ins first vi-it to his uncle's grave. Before he vaulted the low
wall, he saw at the opposite side a little carnage and two izrey
ponies he recognised at once. Somebody from Dalmore was
visiting the burying - ground ; and when he looked to 1I1"
corner where the Macdonalds lav, he saw Sheila down on lier
knees pMUiing fresh flowers on the turf. In a . i-nieiit he wa-
over tlie wall, and had crossed to her siile. He forgot evei'v-
thing l>ut that it was Sheila, and that the sorrow in her heart
was a sorrow he could understand and share. The (!■ :id were
dear to her as they were to him. It came upon him tin 11.
quite suddenly, that Sheila, in spite of her great inheritance,
was very forlorn. She had nobody in the wide woild she

IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL.

1 1

could c.'ill liiT ov;n ; and tlion slie wns a gir! — one to wliom
love and coriipaiiionsliip were like tlic ]>rc'atli c>\' lift',

'Slicihi,' lu' said, liis voice made very soft l)y the strotii:
leclinir ot' his heart, 'how are you to-day?'

Slit'ila started up, for she had not lieard him come, but sl,.>
]i;i(l a smile for him, and when they shook hands lie t'eh In i>
trt'iiiWle.

'This is the first time I have been,' she said simply, as slic
<t(i<)p(>d to place a bunch of late roses at the head. ' llcw
strau'je to see you here ! Do you come sometimes? '

'Never; this is the first time,' Fergus returned. 'Slu-ila.
I was a brute to you last time I saw you. Forgive me for it.'

'() yes. I did not think about it in that way,' she said;
and he knew she liad thought of it, but with what bitterness of
lieart he little dreamed.

Her mouth (juivered, and he saw her sliake from head to foot
as she still bent over the grave. She was very desolate, ])0()r
child ! It seemed to her at that moment that all she loved lay
heneatli that green mound, and that there was very little worth
having left in the world.

' Don't stand here, Sheila ; it is not good for you,' said
I'ergus impulsively. 'Are you driving alone?'

'Yes; Miss Gordon would have come, but I thought I
should like to be by myself

^^'ill you let me drive you home, Sheila?'

'Of course, Fergus; it will be delightful,' she answ( red : and
lie saw a glad look steal into her eyes. After all, she u-(t.-< the
same. He had oidy imagined a change in her. ' How (juiet it
is liere; but oh, how lonely! AVhen it gets dark, and tin; wind
iiii'aus through tliese trees, 1 should be afraid,' she added, with i
sliL'.'it sliiver.

li had done her no good to come. There is no comfort to
the hungry heart of the living in viewing the last resting-place ;
it seems to widen the distance between the loved avIio have
gone within the veil. Such was Sheila's thought, unexpressed,
hut telt deeply in her heart. Fergus felt perfectly happy as
lie handed Sheila into the carriage, and, jum{)ing in beside her,
tuok the reins. They had no thought of what the folks would

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SHEILA.

say ; and, I daresay, if they had thought of it, would only liave
laufjhed. Were they not more like brother and sister than
anything else? So Sliian folks were exercised that afternoon
by tlie sjfrht of Miss Murray Macdonald's carriage crossing the
Quaich Bridge driven by Fergus Macleod.

'You never come up to see me,' said Sheila, a little nii^
chievously, as tliey bowled smoothly along the road. 'What
have you done with yourself all summer?'

' Lounged about, and done nothing. I did put up hay at
Dalreoch one day, and I tell you I liked it. I'm thinkinj,' of
•feeing with Mr. Stewart as shepherd, instead of going back to
Edinburgh this winter.'

' Then you would live in the shepherd's house at Girron ; aini
I should amuse myself at our drawing-room window watchiiii:
you rescuing the sheep from the drifts, and falling into them
yourself,' said Sheila, with a smile.

Bur Fergus grew suddenly quite grave and silent. ' Sheila,
I wi h you'd tell me what to do,' he said abruptly.

' What about, Fergus?'

' 1 can't make up my own mind. My mother insists that I
must go back to college and finish the course. I want to go
to Canada. I had a letter from Donald Macalpine. They arc
getting on splendidly, iSheila, and never wishir,^ they were back.'

' Don't go to Canada, Fergus.'

Sheila's sweet voice faltered, and a strange thrill shot to the
young man's heart. What a strange, sw^jet thought it was, that
anybody — especially Sheila — should wish him to stay for his
own sake !

' Well, but I can't be a minister, Sheila. I'd do some dreadful
thing if I found myself in a pulpit with one of those fearsome
black gowns on. And how could I make up sermons or say
])rayersV I'm not half good or reverent enough. I always
think of the most idiotic things in church, somehow; so how
could I be a minister?'

' Have you tried to tell your mother how you feel about it?
Sheila asked, with a slight hesitation; for she had really never
quite got rid of her childish fear of Ellen Macleod.

'I've tried,' Fergus answered gloomily, • but it's no use. She

IN niTTERNESS OF SOUL

279

oiin't iindcrstiuitl, and I don't know wliat to do. Tt's not easy
lor a tVllow to know what's his duty in this world, ^\'llat do
think?'

■on

' Fcrjius, how can I tell? Perhaps — p('rhaj)S, I thiid<, you
oiiLdit to obey your mother.'

' If I do, it will he the ruin of tne. I sliall never do an atom
of pood in this world to myself or any other body. T be a
stickit minister, Sheila, and bring disirrace on my t'v)lks.'

' Not you. Whatever you do, you won't stick ; and you know
it,' slie said, with (juick confidence, which sent another waiin
Ljlnw to Fergus's riven heart. 'Do you think your mother will
not relent after a while?'

' I am sure she won't," Fer'jus answered gloomily.

'Oh, perhaps she will. In the nu^aiuinie, if 1 were you, I'd
go back to E(linl)urgh and learn with all my might,' said Sheila
cheerily. ' Here we are at Auchloy. Just look at the dining-
ruom window, Fergus, and see liow many heads ther<; are.'

'One, two, three; and there's Puddin's beacon,' said Fergus,
making a wry tace. ' Well, we've given them something to talk
abi)Ut.'

Sheila laughed too.

' You always call him " Puddin' " yet. What an atrocious
name it is ! '

' (rood enough for him.'

'Oh, why? He is rather amiabl(>, I think. He has been up
at Dalmoi'e once or twice, and both Miss Gordon and I think
liiui much improved. They say in the Fauld, Fergus, that he
is courting Katie Menzies.'

'Katie Menzies? Never! He'd better take care. If he
makes fun of Katie Pll be into him.'

'Why, Fergus, how very pugnacious you are! So you are
Katie's champion? Well, I shouldn't like to be your rival.'
said Sheila teasingly.

'Oh, conie now, Sheila. I'm not his rival at all, only I can't
have him come making a fool of our village beauty. ^^ hy, if
you knew the fellow as I know him, and the company he kei'p>,'
said Fergus scathingly; 'he's not fit to speak to Katie Menzies,
or to sit in th( drawing-room at Dalmorei'

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SHEILA.

" Vmi iire v<'ry Imrd on him — too hard, I tlii.ik. I am snic
III' lias imprcfvcd,' said Sheila quietly; hut her eyes weie dcfjilv
sliii l()\v((h Slie did not like this hard, hitter, iincharitahje siilc
"f F. runs. She began to fear that years had not ini])r.>ved liim.

Th'-y <iid not talk very much as tliey swept along the ntad tu
;l.e selidol; and when Fergus had carflully turrjed the cnnxi.
and set the ponies' heads towards the Gi'.ron Brig, he gave S:ieila
tin reins, and jumped out.

'Gnod-bve, then, Sheila; and thank you for allowing me t'>
drive you,' he said, a trifle formally.

'Thank you for driving me,' Sheila answered, as she travc
him her hand. 'Shall we see you at Dalmore before you g.. y '

' I don't think so. I have not the same interest in the place

now,

It was a cruel speech, only from the lips, Fergus did n^t
ktiow what always prompted him to hurt Sheila like that. She
buried herself with the reins, and when they were stiaight >Iie
took the ponii's' heads so shar[)ly th.it they gave a step backward.

'1 coidd wish, Fergus Macleod, that I had never seen Dal-
more,' she said ; and her eyes were bright and stedfast and cnM,
and her voice clear and distinct as a bell. ' It is a burden upon
me I am scarcely il>le to bear. Good-bye.'

CHAPTER XXXTI.

ALASTAIUS WOOING.

Love sacrifices all tliiiifjs
To bless the thiii'' it loves.

E. B. Lytton.

,, i

HE resiiit was, that Fergus wont back to Edinburgh
on the 3id of October, and Ellen Miicleod imagined
l«er victory complete. Looking forwaid, she saw a
visi(.n which ])leasid her well, — her son established
ill his father's parish of Meiklemore (the minister of which was
now an old man), and herself installed once more as mistress of
the manse. She would gladly quit Shonnen jiny day. She had
nothing to bind her to the j)lace ; and Dahnore, which she
could see so sjtlendiilly from the windows of the Lodge, was
a constant eyesore to her. She was a cmsunim.'.tcly t-eltish
woman. Her ])lanning was for her son, but it was alwavs to be
pood tor Inis If likewise. She did not admit the possibility,
even, that Feigns might desire to take a wite. His fiist duty,
she consideied, was to in r. But F» rgus had not the remotest
iiif«niion of becoming minister of Meiklemore or of anywhere
els»\ lie was, for the time being, completely soured. Every
hope and ambition blasted, the lad grew careless abiut every-
thing. From idle h^'bits he drifted into questionable company.
Had Ills mother known how that winter session was spent, she

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would have regretted forcing his inclination. The we(klv
hitter, so dutifully written when he first went to Edinburgli, liii<l
become .a thing of tlie past. From tlie 4tli of October till
Christmas, he did not send lio.ne a single line. I do not del'nni
him, neither do I blame him wholly. Never had motln r u
more loveablf, obedient child ; never had child so harsh and
inconsiderate a mother. It was to be expected that, sooner oi-
later, the o[)posing wills must chish. Ellen Maclood was not fit
to have that fine nature in her keeping. She had done her
best to break that high, manly spirit, but liad only warped and
soured it. Every generous impulse, every iiupetuous bo\i>;li
erithusiasm, she had chilled by the narrow coldness of her creed.
Tlie world was a mean, sordid place in the eyes of Ellci
Macleod, — liuman nafiu" • a poor, empty, selfish thing; — and she
had done her best to implant her ideas in the mind of her son.
She liad tried to make him believe himself wronged and abused
by others, but in vain. The lad wanted no heritage but his
own grand dower of manly independence, perfect health, and
nitble desire to cut out his own path in life. Poor fool! she
would not even let him enjoy these, his heaven-born gilts.
She fretted her own heart out for what was not hers, and tried
to implant in him a similar weakening discontent. And wlu-n
he turned upon her, and repaid her poor training with the
indifference of a chilled and disappointed heart, she wrapped
herself in the garb of self-righteousness, and esteemed herself a
martyr. The whole world trampled upon her, even her own
son, whom she had borne and reared.

So the winter dragged itself wearily away. Ellen Macleod
lived her dark, melancholy days at Shonnen, with nothing to
break tlieir monotony, and Fergus — But I will not dwell
upon this part of my hero's career. That blemished page wa>
only laid bare to one, and then turned down for ever. Why.
then, should we seek to pry into it? But I will say that.
thou^di he was weak, erring, blameworthy, he avoided the
grosser sins in which too many of his colleagues indulg'-d.

At Christmas, Alastair Murray came home as usual, Angus
M'Bean also, but there was no word from or of Firgus. Klhn
Macleod passed two days of consuming anxiety, and then walked

ALASTAIR'S WOOING.

283

over to Auchloy. She was a gaunt, haggard-looking woman,
•rrown ohl before her time. She did not take life easily, and
those who worry and fret themselves must carry with them the
ontward seal of tin ir discontent. Her dark, penetrating eyt-
gh'an)ed restlessly, lier brow was deeply lined, Ikt mouth
marked by anxious, nervous- looking curves, which betrayed
111 r inner unrest. She was greatly to be pitied. There did
not exist in the wide world a creature more utterly desulatc
than she. She was shown into the smart drawing-room at
Auchloy, and while she wait«Ml for Mrs. M'Bean, she looked
contemptuously round the place, which was very showy, and
niiieh decorated by the fair hands of Jane and Bessie.
S|ifeimens of their skill in needlework and their artisiic
ttiidiMtcies Avere visible everywhere. The j)aintings on the
walls, signed by them, were productions of a fearful and wonder-
ful kind. Mrs. Macleod was kept waiting (piite a quarter of an
Imtir. it was eleven o'clock in tiie day, and Mrs. M'Bean was
^lill in her housewifely morning gown, and the young ladies in
\\i;i])pers and curl-papers. Mrs. M'Bean, being without j)ride,
wuuld have gone as she was into the drawing-room, but her
(l.iugliters were horrified at the suggestion, and carried her up-
^lili^s to be dressed hastily. The consequence was that, after a
time, Mrs. M'Bean, very hot and flustered-looking, and wearing
;i very still" black silk gown, quite out of place hi her own house
iit that time of the day, at last managed to reach the presence
lit' Mr>, Macleod.

' I'm sorry, I'm sure, to have kept you waiting so long,
ma'am,' said she, the moment she was in the room, and to the
lioiior of Miss Bessie, who was listening out>ide the door; 'but
till' lassies woidd hae me to put on my best goon. I hope 1
M-e yt' weel. Mis. Macleod?'

' 1 am (juite well, thank you,' replied Mrs. Macleod, a little
>'iilly. '1 must apologize for my early call. It was your son
1 a^kcd for. Is he not at home?'

'lie's at hame, but he's no' in the hoose,' responded Mrs.
M liciin. ' 1 can send one of the hibsies to look for him, if ye
likr.'

• Oh, it doesn't matter. I can see him again, I daresay. I

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only wantpfl to ask hirn about my son. I — I liave not hcinl
f'loiM liini latt'ly, and I tlioiiglit An;^us might be able to tell inc
sonx'tliinp; about liim.'

Mrs. M'Bean — niotlierly, fcelini-lienrted woman — looked ;it
tlie unhappy mistress of" Shonnen with genuine compassion.

' He's weel enouirh, onyway,' she said consolingly, 'tor I hear
Aiiiius speaking aboot him. He saw him just aibre he left
Edinburgh.'

'Did he? Did he say what he was doing?' inquired
Ellen Macleod, with an eagerness .she could not repress. It
cost her pride something to make these incpiiries, but fur
the moment motherly anxiety was stronger than pride.

' 1 doot he's no' daein' just unco weel,' said Mrs. M'liean, with
blunt candour. ' Oh, ma'am, speak to me as ye like ; I ken
a' aboot it. My Angus gaed on the veia same way when he
gaed to college first. The maister says a' young men maiui
come to the end o' their tether.'

' Does Angus say my son is not behaving as he should, then ? "
asked Ellen Macleod, with a sharp effort.

' Ay, weel, maybe he taks a drap whusky, or plays a game
at the cairds, or gangs ot'tener than he should to thae ill places.
the theatres, that if I were the Queen I'd stamp of!" the face o"
the earth. They're the perfect ruination o' laddies and lassies,
no' to speak o' aulder fules, that find the deil's pleasure in them,'
said Mrs. M'Bean, with honest indignation. 'But dinna {\A\
yersel', Maisrer Fergus is a guid, guid lad at the bottom. He'll
come to the husks quicker nor my laddie. I'm thaukfu' lie
has clean picket himsel' up this winter, an' he's workin' \vi' a'
his micht, an' liviu' as I wad hae him live. But I ken what
you feel. Many a sleepless nicht hae I putten in aboot Angus
M'Bean.'

Ellen Macleod rose. Perhaps she had heard more than she
wished or expected. She had very little to say. Mrs. M'Bean's
homely-offered sympathy was irksome to her. She felt humili-
ated that she should have called it forth. But her worst fears
were realized. Fergus was foUowiug in the prodigal's footsteps
in Edinburgh. What, then, was to be done ?

She thanked the factor's wife somewhat stiffly for her infornia-

! I

ALASTAIR'S WOOING.

285

tion, anrl took lior leave wlfliont so much as lookinp: at tlie two
yout)<: Ia<lies, wlio were liiiLM-iiivj alxnit tlu" liiill, anxinus to
coimuend lliciiiselves to the lady of ISlionnen. A> ^lle >li|»| »ii
(ivu of tlie LMte of Aiieliloy, a caii'i;i<:(' caiiu? s\vee|iini: iiloiii: iIk'
road from Sliiaii. It was o[)en, and in it sat Slicila. lof^kiii'.'
lovely in lier warm winter attire, with tlie licli furs mnkinp a
(l.iiiiiy Setting for lier sweet face. She flushed up at sipht ot
Mrs. Macleod. The natural kindness of her heart proin})!!!!
her to stop the. carriage and oflfer her a drive, hut it was ii>
will she restrained herself. Ellen Macleod could not at that
moment have given her a p]ea>ant answer. It increased her
hiteiiiess to see the young misirtss of Dalniore looking si.
hrivrlit and bonnie, riding in her own carriage, to which KMeti
.Macleo(^ thought she had no right. Sheihi had been at thi
LMiivevard with a wreath of Christmas roses. She was iioiny:
ever that day to Murraysluiugh to spend her Christmas, and.
wiih a tender, sensitive thought, wished to leave a reunm-
lirance for those who would spend no more Chrislmases on
earth.

That afternoon, over a cosy cup of tea in Lady Aiba's boudoir,
Sheila told of meeting Ellen Macleod.

'1 am very sorry for her. Sheila,' said Lady Ailsa gently.
' Ahtstiiir says her son is not doing very well in Edinburgh.'

'In his classes, does he mean ?' asked Sheila, with her vy^s
in ln'r tea-cup.

'No. He is not behaving himself. lie is drinkincr a little,
and keeping company with a wild set. I am very sorry hn-
l.iiu.'

' Aunt Ailsa, I don't believe a single word of it — not one ! '
cried Slieila indignantly, and her big eyes flashed fiie — 'not a
single woi'd ! I don't believe Fer^-us Macleod -woidd djink 01
do hoi'rid things. lie has been frightfully ill-used by every
h()dy, I think ; and 1 wish I knew how to make it uj) to him.
And it's perfectly abominable of Alastair to tell such stoiits
about his chum 1 '

Sheila had a temper of her own. Her aimt looked at her in
amazement, which slowly melted away as a light dawned upon
her.

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' Fergus lias a spirited champion, at any rate,' sho said, a
liiilc dryly; for a hope she hjid formed for lier own son was
suddenly (picnohed. ' Alustair had no object in telling a faUc-
hood aljoiit, his clium, and my belief is that he has not told the
worst. Whatever Alastair is, he is not spiteful. You arc not
just, to your cousin, Sheila. But we will not allude to this
vexed (piesiion again. What are you going to wear to-night,
then ?'

I don't know, and I don't care ! Aunt Ail-a, I am perfect! ;
Miiserid)le ! ' cried Sheila, and there were real fears of pain ' 1
h.-r l)tight eyes now. ' If Fergus Macleod had been Laird >t
Dalmore now, he would have been a good man. What use is it
to me? It is just a burden on me, and nobody will take it
from me.'

' Will they not ? There are plenty waiting for the chance,
I can tell you,' said Aunt Ailsa comically, though she was
truly sorry for her niece. 'More than one gentleman to-niL'iit
would gladly take Dalmore, and its bonnie mistress to the
bargain.'

Sheila laughed. Her anger, flashing up in a moment, was
gi.ne as speedily ; but Lady Ailsa saw that there was a sting
left about Fergus Macleod. There was a dance for the yoini?
folks at Murrayshaugh that night, — one of those quiit hut
'l(dightful entertainments for Avhich Lady Ailsa was famous.
S'le made home home like and happy for her boys, and they
simply adored her, and thought Murrayshaugh the dearest
place in the world. It was a sight to see the little mother
surrounded by her six tall sons; Roderick, the younge>t, was
tit teen now, and only half a head less than Alastair. But wlien
Sheila came, their allegiance was divided. Sheila was a prime
I ivourite among all the boys, but poor Alastair had begun to
iiiidc of her lately with something more than cousinly aftection.

Sheila came down to the ball-room that night iu a white silk
own, with the Macdonald tartan at her waist and t)n her sleeve'*,
md a big bunch of white heather fastening her bodice, whioii
\va> cut low, to reveal the white, stately contour of her tlu-oat.
Her bright brown hair was coiled round her dainty head, and
she looked like a young queen as she moved about, with a kitid

A LAST AIR'S WOOING.

287

word nnd roarly smile for all Aunt Ailsu's guosts. Miiny
atlniirinj: plauces followed Imt ; liut Slieila was siipreinelv im-
coiiscioiis of licr own i)e\viKlering clianns, and so was whoUv
ii iv-istib!e and winniiig.

'Slieili. if you don't danee tliis reel with me, I'll b" savaue,'
siiid Alastair, when the dancing was about half over. 'You've
been dancing with a lot of blessed lellows you've no right to
speak to.'

'Dear me! Alastair Murray, I thought all Aunt Ailsa's
guests would be gentlemen,' said Sheihi mischievously.

'Oh, well, I suppose they are. But, you know, I have some
sort of a right to one dance, haven't 1 ?'

'Oh, I daresiiy. But I'm tired, Ala>tair, If you like to g.'t
ine a shawl, I'll go out witii you till this reel is over.'

Alastair departed in rai)ture, and brought her somebody's
wrap from the cloak-room, a dainty cloak of Stuart tartan
silk, lined with swan's-down, and fastened with two big silver
buckles.

' 'I'hat isn't mine, Alastair, It's Alina Stuart's. See ! '

'Never mind ; yoii won't hurt it. Come on, or the thing'll
he over in a minute.'

So Alastair took her on his arm, and led her out to the
terrace, where it was cpiiet and delicious, for the night was
wonderfully mild for December. It was like to be a preen
Yule, though they had had several snow showers up at
Aniulree.

' Sheila, nobody in there can hold a candle to you.
We are all proud of you,' began Alastair, in his outspoken
fashion.

' How can you speak such utter nonsense, Alastair
.Murray '? '

' It is not nonsense ; it's gospel,' said Alastair, too much
in earnest to be particular about his words. ' I hope you
won't go and take up with any of these fellows, and — and
lOMrry them.'

' How many of them ? '

'Oh, well, one, of course. But you needn't laugh at me.
Sheila. I'm awfully fond of you. I don't supjiose, now, you

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cotild care anytliinp: for a big, rough clmp like rne, conlrl

veil?'

' I do care a jinat deal for }ou, Alastair, said SIh-IIm, not
tliiidsiiig, pciliiips, of tlie liiddt'ii lueatiing in lier cousin's winis.
lltr licart — ay, and her thoufjhis — we:e in Edinltur^h wiili
Firgus Miicit'od. Was slie now beginning to awaken to the
|>:iin and yearning of her woinardiood ? Ahistair saw the prc-
(»i'CM|)i('d h)ok. Tliere was nothing in ti»e frank, cousinly
avowal to encourage liini ; nevcrtlieless he went bravely
on.

• You don't understand me, Sheila. I — I care about you in
;i tlilTerent way. I love you, Sluila.'

M)li, Alastiiir, don't say such a dreadful thing!' cried Sheila,
uitli crimson face, and hastily withdrawing her hand from
iiis arm.

• Ii isn't dreadful — at least to me,' said poor Alastair, qnitc
' uinl)ly. ' I'm in earnest, Sheila. Don't you think, after a
uliile, you mijiht like me in that way?'

' Oh, nev*M ! it is quite impossible,' said Sheiln, quite
ilreidcdiy. ' Don't let us be so foolish. We are cousins and
eliMins, Alastair, and will never be an\ thing else. Don't look so
miserable. You'll find you won't care anything to-morrow.
You'll laUL'h at yoiirself.'

'Will 1?' Alastair pulled his yellow moustache rather
>iiv;inely. 'That's the way you girls speak. You know
nothing about a man's feelings, smd care less.'

' I do care, Alastair,' said Sheila softly ; and he saw she was
\ e.Ned.

' Don't make that kind of face, Sheila. You make me feel
that I aju a wrelcl). Come on in, and dance this reel with me.
and I'll never speak of it again, — at least, for a long time.
Doii'r, you hear them playing "Lady Anne Lindsay"? it's
L!rand.'

