OR. 
 
 AMONG LOTHIAN FOLK. 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN, 
 
 AUTHOR Or ' ALDEKSYOB.' 
 
 1Rew EMtion. 
 
 CINCINNATI : 
 CRANSTON AND STOWEC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HUNT AND EATON.
 
 EDITION 
 
 )i^ book is published by us ur>- 
 der special copbracb \sribl) 
 
 MESSRS. OLIPHANT, ANDERSON S. FERRIER, 
 
 ^I), Scoblar)d. 
 r>ob cl)ar)6ecl bl>e ori6ir>al orbt>o^ra- 
 pt>y, \rl>ici) varie^ ^li^>t)bly- frorr) our 
 Anjericai) Sbarjdards. 
 
 CRANSTON & STOWE.
 
 TO 
 
 THE DEAR MEMORY OF HER WHO MADE 
 
 THE SUNSHINE OF THE HOME 
 
 THAT WAS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE BEATOtfNS OF CARLOWRIE, 
 II. ELSIE, .... 
 
 in. THE LAIRD'S FOLK, . . 
 
 IV. WOKUL CHANGES, . . 
 
 v. THE MINISTER'S WOOING, , 
 
 VI. AT TYNEHOLM, . . 
 
 VII. ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW, 
 VIII. THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR, . 
 IX. MY GRAND-DAUGHTER I . 
 
 X. NEWS OF ELSIE, . . 
 
 XI. LEAVING THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER, 
 XII. SACRED HOURS, . . 
 
 XIII. LYNDON PRIORY, 
 
 xiv. MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY, 
 
 XV. BLIGHTED HOPE, . . 
 
 XVI. TRAQUAIR, . . . 
 
 XVII. DEAR LINTLAW AGAIN, . 
 
 xvin. LADY ANNE'S WILL, . . 
 
 XIX. HOME, .... 
 XX. CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS, . 
 CONCLUSION.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. 
 
 >IX struck on the big old-fashioned 
 eight-day clock in the wide lobby of 
 the farmhouse of Carlowrie. The 
 ploughmen and the dairymaids were at their 
 porridge in the kitchen, and their blithe chatter 
 broke the stillness of the house. There was 
 no sound in the ben-end but the click of the 
 mistress's knitting-needles and the occasional 
 falling of the ashes from the grate. The mistress 
 sat bolt upright in her arm-chair, which she 
 had drawn close into the window to catch the 
 fading light of the day now closing in. She 
 was a woman yet in her prime, of tall, spare, 
 angular form, with a thin, sharp, sunburnt face, 
 keen black eyes, and a mouth which looked 
 as if it had never learned to smile. Her hair 
 was iron-grey, and brushed tightly back under
 
 io CARLOWRIE. 
 
 her afternoon cap, a composition of black lace 
 and satin ribbon, relieved by a bunch of 
 unnatural-looking red roses in front. It was 
 not a becoming head-dress, but Mrs. Nanny 
 Beatoun had never (no, not even in her 
 girlhood) studied the art of dressing. Her 
 gown was wincey, of a sober, serviceable 
 grey colour, and the long, wide, gathered skirt 
 was somewhat relieved by three rows of 
 black braid, sewed in straight lines round it. 
 It was further relieved by a big lilac cotton 
 apron tied round the waist by a linen tape, 
 which served to hold the sheath for the knitting- 
 needles. Mrs. Beatoun knitted, as she did 
 everything, with rapidity and skill. It was 
 her boast that she could foot a sock in an 
 evening after the lamp was set. 
 
 The furnishings of the ben-end at Carlowrie 
 were plain but substantial. There was a 
 sideboard behind the door, which had stood 
 there since Saunders Beatoun's grandfather 
 brought the first mistress home to Carlowrie. 
 There was not a scratch nor a stain to mar 
 its brilliant polish, and it certainly was a 
 handsome and even elegant-looking piece of 
 furniture in spite of its spindle legs.
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. II 
 
 The other articles in the room were in 
 keeping with the sideboard ; but the bare floor, 
 though as clean as soap and scrubbing-brush 
 could make it, gave the room a cheerless aspect, 
 reminding one of a perpetual cleaning day. 
 Mrs. Beatoun was very wroth at carpets and 
 all other species of floor covering, holding 
 them to be useless luxuries, as well as harbours 
 of dirt of every kind. 
 
 At the last stroke of six the mistress rose, 
 and, crossing the passage, pushed open the 
 kitchen door. At sight of her the ploughmen 
 rose with one accord, and slunk out by the 
 back door. It was one of Mrs. Beatoun's 
 rigid laws that the men should only come in 
 to their meals and retire whenever they had 
 eaten the portion set before them. Woe 
 betide them if they lingered even a moment 
 daffing with the girls. She did not spare 
 them with her tongue. 
 
 ' Get the plates washed up an' mak* ready 
 for the byre, Peggie Alison,' she said severely. 
 ' An' you, Jean Gillespie, gang yont the road 
 an' see if the gig binna in sicht. Guid save 
 us, ye donnert craters, d'ye no' see the tea bilin' 
 like kail in the pat ? '
 
 12 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 So saying, Mrs. Beatoun darted towards 
 the fireplace, and whisked the brown teapot 
 back from the blazing log. 
 
 The girls grimaced to each other behind 
 her back, but outwardly preserved a decorous 
 and respectful demeanour, and proceeded to 
 obey orders at once. 
 
 Mrs. Beatoun's will dared not be disputed ; 
 she ruled with a rod of iron both within 
 and without at Carlo wrie. Having set the 
 maids about their work, she retired to the 
 ben-end again, and began to set tKe table for 
 tea. Four o'clock was the usual tea hour at 
 Carlowrie ; it was only delayed to - day on 
 account of the absence of the master at 
 Ormiston, seeing his brother the doctor, who 
 was seriously ill. By the time the mistress 
 had got the tea ready the rumble of wheels in 
 the farmyard proclaimed the arrival of the gig. 
 A few minutes later the farmer entered the 
 house and came straight into the ben-end, for 
 once disregarding his wife's injunction to wipe 
 his shoes on the mat 
 
 In personal appearance Saunders Beatoun 
 was the very antipode of his wife. He was 
 a short, burly man, with a broad, red, honest
 
 THE BE A TO UNS OF CA RL WRI&. 1 3 
 
 face, the expression of which was kindliness 
 itself. He was of a gentle, unobtrusive, easy- 
 going nature, and always preferred to give in 
 to his wife rather than have any words with 
 her. Anything approaching to ' flytin' ' was 
 Saunders Beatoun's special abhorrence. 
 
 They said he was henpecked, but if* it was 
 true, the process did not put him at all about. 
 It was a common saying with him, and he 
 generally followed it with a huge laugh, that 
 he had proved the grey mare to be the better 
 horse, for Nanny had made Carlowrie pay as 
 it had never paid before since the name of 
 Beatoun had been inscribed upon its lease. 
 
 1 Ye're by your time, Saunders,' was his 
 wife's greeting. ' Hoo did you find Jeems 
 Beatoun the day?' 
 
 ' Jeems Beatoun's deid, Nanny/ replied 
 Saunders, and went away out to the passage 
 to hang up his whip and coat and hat It 
 seemed to his wife that he took a longer time 
 than usual to do these things. 
 
 ' Dear me, that's unco sudden, surely,' she 
 said at length. ' Come awa' to yer tea, an' 
 let's hear about his end.' 
 
 Saunders slowly came into the room, and
 
 14 CARLO WR IE. 
 
 took his accustomed seat at the side of the 
 table. His voice sounded unsteady in the 
 grace, and he seemed to get out the usual 
 phrases with difficulty. Then he began to 
 his tea without seeming inclined to give his 
 wife any particulars concerning the death of 
 their kinsman. 
 
 ' What hae I dune that I shouldna be telt 
 what mainner o* end yer brither had ? ' she 
 said at length, with an ominous toss of her 
 head. 
 
 ' Naething, Nanny/ said Saunders absently. 
 ' Jeems Beatoun deed as he lived, in the fear 
 o' God ; stannin* by yon bedside, I couldna 
 help pray in' that my last end micht be like his.' 
 
 Mrs. Beatoun kept silent. She had never 
 liked James Beatoun, but there was some- 
 thing in her husband's tone and words 
 which made her somewhat ashamed of that 
 causeless dislike. 
 
 ' An' the bairn ? ' she queried at length. 
 
 A tear stole unawares to the corner of 
 Saunders Beatoun's honest eye, but he hastily 
 brushed it away, as if ashamed that he should 
 be so weak. 
 
 ' Puir wee orphan lammie/ he said tenderly;
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. 15 
 
 1 I'm wae for Jeems Beatoun's ae bairn this 
 day, Nanny, an' what's to become o' her the 
 Lord only kens.' 
 
 1 Has her faither left naething, nae pro- 
 vision for her ? ' 
 
 Saunders shook his head. * The practice 
 has dwindled awa ever sin' he lost his 
 health an' that Embro man cam' gaspin' for 
 a deid man's shoon. I question if there'll be 
 eneuch left to pay the debts an' the funeral 
 expenses.' 
 
 Very grim grew the face of tiie mistress. 
 She had no quarter for those who could not 
 pay their way and lay by a little for a rainy 
 day. 
 
 ' Eh, but that's like a Beatoun ! never a 
 thocht for the morn i' their heids. An* it 
 hadna been for me, Saunders, ye wad hae 
 been ooten Carlowrie long ago/ 
 
 1 Ay, woman, maybe,' said Saunders, 
 speaking at random, for his thoughts had 
 'travelled again to the bereaved and desolate 
 house he had so lately left 
 
 'It's a pity it's a lass bairn,' said Mrs. 
 Beatoun at length. ' Laddies can fecht 
 their way better. Some o' her mtther's folk'll
 
 16 CARLOWRrtL. 
 
 hae to be socht oot It's them that'll hae to 
 look efter her.' 
 
 1 They shut their doors an* hearts for ever 
 on the puir young thing because she stuck 
 to the honest lad she lo'ed,' said Saunders 
 Beatoun, with darkening brow. ' They shall 
 never be asked to provide for Jeems Beatoun's 
 bairn/ 
 
 1 Then wha's to dae it, Saunders Beatoun ?' 
 queried his wife somewhat sourly. 
 
 Saunders sat a moment in silence, then, 
 drawing his snuff-box from his pocket, took a 
 substantial pinch, as if to nerve himself for 
 a coming ordeal. 
 
 4 The bairn'll hae to come to Carlowrie, 
 Nanny,' he said slowly, but with considerable 
 firmness. 
 
 Mrs. Beatoun never spoke, which was 
 in itself an ominous sign, for in general her 
 tongue, as the neighbours said, ' waggit at 
 baith ends/ 
 
 She rose presently, and began with a great 
 clatter to gather up the tea-things. When 
 they were all carried to the kitchen, she set 
 the lamp, and, drawing in her chair, resumed 
 her knitting. Saunders regarded her for a
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. 17 
 
 few minutes in perturbed silence, then ven- 
 tured a remark. 
 
 ' Hae ye naething to say, Nanny?' he 
 inquired rather meekly. 
 
 ' Naething. It's a' settled, it seems ; ony- 
 thing I could say wad mak' nae alteration in 
 your plan, I fancy,' she replied slowly. 
 
 ' Hae ye ony reasonable objection what 
 way the puir orphan shouldna come hame to 
 Carlowrie ? ' said Saunders. ' We hae nae 
 bairns, an' we hae plenty to spare for man 
 an' beast. What a wee white-faced lassie 
 bairn '11 need will never be missed.' 
 
 * It's no* that, Saunders Beatoun/ said 
 Mrs. Beatoun sharply. ' It's the upsettin' 
 o' the ways o' the hoose, I've never been 
 used to bairns, an' dinna ken what to dae wi' 
 them. Besides, James Beatoun, a man o' 
 middle age, oucht to hae haen something to 
 leave his ae bairn. Him an' his. wife aye 
 cairret their heids unco high ; see noo what's 
 come o' a* their upsettin'.' 
 
 Saunders made no reply. He could very 
 well have resented these imputations upon 
 the memory of his brother and the gentle 
 wife, for whom he had ever entertained a
 
 18 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 species of wondering reverence. But at the 
 present stage of affairs, it behoved him to 
 hold his tongue for peace's sake, as he had 
 had to do systematically since the day he had 
 brought Nanny Dalrymple of Windyweary 
 home to Carlowrie. 
 
 ' It's a wunner to me ye didna bring her 
 hame wi' ye the nicht, Saunders,' said she 
 presently, with a grim smile. 
 
 ' I was very near daein't,' Saunders ad- 
 mitted. ' Nanny, woman, dinna be sae 
 thrawn. If it was a niece o' yours, ye ken 
 brawly hoo welcome I wad mak' her to 
 Carlowrie.' , 
 
 ' Nane o' my folk need charity, thank the 
 Lord,' snapped Nanny; though in spite of 
 herself, her heart was softening. She was 
 not bad-hearted at the bottom, but she was 
 one of those referred to in the Proverbs 
 of Solomon as contentious ; and Saunders 
 Beatoun had had his own to bear with her. 
 
 Just then, greatly to the relief of Saunders, 
 and perhaps to his wife's relief also, the door 
 opened, and a young girl entered the room. 
 She was attired in walking garb, a neat 
 brown merino dress, a white hat, with trim-
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. 19 
 
 mings of brown ribbon, and a red shawl 
 wound about her shoulders. She was not 
 more than sixteen, but was womanly in 
 appearance, as the eldest daughter of a 
 household often is before she is out of her 
 teens. She was not pretty, but her face, with 
 its healthy sunburnt hue, and clear bright 
 hazel eyes, was a comely one to look at. Her 
 figure was still unformed, but gave promise 
 of dignity and womanly grace. She was neat 
 and smart, down to the very shoe-latch tied 
 so daintily above the immaculate white stock- 
 ing. She carried a basket over her arm, 
 which she set down on the table with a sigh 
 and a smile. 
 
 * Dear me, that is a brae from Crichtoun up 
 to Carlowrie,' she said. ' How are you to-night, 
 Aunt Nanny, and you, Uncle Saunders ?' 
 
 'Verra weel, Christian Dalrymple,' said 
 Mrs. Beatoun rather ungraciously. 4 Hoo's 
 a' wi' ye at Lintlaw, an' whaur hae ye been 
 trailin' to the nicht ? ' 
 
 4 We're a' weel, thank you, auntie,' replied 
 Christian. 4 Am I no' to sit down the night ? ' 
 she added, with a little humorous smile. * I've 
 been at the Manse. Mother sent me ower
 
 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 wi* some butter and eggs. The minister's 
 hame, Uncle Saunders.' 
 
 ' Ay, an' what like a chiel' is he when ye 
 get a better look at him ? ' asked Saunders. 
 
 ' Very nice ; but oh, Aunt Nanny, he 
 is sae young. It will seem funny to see 
 him in the pulpit after poor old Doctor 
 Rogers/ 
 
 ' If he hae the grace o' God, his youth'll no 
 be agin him, lassie/ said Aunt Nanny. ' Sit 
 down, Christian, and gie's yer crack. It's 
 broad munelicht, isn't ? ' 
 
 'Ay, it's a braw nicht; but I canna bide 
 lang, for we milk at eight, an' mother has not 
 been so well to-day/ 
 
 ' Hoots, what's twa kye ? naething ava*. 
 H oo's a* the laddies?' 
 
 ' Fine ; Davie's rinnin' on his ain feet sin' ye 
 were ower at Lintlaw. What a dear wee 
 bairn he is/ said Christian ; and the smile 
 which accompanied the words made her face 
 almost beautiful. 
 
 'Oh, Uncle Saunders, mother minded me 
 to be sure and ask for the doctor. Is he 
 keepin' better ? ' 
 
 ' He's gane, my woman/ said Uncle
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLO WRIE. 
 
 Saunders briefly ; and Auntie Nanny knitted 
 away more rapidly than ever, and for a little 
 there was nothing said. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, Uncle Saunders. Father 
 and mother will be sorry too,' said Christian 
 at length, with simple but earnest sympathy. 
 Yet still there was nothing said. 
 
 ' Wha's come to keep the minister's hoose ? ' 
 queried Mrs. Beatoun suddenly. 
 
 ' A housekeeper, auntie, an auldish woman,' 
 replied Christian, much surprised at the sudden 
 change in the conversation. ' Mr. Laidlaw 
 told me he had no relations but one sister, 
 married to the minister of the West Church 
 in Dalkeith. His father was minister there, 
 uncle,' she added, addressing the latter part 
 of her remarks to her uncle, whose silent and 
 downcast appearance rather distressed her. 
 'Well, I'll need to run, auntie. When are you 
 and uncle comin' ower to Lintlaw ? I was to 
 be sure and ask.' 
 
 ' Maybe on Sunday nicht, tell yer faither,' 
 said Saunders. Then Aunt Nanny rose to 
 escort her niece out to the front door. 
 
 ' Tell yer mither I'll maybe be ower 
 the morn,' she said, lingering with her a
 
 22 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 moment on the moonlit doorstep. ' There's 
 likely to be changes sune in Carlowrie, 
 Christian Dairy mple.' 
 
 * What kind of changes, Aunt Nanny ? ' 
 asked the girl in surprise. 
 
 'Jeems Beatoun's left a bairn, ye ken, a 
 lassie, an' naething'll serve yer uncle but that 
 she'll come here.' 
 
 ' That will be very nice for you, Aunt 
 Nanny,' said Christian innocently. ' Poor 
 wee girl, how lonely and sad she must be ! ' 
 
 ' I dinna ken that it'll be very nice for me, 
 Kirsten,' said Aunt Nanny. ' It'll mak' an 
 unco change i' the hoose. Ye maun mind 
 she's no' a lassie sic as you. She's a delicate, 
 peevish, spoiled wee cutty, that greets at 
 naething. She's just as like her genty mither 
 as she could well be.' 
 
 ' I never saw Doctor Beatoun's wife, but 
 I've heard mither say what a sweet woman 
 she was,' said Christian. ' If she's delicate, 
 she'll get strong at Carlowrie. Ye'll bring 
 her ower to Lintlaw, Aunt Nanny ? ' 
 
 'I'll see. Guid-nicht, Kirsten. My respects 
 to yer faither an' mither,' said Aunt Nanny 
 abruptly ; and, closing the door without further
 
 THE BEATOUNS OF CARLOWRIE. 23 
 
 ceremony, returned to the parlour, and took 
 up her knitting again. 
 
 ' If it had been a lassie like Kirsten, noo, I 
 wadna hae cared, Saunders,' she said at length. 
 ' She wad be o' use to a body.' 
 
 * Folk's just as God made them, Nanny,' 
 said Saunders. ' Woman, could ye no' say ae 
 guid word o' the Beatouns, just for a change ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Beatoun pursed up her lips, but pre- 
 served a dignified silence. 
 
 ' Are ye gaun to send onything ower to the 
 Manse?' inquired the farmer, changing the 
 theme once more. 
 
 : What kind o 1 thing ? ' 
 
 o 
 
 ' A ham, or a kebbuck o 1 Cheese, or some- 
 thing; see, Kirsten's been ower wi' an offerin' 
 o' guidwill frae Dauvlt and Erne. It's the 
 least we can dae.' 
 
 1 Effie Dalrymple wad tak' the bite oot o' her 
 ain mouth to gie to the frem, an' she never 
 gets ony thanks for it,' said his wife grimly. 
 1 No, I'm no' gaun to send onything to the 
 Manse, Were the new minister a man wi' a 
 family it wad be anither thing. There's nae 
 use learnin' a young man an ill lesson. Be- 
 sides, when we're gaun to get anither mooth to
 
 24 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 feed, we'll need to be mair carefu* than 
 ever.' 
 
 Again Saunders Beatoun was silenced, this 
 time so effectually that he never ventured 
 another remark. 
 
 Whether intentionally or not, at the reading 
 that night he chose that portion of Scripture 
 which specially enjoins upon wives the duty of 
 obedience. Also, his prayer was to the point : 
 ' O Lord God, aince mair we puir, thowless, 
 sinfu' craters mak' bauld to come afore the 
 footstool o* Thy grace, to uplift oor hearts to 
 Thee for a' the guidness an* mercy extended 
 towards us this day, an* a* the days o' oor 
 earthly pilgrimage gane by. We would praise 
 Thee, O Lord God, for a guid ingatherin' o' the 
 precious fruits o' the earth, for a fu* stackyaird, 
 an' plenty for man an' beast. Mak' us gratefu', 
 an' dinna let us withhaud our haund frae daein* 
 guid. There's nane o'd oors, Lord God, Thou 
 hast but lent it to us, therefore constrain us to 
 use it aright. We would thank Thee, O Lord, 
 for the dispensation o' Thy providence which 
 Thou hast called upon us to bear this day. 
 Lord, we praise Thee for Jeems Beatoun's 
 life an' death. May it be a solemn lesson to
 
 THE BE A TO UNS OF CA RL O WRIE. 25 
 
 us, an' when oor time comes, may we be as 
 ready. Lord, if it be Thy holy wull, gar 
 Nanny gie ower her yaummerin' about Jeems 
 Beatoun's bairn. Open her ear an' heart to 
 the cry o' the orphan. An' if it be na Thy 
 wull, then be pleased to grant Thy unworthy 
 servant, noo humbled afore Thee, grace to 
 bear wi' the weaker vessel. While at this 
 time no' forgettin' the Queen an' the Prince 
 Consort, an' a' wi' authority under Thee an' 
 abune us, we wadna forget to commend to 
 Thy care the young lad Thou hast set ower us 
 in heavenly things. Gie him muckle grace, 
 as muckle, Lord God, as will keep him frae 
 bein' cairret awa' wi' sinfu' pride. An' seein' 
 he's like to be a burnin' and a shinin' licht in 
 Zion, keep his flock frae thinkin' ower muckle 
 o' him, mair, maybe, than o' the Maister, whase 
 servant He is. Lord, we a' need Thy care. 
 We canna stand alane. We canna dae ony- 
 thing wantin' Thee. Hasten Thy kingdom, 
 an' abolish the black an' darksome kingdom 
 o' Satan. An' a' for Thy Son's sake. Amen.' 
 Nanny was effectually silenced now, and there 
 was never another word said against the home- 
 coming of Doctor Beatoun's bairn to Carlowrie.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ELSIE. 
 
 HAT'S to be done with all the furni- 
 ture, Uncle Saunders, and father's 
 books, and mother's things ? ' 
 It was a pathetic question, a pathetic scene 
 altogether, that chill, wet October afternoon in 
 the desolate house of Doctor Beatoun at 
 Ormiston. 
 
 Saunders Beatoun was standing in the middle 
 of the dining-room floor, with his wet great- 
 coat buttoned up to his chin, and it was a 
 question whether these were tears or raindrops 
 on his ruddy cheeks. The small person who 
 asked the question was the child who had now 
 no home on earth, except the one to which 
 she was going to-day, and where she was only 
 half welcome after all. 
 
 She was a little, slender, fairy-looking thing, 
 
 86
 
 ELSIE. 27 
 
 in her thirteenth year, though she looked 
 younger. She was very pretty, with a kind 
 of refined, even patrician, beauty not common 
 in the middle class of life. Her complexion 
 was exceedingly fair, her eyes dark, and her 
 hair golden, and clustering all round her proud 
 little head in a tangle of ringlets. She wore 
 deep mourning, made very plain, of course ; 
 yet even in childhood little Elsie Beatoun 
 invested everything she wore with a nameless 
 grace and becomingness. It was her heritage 
 from her frail mother, in whose veins had flowed 
 the blood of one of the best Scottish families. 
 
 4 They'll be lookit efter, Elsie/ said Uncle 
 Saunders, not caring to tell that the furniture 
 and the books would need to be sold immedi- 
 ately, to pay what the deceased doctor owed 
 in Ormiston and Tranent. 'An' I've telt 
 Lisbeth to gather thegither your mother's 
 things an' pack them in a box, an' I'll send a 
 cairt for them. Weel, are ye ready, bairn ? it's 
 nigh four o'clock, an' the darkenin'll fa' quick 
 the nicht.' 
 
 ' Very well, Uncle Saunders, thank you,' 
 said Elsie quietly ; ' yes, I'm ready. I've 
 only to say good-bye to Lisbeth.'
 
 28 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 So saying, she walked away demurely to the 
 kitchen to bid good-bye to the faithful soul 
 who had taken charge of the motherless 
 household since the death of the gentle wife 
 when Elsie was nine years old. 
 
 In the meantime, Saunders Beatoun went 
 out to the gig, and took the waterproof apron 
 off the cushions, and tried to make the seat 
 as comfortable as he could for his little niece. 
 Presently she came walking out to the door 
 with her cloak rolled round her, perfectly 
 calm and self-possessed, only she was deadly 
 pale, and the big pathetic eyes had a shadow 
 lying in their deepest depths. Uncle Saunders 
 tenderly lifted her into the high gig, and, 
 tucking her in, jumped up beside her, and gave 
 Jess a gentle touch with the whip, setting her 
 off in an easy trot. When they drove down 
 the wide picturesque street, past the quaint old 
 cross, and were about to turn off into the road 
 to Ford, Elsie turned and looked back at the 
 old grey house at the head of the town, one 
 long pathetic look, then sat very still, close in 
 at her uncle's side, with her head down to 
 keep the bitter rain from driving against her 
 face.
 
 ELSIE. 29 
 
 ' Elsie ! ' 
 
 1 Yes, Uncle Saunders.' 
 
 'Are ye cauld, my dawtie ?' 
 
 'No, Uncle Saunders, but but* 
 
 ' What, my lamb ? ' said Uncle Saunders 
 softly, bending towards the poor little mite 
 cowering at his side. 
 
 ' I was just thinking how the rain would 
 beat down the poor wee gowans on father's 
 and mother's grave. I was up at the church- 
 yard this morning before you came, and they 
 were so bonnie and fresh. I was glad. 
 Mother liked the gowans, Uncle Saunders; 
 she used to watch for them in the spring.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, my lamb,' said Uncle Saunders, 
 wiping away a tear with his wet coat sleeve. 
 Somehow, the quiet self-possession and com- 
 posed talk of his brother's little girl troubled 
 him. It was unlike a child. From his own 
 experience he had no knowledge of the ways 
 of children, only he knew that the bairns at 
 Lintlaw cried, and lustily too, for every 
 childish grief. Go into that stirring house- 
 hold when he liked, one or other was sure to 
 be greeting about something. 
 
 ' Yer heart's sair, Elsie ; could ye no' greet,
 
 30 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 my dearie ? ' he said, with a tenderness most 
 touching to see in one like him. 
 
 'Oh no, Uncle Saunders. I was father's 
 little woman, and I must not cry. I was to 
 be brave, he said that day he died,' replied 
 Elsie gravely, and for a long time there was 
 nothing more said. In a little while they 
 passed the long, sloping village of Pathhead, 
 and thence down into the glen at Ford, the 
 fain still falling desolately from weeping skies. 
 A gale during the previous night had whirled 
 a great number of the leaves from the trees, 
 and they lay thickly on the roads, where they 
 were beaten and soiled among the mud. 
 
 Uncle Saunders urged Jess forward, for it 
 was getting dark already, and the wind was 
 bitterly cold. 
 
 'What a long way it is to your house, 
 Uncle Saunders/ said Elsie, as Jess was 
 walking slowly up a steep hill, lined on either 
 side by spreading beeches. ' Is that it over 
 there ? ' she added, pointing to a big square 
 house two or three fields distant, facing the 
 road. 
 
 ' No, Elsie, that's Lintlaw. There's plenty 
 wee anes there for ye to play wi'. Ye'll see
 
 ELSIE. 31 
 
 them the morn at the kirk. There's Hew, 
 the auldest, a fine strappin' lad, no' his equal i* 
 the Lothians ; then there's Kirsten, a douce, 
 kindly lass ye'll like brawly; then there's 
 Sandy, wee Dod, an Robbie, an' Effie, an' 
 syne wee Davie, the flooer o' the flock. Ay, 
 it's a blithe, cheery biggin' Lintlaw,' he added, 
 with a sigh, for it was a great sorrow and 
 disappointment to honest, big-hearted Saunders 
 Beatoun that no bairnies had ever come to 
 make gladness in Carlowrie. 
 
 'See, Elsie, there's Carlowrie noo, an' 
 there's yer "auntie lookin' oot at the door.' 
 
 Elsie eagerly raised her head and peered 
 through the gathering darkness and the blind- 
 ing rain, to see her future home. It was a 
 low-lying house, snugly sheltered by the com- 
 pact steading and the well-filled stackyard ; 
 that was all Elsie could discern in her first 
 glance. Presently Jess stood still, as was her 
 wont, at the drinking-trough in the ' yaird ; ' 
 then Aunt Nanny came stepping gingerly 
 across the sloppy back doors to the gig. 
 
 ' Ye' re unco late, Saunders. I was beginnin' 
 to be feared,' she said. ' An' this is Elsie. 
 Bairn, ye'll be half-deid.'
 
 32 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 So saying, she lifted Elsie from the gig, 
 and carried her in by the back door, through 
 the kitchen, and into the ben-end, where she 
 set her down on the rug and looked her all 
 over. The child met her scrutiny with an 
 answering look, then very slowly turned away. 
 That look told the child that it would be 
 to her uncle she must turn for comfort at 
 Carlowrie. 
 
 ' Ye're very like yer mither, bairn,' was Aunt 
 Nanny's verdict, for there was nothing of the 
 Beatouns about her but the big dark eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, Aunt Nanny. Will Uncle Saunders 
 soon be in ?' said the child. 'Will I go up-stairs 
 and take off my things ? ' 
 
 Somewhat discomfited by the calm and self- 
 possessed demeanour of the child, from whom 
 she had expected to see something different, 
 Aunt Nanny silently assented, and led the 
 way along the wide stone passage to a little 
 room which of yore had been a store-closet, 
 but which, in anticipation of the new addition 
 to her household, and in order to save the 
 best bedroom, Mrs. Beatoun had caused to 
 be converted into a sleeping apartment for 
 Elsie. It was very small, and had no fire-
 
 ELSIE. 33 
 
 place, but it was clean and comfortable enough, 
 and had a cheery little window which looked 
 out into the farmyard. There Elsie was 
 left, with many instructions as to folding her 
 clothes neatly into the drawers, and as to 
 keeping them tidy after they were there. Tea 
 was ready in a little while, but Elsie ate very 
 sparingly ; it did not seem as if her appetite 
 would make large inroads upon the larder at 
 Carlowrie. 
 
 A quiet and rather dreary evening was 
 spent in the parlour, Aunt Nanny knitting as 
 usual, and Uncle Saunders reading the news- 
 paper, which came once a week with the 
 carrier's cart, and was a great treat. Elsie 
 sat on a little creepie as near to her uncle 
 as she dared, lest Aunt Nanny should take 
 offence, looking gravely into the fire, or 
 stroking gently the sleek grey back of Jenny, 
 the old cat, which was the most comfortable- 
 looking thing in Carlowrie. Aunt Nanny 
 forbore to ask Elsie any questions concerning 
 her knitting or sewing abilities, but mentally 
 resolved to provide her with worsted and 
 wires on Monday morning. At eight o'clock 
 precisely, Aunt Nanny laid aside her knitting,
 
 34 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 and, taking down the big Bible, read a lesson 
 to herself, as she did every Saturday night, 
 a kind of preparation, as it were, for the 
 Sabbath day. Nanny Beatoun had been 
 brought up in a very godly family, who were 
 rigid in their attendance upon the observance 
 of the Lord's day, the Fast day, and other 
 solemn seasons in the Kirk. She accounted 
 herself a devout Christian, and had no sym- 
 pathy with mirth or pleasure-loving folks ; 
 indeed, she had on more than one occasion 
 reproved her brother David at Lintlaw, for 
 permitting what she thought unbecoming 
 levity among his children. But in a houseful 
 of high-spirited rollicking lads and lasses, 
 it is not easy to keep them in continual 
 remembrance of the solemnity of the Sabbath 
 and other grave occasions. And Lintlaw was 
 not slow to tell his sister that, and to add that 
 she knew nothing about bairns, nor what a 
 difference they made in a house. Many 
 prejudices melt away under the sunshine of a 
 baby's smile. 
 
 Elsie Beatoun was much awed by the 
 solemnity of the reading at Carlowrie. Uncle 
 Saunders read two long chapters, and then
 
 ELSIE. 35 
 
 they all knelt down, and he began to pray. 
 Elsie tried hard to follow him, but very soon 
 lost the thread of what he was saying. There 
 were times when Saunders Beatoun forgot him- 
 self, and was carried away in praying, till even 
 Nanny grew weary, and wished for the Amen. 
 
 When Elsie lay down in her bed that night, 
 she wondered whether in a long time she 
 might grow accustomed to this new, strange, 
 solemn life, and cease to fret for those who 
 had loved her, and whom she loved in memory 
 still, beyond anything on earth. She slept 
 soundly, for she was wearied out; but she 
 awoke early, to hear the clatter of milk-pails 
 in the dairy, and the shrill voice of her aunt 
 setting the maids to their work. She rose at 
 once, for the sun streaming in at her window 
 made her think it was far on in the morning. 
 
 She went first to the parlour, but there was 
 nobody there, though the cloth was laid 
 for breakfast ; so she stole into the kitchen, 
 which was empty also. She was greatly 
 interested to see the porridge bubbling in the 
 big pot on the side of the grate, and wondered 
 who could ever eat such a great quantity. 
 After having made herself familiar with the
 
 36 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 appearance of the kitchen, she went out by 
 the back door into the yard. The men were 
 watering their horses at the trough, the poultry 
 were making a great disturbance over their 
 breakfast, which Aunt Nanny had just scattered 
 for them before proceeding to superintend 
 operations in the byre. 
 
 What amused and delighted Elsie most of 
 all was a big good-natured-looking sow, with 
 her three little ones at her heels, snuffing con- 
 tentedly about the yard as if quite at home. 
 After looking her fill at the live stock, Elsie 
 stepped daintily across the still sloppy yard, 
 and entered the garden by a little wicket at 
 the side. It was trim and tidy as could 
 be, and there were plenty of flowers yet, 
 sweet-william, bachelors' buttons, peppermint, 
 southernwood ; and even a few yellow pansies 
 and sturdy carnations, which had braved the 
 storm, grew side by side in that sweet old- 
 fashioned confusion which modern taste does 
 not permit. The garden sloped down from 
 the house, then verged into the cows' park, 
 which ran almost perpendicularly down to the 
 Tyne. Elsie could see the little river, swollen 
 by recent rains, rushing between its banks,
 
 ELSIE. 37 
 
 which were fringed by drooping willows and 
 graceful alders, relieved here and there by the 
 bright clusters on the rowans, which were 
 very plentiful in Crichtounden. On the op- 
 posite steep, surrounded by sheltering trees, 
 which were now tinged by the sombre russet 
 tints of the late autumn, stood the kirk and 
 Manse; while a little to the right the solid 
 battlements of the ancient castle of Crichtoun 
 seemed to keep a grim and faithful watch 
 over the peaceful vale. 
 
 Elsie was disturbed in her rapt contempla- 
 tion of this picturesque scene (for the child 
 had a keen eye for the beautiful in nature) by 
 the shrill voice of her aunt, who had caught 
 sight of her while crossing from the byre to 
 the kitchen door. So she hastened to obey 
 the summons, and was bidden wash her face 
 out at the rain-water barrel, so novel a place 
 for the performance of the toilet that the child 
 was much amused. There was no porridge 
 eaten in the ben-end at Carlowrie on the 
 Sabbath morning, ham and eggs and tea being 
 provided as a substitute. When breakfast 
 was over, Elsie was provided with a Bible, 
 from which she was to learn the fifty-third
 
 38 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Psalm for repetition to her aunt in the evening. 
 She found it difficult to fix her attention, for 
 her eyes would wander through the window 
 to the pleasant garden which lay so still and 
 sweet in the fresh sunshine of the autumn day. 
 Before she had committed even a double verse 
 to memory, her aunt came to her, telling her 
 it was time to get ready for the kirk. 
 
 It was the first time Elsie Beatoun had 
 been left to dress herself on the Sabbath day. 
 Ever since her mother's death it had been 
 faithful Lisbeth Fairlie's duty and privilege to 
 see that the only child of her mistress went 
 out as befitted Doctor Beatoun's daughter, as 
 her lady mother would have had her go. Lis- 
 beth had an intense respect for the memory 
 of her gentle mistress. 
 
 However, she managed to complete her 
 toilet, down to the very tying of her bonnet 
 strings, and, drawing on her gloves, went away 
 to the parlour, where she was joined presently 
 by Uncle Saunders, who wore his black broad- 
 cloth suit and a white neckerchief in token of 
 mourning for his brother. Elsie could not help 
 thinking that he looked better in the rough 
 homespun tweeds he wore on week-days.
 
 ELSIE. 39 
 
 ' Certy, ye are a braw little quean,' he said, 
 looking approvingly at the trim little figure, 
 'a perfect wee leddy, eh, Elsie ?' 
 
 Elsie smiled, but was presently awed by 
 the apparition of her aunt, attired in all the 
 glory of her Sunday clothes. Although void of 
 taste, Mrs. Beatoun liked showy and expensive 
 clothes, as was seen in the richness and stiffness 
 of her changing silk gown, with the big brocaded 
 flower running through it, the massive trim- 
 mings of her drab cloth cloak, and the profu- 
 sion of bright-coloured feathers and flowers in 
 her towering head-gear. Her hands were de- 
 corously gloved, and she carried her Bible and 
 handkerchief in a little black silk reticule hung 
 over her arm by a silk cord. She looked 
 severely and critically at her niece, made a 
 vigorous but vain effort to smooth the refract- 
 ory golden locks which would stray out below 
 the little black bonnet, and then said they 
 would need to go. 
 
 ' I should hae had my blacks, Saunders ; an' 
 there'll be some'll say I am wantin' in respect 
 to your brither the doctor,' she whispered as 
 they went out by the front door. ' But Marion 
 Brown in Newlandrigg said she couldna pro-
 
 40 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 mise me my goon this week, an' it's no' likely 
 I'm gaun to bide awa' frae the kirk for what 
 folk'll say.' 
 
 ' Surely no', Nanny,' assented Saunders ; 
 though, looking at his wife, he could not but 
 think that, in contrast to his own and Elsie's 
 sombre attire, she looked strikingly gay. It 
 was a pleasant walk down the path through 
 the cows' park, and across the rustic bridge 
 which spanned the river ; then over the stile 
 and up through the dense firwood, and along 
 the edge of the glebe to the kirkyard. Just 
 as they came within sight of the gate, the bell 
 began to ring, a sweet, tinkling, irregular sound, 
 which could be heard for miles around, so still 
 was the air of that pleasant Sabbath morning. 
 
 ' Vender's Lintlaw folks comin',' said Aunt 
 Nanny, pointing away down to the low road 
 winding through the glen. ' There's Aunt Effie, 
 so she maun be better. The Dalrymples mak' 
 a guidly turn-oot on the Sabbath, Saunders.' 
 
 ' Ay ; Dauvit's bringin' up his family in 
 the fear o' God,' said Saunders ; then fell a 
 little behind to return the greetings of some 
 neighbours. 
 
 But Aunt Nanny did not wait. Taking
 
 ELSIE. 41 
 
 Elsie's hand firmly in hers, she sailed up the 
 broad path and into the kirk, her silk gown 
 making a great rustling as she went down the 
 long passage to the Carlowrie pew. Slowly 
 the worshippers dropped by twos and threes 
 into the kirk until every seat was filled. Elsie 
 watched her uncle come in near the end, and 
 behind him there came his brother-in-law, a 
 tall, stern-looking man, followed by a sweet, 
 motherly-looking woman, quietly and modestly 
 dressed, in every way a complete contrast to 
 her sister-in-law, Mrs. Beatoun of Carlowrie. 
 Their children came behind them, in steps 
 and stairs, as people said, the only one left 
 at home being wee Davie, who was just able 
 to toddle alone, and so could not yet be 
 brought to the kirk. Elsie Beatoun looked 
 with great curiosity at the Dalrymples, but in 
 her little heart that quiet Sabbath morning, 
 there was no foreshadowing of that strange 
 web of destiny in which her life was to be so 
 strangely intertwined with the family at Lint- 
 law. Just then the bell-ringing ceased, the 
 minister's man brought up the Bible, and then 
 showed the minister up to the pulpit. He 
 was a young man, as Christian had said, but 
 
 4
 
 42 CARLOWRIE, 
 
 his appearance and manner were calculated to 
 inspire reverence and esteem. His fine, open, 
 manly countenance wore an expression of 
 devoutness, and as he looked upon the faces 
 of his flock assembled before him for the first 
 time, he appeared to be suddenly and deeply 
 moved. Contrary to the usual routine of 
 service, his first words were, ' Let us pray,' and 
 the earnest, heartfelt petition which followed 
 filled the hearts of those who had had any 
 misgivings with unspeakable thankfulness and 
 joy. Even careless ones felt stirred by these 
 eloquent, searching words, and surely the 
 prayers of the godly people in the parish 
 would avail, and the new minister of Crichtoun 
 would make a great stir among the dry bones. 
 The whole service was impressive, and 
 when it was over the congregation met in 
 twos and threes about the kirkyard, discussing 
 the merits of their new minister, and con- 
 gratulating each other upon their good fortune 
 in securing one who was so evidently a man 
 of God. When the Beatouns got out to the 
 kirkyard, they found Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple 
 and their two elder children waiting for them ; 
 the younger ones, like colts let loose in a
 
 ELSIE. 43 
 
 field, were off down the hill at a gallop, which 
 greatly exercised their Aunt Nanny. 
 
 ' Hoo are ye the day, Nanny?' said the 
 sweet, pleasant voice of the mistress of 
 Lintlaw. ' And this is Doctor Beatoun's 
 wee lassie. Eh, but she's like, like her mither, 
 Saunders.' 
 
 As she spoke, she laid her hand so gently 
 on Elsie's shoulder, that the child turned to 
 her with a rush of tears in her eyes. Seeing 
 that, the mistress of Lintlaw bent down and 
 kissed the fair cheek, little guessing that 
 that simple caress bound the heart of Elsie 
 Beatoun to her in indissoluble bonds. Then 
 Lintlaw himself spoke a kind word to her, and 
 Christian took her hand, while Hew, a big, 
 strapping lad, very like his handsome father, 
 looked at her kindly but bashfully, after the 
 manner of lads of his age. Then the three 
 young ones walked on in front, while their 
 elders came behind more soberly, discussing 
 the heads of the sermon. 
 
 * Ye'll come to Lintlaw and see us, Elsie ? ' 
 said Christian, in her kind, sisterly way. ' It'll 
 be quiet for you at Carlowrie.' 
 
 ' Yes, thank you, if Aunt Nanny will let
 
 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 me,' replied Elsie quietly, and a half smile of 
 compassion touched for a moment Christian 
 Dalrymple's lips. She was quick to under- 
 stand all that Elsie's words implied. 
 
 * We have a bonnie garden at Lintlaw, an' 
 a little pony. Hew will give you a ride when 
 you come ; won't you, Hew ? ' 
 
 'Yes, of course,' replied Hew, longing to 
 say a great deal more, for his big heart seemed 
 to fill at sight of the fair-faced, desolate wee 
 girlie, who was so different from the rosy- 
 cheeked healthy lassies whom he was accus- 
 tomed to see in his own and other homes. 
 
 1 I'd like to come. Father used to give me 
 rides on his pony. It was called after mother 
 and me,' she said, and her sympathetic 
 listeners saw the gathering of the deep 
 shadow in her big dark eyes, and were full 
 of sorrow for her. 
 
 ' Do roses like that grow in your garden ? ' 
 she said, suddenly pointing to a lovely half- 
 blown bud in Hew's button-hole. ' There are 
 no roses in the garden where I live.' 
 
 1 Oh yes, plenty of them at Lintlaw/ 
 said Christian blithely, 'all growing up the 
 front, and in the garden too ; you'll see them
 
 ELSIE. 45 
 
 and get as many as you like when you 
 come.' 
 
 They had now reached the bridge which 
 they must cross to reach Carlowrie, while the 
 Dalrymples had to keep along to the road to 
 Lintlaw. They did not stand long talking 
 there. Mrs. Dalrymple asked Elsie kindly to 
 come to Lintlaw, then they all bade her 
 good-bye ; and, after Hew had shaken hands 
 with her, he took the rosebud from his coat 
 and gave it to her, saying, awkwardly enough, 
 she might have it if she liked, as there were 
 plenty more at Lintlaw. 
 
 Elsie smiled up at him, and said, ' Thank 
 you,' very simply, and so was forged the first 
 link in the chain of destiny which was to bind 
 these young lives so closely together in days 
 to come.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 
 
 'OU are better to-day, my love ?' 
 
 These anxious words were uttered 
 by the lady of Tyneholm, as she 
 bent over an invalid couch standing in the 
 wide, low window of the drawing-room at 
 Tyneholm. Upon the couch lay a young girl 
 in the early bloom of womanhood, of such frail 
 and delicate appearance that it was no marvel 
 the heart of the fond mother was often heavy 
 with unspoken dread. 
 
 Though mother and daughter, the resem- 
 blance between them was very slight. The 
 elder lady was of strikingly youthful appear- 
 ance still, though she had been a wife for 
 five-and-twenty years, and a widow for ten. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma, I feel strong and well to-day/ 
 
 M
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 47 
 
 replied Edith Hamilton almost gaily. ' Didn't 
 I always say only Scotch air, and above all 
 the air of dear Tyneholm, would restore me, 
 in spite of our wise physician's prophecies? 
 Oh, it is glorious, glorious, to be at home ! ' 
 
 As she spoke her eyes wandered lovingly 
 through the window to the richly-wooded 
 park, where the ancestral beeches towered 
 their stately heads, with gowans and butter- 
 cups and blue speedwell nestling contentedly 
 at their feet. It was a fair picture, for through 
 a gap in the network of bright green boughs 
 there was a lovely glimpse of the long glen 
 of Crichtoun, with the low-lying slopes of the 
 Moorfoots in the distance, looking almost 
 mystic and unreal in the haze of the summer 
 morning. 
 
 The frail daughter of the house of Hamilton 
 had gone in quest of health to every sunny 
 spot in Europe during the last two years, but 
 had seen none so fair nor so dear as the home 
 where she had spent her childhood, and which 
 was doubly hallowed and endeared by tender 
 memories of the father she had loved so 
 well. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton smiled. She was English
 
 48 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 born, and was not passionately attached to her 
 husband's paternal heritage. 
 
 4 Edith, you will never outgrow this strange 
 love for Tyneholm,' she said banteringly. 
 ' Here I always feel shut out from the world.' 
 
 4 That is why I love it so, mamma,' smiled 
 Edith. ' Where has Keith gone, do you 
 know ? ' 
 
 ' Only to the stables, dear. Keith is bored 
 here sometimes, I fancy. Did you want him 
 for anything ? ' 
 
 4 1 thought, perhaps, while it is so warm and 
 pleasant, he would drive me out a little, per- 
 haps as far as Lintlaw ; I am quite wearying 
 to see dear Mrs. Dalrymple.' 
 
 * I will send for Keith, my dear,' replied 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and left the room to give her 
 order. 
 
 Then Edith turned her eyes once more to 
 the blue sky peeping through the network 
 of leaves, and gave herself up to a happy dream 
 of restored health and strength, which would 
 enable her to enjoy her youth and all the 
 advantages of her rank. Hitherto Edith 
 Hamilton had been little in society, for her 
 poor health demanded quiet and retirement.
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 49 
 
 She had been the unwilling means of debarring 
 her mother from the same privileges, for Mrs. 
 Hamilton, though disposed to gaiety, was a 
 devoted mother, and it could never be said of 
 her that she left her invalid daughter to the 
 care of strangers. She loved Edith tenderly 
 and truly, but not with that strange passionate, 
 yearning affection which she lavished upon 
 her one son, the heir, nay, now the Laird of 
 Tyneholm. Edith was her father's living 
 image ; but there was little of the Hamiltons 
 about Keith. He was liker the dark, black- 
 browed Northumbrian family to which his 
 mother belonged, and in his veins coursed all 
 the wild, passionate blood of the Cecils. 
 
 He came noisily into the house by and by, 
 up the wide staircase two steps at a time, and 
 bursting into the room in a fashion which sent 
 the hot blood tingling to his sister's pale 
 cheek. Void of nerves himself, Keith Hamil- 
 ton forgot to be considerate for those of 
 others. He was undeniably handsome. The 
 fine figure just setting into splendid manhood, 
 the noble head, with its cluster of waving 
 brown hair, the dark, perfectly-featured face 
 and keen black eye, with its subtle, winning 
 
 5
 
 So CARLOWR1E. 
 
 gleam, of these any mother might be justly 
 proud. 
 
 ' Well, Edith, here I am. What can your 
 humble servant do for you ? ' he asked bois- 
 terously, yet with real kindness. Keith 
 Hamilton loved his frail, fair sister with a 
 most passionate devotion. 
 
 ' Thank you, Keith. If I get ready, will 
 you drive me out round by Lintlaw, and home 
 by Carlowrie and Turniedykes ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, are you going to make a general tour 
 of the tenantry to assure them you are still in 
 the flesh, eh ? ' he asked teasingly. 
 
 ' Don't tease, Keith. Be a good boy, and 
 take my ponies, and promise to drive steadily,' 
 she pleaded. 
 
 ' Oh yes, with these high-stepping quadru- 
 peds we will crawl along the roads at a pace 
 which even you will be reassured. Do let me 
 take Highflyer, and spin you through the air 
 in the dogcart. I believe it would make you 
 well.' 
 