Sheila smiled, and put her hand on his arm again.

' Before we go in, Alastair,' she said, in a low voice, as
they came near the open door, ' will you tell me if it is
true that Fergus Macleod is not behaving himself in Edin-
burgh ?'

ALASr.JK'S WOOING.

if9

about vou in

'Poor fclli'w! 1 it's Jivv fully down iti tlic rnfMitli, mtkI pcrluii «;
lie h(in goDc a little ofY tlic sti;ii<.Hit ; liiit lu-'ll n- i»r do jiiiv-
tliiiig vrry l);id,' s;iid AInstwir, with a manly kindiM'SS wliicli
showed Ids fnie, lioiicst luMit. 'Don't V(x \<pursi'ir alu u» liiiii,
Slit'iln, and don't luind what 1 said. I — 1 lurgot about Fiiijiis
M.icleod.'

Slieiln, quite
e cousins and
Don't look so
2 lo-inorrow.

staclie ratluT
You know

saw she was

make nie ffd
reel with nic.
a lonjr time,
indsay"? it's

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CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

The price one ]»ay3 for pride is mountain liigh,
Tlicre is a curst; Ix^yond tlie rack of tleath,
The curse of a lii^'li spirit, faiiiisliiiig
Because all earth but sickens it.

Bailey.

T was tliG last niprht of the year, a night of blindinp
snowdrift, in which it was unsafe to bo out of
doors. The wind was sweeping up Glcnqnaicli
with a terrific force, and howling round Shoiiiun
with many an eerie, uncanny noise. By her melancholy hcartli,
with li-'i.' arms folded across her breast, sat Ellen MacN'od
alone, thinking of her son. The last night of the year 1 — other
mothers iiad their bairns gathered about the hearth ; even tlu'
poorest household in the Glen made some attemf)t at social,
happy renunion on the last night of the year. But in the
house of Shonnen that desolate and n)iserable woman was alont'
with her anxiety and her regrets. She wished she had been
less hard with her one son. She thought if he would but come
in, she would give him a welcome such as he had never
received. She even planned a letter she should write on the
morrow, asking him to come home, and telling him she would
no longer insist that lie should follow in the path she had
marked out. It had been a long, dreary day ; it was even llun

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JHE LAsf MGUr 01^ THE YEAR.

2CJI

(iiilv liairpa.st si'VtMi, and cacli iniiiutu .sfciin d iikr an lioitr, imi
(iiily t<» her, Imt. ti> poor Ji'ssif Mackfii/ic, wliosj- xivicf at
Slionnen was ratlu-r a trial for a girl who lia<l ht'cii lirou;ilii
\\\\ among fight brothers and sisters, and loved cheerful com-
|i;iiiy. Hilt it was an easy place, and she had got into Mrs.
Maoleod's way, and was, on the whole, comfortable enough.
Sli«- was trying to make herself happy in the kitchen, by the
side of the blazing peat Hre, finishing a brilliant purple Tam o'
Sliimter for the shej>herd at (jlarrows, who was her ' hid,' but
wlio was strictly forl)idden to come and set; her at Shonnen.
Tlitir only chance of meeting was on Sumlay nights, as her
mistress could not control her when she was out of the house,

Ahout ten minutes to eight, both women w«re startled by a
loud and continuous knocking at the door. Uoth sprang up,
:iii(l ran out into the dimly-lighted hall, where they looked at
each other in amazement, which was partly apprehension.

Indeed, Jessie Mackenzie's teeth were chattering in her
head, but Mrs. Macleod was neither a timid nor a nervous
woman.

'Oh, ma'am, dinna open the door! It'll be tlie tinks,'
jilcaded the girl tremV)Iingly, 'There was a great tribe o'
tlieni cam' up the Sma* Glen the day, an' we hinna a num in
the house.'

' Who's there ?' asked Mrs. Macleod, approaching the door,
which, however, she did not uidock.

' It's me ; confound you ! can't you let me in ? ' said a thick,
angry voice, which, however, she instantly recognised ; and in
a tnoinent the door was flung open, and the son of the house,
cdvored with snow from head to foot, came in. They did not
notice anything peculiar in his gait or manner just at first.
Jtssie, with whom he was a great favourite, ran for the carpet
switch to sweep the snow from his coat and boots, but his
nmtlier was almost speechless with amazement.

'Why in the world have you come home to-day, in a
>tniiii like this, too?' she asked. 'How did you get up?
^\ litre have you come from?'

' From Edinburgh, of course,' he answered, quite rudely,
in a manner so different from his own that his mother started.

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292

SHEILA.

He threw liis wet coat and hat on the hall floor, and m.-irdicd
into the dining-room, his snowy feet making wet marks on tlif
carpet all the way. His mother noticed then that he S'Tiiici
to walk unsteadily, and that tliere was sometliing strangt' a'lMMit
him altogether. An awful fear took poiise^si()n of her; hut
she was ('(jnal to the occasion. She stepped forward, and (hi w
to the diiiing-room door, just as tiie maid came out of tlic
kitchen with the biiish and a towel in her hand.

' Take Mr. Fergus's coat and hat to the kitchen and shnkr
tliem, Jessie, and put on the kettle,' said Ellen Macleod,
without a tremor in her Vv)ice. 'You can come for the hoots
when I ring. He is very tired, I see. He has walked from
Dunkeld.'

Jessie, suspecting nothing, proceeded to obey her niistre.«s,
who tlien went into the dining-room. Ft-rgus had a ch.iir
planted straight before the fire, and the soles of his boots stuck
against the red-hot bars of the grate. The water was riitiniii.:
off them on to the polished steel ash-pan, and a cloud of stiaiii
was rising about him. His mother went straight to the hciirrh,
and surveyed hiui a mouient in silence. What she endund
during that instant was fearful.

'Well?' he said, with a rude laugh. 'Will you knoAV nic
again ? Get out the bottle, and let us drink to the New Ytar.
It'll soon be here.'

She turned her liead away, for her face was grey with the
sharp pain at her heart. It was a physical pain, brougiit on
by the shock. Was that her boy — that jiale, haggard, dissipaud-
looking young n)an, with the bleared red eyes and hollow
chcid-:^, liis hand shaking with nervousness as he clutched the
back of he chair? Had she driven him to this?

'Get out the bottle,' he reiterated, giving the fire a kick
with his sinijed boot. 'It's a sorry welcome lor a fellow atur
a t«Mi-mile walk. What are you staring at ? '

' Ar you. I can not believe that you are my son,' came at
length liom between her pale lips.

' F;ict, tiuuigh, — him in the flesh. He needs a little sjiinf.
though,' he said, with a hideous leer. 'Is there aiiyihin^ hi
the sideboard ? '

' f >.

wMm

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

-''93

ly son,' came at

The shock of agony over, — tor it was afjony to that proud
woman to see her noltle son thus dchascd, — licr tciiijH r rose.
Had she been wise, slie would have hehl lier peace, hut in her
stat(f of mind at the time, perhaps it was too much to expect
from her.

' What do you mean,' slie demanded fiercely, ' coming lionie
to ihsgrace me in this state? The st(.ries I have heard of
\{mr misdeeds are all too true, I see ; hut I hoped you wouhl
have respect enough for me to come home sohcr, at least.'

' Draw it mild, old lady ; you slunild he thaid<ful I'm here
;it all. 1 had a job getting up that beastly road, I can tell
you. Fetch out the i>ottle, I say, and give us a pull for my
pains.'

He rose, and made a move towards the sideboard ; Init in
•\\\ instant his mottier had turned the key, and slipped it into
licr p )cket. Fergus was in a hall'-maudlin state, too drunk,
indeed, to be angry.

' I'll get my coat. There's a nip or two left in it yet,' he
said, opening the door. 'It's away! Mere, Jessi(! M;i(l<enzii- !
biing that coat, and be smart about it,' he crii'd at, the top
of his voice.

Before his mother could countermand the order, Jes«.ii-. in
aiiKizement, came hurrying out with the coat.

Forgetful of everything but her di tei minaion to keep tlie
stiitr iVom him, Ellen Macleod took the lottle from the pocket,
and threw it on the stone floor, where it shivered to atoiii<.
Then of course Fergus swore, and, turnii.g open the outtr cUxt,
lie darted out.

'I'll get it from Uncle Graham at D ilmore,' they heard him
nuitter, and the next mom.ent he was lost in the darkness and
>\virl of the diift.

A low ci'y, which Jessie never forgot, broke from Ellen Mac-
h'ud's lips, and she darted after him, but was almost blinded in
a moment.

'Comeback, ma'am! oh, come back! Ye'll be buried and
ki led I ' cried Jessie, shaking w^ith eveitement and terror, for such
a filing had never happened in the (piiet house of Shonnen before.

Ellen Macleod did not go far. tjhe hud not lost her senses

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■ :M

S9 H

Im M

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294

SHEILA.

quite, and she saw that it was useless. She came back into
the house, and shut the door with a hfind which did not falftr;
l)ut iier face was awful to see.

' He has pone to Ijis death, Jessie Mackc nzie ; no huni.in
lii'inp can seek him on a niglit like this. God help him iuv]
me!

Then Jessie fell to weeping, and even offered to strurrnlc
up to the inn and get men to look for him, but her mistnss
only shook her head, and, passing into the dining-room, :iL'iiin
shut herself in. Jessie Mackenzie wandered up and down the
hall, wringing her hands in misery, trembling still from tlie
excitement. The whole thing had happened so suddenly, and
li.id passed so quickly, that it was like a dream.

Elion Mjicleod was alone with her agony, and it did its work.
Her face worked convulsively, her lips were bleeding with her
effort to k^ep them still, her hands shc>ok, nay, her whole proud
figure trembled as if it had received a shock. Once a lonir
mojm broke from her lips, and then, as if unable to bear the
tumult of her soul, she knelt down by the table, and presstd
her brow upon the hard edge until it made a deep red mark.
Hut she did not feel that it hurt her. In moments of such
intense mental anguish the physical is as nothing. God was
tlealing sharply with this strange woman. Hard of heart, she
needed a hard discipline. Would it avail? Would it fulfil its
desired end ? In that position she knelt, battling with her pain,
until the dead ashes dropped from the grate, and the lamj) went
out with a feeble flicker, leaving the room ?old and dark. In
that position the grey dawn of the New Year's morning found
lier.

• • • • • • •

Miss Murray Macdonald had returned to Dalmore on the
29t,h of December; they could not persuade her to remain
for the New Year's festivities at Murra)shaugh. Siie hit
Miss Gordon at the manse, however, to spend New Year with
her family, and came up alone on a snell, bitter afternoon,
when a few stray snowflakes were scudding before the north
wind. If Yule was green, it bade fair to be 'a white Hog-
manay.

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

!95

■i-iii,

Slieila had enjoyed lierself thorouglily at Mnn yshan^li,
but she was unfeignedly glad to be home. Dahnore niijiht be
a burden on her shoulders, but slie loved the place with a
surpassing love. Though she was so young, and had a bright,
pay, happy spirit, she was never dull, even when alone in her
rambling old house. She had her pony and her rambles out
of doors, her books, painting, and music in tin* house, therefore
time did not hang heavy on her hands. She was neitlna* indolent
nor difficult to please, Cameron, the housekeeper, who adoi«'d
her, said she was the most industrious young lady f^he had ever
seen, and Cameron had spent all her life in service.

On the last night of the year Sheila was alone in the drawing-
room. Tory lay snugly cm led up in a corner of the couch, with
his presuming little head on a crimson satin hand-painted
cushion. Tory was undoubtedly a spoiled dog, but he was
very, very old now, and his young mistress indulged him to the
top of his bent. On the hearth-rug lay a noble staghound, who,
it must be confessed, was a formidable rival to Tory. He was
a gift from tlie Murray>naugh boys, and rejoiced in the namt;
of Whig. In Miss Murray Macdonald's drawing-room politics
were at a discount, for Whig and Tory both agreed. It was
nin'i o'clock, and Sheila l/egan to yawn a little over her work,
and to'wish the supper tray woidd come in. S:id(lenly Tory
pricked up his ears, and Whig, lifting up his grand head, sent
forth one deep, warning bark. Sheila rose in some surj)iise.
They kept early hours at Dalmore ; she fancied the doors
would be all locked, and some of the servants already in bed.
There was not a sound to be heard ; even the wind seemed
to breathe quietly round Dalmoie, and drifting snow makes
no noise. But presently there was a quick knock at the
flra wing-room door, and Cameron, looking somewhat scareil,
came in.

' What is it, Cameron ? * asked Sheila, fearing something, she
scarcely knew what.

' Miss Sheila, a strange tfiing has happened. Mr. Fergus
Macleod has come, and' —

' What does he want? Why did you not bring him up at
once? Tell him to come up now, Cameron,' said Sheila

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SHEILA.

quickly ; and the sweet colour flushed all her fair face with
,1 ci'imsoii glow.

' Oh, I couldn't, Miss Sheila. He's not right, poor young
M'tiHiMiian ! '

'What is the matter with him? I'll go and see him. Is
<• ill the library?' said Sheila, with an apprehensive look.
She could not understand the hesitation in the housekeeper's
manner, and it irritated her.

' O no, 3'ou mustn't go down,' said Cameron, laving a
(1(4. lining hand on the arm of her young mistress. 'He has
had too much driid<, I think. Miss Sheila, and he has come
Si-eking his Uncle Graham, he says. I trii'd to persuade hini
to go quietly away, but he won't ; he is in the library, silting
quietly, thinking I have gone to fetch the Liird.'

Sheila grew white to the lips, and began to tremble. Tlie
housekeejter saw her put a check on herself, and clench her
hands to keep them still. She turned her large, e.irnest eves
full on ti.e housekeeper's face, with a half-resolute, half-palheiic
look.

' I shall go down. Come with me, Cameron, but remain out
of the room. Perhaps I may be able to make him go quit tly
away.'

She spoke with evident effort. She had received a shock
which made her feel weak and ill. She could not believe it of
Fergus. She wi>hed to see f )r herself. Her tone was imper-
ative; Cameron had never heard it more so, and she turned
silently and opened the door.

'Who let him in?' Sheila turned on the stairs to ask.

' I did. Miss Slieila. The girls are in bed, and Haniish
dozing over the fire.'

'Nobody saw him but you, then?*

'Nobody, Miss S:ieila.'

' I am glad of ti at,' said Sheila simply ; and the housekeeper
wiptMl a Tear from her own eyes.

Sheila did not hesitate at the library door, but turned the
h.indle, and went in with sw' 't, unfaltering steps. The libiary
\v;i> Used as a dining-room when the ladies were ahme, and the
tire burii'^d in it all day in winter. Cameron had turned up

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

297

ir face with

poor young

tlie l.MTnp, and there was F<rgns, sitting on the ccrncr of tlie
sola, with his liead hiid down on the pillow, sound asleep. Tired
with his fight through the snowdrift, the wami air of ihe room
had overpowered liini, and lie had .'■uccuinbed the moment he
sat down. SI.eihi stood a moment hy tlie table, and looked at
him. Sle was very straight and erect, and lier face was per-
fectly white. The hiok uj)on it might luive recalled liis wai.der-
ing senses, but he seemed perfectly imconscious. Sheila tnrned
alxiur at length, and, going to tlie door, beckoned to the house-
keeper, who was in the hall. Then both left the room, and
Sheila, undoing the bolls of the hall door, tried to look out, but
the soft snow swept in upon her, and ti sudden wind blast nearly
blew out the h;dl lamp.

' Sliut the door, dmoron, and put uj) the bolts,' said Slieila
decidedly. ' No one can leave Dalinore to-night. What are
we to do ? '

' It would be a cnud shame to set him out alone. lie would
never riaeh Shon.ien alive, Miss Slieihi, Imt would oidy creep
info a dyke-side, and fail into a sleep he; woidd nexcr w;iken
from,' Said Cameron. 'And if we set Ilamish with him, the
whoK. Tvirish will have the story before dinner - time to-
morrow.*

' ! i.eii he must stay liere,' said Sheila. Her eyes were
t'iLieriiig. In spite of her perfect calmness, she was labouring
under the most intense excitement.

'I'll tell ye what, Mi>s Sheila, I'll build up the fire in the
libiary, and let him abe. He'll tak' no harm, poor lad ! They
say Providence takes care o' bairns an' foolish lads likt^ him,'
said Cameron. ' I'll lie down myself in the bed in the Laiid's
room, an' I'll hear him if he moves. And I promise ye I'd get
him ;iway from Didniore in the mornin' afore there's a move-
ment in the house.'

' I'll see him before he goes. I shall not be asleep,' said
Sheila. 'Be kind to him. Cam ron, for my sake.'

' Ble««s ye, my b.drn! an' him an' a',' said Cameron fervetifly.
' He'll be a braw n-an for a' this yet. It'll maybe be the makin'
0' him to hae sleepit this nicht in Dalmore.'

Sheila smiled a wan smile, and crept away upstairs. She

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SHEILA.

passed by the drawing-room, where the dogs were whininu :if
tlie door, and went along the corridor to her mother's room.
Two hearts were breaking that night for Fergus MacltMnl^
misdoing.

Slieila threw herself across the bed, and her grief found vein
in one low, passionate cry,^

^ Oh, mamma 1 mamma 1 ' -

I '

CHAPTER XXXIV.

NEW YEARS MORN.

For mercy has a human heart,

Pity a human face ;
And love tlie human form divine,

And peace the human dress.

William Black.

ERGUS IMACLEOD slept soundly until four o'clock
in the morning. Cameron, sitting with a plaid
round her in the Laird's arm-chair in the adjoining
room, heard him move, and, the bedroom door
being ajar, she could see him quite well, lie sat up, rubbed
liis eyes, and stared round him. He did not seem to renlize
at first where he was. There was a glowing fire in the wide
grate, and the lamp was burning on the table. The room
liad never looked more home-like and familiar, but what room
was it? But for the weiiihl of her sorrow and anxiety both
for him and Ijer mistress, the housekeeper could have laughed
at the look of utter helplessness and perplexity in his face. He
•rot up at length, shook himself, and took a turn round the
room. Then he stopped straight opposite the fireplace, and
Caiiieron saw him fix his eyes on the portrait of his uncle's
^^it'c, which hung above the mantel-shelf. These sweet, serious
t yes seemed to be bent upon him in mild, sorrowing surprise.
He started, and drew his hand quickly across his brow.

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SHEILA.

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♦ Annt Eflitlil' he said. ' Heavens ! I am at D.ilmorc! Wli.it
1 i('s it moan?'

Tlic liousckoepcr r^so, and made a m()V(>ment with her cliiiir
'» MttiMot his attention before she entered his presence.

' Mr. Fergu*;,' she said gently, ' sit down, and I'll exphiin to
; oil how you came liere.'

He looked at her in dumb amnzemenl, and then sat down ;i>
iiliediently as a child. He was quite sober now. but he did iK.r
I'raliz ' his situation. He felt like a man awaking from somr
ln'uildt'ring dream.

' Don't you remember coming up last night, Mr. Fergus, and
M-kiiig for your Uncle Graham?'

He sliook his head.

' I don't reiuember anything but getting out at Dunkeld
station, and plougliing up the road through the snow,' he s;iid, tr\ -
ing to make memory perform her function. * When did 1 coniey'

' At nine o'clock.'

'Were you anywliere else on the road?'

' Yes, I was at home,' he said, starting up. ' I remember my
Miotlier, and she was friglitfully angry. Cameron, I was drunk!
\\\\\\\. state was I in when I came here?'

' Y(ju had had too mucli. I s.iw it at once, Mr. Fergiis,' saiil
Ciineron, feeling an ititense pity for him. The awaktMiing \v;is
a t'eaifid experience for Fergus Macleod. The veins on lii>^
bri'ad white brow were swollen like knotted cords; tlu;
pt'rs|)iiation stood in great beads on his face.

'Tell me all about it, Camenm. What did I do? Was I
wild ? Did 1 make any disturbance ? '

' O no, none. Nobody saw you but Miss Shi'ila and me.'

She told him piu'posely. She wished him to sufftr; to have
ids wholesor.ie lesson without alleviation. It might, as she had
said, be his salvation.

' Did she see me ? O my God ! '

There was no irreverence in the exclamation. It was wruntr
from him by keen mental anguish. Before Cameron could
reply, the door into the hall was softly opened, and Sheila
iierself stole in. She had never undressed. She .still wore her
warm grey tweed gown, and a white linen collar, fastened by

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NE W YEAR 'S MORN,

301

"ergus, and

iicmbpr my
vas drunk !

^rgus,' said

tM)iiig was

ins ()M liis

iords ; tlu;

was \Yrun<r
MO 11 foil Id
md Slioila
I wore lifi'
istened by

a bipj purple cairngorru at hur tliroat. The linon was wkA
wliitcr iliaii luT face. She had kept licr vi^^il all the nijKi
long ill her inotlier's room. It was directly ahove the lilu r .
and, in the ai)solute stillness of the house, she had ea>il\ h. ,;
tJK! sound of their voices hidow. It could not icacli tl

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inmates of the house, who were sleeping in the lemoic
When her young mistress entered, Cameron slijjpcd out. II 1
eyes were wet, her heart sore, for these two ^()un•J: ('if.inn

ho loved each ther, and who met in such stranuc and

circumstances.

I thought I should like to see you, Fergus,' Slieila

>iii(i

befor

e you went away

Her voice was of surpassing sweetness, lier accent genilc aiid
kind, but with a ring of mournfulness in it. l'« rhaps \\k\-
girlish idol was shatteretl ; and that, to a sensitive heart, is
sometiiing of a trial. He swung round, gave her one stai ihd
lool;, and then, flinging himscdf on the couch again, yavc \\u\
to tears. 'Jliey were tears of bitterest penitence

5 r"

and shanir

The noise of his subbing di>turbed Sheila. She walke i ovci- to
the firej)lace, and, leaning her arm on the oak shelf above it,
stood very still. Ilir tears were all shed. It was as if the
face of the mother in the i)ictiire on the wall was moved witii
conipa-sion for them both. The mild, lieauiilul ey» s sceini-d
alniDst to speak. ' No doubt her spirit was there. Slu ila I'l h
oiiiforied and strengthened to go throngh this (jrdeal. She
had something to say to Fergus. She felt that God would
Liuide her tongue.

At last he grew calmer, and stood up, and looked at the
slight figure of the young pirl by the hearth.

'I shall go away, Sheila, without a>king ynii to forgive m .
I >hall never forgive myself. I have disgraced my own nan.. ,
iiiv uncle's memory, and your home. Good-b\'e.'

>ry

}■'

He jrave his head a sliti;ht inclination, and turned to l'*

.i;i

Siieihi's look held him back

Ndt yet. I h

uive something to say to yon, rerLMi'i

I \-

sliduld 1 not forgive you ? I will not sayyouh.ive idt ^X^s.
wrong, i)ut I cannot let you go feeling as you do at ilii> !i oiii( 1.
1 could not do it to a stranger, least of all to yotL

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SHEILA,

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'You are too kind, but your kindness cannot litrliton mv
burdj'n of sluiino, Slirilji. As I live, I know not wliat ti-mptt d
nic to degrade niysrlt' brfbre //o^/,' lie said, with passion.

' Better to nje than to strangers, Fergus,' siie ,>:dd sadly ; hut
tlie kind h)ok never lett her face. ' I will tell you I was not
so njucli sur[)rised, because 1 bad beard yoti had gone off the
straight path a little. But you will find it again, and walk
sledCa-.tly in it, for your own sake and for mine.'

'For yours? Then you do not altogether hate and despise
nio, Sheila?' cried the utdwippy young man, with a gleam ot
bopt- in bis melancholy eyes.

' Despise and hate you, after all that is past, Fergus? ' said
iSlieihi reproachfully. 'I cannot, caiuiot do that; for I fe»'l —
indeed I do, and it is well-nigh hreaking my heart — that had
1 not robbed you of your inheritance, you would have heeii
a different man. You would have been reigning here, the
honoured and beloved Laird of Dahnore.*

These words caused Fergus Macleod the deepest surprise and
concern. He saw how deeply Sheila felt what she was saying,
and again be cursed bis own lolly. lie saw that she tonk
blame to herself for bis sin. He could have knelt at her feet
and besought her forgiveness anew, but the look c>n her face
deterred him.