 4 Or kill me, which ? ' she said laughingly. 
 'No, no, Keith, I am not equal to Highflyer 
 to-day. This is a duty you must perform, and 
 the more unpleasant it is the more faithfully
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 51 
 
 you must perform it,' an argument which set 
 Keith off laughing unbelievingly to the stables. 
 In something less than an hour the good 
 people of Newlandrigg were greatly exercised 
 at sight of the equipage from Tyneholm rolling 
 swiftly through the village, and to see that it 
 held the Laird and Miss Edith herself, who 
 they had never thought would return alive to 
 Tyneholm. You may be sure their progress 
 was watched ; and it was duly reported that 
 the ponies, as if of their own accord, had 
 turned up the road to Lintlaw. Mr. Dal- 
 lymple's fields were looking their best. It 
 was the last week of July now, and there was 
 u lovely yellow tinge on the standing corn, 
 which told that the harvest was drawing nigh. 
 The green hedgerows were trim and well kept, 
 and all the fences in good repair, for Mr. 
 Dalrymple could never endure any untidiness, 
 and far and near Lintlaw was known as the 
 model farm. Up near the steading they met 
 the farmer himself, scythe in hand, away down 
 to cut some of the long grass from the hedge- 
 side. Gravely he lifted his hat, and came 
 forward to greet his Laird and his sister. The 
 best of relations had ever existed between the
 
 53 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Hamiltons and their tenants ; but as yet it 
 was hardly known whether Keith Hamilton 
 would follow in the footsteps of his forbears, 
 as he had but newly attained his majority. 
 
 1 How are you, Mr. Keith ? Miss Hamilton, 
 it's a sicht for sair een to see you back to 
 Tyneholm, an* lookin' sae weel,' he said in 
 his blunt way. 'We heard yestreen ye had 
 corned hame. Certy, the mistress '11 be a 
 prood woman the day.' 
 
 ' Is she at home, Mr. Dalrymple, and quite 
 well ? and Hew, and Christian, and all the 
 rest?' asked Miss Hamilton. 
 
 * A' at hame an' a' weel, thank the Lord,' 
 said Lintlaw. ' Davie can haud his ain wi' 
 the lave noo, an' he was but a bairn in airms 
 when ye were last at Lintlaw.' 
 
 ' Dear me, is it so long ? Well, good- 
 morning, Mr. Dalrymple, we will drive on,' 
 she said, nodding pleasantly. 
 
 ' Won't you come up and look round with 
 me while my sister is gossiping with your 
 goodwife, Mr. Dalrymple ? ' asked Keith ; 
 and the farmer, nothing loth, turned and 
 walked slowly beside the ponies while they 
 leisurely ascended the slope to the farm.
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 53 
 
 Miss Hamilton got out presently and made 
 her way on foot through the narrow strip of 
 wood to the front of the house. She paused 
 a moment, and looked over the low wall into 
 the pleasant sheltered garden, which was a 
 perfect sight to see. Gooseberry and currant 
 bushes were bending low with their rich har- 
 vest of fruit, and the apple trees were laden 
 too. There were plenty of roses, as Christian 
 had said, and the old-fashioned round plot, 
 with the apple tree in the centre, was a perfect 
 bloom of pink and white and deep carnation, 
 which filled the air with a delicious perfume. 
 Miss Hamilton smiled to see the familiar place 
 looking so beautiful in all the wealth of the 
 summer-time, and, as if loth to leave that 
 picture behind, walked but slowly towards 
 the house. 
 
 The forenoon was always busy at Lintlaw, 
 for the early dinner permitted of no waste of 
 time. When she turned the corner she espied 
 upon the daisied turf a little golden-haired 
 maiden busy making a chain of gowans, to 
 the no small delight of a chubby little urchin, 
 whom she at once recognised as Davie, who 
 had been a plump, round-eyed baby the last
 
 54 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 time she had been at Lintlaw. But she was 
 puzzled to know who his companion could be, 
 not Effie, at any rate, for she had a wild 
 tangle of black locks, and eyes as blue as the 
 forget-me-nots. 
 
 4 Is Mrs. Dalrymple at home, my dear ? ' 
 she asked, and at the sound of the sweet voice 
 the small maiden sprang to her feet ; she had 
 not heard that light footfall on the velvet 
 turf. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, she is in. Will I tell her ? ' 
 she asked, recovering her self-possession very 
 speedily, and speaking with a grace and purity 
 of accent which somewhat surprised Edith 
 Hamilton. 
 
 ' If you please, dear ; but first tell me who 
 you are, and is this Davie ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, this is Davie,' said the little maiden, 
 with a fond, proud look at the urchin, who 
 hung shyly back, not recognising the lady 
 who had so often held him in her arms. * I 
 am Elsie Beatoun ; if you will come into the 
 parlour, please, I will tell Aunt Effie you are 
 here.' 
 
 But at that moment the front door opened, 
 and Aunt Effie herself appeared, wiping her
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 55 
 
 floury hands on her apron, which she had not 
 paused to throw off; her sweet face aglow 
 with pleasure and surprise. With warm words 
 of greeting, she took the Laird's daughter into 
 the parlour, and bade her sit down, then called 
 to Christian to come and see Miss Hamilton. 
 
 ' I never saw ye look better, Miss Edith. 
 Please the Lord, ye'll grow strong and weel 
 yet, and be spared mony a year to Tyneholm,' 
 she said in her dear motherly way. ' Is Mrs. 
 Hamilton weel, an' the Laird ? ' 
 
 1 Thank you, yes ; Keith is here with me 
 to-day. I left him outside with Mr. Dal- 
 rymple,' replied Miss Hamilton. ' There is 
 no difference upon you, dear Mrs. Dalrymple. 
 Will you ever grow any older looking ? ' 
 
 The mistress laughed. 
 
 ' A blithe heart keeps the face young, they 
 say. But come, tell me where ye hae been sae 
 lang. It's weary wark when Tyneholm's shut 
 up, Miss Edith.' 
 
 4 Rather ask where we have not been, Mrs. 
 Dalrymple, France, Italy, Spain, every coun- 
 try in Europe, I think ; but I have never seen 
 a land like bonnie Scotland, nor a place like 
 dear Tyneholm.'
 
 56 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 The smile lingered on the sweet face of 
 the mistress, but her eyes grew dim for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' Ye are your father's daughter, Miss Edith. 
 Just like that he used to speak o' Tyneholm. 
 Weel, are ye gaun to bide a wee noo ? ' 
 
 I don't know ; mamma is so restless, you 
 know, and she has had to live so quietly on my 
 account for so long. By the end of August 
 I expect we will be off to Alnwick Hall ; but 
 she has promised to bring me back to Tyne- 
 holm for Christmas. There is nothing in the 
 world I would like so much as to settle down 
 at Tyneholm, to live all my life among our 
 own people.' 
 
 ' That may be some day, Miss Edith ; the 
 Lord kens what is best for us,' said Mrs. 
 Dalrymple gently. Then Christian came in, 
 and the talk turned for a little upon the family 
 at Lintlaw. 
 
 ' They are all at school, I suppose ; but who 
 is the little girl I saw outside with Davie ? ' 
 asked Miss Hamilton. 
 
 ' That's Elsie Beatoun. Ye've heard o' 
 Doctor Beatoun o' Ormiston, Saunders Bea- 
 toun's only brither, Miss Hamilton ?'
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 57 
 
 ' I saw him once. He had to come when I 
 took very ill three years ago at Tyneholm, 
 before Doctor Abercromby could be sent for 
 to Edinburgh. I remember him, a gentle- 
 manly, quiet man. I thought he did me 
 good.' 
 
 ' He's awa' hame noo, Miss Hamilton, an' 
 that's his orphan bairn,' said the mistress, with 
 moistening eyes. 
 
 Miss Hamilton rose and looked with interest 
 out of the window at the little maiden, still 
 busy with her daisy chains on the green. 
 
 ' She looks delicate, and is wonderfully 
 pretty. Does she live with you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ; her hame is at Carlowrie. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Beatoun are away at the fair at 
 Dalkeith the day ; that's hoo she comes to be 
 here.' 
 
 ' At Carlowrie ! ' repeated Miss Hamilton, 
 with a slight smile. ' I fancy the little girl 
 would be happier with you.' 
 
 1 She never complains. Nanny's bark's 
 waur than her bite, Miss Hamilton, an' 
 Saunders is just bound up in the bairn. It 
 wad gar ye smile to see them thegither.' 
 
 ' We were going to Carlowrie this morning
 
 58 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 too, but will not mind when Mr. and Mrs. 
 Beatoun are away. Oh, I hear the ponies 
 coming round. Come away out and speak to 
 Keith, Mrs. Dalrymple. He is a better boy 
 than he used to be ; I even think sometimes 
 when he is old he may be like papa, only he 
 has not papa's love for Tyneholm.' 
 
 ' Certy, but he's a braw young man ; there's 
 no' his equal in the Lothians, I'm sure/ whis- 
 pered the mistress, as they stepped out of 
 doors and she saw the Laird in conversation 
 with her husband along at the garden gate. 
 
 He lifted his cap at sight of Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple, and came forward to speak in that 
 free, frank, winning way which made him so 
 great a favourite with gentle and simple. 
 Elsie sat still making her daisy chains, too 
 much absorbed in her pleasant task to take 
 any heed of the strangers with her uncle 
 and aunt, and too well-bred to look even 
 though she had felt inclined. But when the 
 phaeton was drawing away she looked up, 
 and Keith Hamilton saw her face. 
 
 ' Why, Edith, what a lovely child ! Who is 
 that ? not one of the Dalrymples, surely ? ' he 
 exclaimed.
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 59 
 
 ' No, she is an orphan. Her father was 
 Doctor Beatoun of Ormiston. I must take 
 her down to Tyneholm some day to let 
 mamma see her. She had a great liking for 
 Doctor Beatoun/ answered Miss Hamilton, 
 and the subject was dismissed. 
 
 Through the sunny hours of that long 
 summer's day, Elsie played out of doors with 
 Davie, who almost worshipped her, because 
 she made such a work with him, and never 
 tired of running races, or building houses, or 
 making gowan and buttercup wreaths for him. 
 Elsie Beatoun was thoroughly at home at 
 Lintlaw, and they all loved her; even wild, 
 passionate, hot-tempered little Effie would be 
 good and quiet with her, there was such a 
 charm in her smile and in her gentle voice. 
 But to Aunt Effie first, and then to Hew, 
 Elsie clung with the greatest devotion. Her 
 love for the sweet mother partook in it some- 
 thing of worship ; she would follow her about, 
 looking at her, or even sometimes touching 
 the folds of her dress, in a way which made 
 the mistress smile often, though the tear was 
 never far distant. Elsie looked up to Hew 
 just as she would have done to a big, kindly
 
 6o CARLOWRIE. 
 
 elder brother, who would do anything and 
 everything she required of him. Whenever 
 Elsie came to Lintlaw, Mr. Dalrymple would 
 laugh, and say there would be no work got 
 out of Hew that day, for there were races to 
 be run, and funny corners to be hunted for in 
 the woods, and rides on the pony, and a dozen 
 other things which made the time pass swiftly 
 and pleasantly away. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Beatoun had promised to 
 drive round by Lintlaw for Elsie on their 
 way home, and Christian put down two extra 
 cups on the table at five o'clock, in expecta- 
 tion that her uncle and aunt would drop in 
 to tea. 
 
 But the hour passed, and they were obliged 
 to take tea at last, wondering much what kept 
 them so long at the fair. 
 
 ' When did they say they would be home, 
 Elsie ? ' asked the mistress when it rang six. 
 
 * In the afternoon, Aunt Effte,' said the 
 child. ' Uncle Saunters took the new horse 
 in the gig, and Aunt Nanny wanted him to 
 take it out again. The new horse kicks and 
 runs ever so fast, just as Prince Charlie did 
 with Hew down the road this morning/
 
 THE LAIRD'S FOLK. 61 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple looked rather anxious, and 
 went away out in search of her husband, to 
 tell what Elsie had said. 
 
 4 Bless me ! Saunders micht hae haen 
 mair sense than tak' that kittle beast awa' to 
 Dalkeith on a fair day,' he said rather testily. 
 1 There's nae sayin' what's happen't them. 
 We canna dae naething but jist wait an* 
 see.' 
 
 ' They were to be hirin' baith for the bothy 
 an' the hoose, but that wadna hae keepit 
 them sae lang. The Lord grant they may be 
 safe, Davie.' 
 
 Another hour passed, and the anxiety 
 increased at Lintlaw. Finally Aunt Effie 
 despatched Robbie over to Carlowrie to see 
 whether there was any word of them coming 
 home. 
 
 Before he was half through the fields, 
 however, he met one of his Aunt Nanny's 
 maids, flushed and breathless, running to tell 
 the news at Lintlaw. Just outside of Dalkeith, 
 the new horse, a young thing, newly broken, 
 and as skittish as the wind, had run off, 
 and finally overturned the gig not far from 
 Gallowsha' Toll. And that was not all. The
 
 6 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 mistress of Carlowrie was killed, and Saunders 
 Beatoun lying in the Harrow Inn at Dalkeith, 
 his life just trembling in the balance. Half- 
 an-hour later, the Lintlaw gig, with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Dairy mple in it, drove away in the 
 utmost haste to Dalkeith.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 
 
 midnight Mr. Dalrymple returned 
 alone to Lintlaw, having left his 
 wife to minister by Saunders 
 Beatoun's bedside at the Harrow Inn, as the 
 physician absolutely forbade that the injured 
 man should be moved. Hew, Christian, and 
 Elsie were sitting up at the kitchen fireside, 
 the girls white-faced and anxious, for this 
 was a strange and terrible thing which had 
 happened. 
 
 ' Oh, father ! is it true that Aunt Nanny's 
 killed ? ' was Christian's trembling question. 
 
 ' Ower true, Christian/ replied Lintlaw, in 
 that brief, stern way common to him in 
 moments of deep feeling. ' I hae left yer 
 mither to nurse Uncle Saunders. And now 
 
 63
 
 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 get to bed, bairns, it's efter twal', and yell 
 hae to be up betimes the morn, Christian.' 
 
 ' Is Uncle Saunders very sore hurt, Uncle 
 Davie ? ' asked Elsie, rising with the others, 
 but lingering behind as if not satisfied with 
 what she had heard. 
 
 ' Ay, bairn, his life's hangin' by a threid, 
 but the Lord can spare if He will. Let us 
 pray.' 
 
 So before they went to bed, they all knelt 
 down, and Lintlaw prayed briefly, but 
 earnestly, in words which all felt and under- 
 stood. Christian was weeping when they 
 rose, and Hew's eyes were not dry ; they 
 wondered to see Elsie calm ; the big dark 
 eyes were dry and wide open, but they seemed 
 darker in hue, and there was a curious con- 
 traction about the mouth which told its own 
 tale. 
 
 ' Christian,' she said, after they were in bed, 
 ' Uncle Saunders won't get better. People 
 you love always die. See how father and 
 mother died. It's no use praying.' 
 
 4 Wheesht, Elsie ! ' said Christian, rather 
 shocked. ' If it is God's will Uncle Saunders 
 winna dee. If guid nursing will dae ony
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 65 
 
 guid, mother'll mak' him well. Oh, Elsie, how 
 strange it is to lie down and mother not in 
 the house ! She has never been away before.' 
 
 ' What would you do if you had no mother 
 like me, if Aunt Effie were to die, Christian ? ' 
 asked Elsie quietly. 
 
 ' I dinna ken. God'll never take away 
 mother, Elsie. What would father and a' 
 the laddies dae, no' to speak o' Effie an' 
 me?' 
 
 ' God never asked what I would do without 
 father and mother, Christian ; He just took 
 them/ replied Elsie. ' But mother was thin 
 and pale, and always ill, not like Aunt Effie, 
 who will live to be an old woman, I am quite 
 sure.' 
 
 By and by, when Elsie was just falling 
 asleep, Christian turned and spoke again. 
 
 ' Elsie, I wush ye hadna spoken aboot 
 mother as ye did. I canna get it oot o' my 
 heid. It wad be awfu' if we were aye oor 
 lane at Lintlaw. We couldna live without 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Don't be thinking about it, Christian,' said 
 Elsie drowsily ; ' of course Aunt Effie will 
 live to be old, old, I know she will.'
 
 66 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Nevertheless it was several days before the 
 haunting fear planted by that conversation 
 faded out of Christian Dalrymple's mind. 
 
 Shortly after breakfast on the following 
 morning Elsie was missing from Lintlaw, but 
 they did not trouble about her, thinking she 
 had gone over to Carlowrie to see how things 
 were going on. In the afternoon, however, 
 Mr. Ritchie of Scotstoun, calling to condole 
 with his neighbour about the calamity of 
 yesterday, mentioned that, driving home from 
 Dalkeith, he had met Elsie Beatoun just 
 outside Eskbank Toll, and that she had asked 
 him the way to the Harrow Inn, saying she 
 had walked all the way, and was going to see 
 her Uncle Saunders. And from that day 
 Saunders Beatoun had two nurses, and it was 
 a question whether the old or the young was 
 the more gentle, and watchful, and efficient. 
 During that trying time Elsie Beatoun was a 
 daily marvel to Mrs. Dalrymple, and to all 
 who came in contact with her. On the follow- 
 ing Monday poor Nanny Beatoun was buried 
 in the kirkyard of Crichtoun, while her hus- 
 band was lying utterly unconscious of his loss. 
 It was a question whether in a few days the
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 67 
 
 new-made grave would not need to be re- 
 opened to afford him a last resting-place. 
 
 The funeral was largely attended, for, in 
 spite of her peculiarities, Mrs. Beatoun of 
 Carlowrie had been held in high respect in 
 the country-side. Mr. Dalrymple and his son 
 Hew were, of course, the chief mourners, and 
 they returned to Lintlaw greatly saddened by 
 the events of the day. Hew went over every 
 morning to Carlowrie, and generally remained 
 the best part of the day, seeing that the work 
 of the farm went on as usual. And at Lintlaw 
 Christian did her very best to fill her mother's 
 place, to make the house comfortable and 
 home-like for her father and the bairns, crush- 
 ing down her own heart-longings, so as to 
 keep the others bright and cheery. Her 
 father did not say much, but she knew from 
 the glance of his eye, from the way in which 
 he spoke to her, that he was well pleased. 
 Poor Christian, it was a great responsibility 
 for her seventeen years ; and though she tried 
 hard to manage so that there would be no 
 difference in the house, she saw that her father 
 was heart-sick, wandering about, just lost 
 because mother was away. And so strangely
 
 68 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 in that summer-time began the preparation 
 for the desolation of future years. 
 
 For many days Saunders Beatoun lay sick 
 unto death at the Harrow Inn, quite uncon- 
 scious of the gentle ministrations of Aunt 
 Effie and Elsie. Yet often in his wanderings 
 he would utter the child's name, and always in 
 accents of tenderness and love. Also some- 
 times he would speak of his brother James 
 and his wife ; but, strangely enough, the name 
 of his own wife never passed his lips. At 
 last there came a day in the last sultry week 
 of July, when Saunders Beatoun opened con- 
 scious eyes upon the world once more, and 
 the physicians pronounced him saved. He 
 recognised Aunt Effie, and Elsie too, but one 
 thing troubled Mrs. Dairy mple not a little, 
 that he seemed to have no recollection of what 
 had passed, no curiosity as to how he had 
 come by his illness, no idea even that he was 
 in a strange place at all. 
 
 About a fortnight after the turn the doctor 
 said he might with safety be removed in a 
 close and comfortable carriage home to Car- 
 lowrie. By this time it was quite evident to 
 Mrs. Dairy mple, and all others who saw him,
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 69 
 
 that he would never again be the man he had 
 been. In fact, his mind was gone. The 
 terrible blow upon the head had softened the 
 brain, and, though comparatively strong in 
 body, Saunders Beatoun was now but a child, 
 simple, unconscious, often smiling, but 
 scarcely talking one sensible word. This was 
 a great and terrible grief to the family at 
 Lintlaw ; but it was hoped that the return 
 home, and perhaps even the shock of his 
 wife's death, which as yet had been kept from 
 him, might work the necessary cure. It was 
 a vain hope. They brought him home to 
 Carlo wrie in the calm of the summer, after- 
 noon, but it did not cause even a gleam of 
 intelligent recognition in his eyes. When 
 they told him gently that his wife was gone, 
 he only smiled and answered, ' Ay.' Then 
 it became a question what was to be done 
 with him and with Elsie. 
 
 ' I will stay with Uncle Saunders. He 
 took care of me, Aunt Effie/ said Elsie, her 
 big eyes shining ; ' and I will take care of him 
 now.' 
 
 After due deliberation and consultation, it 
 was decided that Mr. Dalrymple and Hew
 
 70 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 between them would manage the farm, while 
 a sober, trustworthy, kindly woman from 
 Gorebridge was engaged as housekeeper. 
 And in the meantime Elsie was not hindered 
 from fulfilling her desire. So there might 
 have been seen at Carlowrie during the golden 
 days of the late summer, and all through the 
 autumn, the beautiful and pathetic picture of a 
 frail, white-haired man, bent and feeble before. 
 his time, and leaning heavily on his stick, 
 being led about by the slender, fair-haired 
 little girl whom he called sometimes Elsie and 
 sometimes Nanny. Sometimes she would take 
 him across the fields to Lintlaw ; then the faces 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple grew very sad, 
 while Christian would rush away somewhere 
 to greet, and the bairnies would look with 
 wondering pity at the wreck of poor Uncle 
 Saunders. 
 
 It was a strange, mournful life for little 
 Elsie Beatoun, but she was not unhappy, far 
 from it Even thus early the faithful perform- 
 ance of duty brought with it its own reward ; 
 only it made her grow womanly all at once, 
 not so much in appearance as in ways and 
 manner, and she was spoken of in the country-
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 71 
 
 side as a marvel and an example to all the 
 young people round about. So the year 
 waned, and when the chill October winds 
 swept low over the barren stubble fields, those 
 who loved and watched Saunders Beatoun 
 saw him failing every day. The doctor could 
 do nothing for him. It was just a dwining 
 away, which could not be arrested, and which 
 could have but one ending. 
 
 Before the year was out Saunders Beatoun 
 fell asleep, very quietly, one Sabbath morning, 
 with them all about his bed, only he never 
 spoke a word, though Aunt Effie thought the 
 last look bent upon Elsie was one of loving 
 recognition and farewell. 
 
 When the child's task was over, it seemed 
 only natural that she should go home to Lint- 
 law. There never was much talk about it; 
 only Mrs. Dalrymple had put the question 
 to her husband, and his answer had been 
 brief ; its very brevity told her his heart was 
 deeply moved. So in one little year what 
 changes in Carlowrie ! ay, many more than 
 poor Nanny Beatoun had dreamed of when 
 she stood with Christian at the door on that 
 harvest night that Elsie's father died. What
 
 72 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 money Saunders Beatoun had left, also the 
 proceeds of the roup, which took place in due 
 time, belonged by right to Elsie. David 
 Dalrymple took it in charge, a sacred trust 
 for the orphan child. Hew was now nine- 
 teen, and had learned farming so thoroughly 
 under his practical father that he was quite 
 able to manage a place of his own. Car- 
 lowrie marched conveniently with Lintlaw ; 
 it was endeared to them all by many asso- 
 ciations. 
 
 The Laird was willing, nay, urgent, for 
 young Hew to try his hand, so it came to 
 pass that by another Whitsunday Hew was 
 farmer of Carlowrie on his own account 
 
 ' I am glad you are going to Carlowrie, 
 Cousin Hew,' said Elsie in her quiet way, 
 when they happened to be standing together 
 down at the hedge in front of Lintlaw, looking 
 across the fields, the night it was all settled ; ' I 
 can come sometimes with Christian to see it.' 
 
 ' D'ye like Carlowrie that weel, Elsie?' asked 
 Hew, looking earnestly into the lovely face 
 uplifted to his. 
 
 ' Yes, Cousin Hew, it and Lintlaw next to 
 father's house at Ormiston.'
 
 WOFUL CHANGES. 73 
 
 Hew stood a long time in silence, looking 
 over to Carlowrie. He could just, see the 
 gables of the house and the tops of the 
 stacks above the slope. In that silence there 
 rose up before him a fair and beautiful pic- 
 ture, in which the slender girl by his side was 
 the chief figure. 
 
 1 What are you thinking about, Cousin 
 Hew ? We will need to go in ; it is time I 
 was putting Davie to bed,' said Elsie at 
 length. 
 
 ' I was thinkin', Elsie,' said Hew, bringing 
 his honest eyes back to Elsie's face, and, 
 bending from his tall height, he laid his 
 brown hand on her slender shoulder, 'that 
 if ye lo'e it sae weel yell maybe come some 
 day an' bide at Carlowrie.' 
 
 But Elsie's eyes met his in a clear, uncon- 
 scious gaze, and she just turned towards the 
 house with a little smile, not understanding 
 yet the meaning of his words.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 
 
 evening in early summer, Christian 
 Dalrymple had been over drinking 
 tea with Mrs. Macdougall,the school- 
 master's wife at Borthwick, and was walking 
 home just about sunset. When she got to 
 the railway bridge above Borthwick Mains, 
 she turned about to look at the beautiful pic- 
 ture gilded by the setting sun. On the brow 
 of the hill stood the mighty battlements of 
 Borthwick Castle (where, in stormy times gone 
 by, hapless Mary Stuart had spent one night 
 in her chequered life), the picturesque church 
 and schoolhouse, and the bonnie burnie wind- 
 ing its way through the vale beneath. The 
 primroses grew thickly on the green slopes of 
 the castle bank, and hawthorn, lilac, and labur- 
 
 74
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 75 
 
 num in Currie Glen were all in flower. When 
 she turned again to go on her way, she saw 
 in the distance a figure coming towards her, 
 which she recognised at once as that of Mr. 
 Laidlaw, the minister of Crichtoun. Won- 
 dering much what should be taking him so 
 far from home so late in the evening, she 
 went forward to meet him, wishing that her 
 cheeks would not turn so stupidly red. Of 
 late, somehow, Christian had got to feel shy 
 and uncomfortable in the presence of the 
 minister. 
 