' Husb, husb ! ' be said hurriedly. 'Do you think I have
ever grudged Dalmore to you? \Vhen I hear how they speak
your name, and see what you have done for the j)lace and
the people, I am thankful that it is in your bands and not in
mine. When I leave here. Sheila, you shall never see nie
again, but in all your efforts for the people's good, in all your
generous, noble kindness, be sure that no blessing or congiatu-
laiion can be tiuer than that of Fergus Macleod, unwcriiiy
th >ugh he be.'

There was a flush now upon Sheila's cheek, and her eyi;
filled with apprehension.

'Where are you going, Fergus?' she asked, somewhat
falteringly.

'After last night, I hardly think my mother will care to
keep me at home,' replied he, with a slight shudder. 'She

NE W YEAR 'S MORN.

303

will be glad to send me where all the scapegoats are sent, —
across the sea.'

'You seem proud cf your cliaracter,' said Sheila, with
slightly curling lip, for her righteous atigcr rose at his toiu',
wiiich did no honour to his niaiiliood. Bur suddenly her mood
changed; her face became beautiful with the tenderness of her
heart; her eye shone with a high resolve. The titne hatl eotnc
for her to exercise the woman's privilege, not otdy to comfort,
hut to spur on to highest endeavour; and so her childhood
went away for ever from Sheila Macdonaiu.

' Fergus, I will not say you nuist not go, — nay, I think now
it would be better to break all the old ties, and begin anew.
Promise me that, for the sake; of the old time, you will begin
anew, and try to live your life nobly. I have expected so
much. I do expect it still from you. There will never lie to
me a second Fergus Maeleod. Don't disappoint me. There
i> no grand achievement or noble height which I have not
h( lifved you could reach. Only on condition that you will
t'idtil my dieams will I say good-bye, and bid you (ind speed !'

Suri'ly the words were Heaven-given. They infused new
i (• into Fergus Maeleod ; they showinl him the pos>ihilities of
hie. They even asNured him that one fall need not mean
iMn-.tant grovelling, that hoj)e had a benison for him yet. In
a wt.r 1, they made him a man. He drew himself up ; a light
cauii' into his blue eye something like the flasiiing light of old ;
he ^ave his mouth a determined cur"'e. Sheila saw that he
was saved.

' So help me God, I will ! ' he said, and these words were a
vow. 'I promise to you, before (iod, that from this day I am
a different man. In addition to all you have done for olheis,
Sheihi, you have saved me. Yes, as I live, I believe had you
treated me differently, my shame and horror would have sent
iiie sir.iight to destruction.'

' No, no ; you are not wholly bad,' said Sheila, with a slight
snule, which was more pathetic than her former deep gravity.
' Go, then, Fergus ; some day, not far distant, I trust, 1 shall
be [iroud of my friend.'

She extended her hand, but he shook his head.

yj-

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SHEILA.

♦ I Mm nof WTthy to tniu;li it,' ln» «?iii(l. * If tli.'it snmn day
t'vcr cdinfs, Slii'ila, I hope 1 shall he iildi; to stand in yniir
prf'scncc without slianjc, and ti U y.ni what I owe to y'Mi.'

SIm* took )i step foi'wai'd tlici, and, seeing he wiis goiii^',
followed Idni out to ill • door. When he set it open, tlu-y saw
that flic stonn had ceasfd. The lower. ng olonds wt»re drifting
aci<»s the sky, hut riglit above wliere they stood tliere was a
cl(!ar patoh ot'blne, in whieli many stars were shining.

♦ Stars of promise,' Sheila said ; and then they stood for a
moment i?) a silence wdnch touched th.^rn both witli soh'nniity.
The past lialf-hoiir had been one of keen tension for both, and
now the shadow, perhaps, of an eternal jtarling was upon
thein.

It was not wonderful that Fergus had nothing to say now,
still less that Sheila's lips should be; silent. There had been
too much between then), to part with words of commonplace
farewell.

♦ It will be dawn soon. I must go,' said Fergus ; and their
eyes n)et. In that look tlie heait (»f each was revealed to the
other. Sheila turned about, and, gliding into the house, closiid
the doer. Then Fergus Macleod knelt down on tlie snow-
cover(!d doorstep, and prayed. When he rose from his knees,
he walked away I'rt^m the house with a step which had resolu-
tion and hope in it. In his des[)air and disappointmertt he had
tried the j rodigal's husks, and had now come back, clothed and
in his right mind, to the right way, which, with the help of God,
he woLiid n v^r leave again.

• • • • • • •

That night had passed strangely at Shonnen Lodge. Mrs.
Macleod was shut in the dining-room, Jessie Mackenzie keeping
a vigil by the kitchen fire. She had sli|»f)ed out before mid-
night, and unlocked the front door, so that if the wanderer
sliDidd leturn he would gain admittance at once. She was too
fiightened to sleep. At five o'clock she began to move about
and attend to her work. More thin once she went to tlie
dining-room door, but always came treml)ling back I'roin it
again. 1 do not know what she feared. The stillness was like
death. She felt that she could not go into that room until it

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305

to say now,
•re had lu'cn
cuiiiri)uii|)lace

!iOclge. Mrs.

was (1 ivHtilif. Poovihly licr niovpmonts aroused her niisfro»s,
fur, alter a liim'. to liii- intense relief, Je>sie lie;ii(l a step in tin*
diiiinir r<»(»ni. I lien tlie door \\;is opened, and Mrs. M.icli ixl

I'lMie tliron;ih to tlie kiiclieii. Sli
;diiio>l >cr anied at siilir of lier. Her ha
liei lace pale as that of thi- dead.

le was like a spectre

U'SSU!

ir was quitf white, an

liitt

>ld

I'll re his been no word, 1 suppose, Jessie?' she said, in a

cold, passionless vo ce.

' \o, nia'ani. Oh, how co'd yon look! Come and war
yonrseU'at the fire; 1 kept it in all iii;:hr.'

'You should hav(! been in your Ind,' said Mrs. ^^a<'leod
([ilietly; but she obeyed the kind re(pie>t, and stood by th'- tir(>
a inouM'fit, warminy; lur cliilled, i)liie fuij'ers at the ejieijful

L'l

nW.

•It is after five, I see. You eati li'dit the dininu-ruoin

tir(;; I think it has gone out. I shall go u[)stairs and lie down

or a

litth

Her voice sounded low and somewhat broken in its tone.
The hopelessness of it struck Jessie, tliouyh sin* was not a close
()l)ser\-er. Her kind heart was instantly touched.

'Sit down here, ma'am, or I make ye a cup of tea, .nnd when
ye aie drinkitii; it J'll make a fiie in your room and put the
Ixjttle iti tlie bed. See, the kettle's boilm'.'

'You are a good girl, Jessie. Very well, I will sit down.
Yes. I am very co d,' said Ellen Macleod, s' ivering from head
to fo.)t. Je>sie was seriously alarmed. She wished it was
(hi^liLiht. 'Ihe things that were hapj»ening at SlKHinen were
too much for her to cope with alone. But who could she seiid
fur? Her mistress had no friends. Jessie was very active.
Ill an incredibly short time slit^ had a nice cup of tea for her
misii'ess, wlio took it gratefully, and si[)ped it with evident
ieli>h. But her face liad still that worn look ; her eyes wt re
dry and gliitenng. She was thinking of her boy, lying among
the snow-drifts — dead, and she bad driven him to it! Poor,
pioiid, breaking heart ! its punislunent was very great. Jessie
Mackiiizie was up in the be<lroom, busying herself for the
cuiiiforr of her di.stvesscd mistress, when the outer door was
op< ned, and some one came in, — some :>ne with a firm, steady,
iiiaidy sti'p. The foot sought the dining-room, and then came

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306

SHEILA.

striding into the kitclicn. Ellen Macleod let her tea-cup fall
tlowii on the stone floor, but sat perfectly still. Then tiit-
'ijuic approached her, and knelt down by her side on the fldor.
imd an arm w.is thrown about her where she sat, and a voic'
IiIKmI her ears — her own boy's familiar voice, though broken
iind trenil)ling in its tone.

'Mother!' it said, 'mother, forgive me 1 I believe '.ud
lias.'

But there was no answer. Then, looking up, he saw the
white hair, the haggard, pain- lined face, the agony-dimmed
eyes, and knew what he had done.

' Mother, mother ! speak to me ! I am your son. Speak to
me, and forgive me ! ' he pleaded. Then he looked at her and
wondered, for her lips parted, and the smile on her face was to
him a glimpse of heaven. She laid her hand on his brow ; slie
I assed it round his neck, and bent her own cheek until it
rested on his bright hair. And so mother and son in name
became mother and son in heart. God had spoken, and not in
\ ain, to Ellen Macleod.

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CHAPTER XXXV.

SIGNS OF EVIL.

Canst thou not minister to a inin<l diseased,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain ?

Hamlet,

iT twelve o'clock on the last night of the year, old
Janet Menzies died in her cottage at Achnafaiild.
The end was not unexpected, for she had been
rapidly sinking since the winter. So Malcolm and
Katie were left quite alone. There had not been such perfect
confidence and affection between them for some time ; not,
indeed, since the night Angus M'Bean had walked home with
Katie from Shian. Malcolm's jealous suspicion, being once
riiused, slept no more. He watched Katie perpetually until
the factor's son went back to college; but he took no thought
that ^\^Jliie he was busy on the croft, Katie might be reading, ay,
and writing love-letters too.

The Hogmanay storm had rendered the roads impassable,
and it became a question how old Janet's burying was to take
]ilace at Shian. Both the roads beyond Achnafauld were h-vel
with the dykes, and the snow was so soft and ' pouthery ' that
ii was impossible to walk on it without sinking. It was
dt cided at length to carry her over the frozen loch, and tlien
cut a way through the drift as well as possible up to the grave-

197

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SHEILA,

\.'ii(l. Most of tlie Fiiuld i'wlks buried nt Shifin, though tlic
chmoliyard at Aniiilice \v;is nearer, and had a hettcr rv)a(l to it.
Ohl Janet liad insisted at the hist that, whatever tlie stiitc of
tiie roads, they sliould bury her beside her lather and niotlur
in Shian.

'If ye tak' me to Annih'ee,' slie had said, shaking lier skiiiiiv
forefinger at the minister and at Malcolm as they stood by Iki^
I'Mi <-he morning before she died, 'I'll no' lie. My licht '11
bun: in the kirkyaird or ye lift me.' It was firmly believed in
the Glen that when tlie deceased had died with an utieavv
conscience, or if the relatives had done anything to tlnv;irt tlic
last wishes, the corpse candles burned in the grave, a sine
sign that the spirit was haunting the pl.ace in a fever of unrest.
So, at all hazards, Janet must be taken to Shian on the day (if
tlie funeral. Slieila had her pony saddled, and m;in;ig((l to
ride through the drift to the Fauld. Since she had enrcicd
into possession at Dalmore, she had taken a part in "11 the joys
and sorrows of her people, and she felt that Katie woiiUl Ik-
very desolate after they all left the house. She arrived in time
for the service, and she was greatly impressed then-by. It \v;i>
short and simple, yet very solemn. ^\v. Macfarlane's earnest
words sank into her heart. When it was all over, six st'il\v;,n
men foimed a sort of litter with their arms, and then l)ore the
(Coffin out by the door. Blind Rob was leady with his ]iii)es,
for he played a pibroch Uyx all his neighbours at the bnr\iii^s.
and so the melancholy train went down the path, which liad
l)een swept cU-ar to the loch. Sheila went out to the back of
the house, and watched the strange procession winding its \\;iy
across the whitened landscape, all the traj)pings of woe seeinin^
darker and more striking in contrast with the spotless puiiiy ot
the snow. The sky was leaden-hued, and seemed to Inmu hiw
over the castle, the air was soundless and heavy, and IJol's
pibroch seemed to fill the Glen with its mournful waihiiL:.
Altogether, it was an impressive sight, and one which Sheihi
would not readily forget. When she went back to the hoiiM-,
Katie was crying by the fire. As she looked at her, Sheihi
cduld not but think how bonnie and sweet she h)oked in lnr
b,.,i k I'lock, which seemed to set oft the fair whiteness of lu-r taee.

SIGNS OF EVIL.

309

'Don t cry, Katie. Aunt Janet was an old, old wonKin. vu
know, and she was quite ready to go. Let us tliink liithcr
tliat she is free i'rotn all her p.iiii now,' said Shcihi s;>t'tly ; luif,
licfore Katie had time to answer, the door was softly opetu-d,
and young Angus M'Bean looked in.

' 1 bfg your pardon, Miss Murray Macdonald,' he said
shamefacedly. ' I thought Katie would be alone, or I would
not have come,'

'Come in, come in. I am just going,' said Shcihi, with a
sliglit smile. 'Katie, are you nut going to speak to Mr.
M-BeanV»

Katie's face was as red as the peat glow, but Sheika saw that
her eyes brightened. luvohmtaiily she looked at Angus
M'Bean. She wondered just then wliat his evident lovf lor
Kntie might mean. She coidd almost have asked him theif
iind then. Had she been ten years older she certaiidy would
have asked him. But she was fain to think the best of him.
And it was a good sign that he did not seem i)ut out at lindiug
her in the cottage. So she bade them both good-bye, and rodo
away, leaving Angus to comfbit Kati( in his own way.

' Ye'U need to go away before Malcolm comes home,' said
Katie, after they had talked of a grct many things very
interesting to themselves, but not of special import to us.

'No, Katie; I'm going to wait till Malcolm comes back.
Miss Murray Macdonald saw nie here, and all the neighl)ours
know I am in, and I'm not going to run away from him,' said
Angus firmly.

' He'll be awfu' angry,' said Katie nervously. ' lie said
(ince that if he saw me speaking to you again, he'd kill us
baith.'

'Let him try it,' said Angus lightly. 'Katie, I can't bear
to go back to Edinburgh and leave you with Malcolm. He'll
not be good to you.'

'Oh, he's weel enough when he disna ken nor hear onything
ahoot you,' said Katie, with a sigh ; for, indeed, her heart did fail
her a little at the prospect of her life alone in the house with
Malcolm. He was so dreadfully changed.

' How dour he is, Katie 1 He keeps up a grudge for ever,'

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SHEILA.

V :tr

f I

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said Angus presently. ' I told him once that I wished I had
never torniented or told tales on him when we were all at Pttcr
Crerar's school, and asked him to let bygones be bygones, but
he just glowered at me, and said he would ca' me into the locli.
I told him he was too ready speaking about the loch, and liltiiiL''
stones and graips to folk, and, faith, he got into such a tcnilili'
passion that I was ghid to get out of the road. We'll need tn
marry without his consent, Katie.'

' Ay, an' gang faur, faur awa', if we ever dae,' said Katie, in
a low voice, for a constant dread was upon her. Altlumdi
Angus M'Bean had really tried to make manly amends for liis
past persecution, Malcolm would receive none of his advances.
He seemed to hate the whole household at Auchloy with a
mortal hatred. He even seemed to be soured, too, against his
very neighbours in the Fauld. The only person who could call
forth the kindly impulses of his heart was Sheila. It is not too
much to say that he worshipped her with a dumb, faithful
worship, something like the blind, unquestioning attachment of a
dog to its master. It was grey dark when the mourners
returned from the funeral, and when Malcolm came striding
into the house, — a strange-looking figure in his ill-fitting black
clothes, — he could not at first distinguish who it was silting
opposite Katie at the fireside.

' It's me, Malcolm,' said Angus pr'^jcntly ; for he wished to
assert a kind of j ight to Katie before her brother, in order that
the future might be easier for her.

'Oh, it's you, is't?' said Malcolm quietly enough ; but Katie,
who could read every expression on his face, saw his nostrils
dilate and the veins rise on his brow, as they had done of late
on the smallest provocation, thus indicating that his nervous
system was too easily excited. ' Well, if it's you, there's the
door.'

' Tuts, man I don't be so snufTy. Let me sit and crack a little ;
I'm going away the day after to-morrow,' said Angus, in the
same hearty tone.

Malcolm set the door wide to the wall, and then, with one
swing of his powerful right arm, he swooped down upon the
factor's son, and whisked him out of the place, locking the door

SIGAS OF EVIL.

beliind him. Tlien he turned to K.ifie wiili MnziriGr eyes, and
sjiid sullenly, 'If ye say a word, or if I see or hear o' ye
speakin' to that deevil ngain, I'll turn ye cot efter him. The
hoose's mine noo, mind that ! '

Katie began to cry again, and crouched by the ingle-ncuk in
perfect misery.

Finding himself thus summarily ejected from the hous >,
Angus M'Bean stood for a moment undecided what to do. Ir
was fearful to leave Katie there with that madin;in, for sncli
Angus held him to be, and yet he was very powerless. He
nn.ist go away in the meantime, but of one thing lie was certain,
that he could not and would not leave Katie at Malcolm's
mercy very long. He walked sh)wly along a beaten footpath
to Aucliloy, so slowly ihat it was jntch dark when lie got home.
His sisters were spending the New Year at Crieff, and hio
father and motlier were having an early tea in the dining-room
when he went in. 'J'he factor's brow was as black as thunder ;
his son saw at once that there was something seriously disturb-
ing him.

' Got your courting done, eh ? ' he asked, with a bitter snee'-,
as Angus drew in his chair to the table, and asked his mother
for a cup of tea.

' Maybe, and maybe no' ; that's my business,' he answered
sharply enough, for his father's tone irritated him. He was
vexed and perplexed, at any rate, and did not feel equal to any
more censure of his actions. Malcolm's summary treatment
rankled in his mind.

'It's a queer time to court just after the coffin's carried out
of the house,' continued the factor sourly. ' I wonder you
didna think shame, if she didna. Ye might have let the auld
wife be cauld in her grave before ye began.'

'Any word from the lassies to-day, mother ? ' asked Angus,
turning his back not very dutifully on his father; whereupon
that worthy's anger got the belter of his judgment.

' Had I kent ye were in the hoose wi' the lassie when I ^mA
by, I wad hae come in, and laid my whip aboot yer Iug<, my
man I ' he said loudly. ' And Miss Murray Macdonald saw ye
too, that was more.'

< J

3IJ

SHEILA.

\ \

h;;.i

\'\

' it

M ;it

* Slie was in when I Avas in,' said Angus dryly. ' So yp
]i;ivcn't <i()t tlie news quite conectly.'

' Weel, wlictlicr or no', I want to know wliat ye mem. Avr
ye courtiii' Miss ^[u^ray Macdonald or Katie Meiizi('>? for it
cainia be them baitjj.'

'Then it's not Miss Murray M;iC(1on;tld,' said A"i:ii«i
ilnngedly, determined to m;ike a clean breast of it, liis nuni
la'inLr made tip to marry Katie.

'Then is't Katie Menzies?'

' Yes;

' An' are ye going to marry her?'

' Yes.'

'After a' I've done for ye? D'ye bear tbat, Mrs. M'Bc.ni?
Your braw son's gaun to marry Kaiie Menzies — cr;izy Midcolm's
sister.'

Mrs. M'Bean never spoke, but poured out anotlier cup of tea
to steady her nerves, liut she cast a look of sympathy ujion
her S(»n, which let him see plainly what /ler oi)iiiion was. IJu'
factor was too angry to notice it. He was fiiglii fully dis-
ai)pointed. He had built up a fine castle for his one son, and
here it had fallen about his ears.

' Angus M'Bean, are ye in your ripht mind ? That's what I
want to ken. It seems to me that the mad Menzies hae made
ye aboot as dtift as they are.'

Angus smiled. He did not stand in aw^e of his father, and, I
fear, had not that respect for him with Avhich a wise father
inspires his son.

' M:iybe,' he Siud carelessly. ' Mad or not mad, I'll mnrry
riobndy but Kiitie Menzies, do or say what you like.'

Thti factor clenched his hand, and brouiiht it down on the
table with a thump, wdnch set the tea-cups rattling ag;iinst each
other, and knocked over the milk jug into the jelly glass.

'If ye marry her, I'll disinherit ye I D'ye hear me? I'll
disinherit ye, Angus M'Bean!'

' I can't help that. I can work for myself.'

'Hear him! after all I've spent on him!' cried the fiictor,
as if adjuring a listening audience. 'Ye owe me bunders u'
pounds I Ilunders, I say, but hunders '11 no' pay't.'

S/G.\S OF EVIL,

313

one son, and

'Well, if yon look at it in tliat way, fatlicr, von can niiikc
oiif a 1)111, and I'll Inok upnn it as n delit,' said young Aii^ms
(|uit'fly. ' lint vou'v'f! oidy edu(;atHd nn-, and 1 tlnuifilil it was
a tarlit'r's duty to give his baiins the best educatitni in his
power.'

' Had I but kent that ye wad make sic a rnin o' yer life,
I wad hae shippit ye awa' to C.inada wi' the coitars!' cried the
factor. 'Laddie, ye had a siilciidid fnlure befoe ye, an estate
and a grand wile lyin' to your veiy hannd, an ye liae thrown
it away ; but a judgment will come upon ye for it, I ho{)e and
pray.'

'You speak very surely, father. I am as certain as I atn
sitting here, that though 1 were to court Miss Mnrray M. cdonald
for a thousand years she would never marry me. 8he tliinks
herself far better than me; besiiles, I would rather work for
my wife than take everything froni her.'

'Hear tid him! He's speakin' oot o' a book noo,' saiil tlie
factor sarcastically. 'Mrs. M'Bean, can you no' speak a word
to put this rascal by his folly ?'

'I'm glad he's that sensible, Angns,' was his sjionse's
unexpected reply. 'And as for Katie Menzies, she'.s a boimie,
sweet lassie; ye nticht hae dune waur, far wan Angn*;, my
man. And ye hae baith my blessin', whatever yer fail her may
say. There's fanr owre muckle tryin' to be big an' grand iino
Pair folk's fanr the happiest. For my pairt, I hae never kinr
muckle ease o' mind sin' I cam' doon the Ghn to Auchloy. So
take ye heart, my man, an' work wi' yer haunds for Katie, an'
the Lord wull bless ye baith.'

It was a long speech for Mrs. M'Bean, and had her feelings
not been wrouiiht up to a certain pitch, she would not have
dared to utter it before her lord and master, who ruled her in
all things. But it was a matter of conscien>je this, and Mrs.
M'Bean was a good as well as a kind woman. She was
profoundly thankful that her son had at length taken so firm
a stand for the right. Many a salt tear she had shed for him
in his more degenerate days, before Katie's sweet influence had
wrought in him for good.

Mr. M'Bean cast upon his wife a look of withering scorn,

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L ■

iincl, with his hond in the air, marched out of the room, as if ho
felt it irnpfissihle to V)reatlie in the same atmosphere with them.
lie never alluded to it; again, but there was a maiknl
coldness in his d<'meanour towards his son during tlie biii t'
time he remained at liome. Angus went away witliout a word ;
his chisses were taken out at college for the spring session, so
he might as well take advantage of them. But he determined
that, in addition to w(»rking very hard at his books in Edinl)uriili,
he would keep a look-out for a situation as under-factor, and
that if he were successful in obt-dning his desire, he would
marry Katie without delay, and make a home for himself and
for her.

• 1

ill
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1' ,1

CHAPTER XXXVL

MY WIFE 1

My wife's a winsome wco thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

ERGUS MACLEOD went back to college the day
after Angus M'Bean left Aucliloy. His class fees
were paid up till Easter, and he could not idle the
spring months at home. It was finally settled that
ln' and liis mother should sail for Quebec by the first steamer
which made the voyage from Glasiiow after the ice broke up
oil the Sr. T-awrence. Wiierever tiie boy was would be home
and ]!ara(iise now for EUen Macleod. He warned her of
the hardships, but she said she would make them easier for
im.
Seeing that her lieart was set upon it, Fergus said no
Tiioic. The new mother he had found was so dear to him,
that he could not bear tlie thought of parting with her. It
liad been a strange experience for them both. It almost
seemed us if they had made a new and delightful acquaintance
with each other. His mother was now Fergus Macleod's
sympathizer and confidante; to her he poured out all the
miserable experiences of those vvinter months in Edinburgh,
told all the idle dissipating of time and opportunity, the
desecration of talent and privilege. And she did not blame,

3i3

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SHEILA,

liiU only hnrlo liim go on in a new and better way, and take
eniiiMge. II(! Iiiid told lier, tli(! tiiglit befoii! lie left Slioiitieii,
wliiit had triiiispiicd at D.dinore, and wlien he sj)oke of Slieiln.
Iii». niotluM' knew hy his hu>hed voice and fidl, earnest e\e
what she was to iiini His dearest ; and slie, liis niothiM*, nni^t
lieiicclorth bo content to he second. But even that, in lier Utw-
tniind peace and happines";, seemed a Hith* tiling. Slie kinw
in her heart that Sheila was worthy the highest homage that
Fergus or any man could give her. She even admitteil tn
herself that Fergus was not worthy of her yet. The day miLjlit
Clime when the desire of her heart, whicdi slie had long allnwiMi
to end)itter her life, would be an accompli>hed fact, and Fergus
would be Laird of Dahnore, and if not, he would fill some
other sphere as worthily.

I hope this change for the L:*^'er in Ellen Macleod docs
nut savour of the miraculous or the impossible. In tliis
history heretofore, the hardest, most unwomanly side of In f
character has constantly obtruded itself; but that, even in
these hard days, she had inid her moments of remurse, 1
cannot doubt. Many an unseeen, uid<nown straggle mii'^f
have taken place silently in her breast. But none of tliese
had been strong enough to break down the barriers of her
j)rejudice and pride. IShe needed a sharper discipline.

The fear of death had been upon her bt fon; her heart v.'oidd
imdt ; but, once broken down, she allowed the sofier im-
pulses of her nature to have fullest bent. She a>ked hrr
>oh's forgiveness for her long harshness towards him veiy
humbly, even with tears, and, having obtained it, alluded no
more to that dark past. She sought rather to atone t'oi'
ir i»y making the present sweet, and the future br'nlit.
It was characteristic of the woman, and a hopeful sign, 1
think, that her repentance was real. 'Ihere is no good, hut
ivtlicr harm, to be got in dwelling upon past evil of any
kind. Lot it be rcpenttd of sincerely and atoned for. it'
|'(issil)le, then buried for ever. We are not called to ahaso
oiiselves perpetually to the memory of sins connnitted. Let
otu- solemn striving after good be the earnest that we no longe;
desire evil.

MV WIFE!

317

H >
1

After liPT boy wont bnck to Ediiibtir.h, VWw MmcImocI s(^f
licrsclf to m.'ikc picat preparations, in the way of M-winji and
kt)irtiii<r, for llic future 'I'licir iutt'iitioii was not known. 'IIkn
would k('i'[) ilu'ir own counsel for a whiK'. '1 lie \\('eklv letii r
was now no hardship, hut a jov. for Feifrus to write. Sonietin
two came itisfead of one, and his mother j)aid him hack w il
interest. In these letters they spoki» yet more freel\' ;iiid
uiu'estraitu'dly to eaeh other, and so th'! separation was >horii
of half its bitteriu'ss.

Having learned that Ferrrus was in Edinbnrgli, Alast.dr
sought him out in his old lud;iiri<is one evening in Fehruaiv.
lie lound him hard at work amemg his books, tiying to make
up his lost ground.

' IliiUoa, old man ! turned a perfect model of industry, eh ?'
he cried, slapping his shoulder in his old hearty way. ' I
wondered wliat; had become of you. Never thought }ou h.id
taken to grinding.'

'Time, don't you think?' asked Fergus, looking with a
smile into Alastair's frank face. It was pleasant to see om 's
old chum, he thought, after their h)ng "Stiangement.

'Are you going to stay a while, Alastair V Do, and IM
y)Ut up my books. I feel as if I had a thousand things to >ay
to you.'

'Very likely, after the way you've persistently kept ou if
my road lately,' said Alastair, with a grin.

' Do you know, it's only four weeks to-day till the classes an-
up, and I haven't done a stroke of work ? '

'It's hardly worth tackling to now. You look as if \i>ii
needed a holiday already. Do you stew here for ever?

' A good deal. Look at the time I lost in winter. It makes
me savage to think of it. Alastair, why didn't you tell me
what a fool I was? '

' Because you might, and probably would, have requested me
to mind my own bnsiness,' said Alastair serenely. ' And I
knew you wouldn't go too far. It's not in you.'

' I went far enough,' said Fergus, with clouding brow. ' Sit
down, num. I suppose I may tell you now I'm off to Canada
n Aj)ril.'

3^8

SHEILA.

f '

its

•'

- I.

' ir

' Fact. It's the least lean do, isn't it? to po out and
».i'f tlic place they've called after inc. Feiuiis Creek is our
tliNiiiiiitioji.'

• Onv destination! Who is going witlj you?'
' My mother.'

Alastair whistled, — not quite so much with surprise at the
aiiMr)unceMient, as at the tone in which Fi-rgus spnkt; the>e
i\vi» words. 'Well, I wish you luck, old boy. 1 suppetse
ilit-y are gettmg on famously out there. Are you going t'.i
>,ttle?'

' Yes ; I'm going to buy land with the money my uncle left
n e, and start larmimr.'

* Ail serene; I'll come out and see you when I'm throuL'li
^vith mif grinding,' said Alastair, with the air of a hard-woikcd
siudent. 'Come on out for a stroll, Fergus. It's a lovely
hiiiht. You never saw a more 'glorious moon, and we can talk
.IN well outside as here.'

' I don't mind if I do,' said Fergus, reacliing out for his
1() its.

He felt glad, honestly glad, to see Alastair. He liked liiiii
lit'iter than any fellow he knew. But who did not like
Alastair?

He had t.iken his dismiss J <'rom Sheila very philosopliicnlly,
till ugh it had been a grievous disappointment at the time,
liuf Alastair believed in making the best of everything, and su
k pt himself and others happy.

They strolled out together arm in arm, and turned aloriL'
Nicolson Street towards Newington. Fergus did the most ut'
the talking, and did not pay nmch attention to anythitiLr
piissing round him, but Alastair's eyes and ears were always
(i|>en.

' I say, Fergus, that's uncommon like M'Bean. It U him,'
he said suddeidy. 'And who's that he's got with him? What
a ])retty girl ! '

Fergus looked up, and his eyes fell on the sweet face of
Katie Menzies. She was walking on the other side of tlie
s ivet, and her hand was through Angus M'Beaa's arm, and

MY llJFEf

319

ig out for Ills

her face lifted confidinprly to Ins. Tlie siu'lit made tlic hot,
ijidi^iijiiit l)ln()d surge to Fergus Macleud's Ijicc, and tinjrlf even
to Ids very fiiigt-r tips.

' 1 know who it is. A girl from tlie Fauld. She's liere for
no good. But I'll lie even witii him. I'll mnkf Idm give an
account of Idmself, and I'll take her home, it' she'll go.'

' You won't go one step just now,' said Alastair, gripping hitn
firm aiid fast by the arm. ' You never want to nii>s a iliauee
of distinguishing yourself, if ii's only in a street Lrawl. Do you
want to be the centre of a crowd immediately, and have a
hobby marching you od" to the lock-uj)? You've no business to
interfere with M'Bean, or the lassie either.'

' Yes, 1 have,' said Fergus fiercely. ' She's one of my folk,
and she's an orphan, and he had no right, the villain ! to «niiee
her away. I will go, Alastair. Let go ;i y arm.'

' Wait a minute. Now she's gone into a slioj). Let's go over
and pretend to meet M'Bean accidentally, and see how lie"ll look.
Wdl you promise first not to take hitn by the throat, lor you
look fit enough, or even to speak, till I give you leave? We'll
manage it all beautifully, and circumvent him too, if you only
keep down your wild Macdonald temper. It'll be the undoing
of you some day, Fergus, my boy.'

Fergus held his peace, though his eyes were suspiciously
brilliant looking. So, keeping him tightly by the arm, ^Vlastair
marched him across the street. Katie was in a provision store,
and Angus was standing at the window survi'ying the tt-mpting
array of ham, butter, eggs, and cheese displayed there. He did
not see the two young men pass him, nor hear Alastair's
smoihered laughter. It was so irn'sistibly fimny to him to see;
the dandified Angus M'Bean standing appai-ently engrossed at a
grocei's window. Al^ter going a few yards they turned again,
and stopped beside the window too; then Angus saw them, but
<lidn't seem greatly put out, or even apprehensive of dis-
covery.

' Are you making a study of the prices, in order to come down
with a fell swoop on an unprincipled landlady ? ' asked Alastair,
for the sake of keeping Fergus cpiiet. He was himself rather
mystified by M'Bean's perfect self-possession, foy at any moment

320

SHEILA.

ii\ .

1 1«

fl tf! ' '

" *:

f I

K.I lie niipfht como out of the sliop. She did come prospntlv.
witli lici- h.iiids hulu with sundry small packjiges, of wlicli
Aiiuus iiiiMM'diatcly n-licvi'd her. There was a. pleasant, |)r<in(l
sniilf on liis face, wh ch gave Katie coiifideDce, though at sight
of ilu' two gt'iitlcmen she had grown V( ry red.

' Katie, I need not iiitroiliice you to Mr. Fergus Macleod,' said
Aligns, raiher enjoying tlie iliiiig. 'This is Mr. Akstair Murray
of Murrayshaiigh — my wife.'

'I'lie two last words were uttered in a tor which put an end
lo all siispcion. Fergus was covered with confusion. Alastair
was hard put to it to restrain liis mirth at the sudden qut iicli-
ing of Fergus's ind gnation. But he did manage to utter a
few words of congratnlation, and to say that he would i)e
^■ery happy to call upon Mrs. M'Bean at No. 28 Kankeillor
Street.

As for Fergus, he tried to mutter something, but was glad when
Ahe^tair liurried him away. That incident put an end to their
confidential talk for the night. Fergus could tliink and speak
of nothing but the marriage of Puddin' and Katie. When had
it taken j)lace, and where? why had he never heard of it?
and a thousand other questions as unanswerable ; until Alastair,
tired of the theme, told him he was a perfect nuisance, and took
the 'bus away home.

When Fergus went back to his lodgings, he found a letter
f-nni his mother, in which she mentioned liiat great consterna-
tion was in Achnafauld ovi^r Katie Menzies' disappeaj-ance, and
that consternation had given place that day to the utujost surprise,
•liecause her marriage with young Angus M'Bean was announced
i I the Cuurant of Tuesday. She added that they were saying
M dc )lm's usage had compelled Katie to run away iVom him,
an 1 that they were saying, too, that Malcolm had gone clean
out of his mind over it. Fergus was so excited over all this
news, that, though it was nejirly nine o'clock, he put on his cap
and ran away round to No. 28 Kankeillor Street. It was
M'ln-an's old lotlgings; for, as he wi.i in negotiations for
a situation as under-factor in Roxburghshire, it would not have
been wi>e to take a house in Ediid)urgh. Fergus asked for
Mis, M'Bean, and was instantly shown into the sitting-room,

MV WIFE/

321

wliere the young cniipln were liaving a cup of coffre and a liit
of l)reacl and cliccst' for snjjpcr.

Katie, all blu-ijie-i and smiles, jumped np at sight of ^^r. Fi I'gus,
who hi'ld our Ids liand, and said lu^aitily, —

' 1 ju-t came round to congratulate you, Mrs. M'Bean. I was
stunned in the street, and liadn't a word to say. 1 beg xour
pardon, Angus, and I wi^h you j'>y.'

'Not at all; oelighted to see you, aren't we, Katie?' said
Ant>us, a trifle confusedly. ' Will you take a cuj) of coHe.'V
Rini for a cup and plate, Kati«\ Sit down, Fergus.'

So Fergus sat down at the tahle with them, and liow proud and
happy was the bonnie young wife to have Mr. Fergus sitting at
her own table. Never bad she looked so sweet, so graceful,
so liappy. IIapy)iness is a great beautilier, and there was no
need to a^k if Katie was hap[)y. Fergus I'elt more and moie
ashamed of himself for his uncharitable suspicions abiiut her
liusiiand.

' I'm only vexed at running away as I did from Malcolm,' said
Katie, with a tremble of the li|), after they had spoken for a
little about it. 'But if he had known, I believe he would have
killed me, Mr. Fergus. I dintui ken what's to become of poor
M;dky. I fear he'll need to go to Murlhly at the end. He's
no' safe.'

' You can't vex yourself about him, Katie, for I'm sure you
(lid more than your duty to him,' said Fergus kindly. ' And
are you going back to spend Easter at Auchloy ? '

*0 ru") ; we're disinherited,' said Angus, with a laugh, 'by
everybody but my mother. She sent Katie her ble^^ing and a
silk dress. ^^'e'J•e done with Auchloy.'

lie spoke lightly; and, indeed, he did not feel the rupture
with the others as long as he had his mothei's bles>ing. But
Fergus saw Katie's sweet face shadow a little. Now that slu;
was his wife beyond recall, she feared he had sacrificed too
much for her. But he would not let her think it, much lf>s
say it. A new man, indeed, in every respect was Puddin'
M'Bean.

They confided their hopes and plans to Fergus, and it was
near midnight when he went back to his lodgings. Tiiey

t
1

iniiil':

i:i''

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II 'It

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'J.2 2

SHEILA.

scetncd dreary and cold. The sight of Angus and his bonnie
wift,' had reminded liim of what was so f;ir out of his rciuh.
Kvcri if Sheihi cared for him, and remained true, many ycais
must pass before he could hope even to stand as an ec^ual iu her
piesence.

.11 i

CHAPTER XXXVIL

If;

A DARK NIGHT.

I suffered hate, slow hate,
That bides its time.

J. B. Selkirk.

ERGUS MACLEOD went home as usual upon the

thirty-first of March. Their steamer, the Bosphorns,

was to sail from Glasgow on the twenty-second of

April. lie found that his mother had got the

; ri'parations well forward for their departure, and tliat she was

ill tlie best of health and spirits. The intervening time passed

i.ijiidly, for theic was a great deal still to do ^ and their last

• lay at Shonnen, in the old Glen, came before they knew where

liey were. The best of the things at Shonnen were going

with them; for though the transit of their goods would be

more expensive than their own j)assagcs, money would be saved

lit the other end. There were no upholsterers' warehouses as

\t.'t in the township at Fergus Creek.

'I'm going over to the Fauld, mother, to say good-bye, and

'■■ t all thi'ir last messiigos for the folks over the sea,' said

! ■: LMis, aftvr their early tea. ' But I shall not be late.*

' Don't hurry; I am going out also, Fergus, up to Dalmore.'

Fergus gave a quick start, and looked at his mother with

sniuethiiig of apprehension in his eye. She smiled a little, and

shook her head.

324

SHEILA,

iB^;^i!!

\ \ ■

'.: ^:

*! I

' I have somelliing to say to Sliciln, Fergii«, — sonictliinpr
wliicli it would not gi'ieve you very nmcli to lu-ar. Can 1 tiike
lii'i :my ml^'^s;lge from you?'

' None, except that I have not forgotten tlie last niglit of tie
year and my vow,' said Fergus, a little huskily; and, going up
to his niotiier, he kissed her, without .-.nying another word.

They understood each other; but it' Fergus, as he sti-ollfd
alonfT to the Fauld, thouglit more of the house on the hill than
the low-lying clachan whither he was bound, it need not he
wondered at. He went b}' Kinhjch, looked in for a word witli
the few wiio still remained there, and then crossed the l)iidge,
aiul up by Mulcohn Menzies' croft to Janet's cottage. He had
never yet seen Malcolm since he came home. He had had a
grt'at deal of journeying to and from Glasgow, as well as to
Crieff and Dunkeld, in connection with their voyage; but though
he had been several times in the Fauld, as 1 said, he had never
seen Malcolm. He had heard of him, however, — dark hints
from most of the folk, and even Rob Macnaughton could only
shake his head when his name was mentioned. Rob had
sustained a severe disappointment in the ill tuining out of
M dco!m, who, beyond a doubt, had the heaven-born gift of
hong, though he had never given it voice. It was not his
blame, poor lad ! if nature had given him the larger gift, she
had taken from him something of infinitely greater value. There
was no doubt that Malcolm Mei>zies lacked in judgment, and that
the F dk were not far wrong when they called him 'daft.' No
iiunum being had heard him speak Katie's name since she went
away; and one m.in who mentioned it one day suddeidy found
hi I self levelled to the ground. The melancholy, miseraMe
man dwelt alone in the cottage which Katie's bonnie presence
had iieen wont to brijihten, and no foot but hU own was ever
allowed to step across it. How he lived they did not know.
For days toi^elher there would be no smoke at his ' lum-he:d.'
and he had >old all his cows. A crust of bread and a drink nt'
Water was his only food, and in a few weeks' time he was
reduced to a skeleton. Rob Macnaughton had tried to take him
iti hand, — 'had pcniited out that Katie had nuide a good marria'ie.
for which he, Malcolm, should be thankful ; but the wild,

fii

A DARK NIGHT.

325

cVsord. n (1 brnin seeuiccl incnpable of tnkircr in tlio f.-iot. 1I»'
linl hut one tlrsirc, — thoiigli, witli tlie cuiininjji: of the in>;iiu'. it
w's never bi'eiitlied, iuid that wiis to have his i'eveii<.'e iijion
A'uns M'lieaii. He was i)i(iiiiji- his time; and, hnviiig licnd
iliat young Anp,us liad come over for a day 01 two alone, to ^'ct
;iu;;y some of his l)cIonp:ings Iroiu Aucliloy, he was const.nifly
lirowliiig about on the wateli. Fergus found tlie cottage door
1(1 kt'd ; jind tliougli lie j)eered in at both windows, there was no
-i.n of M dcolm. He was, indeed, prowling about the birth
woo ! on Ine other side of the loeh, waiting for young Atigtis
MiJean, whom he had seen cross the bridge in the afternoon.
l)isai)j)ointed of Malcolm, Fei'gus leapeo the burn, and lilted the
Mieck of Kob Macnaughton's door. Kob was at his loom, which
went som.-what slowly and heavily now, for the stocking-weaver's
powerful limbs were not proof against the hand of time. Kob
had now become a Ixnt old man.

' Kob, come into the kitchen ! ' cried Fergus cheerily. ' Mind,
it's our last crack.'

Kob got off his stool as nind)ly as his rheumatic leg would
allow him, and came hiriiling ben to the kitchen, with the old-
tiniG smile on his face.

' So, lad, ye are for off? '

' Ay, Kob ; to-morrow Glenquaich will know me no more, — at

least tor ^ome years.' he addt

d 1

lis voice gave a (piiver.

"c">

It was a wreiich to leave the old Glen, and Achnafanld,— ay, and
Crom Creauh, which sheltered what was dearer to him than life
it.elf.

' Weel, weel, when ye come back, Fergus Macleod, the <jra-s
will be green abune Kob Macnaughton in Shian, and the uk ile
ma}be singing on his grav(». Ye ai'e a braw chield ! The Lord
bless ye, an' bring ye back to them that lo'e }e, and they ;ii-e
1:1011 V, both here an' owi-r the sea.'

ore

than I deserve, Kob,' Fergus said soberlv

thought maybe you'd have a new song for me to take over
to Fergus Creek. I doubt you are getting lazy in your old

ai:i'

'My sintring days are done, lad. An' what's to become (/
our young lady alter ye are away? Ye are but a fule, thoHj-h

326

SHEILA.

'i-

J Mm ,1

■;Mt

1. - !

I siiy it, Mr. Fergus, to leave sic a prize to be snappit up by
anybody.'

' I am not worthy, Rob,' Fergus answeircl, in a low voice.

'And what for nc'? Ye wadna like onybody but yoursd' to
say that, nor wsid I,' said the stocking-weaver, who had utttily
refused to credit any of the detrimental stories he had heard
about his favourite, Jind thought he had no equal in the wiilc
world. ' Man, I think I'd rather be a laird in Gienquaich tli.ii
in America, though it seems a guid land, if Donald Maoalpiiic
and Jamie Stewart write what's true. Miss Sheila would fain
have had them back after the thing was in her hands, but they
seemed to think themsel's better whaur they are.'

' Kob, do you know whether she wrote to any of them ? '

' Ay did she, for she showed me the letter ; and old thnugli I
be, my een were wet as I read it. She wrote to Jande Stewart,
offering him Turrich for half naething, an' Little Turiich tni-
young Rob, and the smiddy to Donald Macalpine ; but they
never sent back a single word, which made me mad, I can tell
ye, for the credit o' the Glen.'

* It was certainly very ungrateful. I shall ask tliem what
they meant, and make them send back a humble apology by the
next mail. Rob, I'll miss having your door to run to when the
spirit moves me.'

' Ay, lad ; and your blithesome face will come no more in at
my door. Ye hae been sunlicht an' munelicht an' a' to me,
Fergus, — you an' Miss Sheila.'

' She will always come,' said Fergus quickly. ' And I caii
think I see her sitting here, and you reading out of your old
poetry books.'

' Mr. Fergus,' said Rob, with a low, delightful laugh, ' she was
for me printin' my sangs in the Gaelic, and giein' them to the
world, as she put it. But I shakes my heid, and I says, " When
I'm awa', they'll be yours, my doo, to dae what ye like wi'." So
maybe, wha kens? Rob Macnaughton's name '11 live after him,
jist like Shakespeare and Sir AYalter, — ay, ay, jist like Shake-
speare and Sir Walter.'

Fergus could not but smile at the old man's delight. The
idea that Sheila had thought them worthy to be put in print

A DARK NIGHT,

327

leliffht. The

had pleased liim, though he would not consent to its being done
in his lifetime.

'Fergus, ye didna see Malcolm Meiizies as ye cam' by?'
asked the old man, changing the subject, and speaking in a
very anxious tone.

' I wanted to, Rob, but his door was locked.'

Rob shook his head.

' I kenna what the end will be. It'll be his ain life, or some
other body's. Eh, Fergus, what for did the Alinichty gie the
puir lad one gift, an' tak' awa' his judgment?'

'Do you really think Malcolm is mad, Rob?'

' He's no' faur off it. He should be shut up, Fergus ; but
they'll no' dae it or there's mischief dune. I saw him awa ower
the brig at six o'clock, with a shearin'-heuk in his hand, an'
afore that I saw the factor awa' to Kinloch, or maybe farther.
Young Angus is here, too. They should tell him to keep a
safe distance frae the Fauld. How like his faither he has got !
Ye could hardly tell the ane frae the ither, unless ye saw them
face to face.'

' Angus M'Bean has turned out well,' said Fergus. ' I am
sorry abcmt poor Malcolm. He used to be a fine lad, and I
thought he would make something better.'

Rob shook his head.

' Do you really think he would do any harm to anybody,
Rob?'

' Ay do I. I wadna trust him ; an' I hoped Avhen I saw him
awa' ower the brig wi' the heuk that the factor would gang
round by Garrows, an' no' come through the phmtin' after dark.'

'But it's young Angus he has the grudge at, Rob.'

' Ay ; uut when a man's bluid's up he doesna care wha comes
first. I thocht when I saw him gang that he had mista'en the
faither for the son ; but maybe I'm ill-judgin' the laddie.'

' I'm going over to Auchloy to see Angus. If his father isn't
home, I'll send him out after him,' said Fergus, rising. A
vague sense of uneasiness was upon him. What did Malcohn
mean by going o^'er the brig, with a shearing-hook in his hand,
at that time of night?

'Dae that. lad. There's a sense of evil in the air that I

328

S/IEILA.

|i 1 1 -i

•!;

'I I

canna understand. I conld liopo, laddio, that yer last niclit in
the Glen be na shadowed \vi' a crime. My mind is not at rest;
but if tlio factor were at Sliian, I tliiiik, surely, he wad gang
round by Giirrows,'

Rob had imparted to Fergus his own apprehension, and the
young man w;ilked as fast as he could up to Auchloy. The
night was closing in, and a cloud, dark, heavy, and ominous,
came stealing up the Glen, and turned the shining loch into a
black and fiowning sea. A sudden wind rose, atid swept u[)
the Glen with a gusty shriek. Fergus looked across at the
birch phintation beyond the loch with .a curious sick feeling at
Ills heart. Was there a dark tragedy even now being enacted
there, and was nature giving warning of it ? He gave a loud
knock at the door of Auchloy. To his relief, Angus hinibelf
opened it.