 'Good evening, Miss Dalrymple,' he said, 
 lifting his hat, and offering his hand. It came 
 quite natural to everybody to say Miss Dal- 
 rymple to Christian now, for, though she was 
 just as frank and unaffected and kindly as of 
 yore, she was a young lady now, and there was 
 a certain dignity and stateliness about her which 
 became her beautifully, and which rather awed 
 those who did not know her well. She had 
 developed into a comely and winsome young 
 woman, and it was no marvel the minister 
 of Crichtoun thought her face the most 
 beautiful among the many gathered before 
 him in the kirk every Sabbath day. He was
 
 76 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 a frequent visitor at Lintlaw, so frequent, 
 indeed, that long ago the tongues of the 
 Newlandrigg and Crichtoun gossips had 
 coupled their names, and spoken of Christian 
 Dalrymple as the future wife of their minister. 
 Christian, of course, never heard any of this 
 gossip, only somehow, of late, her life had 
 grown different ; or rather, developed into 
 another fuller and sweeter and more com- 
 plete. As yet she had been content, not 
 seeking to discover the wherefore. 
 
 ' Good evening, Mr. Laidlaw. Are you for 
 Borthwick the night ?' she asked, with her 
 pleasant smile. 
 
 ' No; I went to Carlowrie, and Hew told me 
 where you were,' answered the minister, and 
 said no more. Again Christian's cheeks grew 
 red, and she played nervously with the sprig 
 of hawthorn in her hand, picking off its petals 
 one by one, and letting them fall in a snowy 
 shower to the dusty road. 
 
 ' Well, I'll need to go ; Elsie was to come 
 and meet me after milking,' she said a little 
 hurriedly. 
 
 'I don't think Elsie will be to-night, 
 Christian/ said the minister, her name falling
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 77 
 
 quite naturally from his lips this time. ' Hew 
 told me, too, that Miss Hamilton was up 
 at Lintlaw in the afternoon, and took your 
 cousin away with her to Tyneholm.' 
 
 The minister fancied a slight shadow 
 gathered in Christian's grey eyes, but she 
 answered pleasantly enough, 
 
 ' That would be a nice change for Elsie. 
 She has been often at Tyneholm since the 
 Laird's folk came down this time.' 
 
 ' So I understand. I think it is rather a 
 sore heart to Hew when Elsie goes to Tyne- 
 holm,' said the minister, and turning, walked 
 by Christian's side. 
 
 It was quite evident that he had come 
 solely for the purpose of meeting her, and 
 somehow the knowledge sent a strange thrill 
 of happiness to her heart 
 
 * Is Mrs. Thomson and the bairns at the 
 Manse yet, Mr. Laidlaw?' she said, referring 
 to the minister's sister, who had been up 
 from Dalkeith for a fortnight at Crichtoun 
 Manse. 
 
 ' No ; they went away yesterday. Walter 
 is Moderator of the Assembly this year, and 
 Lizzie wanted to attend the meetings with him.'
 
 78 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 1 That is but natural,' smiled Christian. 
 ' How like Mrs. Thomson is to you ! Any- 
 body could guess your relationship.' 
 
 ' So they say. But Lizzie is a better woman 
 than I will ever be a man,' said the minister 
 frankly. ' When I see her in her own home, 
 and hear of the immense good she does in 
 her husband's parish, I wish I had a wife, 
 Christian. Single-handed, a minister works 
 at great disadvantage.' 
 
 ' That can be remedied easily, Mr. Laidlaw,' 
 said Christian slyly. ' I hear tell whiles that 
 there'll be a flitting from Scotstoun up to the 
 Manse by and by/ 
 
 ' Miss Ritchie is a very estimable person, but 
 I doubt she would not be so much at home 
 in the Manse as in the dairy at Scotstoun. 
 Besides, though I summoned up courage to 
 ask her, she would probably box my ears or 
 set her big dog after me,' said the minister, 
 entering into his companion's humour. ' I am 
 in hopes that when there is a flitting to the 
 Manse, Christian, it will be from a different 
 quarter ; ' a speech which effectually silenced 
 Christian, and made her angry with herself 
 for teasing the minister about getting a wife.
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 79 
 
 By this time they had reached the cross 
 roads, and there Christian stood still. 
 
 ' I'll just run across the fields, Mr. Laidlaw,' 
 she said, then looked along the Crichtoun 
 road, plainly indicating that that was his way, 
 but the minister only smiled his quiet and 
 provoking smile, and opened the gate to let 
 her through into the field. 
 
 ' It's taking you off your way, Mr. Laidlaw, 
 and I am no' feared,' she said persistently. 
 
 ' I used to be welcome at Lintlaw at supper- 
 time, Miss Dalrymple. Has the time gone?' 
 he asked a little gravely, and Christian felt a 
 trifle ashamed. 
 
 ' You know fine you are as welcome as ever 
 at Lintlaw, Mr. Laidlaw/ she said quickly ; 
 and they traversed the breadth of two fields 
 in perfect silence. 
 
 It was an eloquent silence, however, for 
 the heart of each was speaking to the other, 
 for Christian knew now that she loved the 
 minister, and that she was his chosen wife. 
 
 ' Yonder's the new moon,' she said by and 
 by, when they reached the summit of a slight 
 eminence in the middle of the biggest field on 
 Lintlaw.
 
 8o CARLOWRIE. 
 
 It was rising just above the dark pines on 
 the brow of Crichtoun Hill, and, even as she 
 spoke, a faint, wondrous light stole through 
 the gloaming, and touched her sweet face. But 
 the minister never spoke, and again Christian 
 felt embarrassed, and wished she was safe 
 under the roof-tree at Lintlaw. 
 
 ' It's the first time I've seen it, and me 
 hasna a penny in my pocket,' she said ruefully. 
 ' You've heard it's unlucky* to have an empty 
 pocket when you see a new moon for the first 
 time ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I've heard it ; never mind, 7 have 
 plenty. It will do for both,' answered Mr. 
 Laidlaw, smiling; then Christian walked on 
 again this time with quite perceptible im- 
 patience and haste. 
 
 She felt that something was to happen to 
 her to-night, that a great crisis of her life was 
 at hand, and, maiden-like, she could have flown 
 away from it, ay, even though she knew it 
 was the very desire of her heart. Presently 
 they came to another gate ; once through it, 
 they would be in sight of Lintlaw, but ere 
 Christian could go through it, the minister 
 laid his hand on hers, and gently kept her back.
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 8l 
 
 ' Why should you run away from me, 
 Christian ? you have known me a long time 
 now,' he said, with something of reproach in 
 his tone. 
 
 But Christian never spoke, only stood with 
 her womanly head bowed a little on her 
 breast, knowing that she could not run away 
 any more from the fulfilling of her God- 
 appointed destiny. 
 
 After what seemed a long, long silence to 
 Christian, the minister spoke. His words 
 were few, and perhaps not very lover-like, 
 but they came from a heart moved to the very 
 depths. 
 
 ' Christian, will you flit from Lintlaw to the 
 Manse for my sake ? ' 
 
 Christian could not answer, and her eyes 
 were blind with a mist of tears. 
 
 1 Have you nothing to say to me, Christian ? ' 
 asked the minister at length, moving a little 
 nearer, and striving to see her downcast face. 
 
 1 I am no' worthy, Mr. Laidlaw,' she said at 
 length. ' How could / ever be a minister's 
 wife ? ' 
 
 'Not worthy!' The minister took the 
 trembling hands in his firm yet gentle clasp,
 
 82 CARLO IV RIE. 
 
 and bent his manly eyes with unspeakable 
 tenderness on the sweet face. 
 
 ' Nay, it is / who am not worthy to ask 
 you to share my life. I have watched you, 
 Christian, since ever I came to Crichtoun, and 
 your beautiful contentment, your cheerful and 
 ever-ready fulfilling of every duty in season 
 and out of season, has many a time made me 
 ashamed, and, through that very shame, led 
 me to better things.' 
 
 ' Oh, hush, Mr. Laidlaw ! ' pleaded Christian. 
 ' You praise me too much, indeed you do.' 
 
 ' It is not praise, it is simple truth. Every- 
 body except yourself knows you are the very 
 sunshine of Lintlaw,' said the minister, with 
 all a lover's earnestness now, but Christian 
 only shook her head. 
 
 ' No, no, you must be thinking of mother 
 when you speak of me,' she said softly. 
 
 ' How humble you are, Christian ! and yet 
 I need not be surprised, you have ever been 
 that. But come, I am waiting for my answer 
 yet. It is a lonely house at Crichtoun, Chris- 
 tian ; will you come ? ' 
 
 Again there was a silence, and the trembling 
 hands fluttered in the clasp of the minister
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 83 
 
 until one released itself, and, stealing up to 
 his tall shoulder, rested there content. That 
 was Christian's answer ; so the minister of 
 Crichtoun took to his heart the wife God had 
 given him, and the first beams of the young 
 May moon witnessed their solemn betrothal. 
 
 Meanwhile, at Lintlaw, there was great 
 wondering at Christian's protracted absence. 
 Little dreamed the father and mother of the 
 scene being enacted up at the gate into the 
 Gallowlaw, for if at times they had sus- 
 pected that it was Christian the minister 
 came to see so often, they had never yet 
 spoken of it to each other. It was close 
 upon ten, and Mrs. Dalrymple was growing 
 very anxious, when the front door opened 
 softly. In the parlour they could hear that 
 Christian was not alone, but, thinking Hew 
 would be her companion, they did not trouble 
 to rise. 
 
 ' Mother, here is Mr. Laidlaw,' said Chris- 
 tian, pushing open the parlour door ; then, as 
 if forgetful of her usual courtesy, she left him 
 to enter alone, and ran away up-stairs. 
 
 ' We were just thinkin' the lassies had baith 
 run off, Mr. Laidlaw,' laughed the mistress.
 
 84 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' Elsie's bidden at Tyneholm, Miss Hamilton 
 sent up a groom wi' a note ; an' we was' maist 
 despairin' o' seein' Christian till the morn ; 
 whaur did ye fa' in wi' her ? ' 
 
 ' At Borthwick, about two hours ago,' re- 
 plied the minister ; whereat Lintlaw laughed 
 in a dry way ; in some things he could see a 
 long way farther than his wife. 
 
 ' Bless me, an' whaur hae ye been ? at Car- 
 lowrie, or whaur ? ' exclaimed the mistress. 
 
 Just walking home at our leisure, Mrs. 
 Dalrymple,' said the minister. ' I have been 
 asking Christian to walk a much longer way 
 with me. I am almost afraid to ask, knowing 
 what she is in Lintlaw ; but will you give me 
 your daughter, Mrs. Dalrymple ?' 
 
 The mistress looked at him incredulously 
 for a moment, then her clear, kind eyes sud- 
 denly overflowed. She could not speak, but 
 she gave him both her hands, for oh, was not 
 this the very life she would have chosen for 
 Christian had she been permitted ! Then the 
 minister stooped down and touched with his 
 lips the brow of Christian's mother, and when 
 he spoke his voice had a tremor in it. 
 
 ' I have no mother, but if you will let me
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 85 
 
 fill the place of a son to you, I may share 
 with Christian the unspeakable blessing of a 
 mother's love. But, Mr. Dalrymple, what will 
 you say to all this ? ' he broke off suddenly. 
 
 ' I say God bless you an' my bairn,' said 
 Lintlaw, with deep emotion. 'An' gin she 
 be as guid a wife as she has been a dochter, 
 ye'll never rue the day ye married a Dal- 
 rymple.' 
 
 Then Christian came in, and, rising, her 
 mother folded her silently to her heart. Ay, 
 that was an hour of solemn, deep happiness 
 at Lintlaw, for what bliss can equal the 
 betrothal of two young hearts under the 
 blessing of God and the approving sun- 
 shine of a parent's smile. Was it any 
 wonder, think you, that that night Christian 
 Dalrymple could not sleep for joy ?
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 
 
 [T was a pretty picture in the long 
 drawing-room at Tyneholm that 
 pleasant summer afternoon. The 
 blinds were drawn to exclude the brilliancy 
 of the sun's rays, and the atmosphere " was 
 cool and sweet, being laden with perfume of 
 the flowers which adorned every vase and 
 old-fashioned bowl on mantel and cabinet. 
 At the piano, a new instrument, Keith's last 
 gift to his sister, sat Edith Hamilton, with 
 Elsie Beatoun by her side, and a sheet of 
 music on the rack before them. A little aside 
 stood Keith himself, violin in hand, looking 
 down at the two with a very curious expres- 
 sion on his handsome face. 
 
 Oh, Elsie, Elsie, how stupid you are, dear 1 '
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 87 
 
 cried Edith laughingly. ' Let me see you run 
 up the scale. No, no, wrong again. My child, 
 you have no soul for music, and I make you 
 over to Keith as a failure.' 
 
 Elsie smiled also, but a flush rose to her 
 fair cheek, and down drooped the lashes over 
 the big dark eyes, for there was a suspicious 
 moisture in them. She had tried so hard, and 
 was so anxious to learn, being envious of Miss 
 Hamilton's musical skill, that it was rather 
 trying to be told she had no soul for music. 
 The years which had but added a little to 
 Christian Dalrymple's dignity and womanli- 
 ness, had altogether changed Elsie Beatoun. 
 She had grown considerably, but she would 
 never be a tall woman. But her figure had 
 perfected itself, and was all grace. Her face 
 it was the loveliest in the country-side 
 perfectly featured, exquisite in hue, framed 
 by that ripple of golden hair, and lit by the 
 solemn dark eyes. It was no wonder that, 
 looking upon her beauty, at times Aunt Effie 
 trembled for the bairn, for oh, is not beauty 
 so often a fatal dower, bringing its possessor 
 either to sweetest happiness or keenest woe ? 
 She was plainly dressed in her Sabbath gown,
 
 88 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 a soft grey merino, with a white ruffle at the 
 throat, and in a moment of caprice Edith had 
 fastened a blush rose at her throat, which 
 rivalled the colour in the cheek of the wearer. 
 Strange and unaccountable was the deep love 
 which Edith Hamilton had for Elsie Bea- 
 toun, and, with the capriciousness so often 
 noticeable in persons of delicate health, she 
 would have her at Tyneholm in season and 
 out of season, often against Mrs. Dalrymple's 
 will. 
 
 'That is too bad, isn't it, Miss Beatoun?' 
 said Keith, who had made so close and 
 frequent a study of that sweet face that he 
 could read every varying expression. ' Never 
 mind ; some day you will be able to play even 
 better than Edith. I am a faithful prophet.** 
 
 Elsie smiled again, and rose from her chair. 
 
 ' I will need to be going away home, Miss 
 Edith,' she said ; ' I have stayed too long. I 
 am afraid Aunt Effie will be vexed. 1 
 
 ' Shall I come and make peace for you, 
 dear ? Tell Aunt Effie to reserve her scold- 
 ing for me, for I am coming to see her to- 
 morrow. If you look at her with these eyes, 
 you mite, all her anger, if there is such a
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 89 
 
 thing in Mrs. Dalrymple's nature, will vanish 
 into thin air/ said Edith, and, with her usual 
 impulsiveness, she took the flower-like face in 
 her white hands and kissed it fondly. I am 
 bound to say that Keith looked as if he would 
 have liked to follow her example. 
 
 As a matter of course Keith put on his cap 
 and went off to see Elsie safely home. A few 
 minutes after they were gone Mrs. Hamilton 
 came into the drawing-room. 
 
 4 Elsie is away, mamma. Knowing you were 
 lying down we did not disturb you/ said Edith. 
 ' And where is Keith ? ' inquired Mrs. 
 Hamilton a little sharply. 
 
 1 Away with her, of course. Keith is a 
 gentleman, and would not allow even Elsie 
 to go home without an escort' 
 
 ' Just so/ said Mrs. Hamilton dryly. ' I do 
 not want to hurt you, Edith, but Elsie Beatoun 
 must not come so often here.' 
 ' Why, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' You should not require to ask, Edith. The 
 girl is very pretty and winning in her ways. 
 Keith is a young man, and, like the Cecils, 
 hot-blooded and impulsive. Need I say any 
 more ? '
 
 90 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' Why, mamma, are you afraid that Keith 
 falls in love with Elsie ?' 
 
 ' He will, if indeed he is not already in love 
 with her. What else do you suppose makes 
 him so willing to come here, where formerly 
 it needed the utmost persuasion to induce him 
 to accompany us ? ' 
 
 Edith became silent and thoughtful. There 
 was truth in her mother's words, and there 
 were many things, trifles in themselves, but 
 conclusive, which rose up in her mind to con- 
 firm it. 
 
 Pride of birth was not very strong in Edith 
 Hamilton's nature, and it did not seem to her 
 a very undesirable thing that Keith should 
 love and even marry Elsie. 
 
 ' Do you not love Elsie, mamma ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' I do. It would be impossible to be beside 
 her and not love her. That is where the 
 greatest danger lies.' 
 
 ' Poor Elsie ! is she to be punished because 
 she is so lovely and winsome ? She would 
 make a sweet mistress of Tyneholm, mamma. 
 I am sure she is a perfect gentlewoman in 
 mind and manners.'
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 91 
 
 ' Edith ! ' Mrs. Hamilton's tone was very 
 stern, and her face grew dark with passion. 
 4 You forget what you are saying. Do not let 
 your absurd fancy for this daughter of the 
 common people make you forget what is due 
 to your rank. There is greater danger than 
 I thought, seeing you would be inclined to 
 encourage Keith in this folly.' 
 
 ' How proud you are, mamma,' said Edith. 
 ' You will be difficult to please with a wife for 
 Keith. Of course I was only joking; and I 
 am sure the thought of making Elsie his wife 
 is as far from Keith's mind as it is from yours. 
 Besides, I believe she is engaged, or nearly 
 so, to Hew Dalrymple/ 
 
 ' That is the husband for her, Edith,' said 
 Mrs. Hamilton, with a breath of relief. ' He 
 is a fine, manly fellow, and she will be happiest 
 among her own people. As a rule, unequal 
 marriages are only productive of misery and 
 discontent.' 
 
 1 1 believe you are right, mamma. But come, 
 tell me to what stately home, Oxenfoord or 
 Prestonhall, Elphinstone or Edmonstone, would 
 you like to see Keith go a-wooing ? ' asked 
 Edith playfully.
 
 92 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 4 If Keith will have a Scotch wife, he will 
 find the one I love best at Woodhouselee,' 
 smiled Mrs. Hamilton. ' But the wife I would 
 choose for him is over the border.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, at Alnwick Hall. But Florence 
 Cecil will never look at our Keith. She just 
 laughs and makes fun of him.' 
 
 ' Ah, but the lightest heart has often deepest 
 feelings, Edith. But come, we have had 
 enough of this talk. I hope and pray that 
 Keith will be guided in his choice. We have 
 an invitation to dine at Arniston next week. 
 Shall we postpone our departure for the south 
 for a fortnight ? ' 
 
 1 I shall only be too willing, mamma,' said 
 Edith. ' Anything to prolong our stay at 
 Tyneholm.' 
 
 While the Laird of Tyneholm's settlement 
 in life was thus being discussed by his mother 
 and sister, he was walking home by Elsie 
 Beatoun's side in the sweet summer gloaming, 
 and the expression on his handsome face 
 was not one which would have reassured his 
 mother's heart had she seen it. As for Elsie, 
 she was serenely unconscious that she was of 
 more than ordinary interest to the Laird. She
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 93 
 
 thought it was out of the kindliness of his 
 nature that he walked home with her. As 
 yet her heart was unawakened, utterly uncon- 
 scious of her own power, and therein lay one 
 of her greatest charms. She was a child yet 
 in everything but years. 
 
 Between the girls at Lintlaw there never 
 was any foolish talk about lovers and marriage. 
 Christian's nature was too sound and health- 
 ful, and she had enough to do with the sober 
 working realities of life, to occupy her mind 
 with dreams and fancies. But she and Elsie 
 also had their own ideal of married life, which 
 by example and precept they had been taught 
 to regard as the highest and holiest and most 
 sacred of human relationships, about which it 
 was something like sacrilege to jest. Such 
 had been the teaching of the mistress of 
 Lintlaw. 
 
 Keith Hamilton talked to Elsie Beatoun as 
 he might have done to any of his sisters 
 friends, with courtesy and deference, which 
 did not surprise Elsie, for she had a strong 
 pride of her own, and would have resented 
 anything like patronage or familiarity from 
 Keith Hamilton.
 
 94 
 
 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 She enjoyed her walk, for he told her about 
 what he had seen in the far lands he had 
 travelled in, and also spoke much of London, 
 which Elsie had a strange desire to see. They 
 had come through the fields, of course, and 
 just at the entrance to the Lady's Road, a 
 leafy lane which skirted the fields of Carlowrie, 
 and led straight up to Lintlaw, who should 
 they meet but Hew Dairy mple with his collie 
 at his heels. 
 
 ' I was coming to Tyneholm for ye, Elsie,' 
 he said, lifting his cap to the Laird ; and 
 Elsie, looking at Hew, wondered what had 
 made him look so vexed and stern. ' Mother 
 bade me. She looked for ye in the morninV 
 
 1 It was our fault, Edith's and mine, 
 Dalrymple,' said the Laird gaily. ' You must 
 excuse us. Tell Mrs. Dalrymple she must 
 not grudge us a loan of the Flower of 
 Lintlaw.' 
 
 Hew scarcely smiled at the Laird's speech. 
 Apart from the fact that it was not compli- 
 mentary to his own sisters, he resented this 
 calm proprietorship over Elsie, for did she not 
 belong to them ? had they not loved and 
 cared for her longest, and most faithfully ?
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 95 
 
 ' I'll take Elsie home, Mr. Hamilton,' he 
 said quite gravely ; and the Laird bit his lips, 
 for the words were a distinct dismissal. 
 
 These two young men were rivals, and 
 each knew it. Truly this love works strange 
 havoc in human hearts, and sweeps everything 
 before it. 
 
 ' Well, good evening, Miss Beatoun. We 
 will see you when you come again to Tyne- 
 holm. Good evening, Dalrymple ; don't be 
 vexed though others besides you can appreciate 
 sweetness and beauty ; ' with which parting 
 shaft the Laird lifted his cap and strode away. 
 
 Then Elsie and Hew turned and walked 
 side by side in uncomfortable silence. Elsie 
 did not feel happy ; it grieved her to look at 
 Hew's moody, downcast face. 
 
 ' Is Aunt Effie very angry with me, Hew ?' 
 she asked timidly at length, when they came 
 to a stile leading into a narrow strip of wood 
 which divided part of the lands of Lintlaw 
 from Carlowrie. 
 
 ' Angry ! no ; what for should she be angry, 
 Elsie ? only she didna want ye to bide 
 anither nicht at Tyneholm. 1 
 
 'Are you angry, Hew?' was the next
 
 96 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 question, and this time two pleading fingers 
 touched his arm. It was impossible to resist 
 that, and the glimmer of a smile dawned on 
 Hew's sober face. 
 
 4 Angry wi' you, Elsie ! that wadna be easy. 
 But tell me, div ye like better to bide at 
 Tyneholm among the braw folk than wi' us 
 at Lintlaw ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Hew, what a question ! ' said Elsie 
 very indignantly. 4 You don't deserve to be 
 spoken to for saying such an unkind thing.' 
 
 1 Maybe no',' said Hew. ' I say, Elsie, I 
 hae a braw bit o' news for ye. Guess what 
 it is.' 
 
 ' I never guessed anything in my life ; tell 
 it me, Hew/ said Elsie, with smiling, wide- 
 open eyes. 
 
 1 Weel, oor Christian's to get the minister.' 
 
 'Oh, Hew!' 
 
 It was a treat to see Elsie's dumbfoundered 
 face. 
 
 ' True enough. It was a' settled last nicht 
 Fine, isn't ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, Hew ; but oh, if Mr. Laidlaw were 
 only not so solemn! Perhaps Christian will 
 make him laugh.'
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 97 
 
 1 He's no' that solemn. My, if ye had 
 kenned Dr. Rogers that was in Crichtoun 
 afore him, ye wadna hae thocht Laidlaw 
 solemn. Father an 1 mother's high pleased, I 
 can tell ye.' 
 
 4 And does Christian love him, Hew?' 
 asked Elsie slowly and solemnly, whereat 
 Hew laughed heartily. 
 
 1 Of course she does ; I've kenned that this 
 while. An' the first time the minister came 
 to Lintlaw, he fell in love wi' Christian. I 
 could hae telt ye that as weel.' 
 