' Get your hat, Angus, and come otit,' he said quickly. ' I
want to spenk to }ou. Don't disturb the ladies.'

Angus M'Bean looked amazed, the manner of Fergus was so
uneasy and strange. He siuitched a cap from the hall tabk^,
and came out (piickly, closing the door l)ehind him.

* Is your father in, Angus? ' Fergus asked.

' No, he has gone to fehian. We're expecting him, though.
shortlv.*

' Will he come home by Garrows? '

'No ; by Turrich and Kinhjch. He wants to see Peter Ro>s
at Tunich, and he would not be in from the fields until after
seven, at any rate.'

'We'll go and meet hitri, then, Angus. I don't want to
alarm vou,' said Fergus, 'but I fear Malcolm Menzies means
mischief lo-night. Have you seen him since you came home?'

'No. What do you n.ean, Fergus?' asked Angus quickly,
will a di»tuibtd, startled look on his face.

' K'ob Macnauahton saw him away over the bridge, and didn't
like ihe look of him,' said Fer^^us. ' He may mean noihiig, but
it cm do us no harm to go as far as the [ilantation and meet
your father.'

Feruus was much excited. Angus, though the interest
was more specially his, was quite cool. But he was cast in a

! 1

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A DARK NIGHT.

320

Inst niclit in
s not at lest ;
he wad gang

difTcrrnt mould from Fcrirns Macl< od. Brsld«s, 1h> d'd not roall

.ngus hinibfir

UTgns was so

e Peter Ross
s until alter

on't want to

anzies means

ame home?'

gus quickly,

the interest
as cast in a

af)]irt

•hei<d

at)

inccr iroin

M; ' Am M

enzies.

If his tiithn

should meet him, he ihoirjht they would be e(|u;illy matched.

So, as they walked t'lom Anehloy to the Fauld, and acioss ih
not'r to the bridge, he talked all the way about other ihirig-.
chiefly about the voyage Fergus was about to make It w ,-
(|uite dark by the time they r< ached the bridge; there was U"
moon, and the clouds w»re heavy. Ir was impossible to sr
more than a step or two in front. Beyond the ])ridge lie
lights of Kinloch gleam« d cheerily through the gloom, ami
somewhat lelieved the inky blackness. As they passed ovei
tlie biidge they heard the sullen flow of the river, wiiicli was
very deep just where it rose out of the lec^h. Their talk flagi^ed
a liitle after they had passed hy Kinloch and neared the bircii
Wood. They entered its black shadow, and walked a few
hundred yards; then Angus stopped.

'Let's listen,' he said, in a whisper.

They stood absolutely still, almost breathless, but not a sound
broke the still and heavy air.

' I don't think there's any use goinjr further,' said Angus tin 11.
' My father might go round by Garrows. It's not a nice ro.Ml
this after dark, and he would take the chance of a drive if he
got it. The horse was tired with thirty niiles this morning,
tliat's why he walked.'

'Well, if you are satisfied, we can go back,' said Fergus.
' We miuht wait here long enough. As like as not, Malcolm
Mt nzies will be locked in his own house by this time. I
wonder, though, they don't move to have him taken away. It
really isn't safe for him to be going aljout.'

' 1 don't think he'd do much harm myself,' sa'-l Angus
lightly. 'Are you going straight along to 8hotmen ? '

us; and the

Iked

'Yes; I'm too late as it is, said Fergus; and tliey wa
very sharply back to Kinloch.

'Good-bye, then,' said Fergus, stretching out his hand. 'I
Won't likely see you again. Give my love to Mrs. M'!i(an.
You needn't be jealous, when I'm going away so soon and
far.'

* Not a bit, thank you, Fergus. Good-bye,' said Angus, and

•1 W

iMi:

530

SHEILA.

fii' i»

\v(M)t wliistlinj:^ over the bridge, and away back to Anolildy,
t'liiikiiig all tlie way of liis bounie wife, wliom lie would see
•ilmIu by that liour on tlie morrow. When he arrived, lie
tciiiid that ills fatliLT l)ad not come I'.ome. The hours passed, —
:i\ , and tlie night, — but Angus M'Bean the elder returned no
more to his home.

■■! il

i ''v

CHAPTER XXXVIIL

PEACE.

Love found me in the wilderness,
Where 1 mysell" had lost.

Trench.

HE sun had not set when Ellen Macleod crossed over
the Girron Brig that evening for the first tinie
since the day of Macdonald's burying. She could
not but think of that day and of its l)ittertiess.
She wished she could forget, but memory is relentless win n
her record has a sting of remorse. It was a fine mild evening,
the air motionless and heav^, and the sun sank under a great
mass of dark purple cloud, made somewhat weird by the sliarp
edge of blood-red agai"^st it. There was rain in that purple
cloud,

1 he burn was big with the spring-tide showers, and danco
:ind Icajied meirily ui der the old bridge, on which all the
mosses were green, and little clumps of delicate oak fern, spring-
ing liere and there in odd corners, contrasted finely with tin-
viUow of the primroses and the stonecup. There was a drenmy,
far-i)fr look upon the serene face of Ellen Macleod as she fio 1
tliat fatniliar way, and before she went within the shadow of ihc
trees on the carriage-way, she turned and looked back upoti
Amulree and Shonnen, and then away up the Glen to the trees
at Shi'm. Her lips moved, and her eyes shone. She was

331

I; '

33«

SHEILA.

, \

W K

biddirifr f.inwcri to it all, Iht last fart-wrll. As slip Iciolxcd, Ikt
li|is moved silt'iiliy, pciliaps in prayrr. 'riic ludl dodr .st( dd
wide open at Dalnioic, and ju>l witldii it the sia,L:liuuii(i \v,l^
iyiiitr, as if keeping puard over it. lit; raisi d his niajrsiic 1iim(|
and gave a ^rowl at sij^lit of the stranger, and tiien, as if moved
Wy a second tlionglit, lie came slowly to meet her, giving ld> tail
a friendly wag to reas>ure her. She laid her hand on his he;el,
and sj)oke a word to him, which apjjeared to please him hiiji |\,
for he gumhoUed before her in his uncouth fashion up to tin-
door. Tiie dog's Welcome ])leased her. It seemed to au:;iii

II for her recepti

ion wunui

The 1

lousemaici

1 wh

o an>wt'i(il

the hell looked very genuinely surprised to see her.

' Step into the library, ma'am, if you j)lease, and I'll tell Miss
Sheila,' she said, holding open the library door. An ordinal^'
c iller would have been u-hered at once to the drawing-ionni,
but the gill was dubious whether her young mistress would see
Mrs. Macle.id. She saw her look of surpiise when the ejrl gave
her the name, but without a moment's hesitation site went
downstairs. She stood just a second at the library dour, tni-
her heart was i)eatmg more quickly than usual. She did imr
know what this visit of Ellen Macleod niiylit portend. W'lieii
she entered the room her colour was heightened, : id when Klleii
Maele(^d turned from the window and saw the liss(jm figure in
soft grey, the sweet face crowned by its plaits of sunny haii, and
wearmg a half-startled look, she thought she had never beheld
a more lovely creature.

' (iood-evening,' Sheila said kindly, but did not olTer her
hand. She did not quite know how to act. The niemoiy of the
))ast was with her, but there was that in the face of Edi n
Macleod she had never seen upon it before, and which seemed
to nudce the childish terror more and mote like a dream.

Ellen jMacleod looked for a moment on the girl's sweet,
llu-hed face, then she advanced swiftly, with outstretch' d
hands.

' Will you touch my hand in friendship, Sheila Macdonald,
just to give me courage to go on ?'

' 1 do not understand yon,' Sheila faltered ; and she laid her
own soft, warm young hands on those outstretched to her.

; 1^

PEACE,

333

II MacJonitkl,

Thf'n Ellen ^far^'()(l bent and k'lNScd tlicm, before slie dnw
lierst'If away.

* I liave Cdnie, tliouLdi late,' she said, with a ciirions hn-ki
ness in her voice, ' to ask your forgiveness for all tiie wn)ii;_' I
have done to y<>u.'

'It is nothing!' cried Sheila, out of lier sweet cotnjjas'iioii
' nothing at all. I am so glad to see you. Do sit down ; li..
cotne up and take off your lioniu't, and stay with me for a liitl. .
1 am so glail to see you at Dalmore.'

' Oh, child ! you ni;d<e me asliamed,* cried Ellen Macleod, an I
her proud month ireml>led. 'Can you forgive me, not onlv N r
yoiirsell", but lor those who are away ? '

' Yes, yes ; don't say another word ! ' cried Sin ila, with wi t
eyes, and a smile which radiated her whole face. 'Look at iii\
mother there in the picture. She seems to smile upon n-.
I am sure she is 'dad to see us together.'

Ellen Macleod broke down. She thiew herself in a chair, ami
soblx'd convnl>ively ; and Sheila, moving to her side, laid h<r
hand <:entlv on her shoulder, but said never a word.

'I have i)een a wicked woman, Sheila,' she said at lengl!'.
' God sent me a terriide lesson that night Fi-igus came In i- •.
I thought I had sent him to his death. It was a terriiiN-
lesson, but not more terriiile than I needed. My hcait wa>
like the nether millstone. Sheila, but that awful ni^iht broke it.
I couhl not live through such anoiher.'

Slieila touched the white liair with a very tender, lini:erin.:
touch. There was something almost divine in the look uimhi
her face. She liad a heart an angel might have enviid. Sn'
only wished she could wipe away every sting which mtiU'rv
had j)lanted in the bosom of the woman by her side. T; e
past was forgotten. Its harshest discords were lost in the >wt 1 1
harmony of this blessed moment. Her heart's desiie w.iv ,iil-
lilled. The only enemy she had had in the world was now hei'
triend. A sense of the goodness and mercy of (iod lilU-d ihe
child s soul with a song of humble thanksgiving. She could
have knelt upon her knees and prayed.

' I have long wished to come, but my courage failed me.
When I thought of what I had done to you, of the uiek'd

334

SHEILA.

/ , r ■

.; :

tliouL'lits I liad entertained towaids you, my conscience seeitit (]
to dare me to come. But we go away to-mi^riow, and I told
nivs(df that I could not go without a word of furL!;ivene:<s ami
farewell.'

' Oh, I wisli you were not going now ! ' cried Shei!a
impulsively. 'How different it would be! Could you \va
stay even yet ? '

Ellen Macleod shook her head, with a somewhat sad
smile.

'No; our course is shaped, and we must fulfil our destiny.
And it will be for my son's good. He will have out tip !•.■
the life he loves, and has always craved for. Sheila Macdon ,'(1,
if yoic live to have sons of your own, you \Nill understand what I
feel now, though you will never be able to understand ihf | ait
I acted towards my boy in his youth, I .'as not fit to lir ;i
mother, nor to have the care and upbringing of a child. Wlun
I look upon my son I am amazed that he should be such as lie
is. God has not punished me as I deserved, though tiiat niulit
I feared He had.'

Slieila was silent, with her tender touch still upon the shoiddci-
of Fergus's mother. She could not join in his praise ; but ali !
what was in her heart ?

' i can go away now content, Sheila Macdonald,' said Kllcti
Macleod, rising at length, and laying her hands snuicwliit
heavily on rije girl's slender slioulders. ' And I go, })raying (i' d
bless Dalmore, and its bonnie, sweet mistress, forever and evn !
It is worthy of her, and she of it.'

Sheila bowed her head under that blessing, the sweetest slic
had ever heard.

' Would you not go through the house before you go?" ^li'
said timidly. 'You might like a last look, though I wil' H' t
belie""e you will never come back ; and if there is aiiythitii; yn i
would care to take to keep you in remembrance of Dahnoic. dd
not hesitate, I entreat you. It will please nie more than 1 ea'i
say if yiiu will but take whatever you would like.'

'I need nothing to remind me of Dalmore,' said Klleii
Macleod, with a touch of passionate sadness in her voicr.
' Child, child, I know every stone and tree about it. I can

\'\

PEACE.

ZZ^

somewhat s;i

e sweetest si if

shut my eyos and see every room in its minutest detail
Tell me, did tlie wliite heather your mo'lu'r planted live? '

' O yes ; the pots are in the gi'eeidiouse. I was tellii l^
Laclilan that I thought tlie weather mild enoiigli now for iheni
to be brought round to the door. They are covered with l)Uils
already.'

'Then all I want is a spray with a little root at it to plant in
a pot beside a bit of purple heather from Shonnen ; and if ih^v
gi'ow together, Sheila, it will be an end)leni of my hope.'

But what that hope was Sheila did not ask. It might he
that she understood. When she went away, Sheila aeconii):inii(l
her down to the Girron Brig, and in the solemn, dusky twdigjn
they parted there.

'I have my son's message yet,' said Ellen Macleod. 'Ih-
bade me tell you that he had not forgotten tlu; la«t niuht of tl.e
year, nor the vow he made to you then. What »;iat vow was i
know not, but I pray God reward you for the good words you
spoke to Fergus Macleod that night. Th(^y were his salvation,
and whatever his future may be, if he achieve aught that is
noble or worthy, he will owe it, under God, to you, and not to
me, his mother, who would give her right hand for the jirivilege.
I can only wait upon and serve for love; it is yon who will
make the mm.. Have you any nu s><agc for the boy ? His
heart will hunger for a woi'd to carry with him across ihe sea.'

'Tell him,' said Slieila, struggling with her tears, ' tliat I lia\(;
forgotten that night, and that I look forward to the day wi en
he will come back. Tell him that, be that day soon or late, he
will find a welcome at Dalniore.'

'I will. Sheila, will you kiss me before I go? We sliall
never meet again.'

So they kissed eacl; other solenmly, silently, and went tluir
separate ways. Sheila's heart beat with a hungry, pas'siduatc
pain as she went back to her lonely home. Looking from oui
the drawing-room window across to the bright light in the
dining-room at Shonnen, she thought she would give much — ay,
even Dalm(jre itself — to go with these e.xiles across the sea. All
day ^he had been upheld by the hope that Fergus himself
would come for a word of farewell, and to see if she had any

i \,\\

i! >

J :!■

336

SHEILA.

Ill M

u;i

III

-/! ;

J !

!-'

iii('SN;igc for tliose across thi^ sea. But Ik^ 1i;u1 kept Ins vow to
see lior fiicc no more until he should have redeemed the time,
Mild had a wliite f;iir i)age to lay abi)ve that lilemi>;lit'd one
which would he ever before his eyes as a warning and a shield in
liie time of temptiitiMU or moral trial, and though Shcihi und^r-
-"i'ood it all quite well, and honoureil him for his stedfastness of
iiiriK)se, her woman's heart was rebelliously sore, and even the;
I uMire seemed daik and gloomy. It was shroiuled in uncertainty,
:ind she could not find much comf jrt even in the thought that
I'ergus had promised to come biick.

Kllen Macleod was home before Fergus. She found Jessie
M;K',keiizie busy among the bagg;ige, bustling about with a great
s -nse of im])ortance. fShe had elected to throw in her fortunes
with tile smnll family she had so long served, and they were
• 1 ly too willing to take her with them.

' I'm snre Maister Fei'gus needna hae bidden sae lang at the
Fauld the nicht,' were the words with which she greeted her
mistress, ' 'Jliere's five boxes no' roped, an' it's nine o'clock, an'
iiie c:irt comin' at six o'clock in the morning.'

' Mr. Fergus will nor be long of roping these, Jessie,' said her
m'stress good-humouredly. ' Now, while you Were packing, did
\ oil keep to the lists I made out, so that we c;m lay our hands
on wlnit we want without requiring to turn every bo^ out ? '

' Yes, ma'am, everything's licht ; jist ask me when ye want
ony thing, ati' I'll lay my finger on it jist at once,' replied Jessie
proudly ; and ju>t then Mr. Fergus returned, and her mind was
I'tlieved by the sight of the five boxes roped and Libelled, ready
tor the hold of the Bosphorus.

Over the fire that night Fergus and his mother talked of past,
present, and future, and wdien she gave him Sheila's message
i.<^ never said a word. Siie forbore to look at him while she
dtdivered it, and immediately changed the suhject, for which
hei' son blessed her in his heart. At six o'clock next morn-
ing a carriage from Dalmore came bowling over the Girron Biig,
and drew up at the gate of Shoimen. The coachman had a note
for Mrs. Macleod. It was only to beg that, as a last favour, she
would make use of the can iage to the station, and there was a
basket of spring flowers and some hot-house fruit for the journey.

PEA CE.

337

ept liis vow to
ined tlie tinv',
ilcmi'ilH'cl OIK'
and ;i shield in
Sheilti uiidnr-
stedfastness of
, and even tlu;
in uncertainty,
B thuu^lit tiiat

3 found Jessie
it with a great
ti her fortunes
ind they were

ae lang at the
e greeted her
ne o'cluck, an'

'Tine ye heard the news about Auclilov, sir?' asked the man.
toiidiiiig his hat to Fergus when he came out of the gate.

' Xo ; what's that? ' a-ked Fergus, in a starth'd voice.

* He wasna hanie a' nieht, and they've found liini this morn-
ing in the Braan just helow the brig, dead.'

*Di owned?' abked Fergus, in horror.

' Ay ; but he was hurt, they say, afore he was tlirown over.
'I'liey're seekin' i"ur Ahdcohn Menzies. He liasna been in the
Fauld since ihe I'oreiiicht yesterday. Tiiey say he's awu' ower
the hilJs to Aherfihly, clean stark mad.'

Ah, poor Malcolm Menzies! Tlie bitter end had come. The
nursing of a revt-ngelul passion, working upon an excitable,
overstrung temperament, had thrown reason from her throne.
Fergus, lemembering their luddie-lime; turned away v\ith his
eyes lull of tears.

'ssie,' said her
e packing, did
lay our hands
boK out ? '
vhen ye want
replied Jes^Nie
her mind was
dbelled, ready

talked of past,
eila's mc-sage
liiro while she
ct, for which
k next moin-
L' Girron Biig,
lan had a noie
St favour, slie
d theie was a
r the journey.

f '

< ' >i

^■J

■i ' !

li I ■ .

^i^^X^^^^^lGfi30z

"_>>'' ,"/■•

' >ry//TM»i7^

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MACDONALD S LAST WILL.

Does the road wind up hill all the way'
Yes, to tlio very end.

jv| HEY found poor ]\ralcolm ere the day was far spent,
and took him to Forth Prison to await his trial.
The trial would be a mere form, for nothing could
be proved ; and it Avas probable that, after the
examination, he would be removed to the asylum at Murthly.
Colin Fisher, the farmer in Kinloch, had been the first to see the
body of the factor 1} ing on the river bank in the early mornmjr
lid was quite dead, with a long bruise on the temple, administered
by some heavy in-trumcnt, or perhaps sustained in his fall, Tlic
affair was discussed in all its bcarinirs with that morbid miiuite-
ness country people love. The wildest rumours were iifloat;
1 :ut as there were no e) e-Avitnesses to the struggle, — if there had
been a struggle, — nothing certain could be known. The accept-
able idea, however, v/as that Malcolm, in the frenzy of the
inoMient, had thrown Anrrus M'Bean over the brid-ie. It was
impossible, owing to the height of the parapet, that he con'd
have fallen over it, even if struggling close by it. It created a
]iainful sensation in the Glen, where both v.'ere well known.
There was nothing but pity for the poor lad who had done the
cruel deed; and as for Angus M'Bean, the factor, they spoke

338

MACDONALD'S LAST WILL.

339

I-

kindly of him, with that beautiful touch of lovinfi-kindnoss and
chiiriiy which death never fails to bring forth. He is a callous
man who will speak evil of the dead. Annus M'Bi'an the
younger went through to Edinburgh, and brought his wife
to Auchloy the following morning. His mother, with an
unselHsh kindness for which many blessed her, and none jnore
earnestly than poor Katie herself, would not turn her back
upon the innocent because of another's sin. She it was who
wrote the sad news to Katie, and she gave her a daughter's
welcome to Auchloy. And in a few days all was over, and
Angus Al'Bean was laid to rest in the kirkyard at Aniulree,
iind his faults were buried with him.

During that trying time for the Auchloy household, Sheila
was constant in her kind attention to them. It was in such
ways, sharing their griefs, and sympathizing with their joys,
that the young Lady of Dalmore endeared herself to her people.
She believed that a great responsibility rested upon her; she
held her heritage as a solemn trust, and, as far as her knowledge
went, did her utmost for all with whom she had to deal. There
were few grumblings now in Glenquaich, for Sheila was a wise,
just, generous mistress. She did not, however, give charity to
any except the most needy; she had a shrewd sense of what
was due to herself, likewise ; and it was her aim and desire to
footer in the cottars that independent, self-reliant spirit wiiich
was wont to be Scotland's glory. Of indiscriminate civing she had
seen the evil, and, while carrying out all reasonable improve-
ments, and giving her tenants fair conditions under which to
live, she required that there should be no arrears of rent after
some past debts to the estate were wiped away. There was no
excuse for the idle or the shiftless, and these, of course, com-
plained that the new rule was as hard as the old. Sheila knew
every household in the Glen, and kept the black sheep, of whom
liiere were a few, strictly under her own surveillance. She
had her troubles; sometimes her generous kindness and honest
endeavours were met by ingratitude and disappointment ; but,
on the whole, the Glen, and especially the Fauld, was in a
flourishing, contented state. Shortiy after the factor's death,
and having first taken counsel with her friend and adviser, Mr.

I; -I

f I

liH!

fti

t I

't 1^'

'I.

340

SHEILA.

C(ilqnlionn, tlio linvyer, Slicila rode over to Andiloy one niulit,
towards the end of May, to interxiew youncr Annus M'Bt-aii.

le was

s tak

en 111

to tl

Irawintr-rooni, w

here Katie, look

Ml.

very wliite and tired, liad lain down on the couch for a itsi.
Malcolm was constantly in Katie's heart. Sheila was shockt tl
to see her. Could that pale, sh;idowy creatine in the hiatk
frock be tlie lK)nnie red-cheeked Katie of yore? She started
up, a^^hanied of being caught ; but Sheila's kind smile, ever ready,
reassuii'd her.

* The heat has tired you, Katie ; isn't it ver^ hot for M;iy ? '
she said plea'^antly. 'I hope your husband is ni ; I want very

uch t

o see nun.

'lie will not be very far away. Miss Siieila,' said Katie, and
seated herself dis[>iritedly an the sofa, as if she had lost her
interest in life.

' Katie, you look quite ill.; I am afraid you are vexing your-
self about something.'

'It's Malky, Miss Sheila; ye see, I daurna mention his name
here ; but oh, if I could only see him ! Do you — do you think
he'll be hanged?'

The words came out in a sort of gasp ; and the look of
absolute terror and agony on Katie's face shocked Sheila
inexpressibly. The thought of ^Malcolm on the scaffold had
dwelt with Katie ni^lit and day, and was eating her very heart
out. Sheila was filled with compassion, understaiuling how the
poor girl's feelings were pent up in her own breast. She must
have suffered terril)ly during the last few AVeeks.

'Hanged! O no, Katie dear; you must not think of such a
thing,' she said, with quiet reassurance. 'I was at Crieff to-day
seeing Mr. Ctihpihoun, and we were speaking aliout Malcolm.
He says — and you know he is a very clever man, Katie — tliat
Malcolm will not be punished at all, even if anything were
proved, and that is impossible; he was not responsible, lie
wdl be sent to ^Nlurthly, and will be very kindly and carefully
dealt wiili there, I assure you. You may believe what I am
saying, Katie, for I would not deceive you, and Mr. Culquhoun
knows all about it.'

Katie burst into tears. "VYhot relief these words gave her

[■! ■ f (■

MACDONALD'S LAST WILL,

34T

vexing your-

none knew but licrself. She dried her eyes lia'stily wlien the
door opened and her linshand entered. She hft tlu; ronm
iniinediately ; and Sheih\ saw how Angus's eyes followed h»r,
and knew that it had made no difTcrence to him.

' Your wife has been vexing herself needlessly about hi r
brother,' said Sheila, after she had shaken hands with Angii-.
' I quite understand how she caiuiot talk about it, even to ijou."

• I saw tliere was something worrying her. I know what
it is. But they can't do anything to him, nor would Wf
wish it,' said Angus, in a low voice. 'Poor Malcolm was not
responsible.'

' I have just been telling Katie that, but if you would tell lui-
too, I am sure it would do good,' said Sheila. ' I came over to
see you on a little matter of business. Are you going back to
Edi!d)urgh soon? '

'Indeed, I don't know, Miss Sheila; I must stay here, I
sujipose, till I get something to do,' said Aniius, with rather a
melancholy smile, for he had found office -seeking a heart h-s
task.

' Would you care to take your father's place ? ' Sheila a^ked
at once.

Angus M'Bean flushed all over with surprise and delight. The
idea had not occurred to him, as he did not consider himself
qualified for such a post.

' I am not fit, Miss Sheila. I have had no experience —
practical experience, I mean ; but I would do my utmost to
serve you,' he said, not without emotion.

'I am sure of that; and, you know, as to experience, we will
be the less likely to fall out, for I have a great many whims.
Do you third? you could put up with them?'

Angus M'Bean did not for the moment speak. A load was
lifted from his heart. He saw that it was not a wise nor a goo'l
tliirni; for him and his yoim"; wife to dwell under the; same root
wi'li his mi'ther and sisters, however kind they might be. lie
knew that it must soon have an end. He had almost begun io
fear, indeed, that, dearly as he loved Katie, he had done her an
injury in marrying her before he had a home to offer her.

' You mustn't say a word,' said Sheila, with a pretty, wilful

342

SHEILA.

\\ v

\y^

■\ '!!■

H- '1- !

smile, ' for I have quite made up my mind about it, and laid nil
my plans. Your mother and sisters will stay on here, — that is, if
they wish it, and you and Katie can live at Shonnen. Mis.
Miicleod left the keys with me, and I know she will be quite
pleased that you should live in it.'

' Katie will thank you. Miss Sheila, for I cannot,* said Angus
M'Bean huskily ; ' but I will do my utmost to serve you.'

' I am sure of it, and I need no thanks,' said Sheila, with a
sunny smile. ' I have spoken to Mr. Colquhoun about it. I
went to see him to-day for that purpose. You will go down to
Crieff at an eaily day, Mr. M'Bean, will you not, and settle tlie
whole matter with him? And now I must shake hands witli
my new factor, and run away, for the boy will be tired of
holding Rob Roy, who hns a rooted aversion to a strange hand
on his bridle.'

She would not wait for thanks. Sheila did not do good for
selfish motives, to win approbation and flattery and praise. She
was, as I said, honestly striving to fill worthily and well tiie
responsible place God had apportioned to her. She did the
duty lying to her hand, and so found a blessing with it. She
went away from Auehloy that night leaving sut)shine behind.
She had given to the young couple, who had nothing in this
world but loving hearts and willing hands, an aim and a hope
for the future. The very day after his son's hasty marriage,
Angus M'Bean the elder had drawn up a new will, leaving
everything to his wife and daughters. Young Angus had not
even the proverbial shilling to console him, and matters had
begun to look serious for him and his young wife. But Angus
would not long have remained idle. Love had made a man of
him, and he would not be ashamed to soil his hands for Katie.

Sheila gave Rob Roy the rein going home, and that frisky
animal almost flew over the road. She wanted some violent,
invigorating influence; the days had been strangely dark and
even purposeless since Fergus went away. She had thought
that there would not be much difference. She had seen him so
seldom, even while he was in Edinburgh ; but ah ! the rolling
sea was a strange barrier, and the world beyond Glenquaich was
very wide. She had quite decided, indeed, after the business

% 11 :

MACDOXALD'S LAST WH.L.

343

jiboiit tliH iifi'v f.ictor Wiis concluck'd, to go over to ^^Iln■llysll..1l;:ll
fijr Ji wi'i'k. Sue was \vc;iryin<i: to see Aunt Ailsa, ami Alastair
also, because he would tiilk to her aljcjiit Fertrus.

Ah ! in soiiu^ things, after all, 8h:'ila was a little silllsh. 8he
did not take into account that Alastair's horiest heart jniglit
have received a serious wound. But he liad eeitaitdy done his
best to show her that he did not ndnd his dismissal in ihc least.

After dimier that eveni'\fr, Sheila Went into the lihraiy to
write two letters, — a brief note to her aunt, fixing a day ior
^[nirayshaugli, and a letter to Mrs. Macleod, ac(iuainting her
with her rapid disposal of the house at Shonnen. There was
a deep drawer in the escritoire, in which still lay all the books
which had been Macdonald's coniDanions in his last i. .ess
Sheila had wished them to be placed there untouclied. She
o[)ened the drawer to use the blotting-book, her own being np
in her dressing-rooni, and, almost involuntarily, she began to
spell out once more the disjointed words which had been im-
pressed on it the last time it was used. Then the old shadow
crept u[), chilly and darkly, over her heart, — the bygone i'ear
lest she bhonld be enjoying the heritage of another, lest Fergus
Macleod should have gone forth to a life of toil and hardship
when he should be by right Laird of Dalrnore. After jx-ring
over the book for a long time, she began to lift the other tliinus
out one by one. At the bottom lay the Bible which Macdonald
had been reading the day he died. It was an old-fashioned
volume, with curious leather covers, wdiich had a lining of green
silk, and a little {)Ocket into which the boards of the book were
slipped. Sheila looked at the old volume with interest, and,
when she opened it, a faint peifume of dried rosemary and
thyme greeted her, and it seemed to have a message from the
past. Just as she was about to close it, the leaves slipped over
to the last page, and she then noticed a folded paper within the
green silk pocket made by the lining. Without a thought —
certainly, witnout the least suspicion of its contents — she slipped
it out, and unfolded it on the desk. Then her face became veiv
white, and her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hoM
the paper. It was what she had so long looked for, — what.
would have set everything right in the old bitter days if onl >

344

SHEILA,

it had been found. The few cramped, uneven words were as
follows : —

'This is my last will and testament. 1 leave Dalmore and
Fiudowie to my iH'pliew, Ferj^us Macleod, upon one condition, —
that he marrit'S my beloved daughter, Slu'ihi Muiray Macdonald,
and adds the name of Macdouidd to his own. If he uill imt
fulfil these conditions, my former will, drawn up by Culquhoun,
will stand good.

* Graham Macdonalo.'

As she read, the hot blood cha«ed away the paleness fr. ni
Sheila's neck and cheek and blow. She laid her arms down
upon the table, and buried her burning, throbbing face upon it,
and cried until she uas weak and spent. It Avas not a pha^aiit
discovery for a young girl. Gralium Maedonahl had not in
this done wt*ll by the child he so loved. For there had btt'ii
no spoken love between her and Fergus Macleod, and }«'t, in
the interests of truth and right, the contents of this will nHi>t
be divulged. Poor Sheihi! her j)roud young heart had to ^teer
its way through many bitter waters before it anchored in iIp-
haveu of love.

lords were as

CHAPTER XL.

*TIIE CAMPBELLS AUE COMIN .

» »

B'lt T (liniia s^o thn lirooin, \vi' its tassels, on the lea,
Nor hear the liatiu's sang o' my aiu couutrie.

GiLFILLAN.

HE close of one of the swoct days of early summer
in the far West. The soft air was resonant with
tlie lunn of tlio insect world, and laden with the
delicate odours of budding le.if and Kuisiin'T bloom.
The mnples had donned their loveliest attire; the sumach had
its tender, bright shoots spread out in the sun, beech and oak
and ash lliuiued their emerald hues beside the soiid)re leafage
of the pine. There were yellow buds on the stately golden
rod, and the forest primeval was carpeted with a wondrous
carpet of gaudy lilies, red and white and yellow, standini; up
bravely on their delicate but sturdy stems, and verily making
the desert to blossom as the rose. The grass was living green
on the rough road>ides, and the sparrows chirped noisily in
every bougli ; and sometimes the dainty blue jay, vain of his
pretty dress, would fierch on the rail of the quaint snake-fence,
and utter his cheery but not very musical note. The sky was
crystal clear, shading to westward from palest amber to flaming
red and gold. The masses of the forest trees stood out against
it with startling clearness, and a soft mellow light lay on tlie
clustering lioinesteads, as if shedding upon them a benison of

1' 1

346

SHEILA.

'I ,'

goodwill and pcjiCR. The fall wheat was green on the lirtlc
cleared patelns, and the h<';ilthy lops of the niangolds showing
in other i)lart'.s between the stinnps of the trees.

Ir had l»een no lifjjht labour to which the pioneers from Cileii
qnaieh had set themselves; but their hearts did not fail them,
for wherever they put in their plou^rhshaie mother earth yielded
them a l)ouiitiful return. 'I'lie landscape was very flat, varie
gated oidy by the daik masses of the bush, with here and there
u rolling breadth of rising ground, which could hardly be called
a hillock.

The homesteads were primitive, h\\1 picturesque; the houses
being built of substantial lf)gs, welded together with rouudi
cement, and roofed with shingles, — pieces of wood cut and
laid after the manner of slates. The roomy barn, which in-
cluded stable and byre and granary, — in u word, the whole
'steading' of a Scotch farm-place, — was built after the s;ime
style, and represented an extraoidinary amount of labour. The
several liouse and barn raisings in the township had been a
source of great interest and amusement to the younger ena-
grants, though the expedition with which the older settlers
wrought v\hen tliey came to help, and the amoujit of laborious
toil tliey put into the wcrking hours, r.ither astonished some
of the lazier members of the new community. Imitation is a
good thing, and these barn raisings brouglit out the ' smed-
dum' of the Highland exiles as years of 'daidlin'' at home
would never have done. The roads were very rough and un-
even ; the ground in many places being swampy, a difficulty
obviated by the laying of logs across the way. As time went
on, and drainage became more common, tlie roads in the new-
township would improve. The principal road led direct from
the little village to the nearest railway station, twenty-three
niilcs distant.

The village, called so by courtesy only, consisted of one store,
of that curious type seen nowhere "but in the backwoods of
a new country ; a blacksmith's shop ; and a little frame house,
which, from its shape and appearance, was evidently a j)i;ice
of worship. On this fine evening the village or towiii^hip
of Fergus Creek seemed to be in a state of urprecedented

r.-l

! I

* THE CAMPHEf.LS ARE COMIiY:

347

livi'lincs"!. Tlic liiilf cn'ck, a limpid, pellucid sfr«'atn, flowing'
in Ji s.mdy Ix'd, likr ilic \>\\v\\ in tiic old soiijr, ' wiinplcd tliroiiLdi
tlic cliiclian,' and the siniddy stood ' ayont it,' and at iIh'
smiddy dooi', tin- centre of an interested and excited throng,
stood onr old I'riend Don.dd Macalpine, tlie smith, iookiiifr moie
li de and hearty than he had ever dune in Achnafanld. Donald
had not changed iiis tiade, lor, ol' course, wherever there aie a
niiinlier of faims in a district, a smiddy is indispcii'alile, ><i
Donal I felt himself so much at home, that if he hao oi.ly had a
' reekin' liim,' as he said someimes to Marv, he conid h;;i(ll\

li;iA-e lielieved himself away fioni the old Cile

But whet! er

if was that Canadian wood hurned more clearly than Highland
pe.it. it is certain that the smiddy him lu'ver hoihered Dor.ald
ai ad. Tl e sndth was diOM'd in his he^t, as also were llie
oihers, whose f.ices were mostly fannliar. From ont ilh- open
diMir of Donald's pretty frame cottage, whicli had received a
n( w' coat ot' pink jiaint, which made it look very smart indeid,
tlnie came a very appetizing odour of all soits of good thini's
conking lor a ft ast. Presently, Mary herself, looking, oh I so
soii>u' and young, came out to the door, th.e gay ribbons of her
cap llutit ring excitt^dly about lier (lushed lace.

' Ony word yet, Donald? 'J'he jeuks is dune to a tnm, an'
the ketile's begiimin' to bile in.'

' riity caiiia' be lang noo, Mary, my woman,' Donald
aii>wer. (1 cli< t-rily. ' Allooiu' an hoor for the train bein' lute,
tliey sl.oidd be here in aboot ten meenits.'

' Awa' ayont the road, then, lads; an' you, Cam'll Stewart, gai'
yei- j)ipes play "The Cam'lls are Comin'" wi' a' yer ndi'ht
A II nil' an' me an' Jecms's wife an' the weans '11 be dauiu'iin*
e;tei- ve.'

and the conn

'■}•

>1'

ipany

themselves into a kind of [)rt)ce>sion, and marched off down the
ro;i(l, and yotmg Campbell Stewart, the third laddie of the
former tenant of 1 urrich, put the ]iipes to his mouth, and blew
the fannliar blast wdnch had so ofu'ii awakened the echoes of
the (iliM (punch hills, lie had on the bright Macdonald kilt,
jthiid and all ; and every man in the township who possessed
a kilt had got into it, and it was like a miniature Highland

I. I

I r'l

■ ;i

! ' m

ll ♦:

A ■-;

■'iH

•1

348

SHEILA.

rcsimont mnrcln'ng along tlie road. The Avliole clan Imd
gMtlu'rcd ill tlic t'laclian, all tlin women and tlio haiiiis too;
boonic Annie Stewart, young Jamie's wife, witli a b.iirii in lur
aims and o e at lier skirts, and iier motlier-in-law too, who,
tlu'Uiili prantiy now, looked almost as young as Aimie lierself.
Jiimes Stewart of Turrioh had never ceased to bless the d.iy
which had brought him to the kindly, healthy land across the
sea.

Though Ar.-iry Macalpine's face Avas wreathed in smiles, there
was a suspicious dimness about her eyi.'S, which indicated tin-
working of an inward emotion. There was a nervousness aI)out
her, too, and again and again she broke away from the Talk of
the women to run into her own snug kitclien for another look
at the table.

' If it had only been INIaister Fergus hissel', Ailie Stewart,'
she said to James Stewart's wife. ' He tak's bite an' sup wi'
a'l)ody, an' is aye pleased, but it's anither thing to cook for the
leddy o' Shonnen.'

' Dinna you v»'X yoursel', Mary, my woman,' Ailie answered
gently. 'Efier sailin' on the sea, an' e;itiii' dry morsels in the
train, an' the kind o' meat they gie ye here at railway stations,
the 1( ddy o' Shonnen will no' find fault wi' youi table Better
nor her inicht relish it, fur I never snielt a better smell.'

Miiry laughed ; but in she went again, for the sound of the
pi[)es had turned evidently, and was now being b(jriie on the
swelling bosom of the wind straight towards the clachan.

' They're comiir, Mary ! we see the buggy on the tap o' the
hill!' cried Ailie excitedly. 'Come awa', granny's doos,' she
added to the bairns, and set off from the door.

But Mary did not follow. From the window-ledge she
took a little flower-pot, in which, bowered among green
moss, there s'ood up, brave and bonnie and strong, twu
yi llow-eyed, [)ink-lipped gowans. This she set on the middle
of the long low table, which Avas covered with white hoint'-
made bread and scones and oat cakes, and golden honey and
firm yellow butter and delicious cheese, all made by loving
hands in the township. Every household had sent something
to Mary ^.lacai^-Iue's table that night to tunipt the exiles froui

THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN\'

349

ole clan Imd
lie haiiiis too;
ii b;iirii in lin-
-law too, who,
Annie liiM'scIt'.
bless the d.iy
iind across the

in smiles, there
I indicafetl tin-
'vousiiess about
)m the talk of
r another look

Ailie Stewart,'
te an' snp \vi'
cook for the

Ailie answered
morsels in the
ilway stations,

able Better

smelh'

sound of the

borne on the

achan.

le tap o' the

y's doos,' she

low-ledse she
among gieeii
stroncr, twu
)n the middle
white home-
en honey and
bv K
lei
,e exiles from

over the sea. M;iry's liands trembled as she touched the
i^owans. God alone knew with what love she had tended tliat
sweet k('ep>ake from her bairnie's grave. And when the tirsi
bud had become a bonnie (lower, she \\vA received it as a direct
message of comfort from the heaven where her bairn was
waiting for her. As she heard the din coming nearer tlie
house, she ran into the parlour, and, breaking a wee bit heather
from the big bunch which hung always above the mantelpieec.
she divided it into twg sprigs, and laid one on the plate at the
head of the table and one on the right hand. Then she put
the tea in the teapot, and, all trembling, went out to the door.
And there thev were: the youn<i: Laird himself on his feet

■y

nie Dy lovnig
ent something

near tiie smiddy door, surrounded by all the folk, talking and
laughing in the most delightful excitement. The buggy was
close behind, and there sat Ellen Macleod, in the front seat
beside James Stewart, with her veil up, and a smile of sunshine
and peace upon her face. After the long, weary journey, her
heart was touched Inexpressibly by the welcome accorded to
them by their ain folk; and though she knew it was for the
boy's sake, she did not grudge him it, nor feel any qualms about
her own reception. She had to win the folk, and she would.
Jamie Stewart, sitting by her side, and hearing her talk as they
drove, had felt like a man in a dream.

' Ilulloa, Mary, old woman! There you are!'

Fergus strode from among the throng, atid, gripping Mar\'s
two hands firm and fast in his strong young grasp, l)ent fmm
his tall heigiit and kissed her twice ; and then wiuit a ' liunah ! '
broke from the people.

'He's my laddie, my ain laddie!' she said brokenly. ' Let
me gang, see, an' speak to your mither. Ye'll excuse us, mv
leddy ; you see, he was aye oor laddie in the Faidd.'

' I am his mother, and it does me good to see how he is
beloved,' Ellen Macleod said ; and wlu'ti she alighted fiom the
buggy, she took ^bny's hands too, and looked itito the honest
face with a \\i->ilul smile. ' You have a welcome for me lor my
son's sake. I see it in your eyes.'

'Ihis fairly broke Mary down.

' Come in, come in 1 diima speak, my leddy, but come in ! '1 h*-

350

SHEILA,

tea's ji' ready, an' yer bed's clean an' sweet wi' linen spun in the
Fuuld ; an' set?, tluav's tin* heather and the gowans frac Shian,
an' a' tliinizs tliat's hamelike an' c;inny ! — Bur giiid I^ord help
me ! Don;dd says I'm an aiild fule, an' so i am. Cume in,
come in ! '

When Ellen Macleod saw the table spread with so much good
cheer, and was ushered into the dainty little bed-chamber ^bu•y
had provided for her, and above all, as she saw the kindly light
of welcome in the face of the smith's wife, her composure shook.
Oh, hovV she had misunderstood and misjudged the folk, wdioj^e
hearts were as pure as gold !

' I do not know what to say, Mrs. Macalpine. I feel your
kindness in my heart. My boy will thank you. I trust every-
thing to him.'

Then Mary knew that a great and wonderful change had
taken place in the relations between mother and son, and her
hands were very gentle as she helped the mistress of Shonnen
off with her many wraps.

' It's a lang, weary journey, my leddy ; but, my certy ! ye arc
better afFthan we were when we cam', for there's a siuid meal
o' meat waitin' ye. Sirce ! when I cam', an' saw naething but
trees an' trees an' better trees, and was telt we had to cut them
doon to build a biggin' o', I felt gey queer. It's no' an ill
country, ma'am, when ye get used to it. An' the sticks burn
better nor the peat, though baith ways the fire's like a hungerr
bairn, — aye greetin' for mair. There's water, ma'am, to A'a^-h
yer face; an' I'll dish up the jeuks that Rory Maclean shot twa
days ago in the swamp, and they're mair tender than the L^rouse
or Patricks on Craig Hulich. An' to think that no' three weeks
ago ye Avalkit the auld roads, an' saw the loch shinin' in the sun I
But I maun awu' ; I'm a stupid auld wife ! '

' How mony hae ye room for, Maiy, at the table ?' cried Donah'.
y)utting his 'lam o' Shanter round the door. 'The Laird'll no'
sit doon his lane.'

' We ci)uld pit doon nine or ten. Bid the Laird wale them,
an' I'll bring cu[)S,' Mary answered back; and what a lauphinj
and joking there was over the Laird's 'walin!' He chos*- all
the old folks, and when they were gathered round the board

* THE CAMPBELLS ARE COM IN",

351

:n spun in the
IS frae Shiiin,
lid Lord help
11. Cuine ill,

so miic]i good
lianiher Mary
e kindly liglir
[)()sure shook,
le folk, whoso

I feel your
I trust evcry-

[ change had

son, and licr

IS of Shoiinen

certy ! ye arc
's a gnid mciil

nacthing but
d to cut thciii

t's no' an ill
e sticks burn

ke a huiiGfert
I'am, to A'a^h

ean shot twa

in the Lironsc

three weeks

n' in tlie sun I

cried Donnh'.
le Laiid'll no'

d wale tlicni,
it a lauiihiiiii-
He chost- nil
Hd the board

was himself the only young one among them. Ilis mother sat
by his right hand ; and then, after Doiiahl had asked the
blessing, in a broken and ^uite inaudii)le voice, Fergus got up
to his feet.

' Fi'iends,' he said, and his manly voice shook, and the red
flush of deep emotion spread all over his handsome face — ' friends,
I want to thank you in my own and my mother's name
for'—

He came to a sudden stop, and then the aAvkward pause was
filled by the sudden music of the pipes sti iking up the lively air
of 'Lady Anne Lindsay.' So Fergus laughed, and sat down.
Then the ' jeuks,' all brown and savoury and teiuler, were set
before him *o carve, and he was so hungry he made short work
of them. Ellen iSL^cleod sat very quietly by his side, si{)j)ing
the delicious tea, and enjoying Mary's dainty morsels to the full,
but not saying much. Slie was content to stay in the back-
ground and let the boy be first. But she was no restraint upon
them, for the few words she spoke were so gentle and kind that
they looked at her in wonder, and reproached themselves for
the misgivings they had entertained about her coming. It was
a merry, merry meal. What a questioning and answering!
Fergus was sore put to it to speak and eat with all his might
at once ! As was to be expected, they were eagerly interestel
in all the Fauld news, — in Katie ^Fenzies' maniage to young
M'Bean, and poor Malcolm's misdoing, which had resulted in
the untimely end of the factor. He had b(.'en a harsh task-
master to them, but they genuinely deplored his gri< voiis
death. Late that night Fergus sat up round the fire, with the
smith an<l James S ewart and old Kory Maclean, talking of 'he
jirospects for him in the [)lace. 'I'hey were of iln' briLihtest.
There was a large farm, the greater ])art of which was cleared,
and with a good house and barn attached, for sale at North Kast
Hope, al)Out six miles from Fergus Creek. The price was
about three thousand pounds ; and as Fergus I ad in hand,
with his own and his mother's means, about two- thirds of that
sum, there would be no (li(li(;nlty about the puichase. The old
settlers had been keeping their eye on it ever since tiny heard
tell of the young Laird coming, and there was little to d(j but

352

SHEILA.

see Ov'so who liMtl tlie selling of it, and enter into po.s<:ession.
I lie owiicM" Iiiid died suddenly, sind liis widow and daughter
wuie anxious to realizf, ;tnd go to T(jronto to live.

In a very few week>' time all tliese arrangements were made.
l'\'r:ius and liis mother saw and approved the place; the dei d
of imrehase was diawn out and signed ; and the end of June saw
lilt' lifli; household from Slionnen settled amor>g all the familiar
luriiisiiiiigN in a roomy and comfurtalde frame farm-house, and
I\rgus Mack'od a Canadian landowaer in his own right.

! '■

i;i

to possession.

CHAPTER XLL

A MAIDENS HEART.

Alas 1 for the years thnt lie

Between love's reaping and sowing!

J. B. Selkirk.

mn ' ■J" ' .JVli,

ADY AILSA was extromely puzzled over the denoue-
ment of the interesting love afTiir between Slu'ila
and Fergus Macleod. She could not understand
it at ail, and felt afrgravafed with the foolish
young man for deliberately turning his back uj)on good
fortune such as lies in the way of very few ; and not good
fortune oidy, but as sweet and winsome a wife as atjy man
coidd ever hope to win. Wiien she thought liow much her
own Alasfair, to say nothing of hiilf a dozen oiliers, would have
given for the chance, it made her feel very sore against the
independent young scion of the house of Macdoiuild. But
then she knew nothing of the undercurrents, for dearly as
Sheila loved her aunt, there were some things slie could not
tell her. The secret of Fergus's fall was safe with the women
who liad witnessed it. Where the interests of their <m|'Ioyers
were concerned, Jane Cameron and Je-sie Miickenzie could
be as silent as the grave, so tliat eventful New Year's eve
never became the talk of Amulree. Lady Ailsa knew per-
ftcily well that Sheila cured for Fergus; her (lifficulty now
was to understand the condition of the young man's mind

11 if

354

SHEILA.