 4 How do you know all these things, Hew ?' 
 inquired Elsie, greatly mystified. 
 
 4 Ay, that's a puzzler. I wish I was in 
 Laidlaw's shoon.' 
 
 4 Why, you couldn't marry Christian, you 
 stupid Hew.' 
 
 4 No, but Carlowrie needs a wife as muckle 
 as the Manse, or maybe mair,' said Hew, with 
 a keen side-glance at his companion's sweet 
 face. 
 
 4 Well, I'm sure there's plenty girls. Susan 
 Pringle at the Mains, Bessie Gray at South- 
 side, or Miss Ritchie at Scotstoun,' said Elsie 
 saucily, following quite unconsciously in
 
 98 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Christian's footsteps. ' Would none of them 
 come to Carlowrie ? ' 
 
 1 Maybe they wad, but I'll no' fash them. 
 Like Laidlaw, I'm comin' to Lintlaw by and 
 by to seek a wife,' said Hugh daringly. 
 Then a wave of crimson rushed to Elsie's 
 neck and cheek and brow, and, breaking from 
 him, she ran off across the field and through the 
 stile into the wood which sheltered Lintlaw. 
 
 That tell-tale blush had caused a sweet hope 
 to spring in Hew Dairy mple's heart; perhaps, 
 after all, the sweetest dream of his young 
 manhood would, ere long, have a blessed 
 fulfilment. 
 
 Aunt Effie had no reproach for the truant ; 
 indeed, as Miss Hamilton had said, it was not 
 easy to be angry with Elsie Beatoun. 
 
 1 I'm very sorry if I stayed too long, auntie, 
 but Miss Hamilton was trying to teach me to 
 play on the piano, and she would not let me 
 away.' 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple looked keenly into Elsie's 
 face, wondering what had brought that lovely 
 flush upon it. 
 
 'They are very kind to ye at Tyneholm, 
 Elsie?'
 
 AT TYNEHOLM. 99 
 
 ' Very, auntie ; we went a long drive yester- 
 day, and as there was no company last night 
 I had my dinner with them ; and I had on 
 one of Miss Edith's silk gowns, and a gold 
 chain about my neck. What grandeur, eh, 
 auntie ? ' laughed Elsie gleefully. 
 
 ' Ay, truly, ye may say't,' said Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple doubtfully ; for to what would all this 
 tend ? It would not fit the bairn for what she 
 hoped and prayed one day to see her, Hew's 
 wife, and the mistress of Carlowrie. 
 
 'Where's Christian? Hew told me the 
 grand secret, Aunt Effie ; I could hardly 
 believe it.' 
 
 ' It's true enough, thank the Lord ; I could 
 wush a' my dear bairns as desirable a doon- 
 sittin'/ said Aunt EfHe, her face shining in its 
 tender motherliness. ' There's nae greater 
 blessin' on this earth, Elsie, than a guid man's 
 honest love. When your time comes, my 
 bairn, dinna mistak' the dross for the gold, 
 for there's mony imitations o't abroad in this 
 wicked world.' 
 
 ' I'll mind what you say, Aunt Effie,' said 
 Elsie soberly, and went away up-stairs to take 
 off her best gown, and make ready to put
 
 loo CARLOWR1E. 
 
 Davie to bed. That had been one of her 
 evening tasks ever since she came to Lintlaw. 
 
 ' How do you feel, Christian ? ' asked Elsie 
 that night when they were alone in their own 
 room. ' Tell me what like it is to be engaged 
 to be married.' 
 
 ' I couldna tell ye, Elsie,' answered Chris- 
 tian, her face so tender, her eyes glowing so, 
 that Elsie was amazed. ' Everything's dif- 
 ferent. The sun shines brighter, the trees an' 
 the flowers are bonnier ; it's just a new world, 
 an' a new life a' thegither ; but some day, 
 Elsie, ye'll ken a' aboot it, an' then ye can tell 
 me if I didna speak true.'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 
 
 HRISTIAN'S marriage was not to 
 K be for a while. She was young 
 enough, her mother said, and she 
 was not prepared to part with her yet. The 
 minister had just to submit. As for Christian, 
 she was perfectly happy ; the present was 
 enough for her, and she did not care to fret 
 herself about the future. 
 
 In June the Hamiltons went away from 
 Tyneholm, greatly to the relief of mor.e than 
 one heart on their lands. They would not be 
 back till Christmas-time ; in the autumn they 
 expected to be travelling again in Spain, and 
 for the first time Mrs. Dalrymple was not 
 sorry when the big house was closed. They 
 had begun to spoil Elsie at Tyneholm ; and
 
 102 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 the keen eyes of the mistress were quick to 
 note that the bairn's light duties at Lintlaw 
 became more of a task to her ; also, that she 
 seemed to have grown vainer, and more desir- 
 ous of fine clothes than she used to be. But 
 when Tyneholm was deserted, and Edith 
 Hamilton, with her sweet, caressing words and 
 ways, and Keith, with his open as well as 
 veiled flatteries, came no more to Lintlaw, 
 Elsie settled down with at least a semblance 
 of contentment. 
 
 That was a summer of unspeakable happi- 
 ness, of deep, calm content, for those under the 
 roof- tree at dear Lintlaw. Never had the 
 laddies learned their lessons so well, never 
 had Effie been so good, so willing to do little 
 things about the house ; never had Christian 
 been so much of a pillar in the house ; never, 
 indeed, had the relations of that happy family 
 been so perfect. It was a home, indeed, where 
 love and unity prevailed, where parents and 
 children did their utmost each for the other's 
 happiness and comfort. When a bountiful 
 harvest crowned the year, and was safely 
 ingathered both at Lintlaw and Carlowrie, 
 the cup seemed to overflow. It is often thus.
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 103 
 
 To my thinking, deep joy is often a preparing 
 for as deep a sorrow. It is an oft-repeated 
 truism that a calm ever precedes a storm. 
 
 Quietly, but swiftly, the winter slipped away. 
 Christmas passed without bringing the Laird's 
 folk to Tyneholm ; and if Elsie was dis- 
 appointed, she did not show it. But early in 
 March they heard that there were prepara- 
 tions being made at Tyneholm for their 
 return. Then somehow the heart of Mrs. 
 Dairy mple ay, and of Hew also grew 
 heavy with an unspoken dread. 
 
 One boisterous afternoon towards the close 
 of the month, the carriage from Tyneholm 
 came driving up to Lintlaw, and the coach- 
 man delivered a note for Mrs. Dalrymple. 
 It was from Edith Hamilton, and just re- 
 quested that dear Mrs. Dalrymple would 
 kindly send Elsie back with the carriage, for 
 she was wearying to see her, and was too 
 poorly to go out. Elsie was busy ironing in 
 the kitchen when the carriage came, and she 
 had not heard the wheels among the soft snow. 
 Mrs. Dalrymple read the note, then passed it 
 to her husband, who was reading the paper 
 in his arm-chair.
 
 104 CARLOWJtIE. 
 
 1 Yell better bid Elsie get ready then, wife/ 
 he said, as if the matter was quite settled. 
 
 ' I dinna like Elsie gaun to Tyneholm, 
 Davie. The bairn's best at hame.' 
 
 ' Hoots, if it pleases Miss Hamilton, it'll dae 
 Elsie nae harm,' said the farmer ; but his wife 
 shook her head. 
 
 ' When Elsie's been at Tyneholm, Davie, 
 she has nae heart for her wark when she 
 comes hame. It's guid for naebody to step 
 oot o' their station, be they high or low. 
 Then there's the Laird, ye ken.' 
 
 ' What aboot him ? ' asked Lintlaw rather 
 absently, for he was engrossed with his paper. 
 
 ' Man, but ye're blind, Davie. The Laird's 
 a young man, an' a'body kens Elsie's bonnie, 
 ower bonnie. I whiles think beauty's mair a 
 snare than a means. o' grace, Davie.' 
 
 But Lintlaw just laughed at his wife's 
 anxiety. 
 
 ' Oh, you women folk for spyin' ferlies ! 
 Awa', an' bid the bairn get on her bannet, 
 an' no' keep the chap staunin' in the cauld,* 
 he said ; and Aunt Effie went away to the 
 kitchen and told Elsie of the summons which 
 had come for her.
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAIV. 105 
 
 Elsie set down her iron, and looked a little 
 ruefully into her aunt's sober face. 
 
 ' You don't want me to go to Tyneholm, 
 auntie ? ' she said quickly. 
 
 ' I wad be tellin' a lee if I said I did ; but 
 yer uncle's for ye gaun. So rin and get on 
 yer hat ; an' oh, bairn, tak' care o' yersel' at 
 Tyneholm, an' dinna let the braw folk spoil 
 oor Elsie ! ' said the mistress, with passionate 
 earnestness. 
 
 ' They will never spoil me, Aunt Effie ; at 
 least, they will never make me love you and 
 dear Lintlaw less,' she said impulsively, and 
 ran away up stairs to change her gown ; and I 
 must write down that the idea of living once 
 more among the luxury and pleasant idleness 
 at Tyneholm was not by any means repug- 
 nant to her. 
 
 She found Miss Hamilton lying on a couch 
 in her own dressing-room, looking pale and 
 worn. Her face, however, lighted up with a 
 pleasant smile, and she held out both her 
 hands, when Elsie entered the room. 
 
 ' Come to me, child ; it seems years since 
 I saw your dear face,' she said ; and Elsie, 
 kneeling down by the couch, kissed the young
 
 106 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 lady of Tyneholm as if she had been a sister. 
 When they were alone the difference in their 
 rank was laid aside or forgotten. 
 
 ' Dear Miss Edith, it grieves me to see you 
 looking so ill,' said Elsie tenderly. 
 
 ' Ah yes, I am very weak, dear. It was 
 folly to think that I was really well ; and 
 yet I felt so strong. We were at Alnwick 
 for Christmas, you know, and they were very 
 gay. I fancy I had too much excitement and 
 pleasure. I am so glad to come home, so 
 glad, Elsie ! How I long sometimes to settle 
 down in dear Tyneholm. I am sure that here 
 I should grow quite strong.' 
 
 ' But you will stay all the summer, now that 
 you have come, Miss Edith ?' 
 
 But the invalid shook her head. 
 
 ' Directly I am well, mamma will have me 
 off to London. Poor mamma, she is as fond 
 of gaiety as any girl, much fonder than I am, 
 indeed, and I do not like to disappoint her. 
 How nice it is to have you here, arid how well 
 you look, lovelier than ever. Come, tell me 
 what you have been making of yourself since 
 I saw you last.' 
 
 ' Nothing, Miss Edith. Just working away
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINT LAW. 107 
 
 at Lintlaw, and sewing a little at Christian's 
 providing.' 
 
 ' It is true, then, that Christian is to get Mr. 
 Laidlaw ? We heard it in Edinburgh. She 
 will make a delightful minister's wife.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I never saw anybody half so nice as 
 Christian,' replied Elsie sincerely. 
 
 1 Did you not ? I am afraid that if I come 
 after all your cousins at Lintlaw, I am not 
 very dear to you, Elsie,' said Edith, a triflta 
 sadly. She was weary and out of sorts, 
 and, as a natural consequence, capricious and 
 even irritable. Though sweet and amiable by 
 nature, Edith Hamilton was inclined to be 
 selfish ; and, having been petted and indulged 
 all her life on account of her weak health, this 
 selfishness had grown upon her, and she could 
 scarcely bear to have a whim crossed. It was 
 sad to see one who had so many blessings so 
 thankless for them. She was ever craving for 
 something out of her reach. 
 
 ' You will stay a day or two, Elsie ? I have 
 nobody to cheer me,' said Edith dolefully. 
 ' When one is well and able to receive and 
 return hospitalities, friends are plenty ; but 
 not many like a sick-room. That is one
 
 io8 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 of the things the great world has taught 
 me.' 
 
 ' I often think how happy you must be 
 travelling about seeing so many things and 
 places, Miss Edith,' said Elsie. 
 
 ' Child, would you like such a life ? I 
 fancied you as content in your quiet corner 
 as the heartsease beneath the hedgerows 
 about Lintlaw/ exclaimed Miss Hamilton, 
 with a smile. 
 
 ' Oh, I am content enough,' said Elsie rather 
 confusedly ; ' only sometimes it is so quiet at 
 Lintlaw, and Christian is so taken up with 
 Mr. Laidlaw that she is quite lost to me, that 
 I wish for a little change.' 
 
 ' You shall have it, my child,' said Edith, 
 with a sudden inspiration. ' But come, tell 
 me. We have heard whisperings of a mistress 
 for Carlowrie ; are you not the chosen one ? ' 
 
 Up swept the wave of carmine to Elsie's 
 cheek and brow, 
 
 4 Indeed I am not, Miss Edith,' she said 
 rather indignantly. 'Whoever told you that 
 spoke just by hearsay. I never heard any- 
 thing about such a thing.' 
 
 ' Well, well, I will not tease you/ said Miss
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 109 
 
 Hamilton, and just then the door opened and 
 Mrs. Hamilton entered the room. 
 
 She did not look particularly pleased to see 
 the position of the two girls ; nevertheless 
 she greeted Elsie graciously enough. Mrs. 
 Hamilton of Tyneholm, even when most put 
 out, never for a moment forgot her habitual 
 courtesy. Her manners were the perfection 
 of good-breeding. 
 
 She inquired kindly for her welfare and 
 that of the inmates of Lintlaw ; but when 
 Edith spoke of her remaining a few days she 
 said nothing at all. But, as usual, Edith had 
 her way. By a little skilful diplomacy Mrs. 
 Hamilton managed to keep her son out of 
 Elsie's way during these three days ; never- 
 theless Keith's opportunity came. 
 
 The watchful mother had gone to lie down 
 for an hour, Edith had fallen asleep on her 
 couch, so Elsie stole away down to the 
 library for a book wherewith to while away the 
 time. And there she found the Laird writ- 
 ing at the table. She would have run off 
 again, but he sprang up and offered her a 
 chair. 
 
 4 1 must not disturb you, Mr. Keith,' she
 
 no CARLOWRIE. 
 
 said confusedly. ' I did not know you were 
 here, or ' 
 
 ' You wouldn't have come, eh ? A most 
 unkind speech, when I was longing to see 
 you. You have been in the house for two 
 days, and I have scarcely spoken to you. 
 Whose fault is that ? ' he said gaily, but with 
 an undertone of real earnestness in his voice. 
 
 ' I don't know. I have been with Miss 
 Edith. Mr. Keith, I think I will go up-stairs 
 again,' said Elsie, looking so lovely in her 
 timidity and shy confusion, that Keith flung 
 his prudence to the winds. 
 
 ' Nay, you will stay a little with me. Don't 
 grudge me a few minutes, Elsie. I have 
 hungered for a sight of your sweet face for 
 months ; and what else do you suppose brought 
 me to this dreary place at this season of the 
 year ? ' he said passionately, but Elsie had 
 flown. 
 
 She was beginning to learn what Aunt 
 Effie had meant by bidding her take care of 
 herself at Tyneholm, for, untutored as she was 
 in the world's ways, she knew that Keith 
 Hamilton had no right to address such words 
 to her, even though his love was as honourable
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. \\\ 
 
 as Hew Dalrymple's own, for between them 
 there was a great gulf fixed. 
 
 'Mamma,' said Edith to -her mother that 
 night when they were alone, ' I do not think 
 it is true that Elsie is to marry her cousin. I 
 want you to grant me a great, great favour. 
 Promise me before I ask it.' 
 
 ' If it relates to Elsie, my love, I cannot 
 promise till I hear what it is, not knowing 
 what absurd thing you may ask/ replied Mrs. 
 Hamilton. 
 
 * It is a very little thing, mamma. The 
 child is sick of her life at Lintlaw, and she is 
 fitted for something infinitely better.' 
 
 ' If she is sick of her life at Lintlaw you are 
 greatly to blame, I doubt,' said Mrs. Hamilton 
 gravely. 
 
 1 Not so, mamma. It is an inborn refine- 
 ment which cannot accustom itself to uncon- 
 genial surroundings. If you were as much 
 with Elsie as I have been, you would be 
 astonished, I can tell you. It is a very little 
 thing I want you to promise ; just that you 
 will let me take Elsie to London when we go 
 next month.' 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton made no reply, and certainly
 
 112 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 her face did not give promise of a favourable 
 answer. After a little she said, 
 
 ' Edith, you ask not only a very foolish, but 
 even a wrong thing. If Elsie is already 
 wearied of her life at Lintlaw, what will she 
 be when you bring her back from London ? 
 My child, I really wish you would not be 
 so unreasonable in your whims/ said Mrs. 
 Hamilton kindly, yet firmly. 
 
 She was a sensible woman, and Edith's 
 waywardness tried her sorely. Rebellious tears 
 sprang into the invalid's eyes. 
 
 4 1 have so little pleasure in life, mamma, it 
 seems hard that I should, for no substantial 
 reason, be deprived of Elsie's companionship, 
 which is so great a joy to me,' she said 
 petulantly. ' Other girls have sisters to whom 
 they can talk, I have no one.' 
 
 ' My darling, you have Keith and me/ said 
 Mrs. Hamilton gently, and laid her cool hand 
 on her daughter's troubled brow. 'Are we 
 not enough ? Have we failed in love and 
 care for you, dear ? ' 
 
 'No; but I have set my mind on this, 
 mamma, and I am afraid I will make myself 
 ill if it is denied me. I know how weak and
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO L1NTLAW. 113 
 
 foolish I am, but I do not seem to be able to 
 help it. Bear with me, mamma, and if you 
 love me grant my request.' 
 
 The mother rose with a heavy sigh. She 
 was conquered, but she knew herself weak 
 where she ought to have been strong. So it 
 was tacitly settled at Tyneholm that Elsie 
 Beatoun should go to London. But another 
 and more formidable obstacle lay in Edith's 
 path, for would the Lintlaw folk ever consent 
 to such a thing ? 
 
 When Elsie went home at the end of the 
 week her head was just full of London, and 
 from several things she let drop, Christian 
 gathered what was in contemplation. She 
 carried it with a very grave face to her mother. 
 The sweet lips of the mistress shut sternly 
 together, and she shook her head decidedly. 
 
 ' Never wi' my consent, Christian ; never 
 while I live,' was all she said. 
 
 But the Hamilton will was stronger than 
 the Dalrymple one, so it came to pass that in 
 April Elsie was making her preparations for 
 this momentous visit. 
 
 She was eager to be gone, for since the 
 subject had been broached, there had sprung
 
 H 4 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 up a strange coldness between her and those 
 who had loved and cared for her so long. 
 She knew she was doing wrong, that with 
 Christian's marriage coming on after harvest, 
 her place was at Lintlaw, but the wayward 
 heart stilled its own misgivings by resolving 
 to work all the harder when she came back in 
 the summer-time. Lintlaw himself was the 
 least concerned of them all. He thought it a 
 fine trip for Elsie, and hoped she would enjoy 
 herself, also he gave her a big cheque (for Elsie 
 had money yet in the bank at Dalkeith) to buy 
 braws, he said, fit for the gaze of the grand 
 folks she was going to London to see. There 
 were times when, looking at the face of her 
 aunt, Elsie felt tempted to abandon all idea of 
 the London visit. The sweet motherly face 
 seemed to be ageing as the days went by, the 
 features growing more sharply outlined, the 
 dear eyes more wearied-looking ; and now 
 nobody wondered to hear that she had gone 
 to lie down for a little in the afternoons, or 
 when she went to bed before the reading at 
 nights. These things came so gradually that 
 they did not alarm anybody, though outsiders 
 often spoke of how Mrs. Dairy mple of Lint-
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 115 
 
 law had failed of late. From the time that 
 it was settled that Elsie should go, until the 
 night before she went away, Hew Dalrymple 
 never came across to Lintlaw. He said he 
 was busy with his sowing, which was true 
 enough, but there was nothing to keep him at 
 Carlowrie on Sundays, and it must have been 
 dreary enough for him in the lonely house 
 after the kirk came out. If Elsie guessed, 
 she never admitted it, but Mrs. Dalrymple 
 and Christian too, knew very well what was 
 the matter with Hew, and they could not help 
 feeling a little sore against Elsie. Altogether 
 that spring-time was a very dreary, uncomfort- 
 able season for the Dalrymples, and they felt 
 that the sooner Elsie was away now the 
 better. 
 
 Late on the last evening Elsie was to spend 
 beneath the roof-tree of Lintlaw for a long 
 time, Hew came over from Carlowrie. When 
 he opened the front door, the first thing he 
 saw was a big box addressed for London, and 
 his lips set and his eyes grew dark with pain. 
 Poor Hew, nobody but himself knew what he 
 had endured in his loneliness at Carlowrie, 
 for he had lived for months in a state of
 
 Ii6 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 cruel uncertainty regarding Elsie's feelings ; 
 she would not listen to him any time he had 
 tried to broach the subject nearest his heart. 
 But the uncertainty was over now, for if 
 Elsie had loved him, ay, even a tithe as 
 much as he loved her, that box would never 
 have been standing packed in the passage at 
 Lintlaw. To his relief, Elsie was not in the 
 parlour when he went in, and, glad of his 
 father's question about the turnip-sowing on 
 the Back Braes, he sat down and began to 
 talk about his work. 
 
 1 Ay, an' Elsie's for off the morn/ said 
 Lintlaw in his dry way. ' We'll miss her 
 for a wee, but twa months '11 sune gang 
 by.' 
 
 Hew never spoke ; but his mother answered 
 for him. 
 
 ' Hoots, ay, what's twa months ? just a 
 flash, an' it's ower ; an' maybe Elsie'll think 
 mair o' Lintlaw an' us quiet folk efter she's 
 seen the big cauld world o* London.' 
 
 ' Oh, Hew, ye should hae come last nicht 
 an* seen a' Elsie's bonnie goons afore they 
 gaed in the box ! My, she'll be as braw as 
 Miss Hamilton herselT exclaimed Erne, look-
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 117 
 
 ing up from her slate, and heaving a sigh of 
 rapturous envy. 
 
 Little though she was, Effie was as vain as 
 Miss Ritchie's peacock at Scotstoun. 
 
 To all these remarks Hew made no reply ; 
 and presently, when he heard Elsie's foot on 
 the stair, a deep and painful flush overspread 
 his manly face, and he called himself a fool 
 for having come to Lintlaw to-night. 
 
 Elsie was very quiet, pale a little also, and 
 her eyes looked as if she had been crying. 
 
 ' How are you, Hew ? ' she said, trying to 
 smile, but her lip quivered, and she turned 
 swiftly away lest anybody should see it. Hew 
 did not remain long at Lintlaw, and, declining 
 the offer of supper on the plea that his house- 
 keeper would be waiting up for him, he said 
 good-night to them all, coming last to Elsie. 
 He had made up a little speech on the way 
 over, but it vanished, and he could not speak 
 at all. But that grip of the hand, painful in 
 its intensity, the look in the honest grey eyes, 
 were more eloquent than ten thousand words, 
 and Elsie ran sobbing out of the room. A 
 few minutes later, when Hew was striding 
 across the green to the stile which he must
 
 n8 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 cross into the field, he heard a light footfall 
 behind him, and, to his amazement, there was 
 Elsie. In the bright moonlight, he could see 
 the dewdrops glittering on her lashes, also 
 that she was trembling from head to foot. 
 
 4 I came I came, Hew, because I couldn't 
 let you away without speaking to you. Are 
 you very angry, dear Hew ? Do you think me 
 a wicked, ungrateful girl ? ' 
 
 4 God forbid ! Ye ken brawly what I think, 
 Elsie,' said Hew ; and it took all his giant 
 strength to restrain the thousand impulses 
 bounding in his heart. 
 
 ' If you bid me, Hew, I will stay at home,, 
 I will indeed ! ' she said, with such earnestness 
 that there was no mistaking her meaning. 
 
 ' Elsie ! Elsie ! ' exclaimed Hew hoarsely. 
 4 For God's sake, dinna torment me. Tell 
 me what ye mean.' 
 
 4 1 mean that when I come back, I will come 
 to Carlowrie if you will let me,' she whispered. 
 4 Oh, Hew, could you not see I have loved you 
 all the time ? ' 
 
 So again the young May moon witnessed 
 a solemn betrothal, and an hour later Hew 
 Dalrymple went away home to Carlowrie with
 
 ELSIE'S FAREWELL TO LINTLAW. 119 
 
 the very sunshine of heaven in his heart. 
 As for Elsie, she crept away into the house, 
 and into the arms of Hew's mother, who, 
 regardless of her own weariness, was waiting 
 up, hoping and praying for her boy. 
 
 'When I come back, Aunt Effie, I am to 
 be Hew's wife,' she whispered ; ' and oh, I will 
 be a better girl than I have ever been ; for I 
 have given you many a sore heart.' 
 