I :i

t(-\vards her. Tlie very thought that her darling might have
;iiven the whole precious wealth of her heart unasked, and to
Jill unappreciative or unresponsive soul, filled her with indignant
sorrow.

She was sitting over her sewing in her own boudoir one cold,
cliill May afternoon, thinkino; over it all, with a little heightened
(Mlour in her face, and rather a vexed expression about her
mouth. Sheila was a care to her ; and it was perfectly plain
that since the Macleods left Shonnen the child's spirits had
deserted her. And yet she would not leave Dalmore, where she
was moping and eating her hcsut out about something. Lady
Ailsa was planning a Utile trip to the Kiviera for herself and
Sheila, and made up her mind that Alastair should spend a week
or two with them there. For if Fergus had deliberately retired
from the tield, why, then, there was a fair chance for another,
and why not Alastair, who, though too happy and sensible to
grow morose and melanchoty over one girl's rt-fu-^al, would no
(ioubt be only too glad if Sheila would relent? The very thought
of such a happy ending brought a delicious smile to Lady Ailsa's
face, and it was on her lips when the door opened suddenly,
and Sheila herself came in. She had on her riding habit, but
had put off her hat and gloves downstairs, and her hair was all
blown about her face by the rough east wind, and there was
the loveliest blush of the rose on her fair cheek.

' You witch ! I was thinking of you. Did you divine what
I wanted?' said Aunt Ailsa, with her warm greeting. 'But
how dare you come to Murrayshaugh in that costume? When
(lid you begin to make formal calls upon your relatives? '

' Never, auntie. Don't bother me.. Let me sit down here,
see, just at your feet,' said tlie girl weaiily, 'and don't ask me
a single question, or say anything. I'm going to s])eak by and
by. Aunt Ailsa, after I am rested, and can find word-;,'

She threw herself on a stool at her aunt's feet, and, folding
her arms on her knees, laid down her head, and a long, shiver-
ing sigh broke from her lips. Aunt Ailsa's kind eyes filled
with keen concern. She saw the child's heart was breaking,
for now that the transient fiu>h brouglit by the wind's eart'ss
had faded, her face was quite pale, and her expression sad

A MA/DEN'S HEART.

355

almost to hopelessness. She did not speak, but laid her motherly
hand above the girl's slender pale fingers, and Sheila caught
it, and laid her cheek against it. So they sat in silence for a
time.

* Aunt Ailsa,' came at length very low from Sheila's lips,
' do you think it makes God very angry, if sometimes, wlicn
we are very wretched, we think we would not mind very miicli
though death came to end it all ? '

' My Sheila, these are not fitting words from yotir lips,' Aunt
Ailsa replied quite gravely, though her lips trembled. * God
has blessed you, my darling, above many.'

' Oh, I know He has, and 1 am not ungrateful,' was the girl's
passionate answer. ' But sometimes, auntie, I think it would
be so easy to be poor, and even not in good health, if other
things were different. Is it wrong to think that I have too
much care ? I can never remember a time when something
did not weigh upon my heart. I have never been quite happy,
I think, since mamma and I lived down by the ri^er. It is
so hard to grow up.'

* I know what weighs upon your heart, my c'arling. I under-
stand it aU,' said Aunt Ailsa softly.

'Not quite, auntie,' returned Sheila quickly. 'You know
some things, but not all. It was very hard to bear when tlh^y
went away,' she added simply, and without affectation. ' But
there is something else. It happened nearly three weeks ago,
and I have been trying to think what would be the right thing
to do, Aunt Ailsf'. I have found papa's will.'

'Bless me! Sheila, are you always harping on that old fancy

yet?'

' No. I have found it, and here it is, Aunt Ailsa. See, I
have brought it to you to read, for I have nobody in the world
now, but only you.'

She drew the folded scrap of paper from the bosom of her
dress, and gave it into her aunt's hand. Lady Ailsa put on her
eyeglass, and scanned the few words which were of such serious
im|)orr, to the girl at her knee.

' I never heard of such a thing 1 ' she cried indignantly. * It
was wrong and cruel of Macdonald to do this. Sheila. I cannot

' ':•

■ ■ ,

^3 1

'■

tiil!

iL... ■

» ■ .

■t!!i

356

SHEILA.

help it, \^ I spi^iik hnrslily of the dead. Why did you go
jx'king about in odd corners, seeking this to your own heart-
})ri'iik, child ? '

* I didn't poke ; it came to me. I suppose the time had
come,' said Slieiia, with a dreary smile. Tiien her colour ruse,
and lier lips trembled. 'Do you quite understand it, auntie —
do you see the wretched, miserable position it puts me in? I
ve'' V Fergus Macleod, and he is l)ribed, as it were, to

rbere is no condition put upon me. Suppose I had
ii,i he would 1)0 kept out of Dalmore, and could

am K •
take •
to refu
feel aggrieved. is a SiJiameful thing ! '

'Shamel'ul ! It is a dis<:race and a sin !' quoth Lady Ailsa
hotly. ' Let me toss it into the fire. I wonder you did not do
it at once, child '

Slieib shook her head, and turned her face away to the
window, and watclied the green tree-tops bending to the
wind.

' Sheila, tell me truly. I must know everything. Has
Fergus ever spoken a word of love to you ? '

'No, never,' Sheila answered, with her face still averted.
' But — but I know — at least I think — he would, if things were
different.'

' You care for him, then. Sheila? '

' I am afraid I do, Aunt Ailsa, very much,' Sheila whispered ;
and the sweet colour flushed all her face again, and she was
fain to hide it.

'Tlien there need not be much fuss or vexation about it.
Sheila,' said Lady Ailsa, with a quiet smile. ' Mr Colquhoun
need only write a few iiscreet words to our exile, then there
wdl be the wedding chimes and the happy ending, and, I'm
sure, very tliankful will I be to get you otF my hands. You
don" I- kuftw what a responsibility and care you are to me.'

Hut still Sheila only shook her head.

'1 suppose he must be told?' she said at length, in a low,
(iouliifnl voice.

' In the interests of justice, if of nothing else, he must,'
Lady Ailsa answered significantly.

' And what do you suppose he will do ? '

r \

A MAIDEN'S HEART.

357

id you go
jwn heart-

j time had
t)lour rose,
t, auntie —
me in ? I
it were, to
Dpose I had
and could

Lady Ailsa
did not do

vay to the
ig to the

ling.

Has

11 averted,
ihings were

whispered ;
id slie was

about it,
Culquhoun
then there
:, and, I'm
nds. You
me.'

in a low,

he must,'

* there need be no fuss about it.
not a time to allow foolish s."
wav. If you do, the happiness oi'

*.s I

'M»

' Take passage home in the next steamer, if he is in his riglt
mind.'

' If I thought he would do that, Aunt Ailsa, I wouh^ (j
away somewhere, and hide myself for ever!' said Sheila j)assiou-
atrly. 'It is a shame! It is just a bribe. I suppose few
could resist it. Do you think Fergus could? '

' Sheda, I do not understand you. There is something you
are keeping back,' said Lady Ailsa perple.xedly. ' If you care
for Fergus, and he c;ires for you' —

' But I am not sure. I only said he might, if things were
different,' put in Sheila.

' And he cares for you,' repeateu A t Ailsa steadily,

lid before, this is
'S to stand in the
:h your lives may be
lost.'

There was a long silence. Th ^yheila rose to her feet,
and gathered the skirt of her habit in her hand. Her face was
quite pale and grave agaiii. Her aunt thought she looked
old beyond her years.

'The case, as we understand it, stands thus, then, Aunt
Ailsa,' she said quietly. ' I am in possession of Dalmore, but
if Fergus Macleod should wish to marry me, it is his. If I
sliould not wish to marry him, I may still remain in possessi'<n,
and enjoy myself as well as a usuiper can. The only thing,
then, to satisfy justice will be to offer myself and Dalmore to
Fergus Macleod, and await the result, — a very nice, enjoyable
condition of mind to be in. I can amuse myself during the
next few weeks in trying to anticipate his decision. Aunt
Ailsa, don't look at me so strangely. I am not very wretched,
only it is so funny and dreary to be as I am.'

Slie drew herself up with a slight defiance, and pushed back
her bright hair from her brow witii a quick, nervous touch.
Lady Ailsa's whole heart ached for the child, and yet she saw
that uttered sympathy at that moment would break her
down.

' Suppose we look at it from the ludicrous side. Sheila, — and it
is very ludicrous, the way poor Dalmore has been tossed about,'

558

SHEILA,

liir

\:\ \

slie said, with a smile. ' You are going to have a very original
love affair, my dear.'

' Not original at all, — perfectly horrid ! ' cried Sin ila, witli a
little passionate stamp of her foot. * Never was girl tried jis I
am. I have u good mind to marry Ian or Alastair, if he will
have me.'

' Alastair won't, my dear. There is only one man in tlie
woild for you, and you know it. Are you going to leave this
in my hands, then. Sheila?'

' No ; Mr. Colquhoun has seen the will, of course, and he is
waiting my instructions. I will write to him to-night, and then,
I suppose, I must just wail. Good-bye, aimtie ; forgive me for
troul'''ng you. No, don't ask me to stay, nor be kind to me at
all. Just let me go away and tight out my own battle. It will
all come ripht in the end. Good-bye.*

A hasty kiss, and the child was gone before her aunt could
detain her. It had not been a satisfactory interview, and Lady
Ailsa was left C(mvinced in her own mind that there was some-
thing between Fergus and Sheila she did not understand.

Next day Mr. Colquhoun received his instructions, and a
letter was sent to Fergus Macleod. It contained no superfluous
writing, nothing but the lawyer's notification that the copy of
his uncle's last will was endorsed. Tlien Sheila sat down to
wait, and what that waiting meant for her no human being ever
knew but Fergus, to whom she spoke of it reluctantly, in the
happy after-time. This was a test for Fergus. It was to prove
to Sheila what was really in him, — what depth and earnestness of
purpose possessed the young man's soul. She was torn between
two hopes, two desires. Love hoped that the message would
bring the wanderer across the sea ; but something else, the
nobler side of her character as a woman, hoped that it would
be — not yet. She prayed that he might be guided, that he
would show himself as noble as the ideal to which Sheila hoped
he would yet attain. It was a time of curious, searching trial
fur the girl ; it brought her very near that Heaven from which
her strength came. Discipline was making a very perfect and
exquisite character out of Sheila Macdonald. During the
interval Lady Ailsa saw her frequently, but the subject was not

A MAIDEN'S HEART.

359

again mentioned between them. Lady Ailsa was scarcely 1» ss
anxious about tin; result than Slieihi herself. It was the middle
of June before Fergus Macleod's letter came to Dalmore. It
was brought to Sheila in the drawing-room one sunny morn,
and the servant saw her hand tremble when she; saw the thin
foreign envelope lying on the salver. She sat with it in her
hand for a few minutes before she opened it. Her face was
pale, her eyes troubled and heavy, her heart beating vv.ldly.
The words written within might mean so much or so little. At
length she broke the seal, and these were the words she read: —

•Sunshine Hill, FKRors Crerk, Ontario,
May ZUl, 18—

*My dear Sheila, — Ir'^ceived Mr, Colquhoun's letter yesterday.
I have already written to him. You will allow me, I know,
to, say a few words to you ; although I have a feeling that it is
a breach of my vow to address you so soon. It will be the last
time, until, as I said, I can come and stand without shame in
your presence. I think that hour will come some day. Hut
for that hope and that resolve life would be very hard for me.
You know as well as I can tell you, that I regret that the will
should ever have been written, or when written found. It is
not a just will ; it might make a great deal of n)isery. As it is,
I pray it may make no difFeience to you. You know, Sheila,
without me telling you, what is the hope in my heart. You
know that the world does not hold for me anything so precious
as you. Dare I tell you this, Sheila, with the meinoiy of the
last night of the year before me? I dare, because I must now.
But I will not come back to tell vou this in words until I have
redeemed the past — until I have made myself worthier. I shall
never be whoily wqrthy. If, when that time comes, Sheila, you
can trust me for all time, God knows what it will be for me.
But if nor, or if in the interval of waiting you should see some
one to whom you could give the trust I would ask, I will tiy
not to be cast down. It has been a blessing to me that I ever
knew you. As to the will, and the disposing of Dalmoii% I
refuse to have anything to do with it. In the meantime, I hope

360

SHEILA.

%v-: i

you will continue to be tho blessing of the place. It bas no
inttTo^t for tiic now, except in so far as it concerns you. I ii>k
yon t(» foifxive nie if I liave said too miicli. I couM not liave
siiid less, 1 ibiiik, and made you undersfand, VVc are settled
Iw re on onr own farm. My nioiber is bappy, and tbe fuiure is
hiiubt witb piomise. kSbe knows all tbat is in my iieart. I
love my motber next to you. Strange ibat I sbould j)resnme
to write of love to yon, but distance and circunjstances are
accountable for une.xpected actions. I sball trespass no more
till tbe time comis 'vben I can stand an equal before you, anti,
if you are frre, H>k for your love. Give nie your prayrrs,
SInila, atul sometimes a tbongbt. All my life and hopes and
jiinis are l>onnd U[) in you. I must lay down my pen. I could
say so n»iu'b more. It is not easy to stop. May God bless and
take cat e of you. Siieila ! I say it in deep reverence. — And I am,
while I live, yours devoiedly,

*FEr.Qus Macleod.*

I be June sun lay biight and polden on the bent head, on the
swret, downcast face, radiant witb the sutishine of love. A lo id
wa^ lifted from off the child's slionlders; her heart was filli d
witli that deep, unntteraltle gladness which comes only once.
By and by, Fergus had his answer. It was very short, but it
suiiici'd : —

' Dkar Fki!GUS, — You will find me waiting when you come.

' SaEILA.'

And so the probation began.

■^mS^^^r.

CX-v^'

CHAPTER XLII.

*A JDDEECIOUS FRIGHT.*

The (It-ar old places —

So lull of uumoiies for you and me t

J. B. Sflkirk.

O letters passed betwoon these yonnp; people during
thtir probaiion. They were very loy;il. Old Time
was to \vork his will with them, but whatever
change he might make in other places or in other
hearts, his fli;.dit would find them the same. But they were
nor absolutely without news of each other, for Ala^tair and
Ferjius k« pt up a kind of desultory correspondence, and
so there was a bond kept between the old world and the
new. Frrgns was making his way steadily, and prospering,
Ahistiiir c<»nld make out from his letters, though there was
1 oiliitig of the spirit of boasting in th«m. He was farming at
■^ n hine Ilill en the most approved [)rii'ciph'S, and had, indec d,
I :Migniat(d a new agricultural t^ra in the district. lie had not
• !y rais»d the good land on his farm to the highest pitch of
hivation, but by degrees had redeemed the swamps by drain-
i!j<', and so added considerably to his estate, lie threw himself
li at and soul into his work, and, having a quick perciytion,
shrewd fore>ightedness, and pron:|.tn*»ss of action, he biide fair
to become a rich and successful man. He began to uira his
atteutioQ to stock-raising, and had some ox the best blood sent

|i ■

362

SHEILA.

out to him, which opened up a new and fine field of enterprise.
These things, of course, did not become accoinphshed facts all
at once ; they were the growth of years. And here, perhaps,
Fergus erred a little in his high-mindedness and independent
resolve. In his consuming anxiety to do well, and to have
something worthy to show as the result of the years, he forgot
what the waiting might be for Sheila. His life was full of
interrsr, of engrossing work and occupation; hers was empty,
and, in a sense, purposeless, and the time seemed to her fear-
fully long. Sometimes the child grew sick of hope defern d.
Dalniore was no longer a source of unceasing anxiety and care.
Angus M'Bean the younger was such a true, kind, and faithful
steward, that there was no longer any need for the mist ess's
constant supervision. The relations between Dalmore and the
Glen were of the most delightful description. So, in a sense.
Sheila's life became purposeless, and Aunt Ailsa was not at
times without deep anxiety about her. The child seemed to
be standing still. It was as if the development of her character
had been arrested, — 'as if she had lost hold of the purpose of life.
She stayed a great deal at Murrayshaugh, and generally
wintered abroad with her aunt and uncle. Sir Douglas was in
poor health, and the third v nter after Fergus went away, he
died at San Remo, and Alastair became Laird of Murrayshaugh.
The liapj)y, meriy household was becoming sadly thinned. The
lads w^ere scattered^^ — one at Woolwich, one at Harrow, and one
studying in Edinburgh. Tlie other two were still at Glen-
almond, though Gordon, the younger, was showing signs of
restlt ssness, and threatened to emigrate to Canada after Fergus
Macleod. Sir Alastair bore his honours meekly ; there was no
fear of his popularity among the fc>lk. He was dear to young
and old, gentle and simple alike. He was engaged to be
married to one of the bright English cousins who had been
one of Sheila's companions for a year at school, and Lady Ailsa
was looking forward to abdicating in her favour. She had
many a laugh about it; dear kind heart! she was thoioughly
hapj)y over it, and would make a snug home for herself and the
younger boys not too far away. And thus matters stood five
years after Fergus went away. At Easter, young Gordon

'•\ . I

A juLEEcious fricht:

363

f enterprise,
bed facts all
?re, perhaps,
independent
■jnd to have
rs, he forgot
was full of
was empty,
to her fear-
ipe deferrt d.
2ty and care.
and faithful
he mist ess's
lore and the
), in a sense,
, was not at
d seemed to
fier character
irpose of life.
d generally
iglas was in
nt awny, he
rrayshaugh.
inned. The
row, and one
11 at Glen-
ing signs of
after Fergus
lere was no
ar to young
^Hged to be
) had been
[ Lady Ail.sM
She had
5 thoioughly
•self and the
s stood five
II ig Gordon

rebelled altogether at going back to Glenalmond ; and, after a
long talk with his mother, Sir Alastair decided to take a trip to
Canada himsflf, in order to see what prospect there was in the
new country for his young brother. He had another errand,
too, which was spoken of but briefly between his motlur and
himself.

'And you can see for yourself what Fergus Macleod is doing
out thrre.' Lady Ailsa s.'.id. ' I ai.i rather doubtful about him
myself, Alastair. It is unlike a young man to wait so long and
make no sign. It makes me sore to look at Sheila. And to
think what matches she could have made in the interval ! But
for that young renegade we would have seen our Sluila with a
coronet on her brow.'

' \\'hich would have been irksome to her, mother, unless
Macleod had put it on,' laughed Alastair. ' I confess I don't
share your fears about Fergus. lie's a fearsome, determined
chap when he likes, and I can understand just how he feels.
But 1 confess I think Sheila is wearying.'

' If you tell him that, or even hint at it, Alastair, you stupid
boy! 1 don't know what I shall do to you.'

'Oh, mother, what do you take me for? Am I going to
make our Sheila cheup to anybody?' queried Alastair, in his
boyi»h way. ' No, no ; trust me, I'll ordy give Fergus a
"judetcious fricht,'' and won't I enjoy it?'

I ady Ailsa smiled then. She could trust her big honest son
with .'r^lu'ila's interests, so there was no more said. Sheila's face
Hushed all over, and the tears sprang in her eyes, when Alastair
rode up to Dalmore to tell his errand and say good bye.
Having made up his mind, he took out his passage at once, and
everybody was astonished to hear of his sudden resolve. Sheila
had been in the south country, spending Easter with a friend,
and so had heard nothing of it ur.til Alastair came to say good-
bye. He talked a gieat deal about exploring the country and
its prospects for the sake of Gordon, and oidy said, as he ^hook
hands at the door, —

' I'll likely see Macleod, Sheila, if I am in his neighbourhood.
Have you any message?'

But Sheila answered quite quietly, and, Alastair thought, with.

!v i:

364

SHEILA.

a touch of coldnp.ss, * No, I have no message. Don't stay
away too h)ng, Alastair, or Aunt Ailsa and 1 will be miserable.*

Tlure was a lump in Alastaii's throat as he looked at the
sweet, pale young thing in her black frock, and he mentally
resolved to make the 'judeecious fricht ' as rousing as possible.
So he kissed his cousin, and went his way. He sent no warning
of his coming to the friends over the sea; but, in spite of his
careless, indifferent words to Sheila, he made straight as an
arrow from New York to Ontario, and to the nearest station for
Sunshine Hill. The railway had been extended since Fergus
went, and the nearest station was now within eight miles of the
farm. Alastair was amazed to find thiat there was not a horse
or conveyance of any kind to be obtained for love or money at
the station. But what was eight miles to him, accustomed as
he was to doing his fifteen or twenty over hill and moor at
home? So, after getting directions for Sunshine Hill, he left
his luirgage, and started off. It was a very warm afternoon.
Summer had rushed on apace after a tardy spring, and all
vegetation was in an advanced state. The road was terril>ly
dusty, Alastair sunk to the ankles at every foot, and before he
had gone two miles began to feel out of sorts. He had rather
admired the country as he came along. The grass had not yet
been burned up by the intense heat, and all the peach and apple
orchards were in bloom. But, as he laboured along the dusty
road, with the hot, strong sun beating upon him, and nothing
to relieve the glare, he muttered something under his breath
which sounded uncommonly like ' Beastly country!' Tired out at
length, he sat down on the fence, and got a cigar with which to
solace him^^elf. ' Believe I'll sit here till sundown,' he said com-
placently, his irritation disappearing under the genial influence
of his cigar. ' Hulloa ! here's something coming. If it's a gig,
or even a cart, I'm in luck,' It was a buggy, which to Alastair
seemed a curious-looking affair ; but the horse was a smart
trotter, and the driver a pleasant-looking elderly man, evidently
a farmer. He drew rein as a matter of course when he
approached the stranger.

' (iood-day. Going far, eh ? '

*To a place called Sunshine Hill. Do you know it?*

A JUDLECIOUS FBI cut:

365

Don't stay
miserable.'
)ke(l at, the
le nientjilly
as possible.
no warning
spite of his
»i)jht as an
t station for
iiice Fernus
miles of the
not a horse
or money at
customed as
nd moor at
Hill, he left
1 jifternoon,
ing, and all
was terribly
id before he
! lind rather
had not yet
h and apple
ig the dusty
md nothing

his breath

Tired out at

ith which to

he siiid coni-

lial influence

If it's a gig,
1 to Alastair
^-as a smart
in, evidently
se when he

it?

t'i

* Of course I do ; I'm going within half a mile of it. Get in.
Warmish day.'

'Rather; thank you, I'm in luck,' said Alastair, as he jumjxd
into the comfortable seat by the driver's side. The leather
cover was up, and it was delicious to be sheltered from the
glaring sun.

' Stranger here, I see,' said the driver very freely.

* Yes, just come over.'

'Fr< m the old country ? Thought so. Any relation of Mr.
Macleod's ? '

' Only a friend. Do you know him ?' asked Alastair inter-
estedly, for here was a fine chance of hearing some independent
testiniony about his friend.

' Know him? We all do. He's one of our prominent men.
He's in everything — everything good, I mean. He's a lip-tdp
fellow, and the best farmer I ever see'd. I've been in the farm-
ing line myself for forty years, but he's learned me a thing
or two.'

' Has he really? He is a successful man, then? '

' He's a genius. I'll tell you what. They don't think much
of the old country gentry here, but he's thrown tliem all otl'
their calculations. It takes a man with all his senses about him
to serve Mr. Macleod.'

' Is he so hard on them ? *

' Oh, bless me ! no ; but he knows everything, and he won't
let a slovenly bit of work slip. I don't want no better recom-
mendation with a man than that he has served at Sunshine Hill,
and my mistress will tell you the same about the hired ^irls.
Mrs. Macleod's a real lady, but she knows what's what. Come
out thinking to settle, eh ? Fine country this. Look at tliat
wheat, sir. Did you ever see its marrow? 'i'his is the kind ^f
weather, now. Did vou ever see sunshine like this in Scotlavi) ?
No, you never did. I'm from Scotland myself; out thirty-tin ef
year come September. Me and the mistress was home la^t
year tor the fir>t time, and we couldn't ])ide for the rain. Do
you know what I told them at Carmunnock afore ' .lanie a\v.i\ ?
I just bade them get Scotland roofed in or I cam' back. Ha I
ha!'