 4 When I come back ! ' ah ! when would that 
 be ? Little dreamed Elsie Beatoun, when she 
 lay down with tears of joy in her eyes that 
 night, how many weary days would elapse 
 before she should again look upon Lintlaw, 
 and that when the pleasant family circle again 
 numbered her in its midst, the dearest one of 
 all should be gone for evermore, leaving only 
 an angel memory behind.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 
 
 IT her escritoire, in the morning-room 
 at Lyndon Priory, sat the Lady 
 Anne Traquair, with a pen in her 
 hand and writing materials before her. She 
 was apparently deeply absorbed in thought, 
 for her eyes were fixed upon the green 
 meadowlands stretching for miles across the 
 flat but picturesque landscape which sur- 
 rounded her English home. It was a morn 
 of April's sunniest mood ; the dewdrops 
 glittered still upon the close-shaven lawn, and 
 upon the fragrant blossoms of the lilac and 
 laburnum ; a day, indeed, to gladden the eyes 
 and hearts of all. But the expression upon 
 the face of the Lady Anne was one of discon- 
 tent and unrest. She was a tall and hand- 
 
 120
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 121 
 
 some woman, and though the hair under her 
 elaborate lace coiffure was as white as the 
 driven snow, and her face deeply marked 
 with the lines either of sorrow or passion, her 
 figure was still held erect with all the grace 
 and dignity of a queen. It was a remarkable 
 and striking face, which, once seen, would be 
 remembered long. It was very pale, and 
 about the keen black eyes and the firm, stern 
 mouth there were great black shadows, which 
 told of either physical weakness or mental 
 pain. Hers had indeed been a chequered 
 life, marked , by many a storm of passion and 
 pain ; but the struggle was really over now, 
 and she dwelt a childless widow in the home 
 where she had spent the years of her maiden- 
 hood. She only left it occasionally in the 
 spring to spend a few weeks in London ; and, 
 though her husband had been a Scotchman, 
 and had taught her to love his native land 
 and his paternal home, the goodly heritage of 
 the Traquairs had not seen its widowed mis- 
 tress for a score of years. 
 
 She was not alone in the room. Near to 
 the fire, which in its ruddy glow vied with the 
 brilliance of the morning sun, sat a poor, thin,
 
 122 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 subdued - looking woman, past middle life, 
 attired in sombre black, and working with 
 nerveless fingers at a piece of dingy wool- 
 work. She was Deborah Conroy, a distant 
 kinswoman of the Lady Anne's, who, in her 
 poverty, had been glad to accept the offer of a 
 home at the Priory, and whose feeble spirit 
 had long ago been broken by her kinswoman's 
 iron will. She was now simply a machine, a 
 thing who spoke when she was spoken to, and 
 who never ventured nor desired to entertain, 
 much less to express, any opinion of her own. 
 She was not positively unhappy ; she lived, and 
 ate, and moved, and, having grown accustomed 
 to the desolation of her life, had ceased to 
 fret, and therefore was at peace. Suddenly 
 the long silence was broken by the voice of 
 the Lady Anne, harsh, discordant, and un- 
 musical. 
 
 1 I cannot write that letter, Deborah ; my 
 pen refuses to move in accordance with my 
 will.' 
 
 1 Yes, Anne,' said Deborah meekly. 
 
 ' I have another plan, Deborah/ continued 
 the Lady Anne. ' I shall go to London, and 
 learn for myself what manner of fellow is this
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 123 
 
 Mr. Howard Traquair who claims kinship 
 with me as the next heir of Traquair.' 
 
 ' Yes, Anne, that will be a very good 
 plan,' said Deborah, in the same still, passion- 
 less voice. 
 
 ' And if he is what I desire, I shall adopt 
 him as my son at once ; and, all being well, I 
 shall go to Traquair in the autumn.' 
 
 ' Will you, Anne ? ' 
 
 If such a thing were possible, there was 
 a note of surprise in Deborah's voice this 
 time. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Lady Anne, with a grim 
 smile. ' After the lapse of twenty years, 
 surely I can look once more upon the place 
 about which I scarcely dared to think till lately. 
 Would you believe there was such weakness 
 about me, Deborah ? ' 
 
 ' No, Anne, I would not have believed it,' 
 said Deborah. 
 
 ' Well, you will make what arrangements 
 are necessary, Deborah ; and we will go to 
 London on Monday,' said the Lady Anne, with 
 her usual decision. ' Write first of all to see 
 that the house is put in order.' 
 
 ' Yes, Anne,' said Deborah ; and began
 
 124 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 slowly to roll up her needlework, preparatory 
 to obeying her kinswoman's directions. 
 
 Then Lady Anne shut her escritoire, and, 
 rising, swept slowly from the room, her long 
 silken robes trailing behind her with a solemn 
 rustling. She crossed the wide corridor, and, 
 turning the key of a baize-covered door which 
 opened into the western wing of the house, 
 entered the picture gallery of the Priory. It 
 was a dim and darkened place, smelling of 
 moth and dust, for its windows were always 
 closed, and the light of day was seldom per- 
 mitted to shine upon the pictures which 
 adorned its walls. The Lady Anne went up 
 to one of the long windows, undid the fasten- 
 ing, and threw open the shutters ; then a flood 
 of glorious sunlight shone in. Upon the 
 walls there were many portraits of the dead 
 and gone Lyndons, but it was at none of her 
 high-born ancestors the Lady Anne had come 
 to look. She walked swiftly to the further 
 end of the long gallery, to a little niche wherein 
 hung a picture with its face turned to the wall. 
 Mute history - teller ! Silent, but eloquent 
 proclamation of a skeleton on the hearth a 
 tragedy in the home ! With trembling hand
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 125 
 
 the Lady Anne turned the face of the picture 
 to the light, sending a cloud of dust down 
 upon her lace head-dress and her silken gown. 
 It was the likeness of a young girl, with a 
 lovely child-like face, framed in golden hair, 
 and lighted by large dark eyes in which shone 
 the very soul of purity and truth. What had 
 that fair child done to merit so great and sad 
 a punishment ? What painful or shameful 
 memories did that lovely face recall, that it 
 should be turned away from public view ? 
 Ah ! what indeed ? The Lady Anne looked 
 long at the picture, not a muscle of her set 
 face moving, but it grew, if possible, paler 
 than before. Her slender fingers were nerv- 
 ously interlaced, and she trembled in every 
 limb. Ay, that proud heart was stirred to the 
 deepest depths, and all the unspeakable, un- 
 quenchable yearnings of a mother surged in 
 her breast. A deep groan broke from her 
 lips, and great beads of perspiration stood out 
 in the furrows on her brow, telling how great 
 was the agony of the moment. 
 
 ' Fool ! fool that I was to come here ! ' 
 she muttered, and, hastily restoring the picture 
 to its former position, hurriedly left the place ;
 
 126 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 and her step, as she sought her own room, lost 
 its stately dignity, and became like the feeble 
 gait of age. 
 
 That day poor Deborah Conroy found her 
 kinswoman more irritable and trying and ex- 
 acting than she had ever been during the ten 
 dreary years of her sojourn with her. Every 
 evening at six o'clock these two solitary 
 women dined together in solemn state, for 
 Lady Anne Traquair was rigid in the observ- 
 ances of all the ceremony in keeping with 
 her rank. She dressed for dinner, and even 
 poor Deborah Conroy, by long custom, had 
 got to find a certain placid satisfaction in 
 donning her best silk gown, and fastening a 
 broad lace collar about her neck, to sit down 
 at the table with her high-born kinswoman. 
 
 While they were partaking of their unsociable 
 meal that evening, they were disturbed by a 
 loud knock at the hall door, and presently 
 a message was brought to the effect that a 
 gentleman waited in the library for Lady 
 Traquair. 
 
 ' Tell him I will be with him in half an 
 hour,' said her ladyship. ' But stay ; did he 
 give his name ? '
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 127 
 
 ' Yes, my lady, Mr. Howard Traquair/ said 
 the servant respectfully. 
 
 Then, to the amazement of all, her ladyship 
 rose hastily and immediately quitted the room, 
 leaving Deborah Conroy to the companionship 
 of Walters, the solemn-faced, statuesque butler, 
 who was part of the dreary ceremonial observed 
 every evening in the dining-room at Lyndon 
 Priory. Lady Anne was much agitated ; in- 
 deed, she had to pause before opening the 
 library door, in order to recover that dignity 
 and repose befitting her rank and age. When 
 she entered the room, she beheld, standing in 
 the wide, low window, the tall, well-knit figure 
 of a young man, who immediately turned to 
 her a frank, open, noble face, bearing so close 
 a resemblance to her dead husband that for 
 a moment she felt like one in a dream. He 
 looked keenly at her haughty face, and the 
 sunny smile which had started to his lips died 
 away, and he bowed gravely. 
 
 ' Lady Anne Traquair?' he said courteously. 
 
 She bowed, and waved her hand to a seat ; 
 but the young man preferred to stand during 
 the momentous interview about to take place. 
 
 ' My servant brought to me the name
 
 128 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 Howard Traquair,' she said somewhat icily. 
 ' Am I to understand that you are the writer 
 of the extraordinary communication bearing 
 that signature which I received this morning ? ' 
 
 ' I am Howard Traquair, Lady Anne, the 
 only son of Donald, brother to your late hus- 
 band, Sir Howard Traquair of Traquair and 
 Glenshee,' said the young man, with quiet and 
 manly grace. ' Will you permit me to offer 
 you a chair while I relate to you the events 
 which have led up to this visit ? ' 
 
 The Lady Anne bowed, and sank into the 
 chair placed for her. The very voice was 
 that of her idolized husband, and it stirred 
 in her heart at once the sweetest and most 
 bitter waters of memory. 
 
 ' You are aware, of course, Lady Traquair, 
 that your husband and his brother Donald had 
 a bitter quarrel in their youth, which created 
 a breach between them, never to be healed 
 this side the grave ? ' 
 
 ' It was never healed, but it was Donald's 
 fault ; my husband was blameless,' said the 
 Lady Anne, almost in a whisper. 
 
 ' You are right. At the time of the quarrel 
 Donald Traquair left Scotland and settled in
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 129 
 
 London, penniless, as you must be aware; and, 
 having married late in life, he was obliged to 
 earn a livelihood for himself and his wife. He 
 only lived a few years ; the drudgery of work 
 in a merchant's office killed him ; and he 
 died, leaving a widow and two children, a 
 boy and girl. The widow struggled on alone, 
 and managed to rear and educate her child- 
 ren till they were able to help themselves. 
 Worn out with the struggle, she died also 
 in London, in the first week of the present 
 year. On her deathbed she revealed to her 
 children her family history, which till then 
 had been a sealed book to them. That 
 history, Lady Anne:, induced me to make 
 some inquiries, and has brought me here 
 to-day to claim relationship with you. I am 
 Howard Traquair, your nephew.' 
 
 ' And the other ? You spoke of two child- 
 ren,' said Lady Traquair nervously, for she 
 was labouring under intense excitement. 
 
 'She is living still, and has her home in 
 London with me. My sister's name is Mar- 
 jorie Traquair.' 
 
 ' And you, what do you do ? How have 
 you supported yourself and her ? '
 
 \ 
 
 130 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' I am a mercantile clerk, Lady Traquair,' 
 he said, without hesitation or shame, though 
 he saw the flush of pride mount to the cheek 
 of his haughty kinswoman. 
 
 ' Your story is plausible enough, but it 
 requires proof. Have you any papers be- 
 longing to your father, boy ? ' said the Lady 
 Anne, with difficulty. 
 
 * Yes ; they are in the possession of a firm 
 of London solicitors, Lady Traquair, and can 
 be submitted for your investigation when you 
 please. I brought nothing with me, hoping 
 that my likeness to my uncle Howard would 
 be proof sufficient. My mother told me I 
 was his living image.' 
 
 ' You are like him ; but there are chance 
 resemblances in the world which are some- 
 times turned to advantage by unprincipled 
 persons,' said her ladyship grimly. ' I will 
 not commit myself, Mr. Howard Traquair, 
 until I have paid a visit to London, and made 
 all necessary inquiries.' 
 
 ' Very well, Lady Anne. May I express a 
 hope that when you do come to London you 
 will honour Marjorie and me by a visit to our 
 abode? My sister will make you truly welcome.'
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 131 
 
 Lady Traquair bowed somewhat distantly, 
 but her heart was stirred to the very depths. 
 It went out to this young man, who had all 
 the bold fearlessness of her husband's race, in 
 a rush of tenderness such as she had not 
 experienced for many years. She rang the 
 bell, and ordered some refreshment to be laid 
 down in the library for the gentleman, and 
 then, bidding him good afternoon, returned to 
 the dining-room. She signed to Walters to 
 leave the room, and sank weakly into an arm- 
 chair on the hearth. 
 
 ' I have received a great shock, Deborah, 
 and I am very weak. It is a terrible thing to 
 be growing old. Bring me a cup of tea, 
 and then do you give orders that a carriage 
 be got ready to convey the gentleman in the 
 library to the station. Also hasten your 
 arrangements, for we must travel to London 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Deborah Conroy was a person of methodical 
 habits, and she it was who managed the house- 
 keeping at Lyndon Priory. Her post was no 
 sinecure, for Lady Anne was difficult to please, 
 and did not spare her humble dependent either 
 labour or anxiety. But so well did Deborah
 
 132 CARLOIVRIE. 
 
 manage, that before the clock struck the early 
 hour for retiring to rest, there stood in the 
 outer hall a great quantity of luggage addressed 
 to Lady Traquair's house in Eaton Place, 
 London. What did it matter that the poor 
 soul was too wearied to sleep ? She was not 
 the only restless being in the Priory that 
 night, for the Lady Anne never closed an eye. 
 Her nerves were unstrung, her whole being 
 stirred, and there seemed to overshadow her 
 some great crisis, which was to change her 
 life. 
 
 Could it be that the feeble body was to 
 rebel at last against the iron will ? and was it 
 the shadow of death which stood afar, bidding 
 her set her house in order, and prepare for 
 that which was to come ? 
 
 By noon next day they were on their way 
 to the city of wealth and fashion. Lady Anne 
 was herself once more, stately and cold and 
 haughty, while poor Deborah was in a con- 
 dition of nervous excitement regarding luggage 
 and sundry other things, for the safe transit 
 of which she would be held responsible. They 
 arrived in London about six o'clock in the 
 evening. The distance was not great, but
 
 THE LADY ANNE TRAQUAIR. 133 
 
 the locomotive had not then attained its 
 present state of marvellous perfection. Indeed, 
 it was only between important centres of trade 
 that trains were run at all. Lyndon was on 
 the main line between London and Man- 
 chester, and on that account was considered 
 by some a very desirable place of abode. 
 
 The fashionable thoroughfares were empty- 
 ing for the day, and when the Lady Traquair's 
 carriage approached her London abode, it 
 became only one among many dainty and 
 elegantly - appointed equipages. As they 
 passed up St. James's Square, a neat park 
 phaeton, drawn by two lovely ponies, drew up 
 just before them in front of one of the stately 
 mansions in the Square. It held two ladies, 
 and just as Lady Traquair's carriage swept 
 past, they lowered their sun-shades and she 
 saw their faces. 
 
 ' Anne, Anne ! what is the matter with you ? 
 Have you taken a fit ? ' exclaimed Deborah 
 Conroy, alarmed at the deathly pallor which 
 overspread the face of her kinswoman. 
 
 4 No ; but I have seen the face of the dead, 
 Deborah Conroy,' she said, in a hollow voice ; 
 then starting up with sudden energy, she pulled
 
 134 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 the little silver bell to attract the attention of 
 the coachman. To the footman she said, ' Go 
 back and inquire who resides in the house 
 where the phaeton has just stopped.' 
 
 The man looked amazed at the unusual 
 command, but obeyed at once. In a very 
 few minutes he again appeared at the carriage 
 window and touched his hat. 
 
 'It is the town house of Mrs. Patrick 
 Hamilton of Tyneholm, Midlothian, my lady/ 
 he said. % 
 
 ' Thanks, drive on,' she said, then sank back 
 among the cushions, repeating the address 
 over and over. 
 
 Deborah Conroy looked on in helpless 
 alarm, greatly fearing that her kinswoman 
 had brooded over the sorrows and shadows 
 of the past until her mental powers had 
 broken down.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER! 
 
 i 
 
 >HERE did you get that necklace, 
 child ? It is most beautiful.' 
 
 It was Edith Hamilton who 
 spoke, and she was looking with admiring 
 eyes at a chain of gold, with a pendant 
 attached, exquisitely designed, and set with 
 pearl and sapphire. 
 
 ' It was my mother's, Miss Edith,' replied 
 Elsie Beatoun. ' It is the only thing I have 
 of any value belonging to her.' 
 
 She was lying on a couch, with her golden 
 hair, loosened from its clasp, lying about her 
 like a halo ; and her face was pale, her eyes 
 wearied, telling that the country blossom was 
 drooping in the air of the sultry town. 
 
 1 It is a very valuable thing, Elsie, not 
 
 136
 
 136 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 like the usual articles of jewellery possessed 
 by a country doctor's wife/ continued Miss 
 Hamilton, examining the trinket yet more 
 closely. ' Why, child, do you know that on 
 every link there is a letter set in pearls ? 
 This is curious indeed. Did you know of 
 it?' 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Edith,' said Elsie listlessly. 
 'All the letters put together read, "After 
 dishonour death." My cousin Hew spelled it 
 out for me one night at Lintlaw/ 
 
 ' I must ask Keith to what family that crest 
 and motto belong. He knows all that kind 
 of things,' said Miss Hamilton decidedly. 
 ' Was there never any mystery about your 
 birth, Elsie?' 
 
 ' None/ smiled Elsie. ' We concluded at 
 Lintlaw that my mother had got it from some 
 of the great ladies round about. Ormiston. She 
 was greatly beloved by everybody.' 
 
 ' Ah, that is a very likely explanation ; 
 still I shall ask Keith. Well, my child, are 
 you really unable to go out with me this 
 afternoon ? ' 
 
 4 If you would be so kind, Miss Edith, I 
 would gladly lie still a little ; my head aches
 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 badly, and I feel so wearied. I don't know 
 what to do.' 
 
 * That is bad. They were telling me in 
 the Row yesterday that my Scotch rose was 
 losing its bloom ; we mustn't send you back a 
 lily to Lintlaw, must we, Elsie? Well, good- 
 bye ; try to sleep, and be fresh for the evening. 
 I want you to look your very loveliest this 
 evening for my friends.' 
 
 Such words of honeyed flattery might well 
 have turned a wiser head than Elsie Beatoun's, 
 but though she had enjoyed for a little the 
 wonderful change this was to her, her heart 
 was at home with Hew and the dear ones 
 at Lintlaw. She had scarcely been a month 
 in London, but already her pure eyes had 
 seen through the hollowness of this great 
 world, the worthlessness of its friendships, the 
 meanness and littleness of its aims, its utter 
 incapacity to satisfy even one craving of a 
 human heart. How sweet and wholesome 
 and altogether desirable seemed the quiet 
 working life at Lintlaw, where every hour of 
 every day brought its attendant duty, and 
 where idleness was a thing despised, in com- 
 parison with this giddy round of pleasure-
 
 138 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 seeking, the whirl of gaiety, the fleeting, 
 unsatisfying excitement of ball and rout and 
 play to which Edith Hamilton had out of her 
 caprice introduced her. This visit had done 
 Elsie a world of good. In four short weeks 
 she was thoroughly cured of her longings 
 after the life of a fine lady, and now nothing 
 on earth seemed so lovely and desirable in 
 her eyes as to be home once more at Lintlaw, 
 helping Christian to sweep, and dust, and 
 iron, and bake, taking the cows to and from 
 the pasture, and being initiated by Aunt Effie 
 into all the mysteries of the dairy. Then the 
 Sabbaths in the dear old church of Crichtoun, 
 listening to the preaching of Christian's Mr. 
 Laidlaw, and the singing of old Thomas 
 Adams, who was precentor and sexton and 
 everything but minister of Crichtoun. How 
 different from the strange institution here 
 called the Sabbath, but which only differed 
 from other days in the one attendance at 
 the neighbouring Episcopalian Church of 
 St Peter's, which Elsie thought a terrible 
 heathenish place, just like the Roman Catholic 
 Church in Edinburgh, about which Uncle 
 Davie spoke with so much abhorrence. It
 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 was about all these things Elsie was thinking, 
 and her heart was filled with unspeakable 
 yearnings for all she had loved and left in 
 bonnie Scotland, when Mrs. Hamilton dis- 
 turbed her solitude. 
 
 ' I am sorry you are indisposed, Elsie,' she 
 said kindly. ' Nay, lie still, dear. I have just 
 come to have a little talk with you. Edith 
 monopolizes you so that there are few oppor- 
 tunities.' 
 
 Elsie smiled slightly, and laid her head 
 back upon her pillow somewhat reassured. 
 She stood rather in awe of the Laird's mother, 
 and felt intuitively that it was not of her will 
 that she was with them in London. Yet 
 she could not complain of coldness, for Mrs. 
 Hamilton was ever kind and courteous, only 
 there was a something distant in her demeanour 
 which contrasted sharply with the frankness of 
 her children. 
 
 ' Are you tired of London life, Elsie ? You 
 look fatigued and a little nervous. 
 
 ' I have not been well to-day, Mrs. 
 Hamilton, and I was thinking of home ; it 
 made me a little sad, that is all,' replied 
 Elsie simply.
 
 140 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 4 Then you would like to go home, my 
 child ? ' said Mrs. Hamilton, bending forward 
 with unmistakeable eagerness. 
 
 4 It seems ungrateful, after all the kindness 
 I have received from you and Miss Edith,' 
 said Elsie. ' But you see I have not been 
 used to this kind of life, and I am most at 
 home among my own people.' 
 
 4 1 am glad Edith has not spoiled you,' said 
 Mrs. Hamilton, with satisfaction. ' Elsie, will 
 you answer me a question truly ? It is of 
 great importance to me.' 
 
 4 1 will do so, Mrs. Hamilton, believe me,' 
 said Elsie sincerely. 
 
 4 Then, Elsie, tell me, has there been any 
 foolish talk of love between the Laird and 
 you ? Nay, do not blush so painfully. If 
 there has, it has not been of your seeking, I 
 am persuaded.' 
 
 ' I will be true, Mrs. Hamilton,' said Elsie 
 calmly, though she trembled a little. ' Mr. 
 Keith has spoken words of love to me, but I 
 have never listened. You will believe me, 
 madam, I knew too well what was befitting 
 my position and his, and I would never 
 have done so great a wrong to you, as to
 
 MY GRAND-DA UGHTER. 141 
 
 listen to any serious words he might have 
 said.' 
 
 ' You are a good girl, Elsie ; tell me all. 
 What has Keith said to you ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know that I am doing right to tell,' 
 said Elsie, struggling with some rebellious 
 tears. ' He asked me to be his wife, Mrs. 
 Hamilton, both here in London and at Tyne- 
 holm, before we came away, but I could never 
 consent, even though there had not been such 
 a difference between us, because' 
 
 ' Because what, Elsie ? ' 
 
 1 Because I do not love Mr. Keith, Mrs. 
 Hamilton, and I do love my cousin Hew 
 Dalrymple, whose wife I am to be some day 
 soon after I get back to Lintlaw.' 
 
 The lady of Tyneholm breathed a sigh of 
 relief, and stooping, took the slender figure in 
 her arms, and gently kissed her brow. 
 
 'You are a good, brave, true-hearted girl, 
 Elsie Beatoun, and may God bless you, and 
 the noble young man you are to wed. You 
 have seen something of the world here, my 
 dear, and you can see that it is not the custom 
 for those in our circle to take wives from yours. 
 It would have caused a great deal of trouble.'
 
 142 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 ' I know, but I never thought of it even for 
 a moment, Mrs. Hamilton,' said Elsie, with 
 quiet dignity. ' Do you think I could go 
 home to Scotland by myself before you return 
 to Tyneholm ? I have got to feel heavy- 
 hearted somehow about them, especially about 
 Aunt Effie. Christian said in her letter that 
 she was very anxious about her.' 
 
 ' It would be quite impossible for you to 
 return alone to Scotland, my dear, but I will 
 at once see about an escort for you. If I 
 cannot find any one going, I shall send Mrs. 
 Logan with you. She would be leaving in a 
 week or two anyhow to get Tyneholm in 
 order for us/ 
 
 ' Thank you/ said Elsie gratefully, for Mrs. 
 Hamilton was truly kind. There was a vein 
 of self-interest in this act of kindness, how- 
 ever, which Elsie was not sufficiently versed 
 in the world's ways to detect. Mrs. Hamilton 
 trembled for her son. He was headstrong, 
 like all the Cecils, and would not readily give 
 up anything on which he had set his heart. 
 She would only feel at rest when Elsie was 
 reigning at Carlo wrie as Hew Dairy mple's 
 wife.
 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 Presently a servant disturbed their inter- 
 view, saying there was a visitor in the drawing- 
 room. Mrs. Hamilton looked at the card 
 handed to her, and a slight expression of 
 surprise crossed her face. She had no ac- 
 quaintance with the Lady Anne Traquair, 
 and marvelled what could be the meaning 
 of this visit. She went down at once, how- 
 ever ; then Elsie languidly rose, and proceeded 
 to bathe her face and hands in cold water, 
 and then to change her gown, ready for Miss 
 Hamilton's afternoon tea, at which light 
 repast she was generally joined by some of 
 her lady friends. Elsie could not account for 
 the strange load oppressing mind and heart. 
 She just felt as if some great sorrow were 
 about to overtake her. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Hamilton had entered her 
 drawing-room, and saw standing in the window 
 the tall and stately figure of a lady whom she 
 had never seen before. From behind, the 
 figure looked so youthful that she was startled 
 when the lady turned her face, it was so worn 
 and haggard and grey, and ploughed deep 
 with the furrows of pain. A slight bow passed 
 between the ladies ; then without noticing Mrs.
 
 144 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Hamilton's courteous request to take a chair, 
 Lady Traquair spoke in an abrupt, strange, 
 harsh voice, very different from the musical 
 intonation of the lady of Tyneholm. 
 
 1 You will doubtless be surprised at my call, 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and still more so when I tell 
 you its object. Passing up Eaton Place in 
 my carriage yesterday afternoon, I saw at your 
 door a phaeton containing two ladies, one of 
 whom bore so striking a resemblance to one 
 who was very dear to me, that I could not 
 rest until I made some inquiries regarding 
 her. Will you kindly tell me who and what 
 she is ? Believe me, I am actuated by no mere 
 curiosity ; it is a matter of vital importance 
 to me.' 
 
 What she said was true, for she was 
 trembling from head to foot, and with diffi- 
 culty commanded her voice throughout her 
 speech. 
 
 ' My daughter drove in the park yesterday 
 afternoon, Lady Traquair, and her companion 
 was a young girl to whom she took a fancy 
 in Scotland, the daughter of a country doctor, 
 who, at his death, found a home with one of 
 the farmers on our estate of Tyneholm,' said
 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton courteously, and beginning to 
 feel interested, and even excited. 
 
 4 A country doctor ! his name ! tell me his 
 name ! ' said the Lady Traquair hurriedly. 
 
 1 Beatoun. He practised in the neighbour- 
 ing village of Ormiston. The child's name 
 is Elsie.' 
 
 ' I knew I could not be mistaken,' fell 
 brokenly from the lips of the Lady Anne, and, 
 sinking into a chair, she covered her face with 
 her trembling hands. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton stood looking on in con* 
 siderable perplexity, not knowing what to 
 think of the behaviour of her strange visitor. 
 
 ' Will you let me tell you a story ? I will 
 be brief, Mrs. Hamilton,' said the Lady Anne, 
 suddenly looking up, and with a strong effort 
 of her iron will she regained her habitual 
 composure. ' I am now a childless and 
 desolate widow. Two-and-twenty years ago 
 I lost my husband, but I had then a child, 
 who was a consolation in my grief. You are 
 a mother, madam, therefore I need not tell 
 you how I loved her. She was the light of 
 my eyes, the sunshine of my home, all I had 
 
 on earth. I was ambitious for her, because 
 
 13
 
 I4 CARLO WKIE. 
 
 she was so fair, and because of her name and 
 lineage. I had a right to desire for her an 
 honourable settlement in life. I was dis- 
 appointed. We spent the greater part of the 
 year then at Traquair, because my husband 
 loved it beyond any spot on earth, and for his 
 sake it was dear to us. In the neighbouring 
 village there was an aged doctor, who had 
 been the family physician of the Traquairs for 
 many years. Being unfit, through declining 
 years, to overtake all his work, he procured 
 an assistant, an able and handsome young 
 man. His name was Beatoun. Do you 
 follow me ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton bowed, and the expression 
 on her face betrayed her absorbing interest. 
 
 ' I will not weary you with details of what 
 followed. Suffice to say that my daughter, 
 the child of so old and honourable a house, 
 stooped from her high estate to listen to words 
 of love from this young man. I discovered 
 it, and as it was fitting, nay, incumbent upon 
 me to do, I tried to put an end to the affair. 
 It was useless. After months of strife and 
 estrangement, she left me for him, and they 
 were married. I never saw her face again ;
 
 MY GRAND-DA UGHTER. 147 
 
 but I learned, by accident, that she died a 
 few years after her marriage, but I was 
 unable to ascertain whether she left any 
 children.' 
 
 ' I am overwhelmed with surprise,' said 
 Mrs. Hamilton. ' Doctor Beatoun did not 
 long survive his wife, and Elsie was their only 
 child. She was taken care of for some time 
 by a brother of her father's, also a tenant on 
 our lands. But he came to an untimely end 
 through an accident, and then Elsie found a 
 home with the Dalrymples of Lintlaw, the 
 farmer's people to whom I referred before.' 
 
 The Lady Anne bowed. 
 
 'How is it she comes to be here with 
 you ?' 
 
 ' My daughter took a fancy to her when we 
 were in Scotland, and the whims of a delicate 
 person have to be humoured, Lady Traquair. 
 You have come most opportunely, for I was 
 about to make arrangements for her return to 
 her friends. She is home-sick, poor child. 
 What course do you intend to pursue ? ' 
 
 1 She is my grand-daughter, Mrs. Hamilton, 
 and henceforth her home will be with me. 
 She had no claim upon these people of whom
 
 148 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 you speak ; but I shall see that they do not 
 go unrewarded/ said Lady Traquair. But 
 Mrs. Hamilton smiled a little sadly. 
 
 ' I am afraid any reward you may offer will 
 be refused. Nothing will make up to them 
 for the loss of Elsie,' said she, but did not let 
 Elsie's secret out of her keeping. 
 
 There was time enough. Oh yes, time 
 enough ; and Mrs. Hamilton foresaw many an 
 hour of pain coming for Elsie. The unbroken 
 sunshine of her girlhood, the calm, sweet, 
 beautiful life among those true Scottish hearts, 
 were over now for evqr. Involuntarily the 
 lady's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 * You will, I presume, desire to see Elsie ? ' 
 she said at length. 
 
 ' If you please.' 
 
 4 You will wait a little till I prepare her for 
 what is coming ; she is nervous and out of 
 sorts to-day,' said Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 1 1 will ; but be as brief as possible, Mrs. 
 Hamilton. I am an old woman, and patience 
 is not one of the crowning virtues of age.' 
 
 With slow and heavy step the lady of 
 Tyneholm ascended the stair to Edith's 
 dressing-room. The task before her was
 
 MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 one from which she shrank, for she could 
 not think that the news that there was one 
 with a nearer claim upon her than those at 
 Lintlaw would be a pleasure to Elsie Beatoun 
 now. Ah no ! for her heart had found its best 
 love and rest across the border by the green 
 and flowery braes of Crichtoun. 
 
 1 Elsie, my child, there is a lady in the 
 drawing-room wishing to see you,' she said, 
 plunging into the subject at once. You 
 must be prepared for a very great surprise, 
 my love. I hardly know how to break it to 
 you.' 
 
 The lovely face flushed deeply. Oh, how 
 fair she looked in her sweet, cool muslin dress, 
 with its trimmings of lace ! how desirable for 
 either man or woman to see in a home ! 
 
 1 My dear, do you know nothing about 
 your mother's life or history previous to her 
 marriage ? Has no one ever told you ?' 
 
 ' Lisbeth Fairlie used to tell me often that 
 the best blood in Scotland flowed in my veins ; 
 and I have heard that my mother's was a 
 runaway marriage, Mrs. Hamilton,' replied 
 Elsie, with wondering eyes. ' But I thought 
 it was just a romance of Lisbeth's foolish brain.'
 
 150 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' It was true, Elsie ; your mother was a 
 Traquair, child, the only daughter of Sir 
 Howard and Lady Anne Traquair of Tra- 
 quair and Glenshee. My dear girl, this is 
 likely to be an eventful visit for you.' 
 
 ' Well, but what is all this about, Mrs. 
 Hamilton? Who is downstairs?' asked Elsie, 
 beginning to tremble, she could not tell why. 
 
 ' Can you not guess, my dear ? Be calm ; 
 don't look at me so strangely. It is your 
 grandmother, who is waiting to fold you to 
 her heart. Come, let me take you to her.' 
 
 Like one in a dream, Elsie allowed herself 
 to be led downstairs. She was unable, as yet, 
 to comprehend this strange thing which had 
 befallen her. She followed Mrs. Hamilton 
 timidly into the room, and her eyes travelled 
 with one swift glance to the face of the woman 
 waiting there. Then a cry rang through the 
 stillness, wrung from the yearning depths of 
 the desolate old woman, who saw before her 
 the living image of the daughter who, in her 
 eyes, had brought great dishonour upon the 
 house of Traquair. 
 
 * Come to me, Elsie, my child, my darling, 
 I am your grandmother,' she said; and the
 
 M Y GRAND- DA UGHTER. \ 5 1 
 
 next minute she gathered the slender figure 
 in her arms with a clasp which seemed to say, 
 ' I will never let you go.' 
 
 It was prophetic of the struggle to come. 
 The bitter conflict with an indomitable will ; 
 the sore, sore battle between love and duty, 
 which in years gone by had so riven the heart 
 of poor Elsie Traquair, was destined to be 
 repeated in the experience of her child, with 
 what ending who could tell ?
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 
 
 !ISS RITCHIE'S peacock had taken 
 what she called a stravagin' turn, and 
 could not be seen about the doors 
 nor in the barnyard at Scotstoun. Imme- 
 diately after the twelve o'clock dinner, Miss 
 Ritchie left her brother snoozing in his arm- 
 chair, and emerged forth in search of the 
 truant bird. She wandered up the Moss 
 Road, eyeing the fields on either side, and 
 thence up to the Camp Wood. Now the day 
 was warm, and Miss Ritchie wore a gown of 
 thick linsey-woolsey, so that she found her 
 ascent up the stony way rather toilsome. She 
 went a few yards into the wood, calling her 
 pet by his name, and also anathematizing him 
 in an undertone to herself, as a ' wanderin' 
 
 151
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 153 
 
 crater,' a ' stravagin' brute,' and sundry other 
 epithets peculiarly her own. That King John 
 should have wandered to-day was particularly 
 aggravating to Miss Ritchie, for she had it in 
 her mind to take a walk up to Lintlaw in the 
 afternoon, and perhaps drink tea with Mrs. 
 Dairy mple. Miss Ritchie had not many 
 friends in the neighbourhood, for she was 
 rather an eccentric being; but the gentle 
 mistress of Lintlaw had found the right side 
 of her, and had a warm liking and respect for 
 her. The bairns poked fun at her old-fashioned 
 clothes, her plain appearance and abrupt man- 
 ner, but they all liked well enough to pay a 
 visit to Scotstoun, for Miss Ritchie's pantry 
 held many wonderful and tasty bites made 
 by her own skilful hands. Her brother was 
 just as eccentric as herself, and they lived in 
 a state of harmless warfare with each other, 
 which was very amusing to outsiders. After 
 an hour's fruitless search, she returned to 
 Scotstoun, out of breath and out of temper, 
 and encountered her brother in the fair 
 way to set the men their afternoon's work. 
 
 4 Whaur hae ye been, Ailie ? ' he asked, 
 with a comical smile.
 
 154 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 ' Oh, ye ken fine. Whaur could I be but 
 awa' huntin' efter that ill beast ? ' she snapped. 
 'He's a perfect plague.' 
 
 ' Whaur did 'e gang to look for him, Ailie ? ' 
 asked Geordie Ritchie slyly. 
 
 ' Gang ! I've been ower every field on 
 Scotstoun, an' cryin' him through the Camp 
 Wud as weel/quoth Miss Ritchie grimly. ' I'se 
 warrand I'll thraw his neck when he comes 
 hame.' 
 
 ' I'll tell 'e what, Ailie, if ye gang up to 
 Newland Burn, ye'll find him sittin' on Robbie 
 Blair's midden-dyke, I could lay ye a sax- 
 pence,' said Scotstoun slyly. 
 
 ' Ye're a perfeck fule, Geordie Ritchie,' said 
 Ailie scornfully ; nevertheless the colour rose 
 in her cheek, and she was fain to move on to 
 the house to hide it. It was common talk in 
 the country-side just then that Robbie Blair 
 was courting Geordie Ritchie's sister, and it 
 was looked upon as a very suitable match. 
 Having tidied up the parlour, and given what 
 directions were required, Miss Ritchie dressed 
 herself in her second best, and went away 
 about three o'clock to Lintlaw. 
 
 When she got to her own road end, she
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 155 
 
 bethought herself that she might as well see 
 whether King John had really landed at New- 
 land Burn, especially as Geordie Blair would 
 be sure to be busy in his hay field, and would 
 not be likely to see her. 
 
 Miss Ritchie was a person who never 
 hesitated long over anything, so she went past 
 Lintlaw road end, and turned up the leafy 
 lane to Newland Burn. And there, sure 
 enough, was King John, airing himself with 
 his magnificent tail fully spread on the top 
 spar of the garden gate. He quickly lowered 
 it, however, at sight of his mistress, and flew 
 to meet her. He was as tame as were the 
 pigeons at Lintlaw, and they hopped about 
 the kitchen floor quite familiarly. Miss 
 Ritchie administered a severe reproof to 
 King John, and he followed her quite demurely 
 up the road, just as a dog might have done. 
 So she had just to take him with her to 
 Lintlaw. 
 
 Miss Ritchie had to pass the hay field in 
 order to get into the path leading to Lintlaw, 
 and of course Robbie Blair must needs be 
 standing near the gate when she approached. 
 Miss Ritchie drew down her thick spotted
 
 I $6 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 veil, and marched bravely on, King John 
 following consequentially in the rear. 
 
 ' It's a fine afternoon, Miss Ritchie/ said 
 Robbie Blair, who was a big strapping fellow, 
 who might have won any woman's fancy. 
 * It wasna fair o' 'e to pass my door.' 
 
 ' I'm gaun on a parteekler errand to Lint- 
 law, Mr. Blair,' said Miss Ritchie somewhat 
 stiffly. ' I had to come round this way seekin' 
 for Jock. He's a stravagin' beast ; it's half 
 my wark lookin' efter him.' 
 
 ' Jock often comes here. I whiles think he 
 likes Newland Burn better than Scotstoun. 
 I wish the same could be said o' his mistress,' 
 said Robbie Blair, plucking up more courage 
 than he had ever shown before. 
 
 ' Weel, I'm sure Scotstoun yett gets the sun 
 better nor yours; but Jock's a fule, like the 
 lave o' the men folk,' quoth Miss Ritchie 
 brusquely, and strode away. Her manner 
 might well have disconcerted any suitor but 
 easy-going Robbie Blair ; he was in no hurry, 
 and did not despair of one day persuading the 
 worthy housekeeper of Scotstoun to become 
 the mistress of the cosy biggin' at Newland 
 Burn. By the time Miss Ritchie reached
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 157 
 
 Lintlaw, she had quite recovered her temper 
 and her self-possession, and was able to show 
 Christian a placid and unruffled countenance 
 when she opened the door to her. 
 
 How sweet and neat and comely looked 
 Christian in her new calico dress, with spotless 
 linen collar and cuffs, and dainty apron, which 
 she had embroidered with her own hands ! 
 It was always refreshing to see Christian 
 Dalrymple, and, like many more, Miss Ritchie 
 thought there was not her equal in the country- 
 side. 
 
 1 Is yer mither weel, Kirsten ? ' she asked 
 when she was ushered into the pleasant 
 parlour, which was made cool and fragrant 
 with the flowers which filled the vases on the 
 mantel and the big China bowl on the side- 
 board. 
 
 ' Just as usual, thank you, Miss Ritchie. 
 She aye lies down for a wee in the afternoons 
 now/ replied Christian. 
 
 ' Come and take off your bonnet, and you 
 can crack to me till mother comes down. 
 She will not be long ; she likes her tea 
 at four now. A perfect old wife mother is 
 turning.'
 
 158 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' I'll jist lay my bonnet down here,' said 
 Miss Ritchie. * I'll no' bide lang. Ye look 
 weel, Kirsten. The thocht o 1 matrimony's 
 surely greein' wi' ye.' 
 
 Christian blushed slightly, and took up her 
 stocking without making any reply. 
 
 'What made ye bring King John wi' ye, 
 Miss Ritchie ? ' she asked, seeing his majesty 
 strutting about the green in front. ' I never 
 knew of anybody taking a peacock out to 
 drink tea before.' 
 
 ' I couldna help it ; he's the stravaginest 
 beast. I got him at Newland Burn, an' was 
 obliged to bring him. But whaur hae ye 
 gottin' this bonnie wee crater?' queried Miss 
 Ritchie, rising to examine more closely a 
 beautiful yellow canary hanging in a pretty 
 cage above their heads. 
 
 ' Elsie sent that to Davie, just after 
 she went to London,' said Christian, and 
 somehow her voice took a sadder tone. 
 1 It wad make ye laugh to see the work 
 mother makes wi' Dickie, jist because Elsie 
 sent it.' 
 
 ' When did ye last hear frae Elsie, Kirsten ?' 
 inquired Miss Ritchie, with eagerness.
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 159 
 
 ' It's a lang time,' said Christian, and her 
 soft eyes filled with tears. ' If we didna 
 ken her sae weel, we could think she had 
 forgotten us 'mong the braw folks. I'm wae 
 for Hew, Miss Ritchie, he's that dowie. It's 
 no' richt o' Elsie no' to write to him.' 
 
 ' She was in Lunnon when ye last heard ? * 
 said Miss Ritchie. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Christian, in some surprise. 
 ' We hear they're comin' to the big house next 
 month, so we'll surely see her then.' 
 
 ' I had a letter this mornin', Kirsten, frae 
 my cousin Betsy Ritchie, wha, as ye hae 
 heard me say, is a cook in England wi' Leddy 
 Traquair at Lyndon Priory. There's unco 
 news aboot Elsie in't, Kirsten.' 
 
 Christian's knitting fell to her lap, and her 
 sweet eyes dilated with sudden dread. 
 
 1 News o' oor Elsie in a letter from 
 Betsy Ritchie!' exclaimed she, in conster- 
 nation. ' Guid or bad ? tell me quick, Miss 
 Ritchie.' 
 
 * It's no' easy kennin' whether it's guid or 
 bad, Kirsten, though some wad ca'd guid 
 fortune for Elsie. Ye hae heard, of course, 
 that Doctor Beatoun's marriage was a rinawa'
 
 160 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ane, an* that his wife was o' gentle folk. It 
 seems she was a Traquair, Kirsten, an' her 
 mither the Lady Anne, Betsy's mistress, has 
 fa'n in wi' Elsie in Lunnon, an', bein' her 
 gran'mither, has claimed her, an' ta'en her 
 awa' hame to Lyndon. So it's as like as no' 
 ye'll no' see muckle o' her noo.' 
 
 Christian stared in bewilderment, and then 
 covered her face with her hands. It was a 
 terrible blow to her, and what would it be to 
 her mother and Hew, to whom Elsie was 
 doubly dear ? 
 
 'She should have written. She will write 
 yet to tell us about this strange thing which 
 has befallen her,' she said at length. ' Will it 
 be true, Miss Ritchie, think ye ?' 
 
 4 True as gospel. Betsy wrote just to tell 
 me. If Elsie disna write, it'll be her granny's 
 blame. She's a mighty prood woman, an' 
 never forgave her dochter for marryin' Doctor 
 Beatoun.' 
 
 ' I hear mother stirring up the stair, Miss 
 Ritchie,' said Christian hurriedly, and lifted 
 her knitting and tried to still her trembling 
 lips. 
 
 4 Ye'll no' speak o'd the noo; I'll tell her
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 161 
 
 quietly mysel'. Mother's no' strong, Miss 
 Ritchie, an' I'm aye feared for her.' 
 
 1 I'll mind that, Kirsten,' said Miss Ritchie 
 willingly. * Weel, when's the waddin' to be ? ' 
 
 ' Some time in September, after the corn's 
 a' in,' said Christian, so upset by what she had 
 heard that she could answer quite calmly a 
 question which, at any other time, might have 
 embarrassed her. ' Here's mother.' 
 
 ' Eh, Miss Ritchie, what a stranger ! ' ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Dalrymple's pleasant voice; and 
 when Miss Ritchie rose to greet her, she was 
 most painfully struck by the frail appearance of 
 the mistress of Lintlaw. She looked like some 
 fragile blossom which the first breath of a bitter 
 wind would break upon the stalk. Yet she was 
 blithe and cheery as of yore. There never 
 was a shadow on the sweet motherly face, and 
 if there was pain, it was borne bravely, and 
 kept hidden from those she loved. Never 
 had she been so unspeakably dear to them all, 
 and in Christian's case there was a strange and 
 fearful clinging of heart to her mother, caused, 
 perhaps, by the thought of the day coming so 
 near when she would need to leave the old 
 
 home, and by another undefinable feeling 
 
 14
 
 162 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 which seemed to whisper of even a sorer 
 parting than that. 
 
 She sat down beside Miss Ritchie, while 
 Christian went away to see about the tea, and 
 they had a cosy and pleasant gossip about the 
 affairs of the country-side. There is no harm 
 in such gossip ; nay, rather, it fosters a kindly 
 interest in our neighbours ; it is that malicious 
 talk, prompted by a spirit which would ever 
 attribute the worst motives to another, that is 
 to be avoided as a grievous sin. 
 
 4 Ye're no' lookin' .very stoot, Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple,' said Miss Ritchie. ' I doot ye're 
 workin' ower sair.' 
 
 ' It's no' hard wark, Miss Ritchie, whatever 
 it be,' said the mistress, her pleasant smile a 
 trifle graver t h an its wont. ' I'm no' weel ; I 
 
 o 
 
 ken mysel' failin'. Whiles, lookin' at the 
 laddies an' thinkin' o' Kirsten's gaun awa', I 
 could sit doon an' greet ; but that wadna' 
 mend matters. An' the Lord never empties 
 ae place but He fills anither up.' 
 
 Miss Ritchie leaned forward in real con- 
 cern, but just then the mistress held up a 
 warning forefinger, for Christian's step was 
 heard in the passage, so the subject was
 
 NEWS Of ELSIE. 163 
 
 changed once more. Just before milking-time 
 that night, when Christian and her mother 
 
 o ' 
 
 were taking a little stroll in the garden to see 
 whether any of the blackberries were ready 
 for use, she gently broke to her the substance 
 of Miss Ritchie's nqws. 
 
 Mrs. Dairy mple stood still against the 
 garden dyke, and the little plaid shawl fell 
 from her head, while she looked at Christian 
 with dumbfoundered eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Kirsten, woman, this is ill, ill news ! ' 
 she said, with quivering lip, for her heart was 
 hungering very sore for sweet Elsie, Hew's 
 promised wife. 
 
 ' Ye believe it to be true, then, mother ? ' 
 said Christian, a little unsteadily. 
 
 ' Ower true,' said the mistress, shaking her 
 head. ' An* what's to become o' Hew, 
 Kirsten ? He's that set on the bairn, that 
 this '11 tak' a' the pith oot o' him.' 
 
 ' But she'll come back, mother,' said Chris- 
 tian cheerily; 'she's Hew's promised wife. 
 She's a woman grown now, and naebody daur 
 keep her again her will/ 
 
 Yet still the mistress shook her head. 
 ' Lassie, great folks are queer, an' the Tra-
 
 164 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 quair wull brooks nae contradiction. Elsie's 
 a gentle crater, an' her spirit'll be easy broken. 
 It was an ill day for Lintlaw an' for Elsie, 
 when Edith Hamilton took her awa' to that 
 ill toon o' Lunnon.' 
 
 ' I'm vext for Hew, mother,' said Christian 
 absently, for out of her own fulness of content 
 she could sympathize most of all with him. 
 
 ' Kirsten, bairn, I doot I'll see Elsie nae 
 mair this side o' time/ said Mrs. Dalrymple 
 suddenly ; and when Christian looked sharply 
 at her face, it was turned away towards the 
 red glory of the sunset, and there was a 
 strange, far-off look in her wearied eyes 
 which seemed to tell of a soul's deep yearn- 
 ing for its eternal home. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' was all that Christian said ; then 
 the hands of mother and daughter met in a 
 convulsive grasp, and for Christian the worst 
 was over ; for now there need be no suspense, 
 and some day soon there would be a Lintlaw 
 without a mother. Is it not strange, what 
 deep strength comes to us in such moments 
 of keen agony, and how we are lifted out % of 
 ourselves, sometimes, up to the very hill of 
 God? Christian knew that her mother was
 
 NEW!> OF ELSIE. 165 
 
 but leaving this world for a better, as Bunyan 
 quaintly has it ; and that the home over there 
 was a happier one even than happy Lintlaw. 
 
 There was no sleep that night for Mrs. 
 Dalrymple or for Christian. The latter seemed 
 to be only entering now upon the reality of 
 life. It had been unbroken sunshine hitherto, 
 and if the clouds gathered now, dared she 
 repine ? 
 