$66

SHEILA.

1
{

i *

i 1

I :

'■ ■;' i \

■ 1 ]

-n:^

i 'l
1. .

The old farmer laughed, so did Alastair. His heart was
light. Tlie news of Fergus was good.

* Ay, he's a fine cha[>, Mr. Macleod. He's foremost in all
that's good. They're going to make him the reeve of the town-
ship next election.'

'What's that?'

' A kind of general supervisor of all the interests of the
district. He's young, but he's fit, very fit. See, yonder's liis
barn. You can't see the house ; it's in the orchard at the back
of the barn. We'll be there in a crack. If you're going to
stay a bit at the Hill, we'll be seeing you at our place. You're
gentry, I see ; but we're a' ae kind here,' said the farmer
facetiously.

' ril be sure to come, thank vou,' said Alastair sincerely.
* Am I to get out here ? '

Ay, an' cut across the mangolds. You'll see the house whtm
you get by the bush there. Good-day. YoiTll never settle in
the old country, sir, after ye've been here,' said the farmer,
with a laugh. ' Good-day.'

Alastair lifted his cap, and vaulted the primitive-looking
snake-fence at a bound. The old man had put him in the best
of humours, and he was full of delightful anticipation of his
meeting with Fergu«?. It was nearly six o'clock now, and the
sun, veering westward, 1 ;o lost the fierceness of his heat.
Shadows were creeping ov*^r i.ie bush, and long, shuiting yellow
lines of light lay athwart the shingled roof of the b.irn.
Alastair could see it quite well, as his long legs took him quickly
over the dry furrows between the green bushy mangold to[)s.
There were some cows wandering about the yard, lazilv whisking
their tails, and a lamb, with a tinkling bell on its neck, trotting
about, nibV)Iing the green grass near the fence. It was a peace-
ful, plentiful picture; and when a few steps more brought the
stranger within sight of the picturesque house, with its wide
verandah hung with green creepers and the purple clusters of
the clematis, and surrounded on all sides by the wealth of the
apple hlooin, he stood still for a moment, and said aloud, —

* By Jove, i not bad for the backwoods. It's a perfect
piciure.*

•^ JUDEECIOUS FRICHT.'

367

heart

was

emost in all
of the towii-

erests of the
yonder's liis
] at the back
I're going to
aco. You're
I the farmer

air sincerely.

e house when
pver settle in

I the farmer,

lidve-looking

II in the be^t
patiou of his
now, and the

of his heat,
anting yellow
of the burn.
< him quickly
nangold tops,
izily whisking
neck, trotting
t was a peacH-
! brought th<'
with its wide
le clusters of
weiilth of the
aloud, —
t's a perfect

Presently, from out the wide-open doors of the barn there
came a big stalwart figure, in shirt sleeves, and a big straw hat
slouching over his shoulders, — Fergus himself, in his working
garb, his honest face as brown as a russet apple with the sun.
He caught sight of the trespasser in his mangold field, and put
up his hand to his eyes to try and make him out. Alastair
grinned, and his heart beat a little faster as he quickened his
j)ace. lie had a breadth of pasture to cross between the man-
gold field and the yard fence, and as the distance between him
and the waiting figure lessened, he saw quite well a curious
change come upon the face of his old iriend. At last they were
within h;iil, and Alastair's ringing voice, a trifle less steady than
usual, l)roke the drowsy stillness.

'Ilulloa! Fcrgie lad, anything to say to an old churn?'

* Alastair, as I'm alive ! '

The face of Fergiis twitched, his firm under lip quivered,
and for a moment his keen blue eye grew dim. Then, in silence,
the two men grippi d hands, and looked into each other's eyes.
It was a moment of d^ep emotion for both, for they had been
like brothers in the old time.

Alastair was the first to speak.

'Never a word of weh;ome, old chap — eh?' he said, wi'h a
comical smile.

' Ahtstair, you — you duffer! not to write!' Fergus manngec
to say at last ; but the light in his face was good to see.

' You're not sorry, then, to see a kent face ? '

'Sorry!' Fergus's mouth twitched aga' and he gripped
Alastair by the arm, and began to mar( him towards the
house.

' When did you come ? Where hav.- you come from ?
What made you think of coming? ^^'llat do you want?
Did you come to see me?' Fergus -is.ed all those qu< s-
tions in a breath, and Alastair answered them all in his
own I'asliion, which made the glad light deepen in his friend's
eyes.

'Shut up! I want my tea, or dinner, or something. I'm
famished. Here's your mother.'

Alastair took off his hat, as Mrs. Macl^od, attracted by the

?iil

368

SHEILA.

w ■ '

sound of voices through tlie open door, came out on tlie
verandah.

' How do you do, Mrs. Macleod ? Any room for a tramp?
Too ha(i, wasn't it, to steal a march on you?'

' Mr. Muiray — Sir Alastair, I mean ! '

Helpless surprise sat on the face of Ellen Macleod, but in
a minute she recovered herself, and had a welcome for the
stranger from over the sea which did his heart good. She
looked at Fergus, and when she saw the expression on his fuce,
she knew what it had been to him to leave the old land and the
true friends there.

'Is it you, Alastair, really?' he asked for the sixth time,
after they had got into the house, and the tempting odour of
the sup[)er was about tliem. 'Don't vanish away. I'm afraid
to lift my eyes off you, in case 1 discover that you've been an
optical illusion.'

' A very substantial illusion, as Mrs. Macleod will find
presently when I get at the table,* laughed Alastair. 'I say,
what a fine place you have here, and how immense it is to see
you ! T tell you, I'm jolly glad I came.'

Just the same old Alastair, full of fun and boyish chaff.
The old university slang sounded like sweetest music in
the ears of Fergus. He dared not trust himself to speak,
somehow.

' 1 tell you I'm a fool, Alastair. I can't do anything but
look at you. Mother, is not it grand to see him V '

' It is indeed, my son,' Ellen Macleod answered; and as she
passed by Alastair's chair, she laid her hand on his broad
shonicler, and smiled down upon him, and that motherly smile,
30 JAfiiiikc aiything he had ever seen b»'fore on the face of Ellen
Ma^'eod cotiiuletely upset Alastair, and he gave three cheers
tlnr<* ;*! d ^hciv And jifrer that the happy supper began, but
nobiid ate except Alastair, and he spoke all the time with liis
mouth liil. The face of Fergus was quite a -dy. In his
wilde>t c 'eams Alast.iir had never imagined the .w eting would
be quite . / glorious. In the s veet gloiming that evening, oviT
a pipe of peace and l(>ve on the verMnd;di chairs, the two friends
talked over everything, past, present, and future, until it grew

quite dark
l)elt of the
cry in the
but the na
both were
'I say,
end of his
' Some <
Mlow 1
dryly.
' 1 don't
' Oh, w(
I daresay
indifforenc
For J' us
' '1 here
time has n
' When
may have
Fergus
bronzed h
' Do yoi
richly des
remark.
' What
' Most t
don't lool<
your chan
' What
' What
thrown o
You're an
sweetest
chance,
you lock
sleepy.'

Alastai
the park)

'AjuDEEcious fricht:

369

quite diirk, and the shy young moon came up luliind the dark
l)elt of tlie busli, and the owls began to hoot and tlic coons to
cry in the swamp away down in the hollow. Everything, I said ;
hut the name of Sheila was not mentioned, though the minds of
both were full of her, and e;ich knew it.

'I say, Feriiie,' Siiid Aliistair at hngth, throwing away the
end of his third cigar, ' when are you coming over?'

' Sonie day,' Frrgus answered.

' How long will some d;iy be of coming?' Alastair asked
dryly.

' 1 don't know yet. I haven't made up my mind.'

' Oh, well, if there is nothing pariicular you want to see about,
I daresay it doesn't matter mucii,' Ahistair remarked, with a fine
indifference, which was yet full of suggestiveness.

Fcr^rus caught at it at once.

'There are two or three things I am anxious about, but the
time has not come yet,' he said rather hastily.

' When it comes, take care it is not too late for anything you
may have set ynur heart on.'

Fergus started, and a look of apprehension crossed his
bronzed face.

' Do you know what T think, Fergus? that you are an ass, and
richly deserve to be told it,' was Alastair's next characteristic
remark.

♦What for?'

'Most things, but one particularly. I'll tell you what, if you
don't look up Ditlmore before long, I wouldn't give a fig for
your chance.'

' What do you mean ? '

♦ What 1 say. No, I have no more information to give. I've
thrown out the hint. Maybe I came expressly to give it.
You're an ass, Fergie, because you're throwing away — wt-U, the
sweetest, jolliest girl in the world, and I only wish I had the
chance. There ! it's out now. I say, Mrs. Macleod, when do
you lock up — eh? Isn't it nearly len? I feel uncommonly
sleepy. '

Alastair rose lazily, and sauntered through the open door into
the parlour. He looked back with a grin after Fergus, who

lifp

370

SHEILA.

took the three verandah steps at a bound, and disappeared
urnoDg the apple trees. Then Alastair sat down beside Mrs.
Miiclood. and had a long, delightful chat with her. But he saw
Fergus no more that night.
The 'judeecious fricht' had taken due effect.

i \

iiiWi:

'ri

CHAPTER XLin.

love's crown.

They were blest beyond compare,

When they held their trysting there,

Among the greenest hills shone on by the snn.

Shairpk.

OB MACNAUGHTON, the stocking-weaver, was
lying ill in his bed at Achnafauld. The rheumatics
were not improving with age ; for months now the
loom had been silent in the f\op, and Rob seldom
able to move farther than between the bed and the fire. But
the brain was still busy, and his ' sangs* were the delight of the
mistress of Dalmore. He had a new one every time she came
to see him. And that was very often ; for Sheila, as of yore,
was ever to be found where her gentle presence and her bene-
ficent hand could be of any service to others less blessed than
herself. Rob's worship of her was a very perfect kind of thing,
though it did not find expression in a multitude of words. She
was so absolutely free and at home with him, and he with her,
there was no subject under the sun they did not discuss. Rob
Macnaughton knew more of the inner heart of the young Lady
of Dalmore than any other human being. They talked often of
the exile who lived in the hearts of both ; and Rob was fain,
fain to look upon his face and touch his hand again. He had

sometimes thoughts of writing to him, and would have done it

37*

SHEILA,

1. 1 1'

I u

; ^

had the rheumatic hnnd permitted ; but though it was very
jile.isant to have Sheihi write out his songs for him, he could
not have asked her to put on piiper what was in his heart for
Fergus. It too nearly concerned her. Kob had a keen per-
ception. He knew the curious, tender thrill of the sweet young
voice when they spoke of Fergus, and it grieved his heart to see
the wistfulness creep to her bright eye, that far-away look
which told of the hunger of the heart. He was sore puzzled to
iHiderstand what still kept the bairns apart, especially as Fergus
was doing well and making money in America. But, of course,
that was never spoken of. Rob could only wait and hope for
the fulfilment of the greatest desire of his heart, to see Fergus
Macleod atid Sheila man and wife in Dalmore. He was greatly
interested, of course, to hear of Sir Alastair Murray's trip to
America, and to know that he had met with all the Glenquaich
folks, and found them in such prosperous circumstances.
Alastair was making quite a tour of the new world ; he had
found his Canadian welcome so sweet that he had made quite a
visitation at Sunshine Hill. But September found him making
tracks for home again, and Sheila came along to the Fauld in
the lovely gloaming one night to tell Rob his ship had arrived
at Liverpool, and that he would be home next day at the
latest.

' I'll bring him along when he comes uj Rob,' she said, * and
you can ask him everything you can think of. Won't that be
far better than my telling?*

' I'll can speer mair particular, maybe,' Rob admitted. * D'ye
think he'll be lang o' comin' ? '

' No. I am going down to Murrayshaugh in the morning.
I may stay till Saturday, and I'll make my cousin bring me up
early in the day, and alter lunch we'll come along. Will that
do, Rub?'

' Ay, brawly. Ye'U be as fain as I am, likely, to hear the
news. But it will be guid news, of that I am sure.'

* Oh, so am I. Won't it be pleasant to hear him tell what
he actually saw? It is so different seeing the way of life there,
so much more satisfactory than hearing about it.'

A slight tremble shook the sweet young voice, and Rob knew

LOVE'S CROWN.

373

d Rob knew

that her heart was sore. Old, ruggod, occontric thoiigli he \v:is.
the st^cret of that maidenly hc:irt was not hid from the sfockinj-
woaver, and he felt a great rclji'llirig for his hairn. ' \\ v\\, I
must go, Rob, and ask for wee Nellie at the smith's,' >ai(l
Slieila. 'Nine bairns, Kob ! What would Donald and Mury
say if they saw so many crowded into their ol<i house? M;irv
would call it a '* potch," wouldn't she?' Sheila h'-'^died, iind
Rob's eye twinkled.

' Are ye ridin', my wee leddy ? ' he asked.

* Yes ; don't you know my habit yet, Rob?'

' M;iybe ; I ken it gars ye look bonnie. Ye are like tlie
straightest birk in Shian woods,' said the stockiiig-weavtr,
looking admiringly at the slim yet stately young figure. Sheila
laughed again. Her heart had- grown lighter. She felt
happier than she had done for some months, perhaps because
news of the exiles were so near at hand.

* Oh, Rob ! you make me quite ashamed. Gnod-night now ;
mind and take this before you go to bed. See, 1 will just
make it ali ready for you.'

She lifted the lid of the little basket, which Rob sonie'imes
said could find its own way to the Fauld, and took out a dainty
little pudding, and a bottle of cream, which she poured info a
cup, and set it all ready for Rob, with the spoon and the ])lare
lying to his hand. Had she no prevision, I wonder, of the
eyes which watched her through the little window, watched her
with a passionate light of love in them which might have
stirred her heart? With a kind good-night, at hist she gatlitred
up her haVjit and stepped out of the house. The gloaming had
merged into darkness, but there was a big red moon lying
behind the hill, the moon the reapers love. Sheila's pony was
browsing quietly at the burn-side. She took the bridle htosely
over her arm, and, stepping across to the smith's door, iisked for
the ailing baby. Then, from out the shadows of Rob's corner, a
tall figure stepped with one hasty stride and enteri d the
stocking-weaver's door. Rob looked up at the hasty intriisi(»ii,
and somehow, when his eye fell on the familiar and dearly-loved
face, he was not conscious of the surprise so unexpected an
apparition might have caused.

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Sciences

Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

374

SHEILA,

\\ .

. n

*Is*t you, lad, or a wraith sent to warn rre o* my end or
yours?' he asked, leaning heavily on his elbow out of the
bed.

' It's me, Rob, come back,' said the unmistakeable tones of
Fergus Macleod's own voice. 'Just one grip, man, and I'm
away. You know where.*

' She's in the smith's, sir,' Rob answer*»d ; and though Fergus's
iron grip nearly brought the tears to his eyes with J,he '^ain of
his m.imed hand, he never uttered a groan.

* I know. Wish me good luck, Rob, and let me off. I'll be
liere again to-morrow.'

So saying, Fergus wrung his hand again, and disappeared as
({iiickly as he had come. Then Rob lay back in his bed, and
wiped the sweat-drops from his brow. He was wildly excited,
an<l made a new song before he slept, — a song, he always said,
which was the masterpiece of his life.

The pony was standing by the smith's open door, so Fergus
went round by the end of Rob's house and out on the road.
H«' did not know very well what to do. To speak to Sheila
^u ulenly, or even to let him see her on the road, might startle
iier. llf^ felt quite at a loss how to proceed. But speak with
lier that very night, that hour if possible, he must. He had
endured the keenest torture waiting till Alastair should be
ready to accompany him home. Alastair would not hurry
himself for anybody, least of all for Fergus, and told him
])lainly he need not be so desperately impatient after he had
waited philosophically so long, when nobody asked or wanted
him to wait at all. There was truth in what Alastair said, — he
had indeed teased his old chum unmercifully on the voyage.
Fergus took everything in such terrible earnest, it amused
Aliistiiir intensely.

Presently, the short, sharp click of hoofs gave warning of
Sheila's approach. Fergus looked helplessly round. There
was no escape, unless he stepped the drystone dyke and hid
himself behind it. So he just walked on rather stupidly in the
middle of the white road until the pony came up.

' Fine evening,' Sheila said, in her quick, pleasant way. * Is
that you, Peter Fraser ? '

LOVE'S CROWN,

375.

Then Fergus stood still in the middle of the road, and Sheila
drew rein sharply, and lier face became very white in the
moonlight.

' Don't be afraid, Sheila ; it is I, Fergus Macleod. I came
home with Alaslair this afternoon, and when I went to Dalmore
they told me you were at the Fauld, so I came.'

•Oh I'

Sheila's breath came in a quick, short gasp ; and Fergus saw
her tremble. H;id he dared, he would have put a strong right
arm about the dear figure, but not yet. He did not know,
indeed, whether he would ever have the right to do that.
Alastair had succeeded in frightening him in earnest, for he had
never given him the smallest satisfaction about Sheila, except
to reiterate his assurance that he had better look after his
chance.

* Have you nothing to say to me, Sheila?' Fergus asked
at length, when the deep silence became intolerable. Sheila's
face was bent very low over ilob Roy's shaggy neck, and
her lips were silent. Oh, how sweet the perfect curve of
neck and cheek and brow seemed to Fergus, standing by her
side.

* Of course I am glad, Fergus,' she said at last, and raised
her head. Her smile was radiaiit, and she gave him her two
hands, and he bent down and kissed them. Then he took Koh
Roy's bridle over his arm, and began to walk by the pony's side,
with his hand touching Sheila's habit, and for a little time there
was nothing more said.

'Shall we go the old road. Sheila? it is quieter,' asked
Fergus, when they came to the turn of the CorrymuckK»cli
road. Sheila nodded, and they went on in silence again, — a
silence which was golden. All the passionate speeches which
had been so near the lips of Fergus when the ocean rolled
between, were swept away by the deep joy her own presence
caused.

* Why did you not write? Did you make up your mind to
come all at once ? ' Sheila asked at length, in a low voice.

* No ; since ever Alastair came out I intended to come. I
was afraid to write.'

376

SHEILA,

i •

'■MA

'Afrnid! of what ? '

* Afraid l»'st flio news would nr* be pleasant to you. I wanted
to sio for niys If. I ihoufrht if 1 saw your face I would know.'

.*^lii'ila did not ask what he thought now.

' It. is five years, Sheila, since I went away,' he said at hi*;t.

' I thought it ten,' Sheila said simplv ; and Fergus's liand
in;)ved a liitle, till his ting'.TS touched her arm. But still he
I'c.iri'd to speak.

'May I get down, Fergus? I should like to walk a little.
() no, thank you.'

Sjie had vaulted lightly from the saddle before Fergus could
lift her, and, fastening up Wob Roy's bridle, she let him wander
oil' at his own sweet will. lie was a discrel beast, and
accustomed to all his young mistress's vagaricj of mind. So
th"y walked on a little way in silence, — a silence embarr.i^sing,
though passing sweet. Love's barrier was in the way. In the
de[ith of his strong feeling Fergus could not find words to
bridge it.

Presently Sheila looked round, and gave a little exclamation.
' Oh, just look at the light on the loch ! '

It was indi ed a fairy picture; the silver sheet gleaming in
the broad white moonlight under a deej) blue starlit >ky, the
dark hills encompsissing it like a watchful guard.

' It is not cold, Sheila; will you stand a little at thi< gate?'
said Fergus, after a moment; and Sheila stood stdl, with her
round arm lying on the upper bar, and Ikt face turned towards
the (ilen. Fergus, looking at it, thought, the sweet outline more
sliarply defined, and saw a weary curve about the mouth which
stabbed him to the heart. Sheda had not been happy in
Dalinore any more than he in Canada. But he had yet to learu
why she was not happy. He dared not believe that it was on
account of him. ' I have come back. Sheila, as I said I would,'
he began, in full, earne>t, manly tones. ' When I went away, I
Siiid a great deal about coining back weidiny, and with some-
thing to hiy at your feet. I have nothing except a clean
record for five years. In that time I have hotiestly fried,
with God's help, to live as He would have me live, and as
1/ou would like me to live. I have tried to live so that the

LOVE'S CROWN,

377

iination.

people among whom I lived would not be any the worse of my
presence.'

' But better — much better, Alastair told me,' Sheila said, and
her face was all aglow. Slie knew nothing of coquetry or
afTectation. She loved Fergus, and he was by her side, seeking
her love. She would give it to him, not grudgingly, but out
of the fulness of her heart.

' Now that I have come back. Sheila, when I looked on the
old place, and saw the light on our hills, and mo>t of all, when I
saw your face, I knew that life holds nothing for me more than
what is here. You know me. Sheila, — all I h.ive been and am.
Will you bridge the great gulf between your beautiful life and
mine, and give me yourself? I can't speak about my love.
I will prove it to you, if you will try me, unworthy though
I am.'

It was no dishonour to his manhood that his voice shook and
his eye grew dim. Sheila never spoke, but her smile became
divine, and she moved close to him and laid her bright head
on his broad breast ; and when he clasped her, as a man clasj)S
Heaven's best gift, her hands met about his neck, and her soft
cheek touched his. And so, among their own hills, within «i}iht
of the loch and the clachan, with which were interwoven the
bright memories of bairn days, these two entered upon that
new life in which God permits His creatures to taste of
heaven.

And so Love the Omnipotent healed all old sores, made
rough places plain, and smoothed the tangled skein into a web
of silken sheen. Fergus Macleod left the Glen no more until
he took his wife with him. There was no reason why the
marriage should be delayed. Sheila, who had found the
waiting so dreary, did not say nay. She had an absolute trust
in her young lover ; she had proved him to the uttermost ; and
she was willing — nay more, unutterably glad — to give herself
to him without a question or a doubt. Fergus accepted this
trust, which always brings out all that is best and most worthy
in a man, with a humble and yet confident heart. These weeks

378

SHEILA.

before the wedding were a dream of happiness which they
tlionght could never be excelled. They had so much to tell, so
much to speak of. Sheila's beautiful and simple life needed no
revealing ; but Fergus told her all that was in his own soul.
He had a high ideal, towards the attainment of which he would
strive with all the manly might God had given him. To live
that life nobly, to do to the utmost whatever duty lay to his
md, to accept every responsibility as from God, — when such
was Fergus Macleod's estimate of life's purpose, I marvel not
that Sheila went forth by her young husband's side with a
heart filled to the brim with womanly pride and unspeakable
trust. His care for her was a thing of which I cannot write.
She was more precious to him than life ; so, in the shelter
of that brave and stalwart arm, we can leave our Sheila
safe.

They were married in the drawing-room at Dalmore on the
fifteenth day of October, and on the twenty-third sailed from
Liverpool for New York. The honeymoon was to be spent at
Sunshine Hill, where the mother's heart was yearning over
them, and waiting for their coming. It was not like going to
a strange land, Sheila said laughingly, for wherever Donald
and Mary Macalpine were, there would be a bit of home for
anybody from Glenquaich.

They spent the winter in Canada ; and in the spring, when
the trees were in bud, and the primroses yellow on the banks
of the burn, they came home to their own. That was a great
day for the Glen. And Ellen Macleod was with them, — a sweet-
faced, gentle, kmdly woman, who worshipped her new daughter
with a devoted love. She abode with them till the festivities
of their home-coming were over, and then retired to her own
house of Shonnen, from which she could look across to the
sunlit windows of Dalniore. They asked her to share their
home ; but she, being wise, kept to her own biggin', but spent
many a long day at the old house, and rejoiced over the bairns
there with a joy which had in it sometimes a touch of pain.
For in the old days she had missed much herself, and caused
otiiers much needless pain.

But peace and love and happiness reigned at Dalmore and

LOVE'S CKOWN,

379

in the Glen, and tlie last days were better than the first. Fergus
fulfilled all the best promise of his manhood, and became a
power for good in the neifihhourhood. As for Sheihi, she wa«
content. Love was her life's crown.

Husband and wife took many a trip to their Canadi.nr
estate, which Ft-rgus left under competent managcincit
and so the ties were nol severed between the old world :i >
the new.