 The morning brought a letter to Mrs. 
 Dalrymple, addressed in a strange, cramped 
 handwriting, and bearing an English post- 
 mark. Need I say her fingers trembled 
 sorely when she broke the seal, and it was 
 a little time before she could sufficiently 
 compose herself to read it ? It ran thus : 
 
 ' LYNDON PRIORY, July 18, 
 
 ' MADAM, It is now my duty to inform you 
 of certain circumstances concerning Elsie Bea- 
 toun, the young lady whom you have had 
 under your care since the death of her father 
 some years ago. As I am confident that her 
 unhappy mother's history must be already 
 known to you, I need not now trouble you 
 with it She was my daughter, and Elsie is
 
 1 66 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 my grandchild. As such, having met her 
 in London, I at once claimed her. As she 
 has no claim whatsoever upon you, and as 
 anything she has obtained or might obtain 
 from you could only be charity, she naturally 
 makes no objections whatever to accepting 
 the guardianship of one so nearly related to 
 her. But while thus willing, do not for a 
 moment imagine that she or I am ungrateful 
 for your past kindness to her. I feel that it 
 can never be repaid. If you could name any 
 sum of money, or any way in which I could 
 show my appreciation of your kindness to a 
 Traquair, nothing will give me greater plea- 
 sure than to comply at once with your desire. 
 I am about to take my grand-daughter abroad 
 for a few months ; but towards the end of the 
 year I expect to visit Traquair, and shall do 
 myself the pleasure of again communicating 
 with you, probably in person, regarding what 
 you have done for Miss Beatoun. I am glad 
 to say my dear grand-daughter is in the best 
 of health and spirits, and that she has the 
 companionship of the future Laird of Traquair 
 and his sister to beguile the time. Perhaps I 
 am premature ; but believing you to be deeply
 
 NEWS OF ELSIE. 167 
 
 interested in her future welfare, I may men- 
 tion that I am in hopes, and not without 
 reason, that I may live to see her the Lady 
 of Traquair and Glenshee. 
 
 ' I am writing with Elsie's knowledge, and 
 she desires her kindly remembrances to those 
 who so befriended her in the past ; and she 
 bids me add, that notwithstanding the great 
 change in her position and prospects, she will 
 ever retain a pleasant recollection of her life 
 with you. 
 
 ' In conclusion, I beg to state that any letter 
 sent to Lady Traquair, at the above address, 
 will be at once forwarded to me. Hoping 
 you will not deny me the satisfaction of 
 showing substantially my gratitude, and again 
 thanking you most sincerely, I am, madam, 
 your obedient servant, 
 
 'ANNE LYNDON TRAQUAIR.' 
 
 That was the last news of Elsie which 
 came to Lintlaw for many a day.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LEAVING THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER. 
 
 JHERE was a deep, deep, shadow lying 
 on Lintlaw. The house was very 
 still, morning, noon, and night; and 
 when the laddies came home from school at four 
 o'clock, they would lay their books aside very 
 quietly, and take their tea without the usual 
 clamour, not grumbling even though Effie 
 forgot to put sugar or cream in the cups ; 
 for when mother was so ill, what did it 
 matter whether they got tea at all ? This 
 deep, loving concern for mother had sub- 
 dued the restless wills into a great gentleness, 
 and Christian marvelled much at the ready, 
 helpful spirit displayed by one and all. 
 
 Very gradually the brief afternoon repose 
 had been lengthened out for the mistress of 
 
 168
 
 LEA VING THIS WORLD POR A BETTER. 169 
 
 Lintlaw, till the day came, just in the busiest 
 time of harvest too, when she could not get 
 up at all. 
 
 The doctor came from Pathhead, and 
 another from Dalkeith, ay, and a great pro- 
 fessor from Edinburgh, at the bidding of 
 Mr. Dalrymple, but even their united skill 
 could not infuse new life into the feeble and 
 wasted energies of the precious sufferer. So, 
 while hoping and praying for the best, they 
 tried to make up their minds for what might 
 come. Only God, who witnesses and pities 
 all the sorrows of humanity, knew what that 
 meant, especially to the elder inmates of 
 Lintlaw. When Mrs. Dalrymple's illness 
 became so serious, all thought or talk of 
 Christian's marriage was, of course, at once 
 laid aside. The providing-making was sus- 
 pended half-way, and Christian locked it up 
 in a big trunk in the garret, dropping one 
 or two tears upon it as she did so, for none 
 but God knew whether it would ever be 
 finished. 
 
 A bountiful harvest was ingathered from 
 Lintlaw and Carlowrie, but there were sore, 
 sore hearts at the stacking that year, and
 
 170 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 there was no blithe merry-making at the 
 kirn, when the fruits of the earth were safe 
 under 'thack and rope.' They came from 
 far and near to ask for the mistress of 
 Lintlaw, for she was one greatly beloved 
 not only by her own, but by all who had 
 ever come in contact with her. It is one 
 of the mysteries of life that so many of 
 the shining lights are quenched while with 
 them it seemeth yet day, and we cannot find 
 any satisfactory reason for such sudden end- 
 ings to lives of usefulness and love. It 
 indeed seems at times as if the cumberers 
 of the ground were favoured with a long 
 lease of life ; but God, in His mercy, doeth 
 all things well. 
 
 As Christian was so much with her mother, 
 Effte, light-hearted, rattling, thoughtless Erne, 
 had a grave charge upon her shoulders, and 
 she did her work well, though at times she was 
 not so subservient to Christian as was desir- 
 able. The high-spirited, headstrong little 
 girl required skilful as well as firm dealing, 
 and she taxed all her elder sister's energies. 
 Altogether, it was a strange and desolate 
 autumn time for the Dalrymples, and one
 
 LEAVING THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER. 171 
 
 which even the youngest among them would 
 never forget. 
 
 One morning, early in the autumn, while 
 Christian was giving her mother her breakfast, 
 she was disturbed by a dismal wail from 
 Davie, down-stairs. It was just about time 
 for them going off to school, so, having laid 
 her mother back among her pillows, she ran 
 softly down to see what was the matter. 
 
 ' Wheesht ! wheesht ! bairns,' she said 
 warningly. ' What's a' the noise aboot ? ' 
 
 ' It's Dickie, he's flee'd away/ Robbie 
 hastened to exclaim, while Davie pointed 
 with a chubby forefinger at the empty 
 cage. 
 
 ' Wha opened the door ? ' asked Christian 
 sternly, knowing very well it was a trick of 
 Erne's, who loved to see him enjoy his liberty 
 both indoors and out of doors, in the sunshine 
 and the pleasant air. 
 
 ' It was me, Kirs ten. It was sic a bonnie 
 mornin', an' Dickie was lookin' that sair oot 
 at the sunshine. He'll come back like he did 
 afore.' 
 
 ' Mother aye said he wad flee awa' some 
 day, an' no' come back,' said Kirs ten. ' When
 
 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ye kent she didna like us to let him oot, ye 
 shouldna hae dune it, Effie.' 
 
 ' I'm aye daein' wrang, Kirsten,' said Effie 
 a little sullenly, for her small temper was 
 easily roused. Christian said no more, but 
 went away up-stairs again with a heavy heart, 
 for it had been a treat to mother to have 
 Dickie a little while in her room so long as 
 she could bear his clear, shrill, tuneful notes, 
 and it would be a great grief to her to hear 
 that he was gone. When she awoke in a little 
 time from a slight slumber, she turned to 
 Christian with a questioning look on her face, 
 
 'Are the bairns a' awa', Kirsten ?' 
 
 'Yes, mother, an' Effie's bakin'. I wish 
 ye could taste her scones the day, just to 
 please her. Ye'd wonder to see how weel 
 the bairn does a' thing.' 
 
 1 Ay,' said the mistress, with a gleam of the 
 dear motherly smile, 'that's weel, very weel, 
 Kirsten. There's the makin' o' a douce 
 woman in oor madcap Effie yet ; but I'm no' 
 hearin' Dickie cheepin' the day. He's unco 
 quate.' 
 
 ' Ay, mother,' said Christian, and that 
 was all.
 
 LEA VI NG THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER. 173 
 
 ' Jist rin doon for him, Kirsten. My heid's 
 no' sair the day, an' I like to see an' hear 
 the crater for Elsie's sake,' she said ; then 
 Christian's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' I'm very vexed, mother, but Effie let him 
 oot this mornin', an' he's awa' fleein' like a 
 wild thing ower the Kerse well. Like as no' 
 he'll no' be back till nicht.' 
 
 ' Jist like Elsie, Kirsten ! Lintlaw canna 
 haud him. There's some prayers that canna 
 be answered, Kirsten, this side the grave. 
 At times my heart's perfect wae for a sicht 
 o' Elsie, an' I ken brawly I'll never see her 
 here again.' 
 
 Christian was silent, busying herself arrang- 
 ing the medicine-bottles and other things on 
 the drawers-head. 
 
 ' Come here, Kirsten, my bairn, an' sit 
 doon here,' said Mrs. Dalrymple, with strange 
 earnestness, and Christian obeyed at once, 
 fixing yearning eyes upon the sweet face, now, 
 alas ! so worn and thin and sharpened for the 
 approaching change. 
 
 ' Ye ken, my lamb, that the time is short 
 noo,' she said, with an infinity of tenderness, 
 and when Christian's womanly head went
 
 174 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 down suddenly upon the pillows, the white 
 thin hand touched it lovingly, and for a little 
 there was no more said. 
 
 1 Mother, what '11 we do?* came at length, 
 almost in a wail, from Christian's lips. 
 
 ' Dae what mony ither mitherless bairns 
 hae dune afore ye, Kirsten ; stick to your 
 father an' to each other ; trust in God, and 
 ye'll get warstled through,' was the mother's 
 answer, spoken with the calm of assured 
 faith. 
 
 It was long, long since the mistress of 
 Lintlaw had herself faced and overcome the 
 ordeal of parting from all she loved on earth, 
 and now she was able to prepare them for 
 that parting also. 
 
 ' Mother, ye ken brawly I'll no' leave father 
 an' them a',' said Christian by and by. 
 
 ' At the present time I ken ye winna, my 
 bairn ; and though yer hope be deferred a 
 wee, the blessedness o' yer wifehood '11 be a' 
 the sweeter when it comes ; but oh, my lassie, 
 what wad I no' gie to haud a bairnie o' yours 
 an' John's in my arms jist ance afore I dee'd ! ' 
 
 ' An' oh, mother, how could I take the 
 vows of wifehood or motherhood upon me,
 
 LEAVING THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER. 175 
 
 an' you no' there to help me ? ' said Christian 
 brokenly. 
 
 ' I'll be there in the spirit, my bairn, though 
 ye dinna see me/ said Mrs. Dalrymple, with 
 soothing tenderness. ' An' it is a sweet 
 thought to the parted, baith here and abune, 
 that there '11 be ae family in heaven, an' the 
 bairns '11 ken their grandmother there as weel 
 as here.' 
 
 1 Mother, hoo can folk that havena the 
 peace of God in their hearts bear sorrow ? ' 
 asked Christian suddenly. ' What despair an* 
 desolation must be theirs ! ' 
 
 ' Ay, bairn, it behoves us to return thanks 
 for the hope that is in us,' said Mrs. Dalrymple ; 
 then she dozed a little again, and Christian 
 stole away to superintend things down-stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple was not always able to talk 
 thus sensibly and cheerfully ; there were days 
 of depression and sore pain, days even when 
 the brain was mournfully clouded, and she 
 would cry for ' father ' and for Christian, not 
 knowing that they were beside her ministering 
 to her with unutterable tenderness and love. 
 It was then that Christian nearly broke down, 
 for her strength was far spent ; but for the
 
 176 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 manly care and tenderness and devotion of 
 the minister, she could not have borne up at 
 all. So, amid such heart-rendings and painful 
 anxiety, September closed, and October* was 
 ushered in by an awful week of storms such as 
 had not been experienced in Scotland for many 
 years. The wind blew a hurricane for days, 
 every leaf was whirled from the autumn- 
 tinted boughs, and in the wood about Lintlaw 
 sturdy oaks and tall pines were torn up by the 
 roots and hurled to the ground with tremen 
 dous force. All over the land there was the. 
 sound of mourning and woe, because of the 
 destruction the storm had wrought upon the 
 sea. Some fishing villages were deprived -of 
 all the bread-winners, and were left only to the 
 widows and the fatherless, the voice of whose 
 mourning went up to heaven. There were not 
 wanting some who pronounced it to be a judg- 
 ment upon the world, because, like the cities 
 of the plain, it was wholly given up to sin. 
 
 Of all this the mistress of Lintlaw was 
 quite unconscious. She now seemed oblivious 
 of everything passing around her. She knew 
 Christian best, and seemed troubled and 
 uneasy when she was a moment from her side.
 
 LEAVING THIS WORLD FOR A BETTER. 177 
 
 To Christian it was an unspeakably precious 
 privilege to be able thus to minister to her 
 beloved mother to the very end. Watching 
 closely, noting keenly every change upon the 
 beloved face, she could almost have foretold 
 the very hour of death. 
 
 Just before the dawning on a calm, clear, 
 still morning, the summons came. Christian 
 was sitting by herself (her father having gone 
 to lie down for a little), when she saw the 
 change. She hastily ran to summon him and 
 Hew, who had slept at Lintlaw for a week 
 back, just waiting for the end. And these 
 three, standing in breathless silence by that 
 dying bed, saw the gentle passing of the spirit 
 away from the mortal clay. There was no 
 struggle nor pain, nor anything to alarm or 
 distress, only one look of unutterable love, 
 an upward glance, the glimmer of a lovely 
 smile, then the gentle closing of the wearied 
 eyes, and the red October sun rose upon 
 motherless Lintlaw.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SACRED HOURS. 
 
 jHE days which followed were hal- 
 lowed to all beneath the roof-tree 
 of Lintlaw. Many tears fell, many 
 heart- yearnings swept like the wave of a 
 great sea over the bereft, but a little while 
 spent in the best bedroom where the sleeper 
 lay stilled them all. For there was peace, 
 unutterable peace. Mrs. Dairy mple's face 
 had ever been a sweet and pleasant one to 
 look upon, but of late had been drawn and 
 pinched by her weariness and pain. Now all 
 these sad lines were smoothed away, and there 
 lay upon the pillow a face to which the bloom 
 of youth had been restored, liker the face 
 of sweet Effie Baillie, who thirty years before 
 had come a young and winsome bride to 
 
 178
 
 SACRED HOURS. 179 
 
 Lintlaw. Mr. Dalrymple was much in the 
 room, but of his sorrow I cannot write. For 
 thirty years she had been his darling, the 
 mother of his children, the partaker of life's 
 care and joy, his dearest upon the earth ; and 
 now she was gone. Not yet did he realize 
 the full extent of this sorrow which had over- 
 taken him. She had been the solace of his 
 sad hours, the smoother away of care ; Tier 
 gentle spirit had softened his harsher moods, 
 had taught him more of that charity which 
 suffereth long and is kind, and he had yet to 
 learn the hardness of life without that blessed 
 influence. He did not say much, nor make 
 any outward display of grief, because to one 
 of his race and nature it was impossible. But 
 beneath there was a tumult of yearning, 
 agonizing pain, which none guessed save 
 Christian. She saw the contraction of the 
 brows, the lines deepening about the mouth, 
 the strange, restless expression in the deep 
 eyes, and prayed with all her soul for her 
 father, knowing that the light of his life had 
 gone out 
 
 After the labours of the day were over, 
 Christian stole up just at the darkening with
 
 l8o CARLOWRIE. 
 
 some sprigs of lavender and bits of white 
 honesty, the only blossoms which had survived 
 the storm, and these she laid upon the pillow, 
 and put a spray in a glass on the dressing- 
 table. While she was thus occupied, the door 
 opened softly, and Davie stole in. The room 
 was full of shadows, and he did not observe 
 Christian at once, for the dressing-table stood 
 at the other side of the room from the bed. 
 He carried in his hand a little machine upon 
 which he had been busily engaged for weeks, 
 for Davie was quite a genius in his way, and 
 had a turn for inventing all sorts of curious 
 things, which were not of much use save that 
 they showed the bent of his mind. If Davie 
 were out of the way, he was sure to be found 
 over at the railway bridge recently erected at 
 Borthwick, watching the passing of the trains, 
 and puzzling his head over the construction 
 and working of the engines, which were more 
 interesting to him than all the live stock on 
 the farm. It was clear that Davie would 
 never follow his father's occupation, but, when 
 the time came, would be likely to turn his 
 attention to engineering. His mother had 
 ever taken a deep and lively interest in his 
 

 
 SACRED HOURS. 181 
 
 inventions, and as he had only that day 
 brought his beloved little engine to perfection, 
 he had come running to let mother see it, 
 forgetting that the dear eyes had closed for 
 ever on all earthly things. 
 
 Christian stood in breathless stillness watch- 
 ing while he climbed up on the chair, and 
 pulled down the cover from his mother's face. 
 
 ' Mother ! mother ! open yer een. I've 
 gotten my engine to gang ; look at it, mother,' 
 he said piteously ; but for the first time in all 
 his little life he found mother deaf to his 
 entreaty. Then Christian saw him stroke her 
 cheek with his black fingers, and, as if chilled 
 by the touch, he broke out into a bitter wail. 
 She came forward, and, lifting him in her 
 arms, tried to comfort him, though her own 
 tears were falling all the while. 
 
 * Mother'll no' look at my engine, 1 he sobbed; 
 but Christian kissed him, and said she would 
 look at it, and help him as best she could. So 
 the little heart was comforted, and by and by 
 he went away quite contentedly down-stairs. 
 Then Christian shut the door, and, kneeling 
 down by the bedside, consecrated herself to 
 the love and service of her father and the
 
 1 82 CAKLOWR1E. 
 
 rest so long as they needed her. It must not 
 be supposed that it was no sacrifice to Christian 
 Dalrymple to give up her own happiness just 
 when it was within her reach. She was just 
 like other women, with the same deep yearning 
 to build up a home for herself, but she was 
 one who would never shirk a duty whatever it 
 might involve for herself. She accepted this 
 cross with a beautiful and pathetic patience, 
 without saying anything about it or grumbling 
 even inwardly that she should be called upon 
 to bear it. That saintly face on the pillow, 
 hallowed by the peace of that heaven whither 
 the spirit had gone, was a noble incentive, a 
 mute guide and beacon-light to all that was 
 lovely and unselfish and truly good. 
 
 Christian prayed too with all the earnestness 
 of her heart that she might be helped to fill 
 her mother's place so far as lay in her power, 
 so that the blank might not be so terribly felt 
 in Lintlaw. After these quiet moments she 
 rose refreshed and strengthened, and, bending 
 down, kissed with loving lips the sweet still 
 face lying upon the pillow. Just then there 
 came a low knock to the bedroom door, and 
 Effie's head peeped round it.
 
 SACRED HOURS. 183 
 
 ' The minister's here, Kirsten,' she said, in a 
 whisper. ' Wull ye come doon ? ' 
 
 ' Bid him come up, Effie, please. Tell him 
 I'm in the best room,' whispered Christian 
 back ; for she felt that she would be alone 
 with her lover in the first meeting after her 
 bereavement. Mr. Laidlaw had been away 
 at Pencaitland supplying the pulpit of a 
 brother minister, and so had not been at 
 Lintlaw for a few days. Christian stole out 
 after Effie, across the lobby and into the 
 best room, where presently she was joined 
 by Mr. Laidlaw. When she heard him 
 come, she moved to him almost blindly, and 
 buried her face on his breast. She was not 
 often even thus demonstrative, but to-night 
 her heart wa3 overcharged by the sadness 
 of the present, and all the difficulty of the 
 future. 
 
 ' May God comfort you, my Christian/ said 
 the minister, in low and tender tones. ' It 
 was a great grief to me that I could not 
 be with you when the end came.' 
 
 1 We were wonderfully sustained ; but oh, 
 John, John, how can we live without mother?' 
 Then there came a flood of passionate tears,
 
 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 the first Christian had shed, and they brought 
 healing with them. 
 
 1 For her it is great gain, my dearest,' said 
 the minister, gently stroking the head bowed 
 upon his breast That caress so soothed 
 Christian, that before very long she was able 
 to look at him with a smile. 
 
 'What good you do me, John!' she said. 
 ' I knew I should be better when you 
 came.' 
 
 ' I thank God I am so much to you, Chris- 
 tian, for it gives me the hope that when you 
 are my precious wife, I shall be able to smooth 
 away every care and sorrow from your heart,' 
 he said tenderly. 
 
 * When I am your wife, John ! ' repeated 
 Christian wistfully, for her heart was hunger- 
 ing to be his for time and for eternity. ' Oh, 
 John, when can that be now ? ' 
 
 1 In a few months' time, my dearest It 
 would be no disrespect to your mother's angel 
 memory though there should be a quiet wed- 
 ding at Lintlaw. She in heaven would be 
 glad both with and for us/ said the minister. 
 Then, to his surprise, Christian withdrew 
 herself from his clasp, and stood a little
 
 SACRED HOURS. 185 
 
 aside, looking at him with a mingling of 
 pathos and resolution on her face. 
 
 'John, I promised mother to stay with 
 father for a little while. When you think 
 of all there is to do, of father and his 
 loneliness, of Erne and the rest, and Davie 
 just a bairn yet, I'm sure you would not 
 ask me, John, to come for a little while.' 
 
 The minister looked at her for. a moment 
 in surprise ; then he turned and walked 
 away over to the east window, from whence, 
 in the clear, bright moonlight, he could plainly 
 see the roof-tree of the Manse, which even 
 now was being set in order for its mistress. 
 These were bitter moments for the minister 
 of Crichtoun. How could he give her up ? 
 how lay aside for an indefinite time all the 
 sweet visions and lovely hopes which had of 
 late so clustered round his home, making its 
 loneliness less hard to bear ? These were 
 moments of agony, sharp and keen, also to 
 the heart of Christian Dalrymple. For a 
 little the silence was intense, painful almost 
 beyond endurance. Then with tottering step 
 she crossed the room and gently touched his 
 arm. 
 
 16
 
 i86 CARLO \VR1E. 
 
 1 John, speak to me, or I shall die,' she said 
 brokenly. 
 
 Then his arms closed about her, and she 
 felt them trembling. 
 
 1 It was but for a moment, my darling ; the 
 bitterness is past. You are a good and noble 
 woman, my Christian, of whom I am not 
 worthy. We will wait with patience, and, 
 please God, our happiness when it comes 
 will be all the sweeter because of the dis- 
 cipline which went before.' 
 
 ' But, John/ whispered Christian doubtfully, 
 though her heart was filled with a great glad- 
 ness, ' it may be years. I would not seek to 
 keep you bound to me. I love ' 
 
 She said no more, for his hand was on her 
 lips. 
 
 ' Hush, Christian ! In the sight of God you 
 are my wife, and whom He hath joined none 
 may put asunder,' he said solemnly. ' Now, 
 let us go to her' 
 
 We will not follow them into the chamber 
 of death ; with such solemn and sacred scenes 
 no stranger may intermeddle. When they 
 went down-stairs by and by, Mr. Dalrymple 
 and Hew wondered at the calm and beautiful
 
 SACRED HOURS. 187 
 
 radiance on Christian's face. The minister 
 stayed a little while, then Hew and Christian 
 walked part of the way with him through 
 the fields. When the brother and sister 
 were coming back together, Hew said sud- 
 denly, 
 
 ' What a splendid fellow Laidlaw is, Kirsten ! 
 I believe he's even guid enough for you.' 
 
 Christian laughed softly, and shook her head. 
 
 ' Far ower guid, Hew ; naebody kens what 
 John is but mysel',' she answered, and there 
 was no more said until they paused for a 
 moment on the doorstep at Lintlaw. The 
 moonlight was wondrous clear to-night; far 
 away over the wide sweep of country they 
 could see the dim outline of the Firth, and 
 a little to the right the abrupt peak of North 
 Berwick Law. The air was full of peace ; 
 the storm had spent itself, indeed, and left 
 behind a great ineffable calm. 
 
 'What changes, Hew!' said Christian. 
 1 Uncle Saunders and Aunt Nannie an' 
 mother a' awa'. D'ye no* feel as if it was 
 a hunder year sin' we gaed thegither to 
 Newlandrigg schule, an' chased Miss Ritchie's 
 peacock up to Scotstoun ? '
 
 188 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 1 Ay, Kirsten, it's whiles a wunner to me 
 hoo I'm to put in the rest o' my days. If 
 it wasna' for leavin* ye a', I wad be off 
 frae Carlo wrie,' said Hew, with a ring of 
 pain in his manly voice. 
 
 I Hew/ said Christian, ' hae ye lost faith in 
 Elsie?' 
 
 ' Ay, she's to be mairret, they say, in the 
 simmer to the Laird o' Traquair,' said Hew 
 bitterly. 'She wasna worth an honest love. 
 If I thocht I could be guilty o' sic black 
 ingratitude as hers, I'd fling mysel' in Car- 
 lowrie mill-dam, Kirsten.' 
 
 * Wheesht ! wheesht ! Hew,' cried Christian, 
 in distress. ' There's queer whisperins come 
 to me at times, Hew, an' I winna believe that 
 Elsie's false to us a' until I hae better proof. 
 I'm aye prayin', Hew, that God will unravel 
 this knotted thread, an' I believe He wull, 
 because it was one o' mother's last prayers.' 
 
 I 1 doot it'll be ane o' the unanswered 
 petitions, Kirsten ; an' though it may be 
 for oor guid, I canna see'd. I wush Elsie 
 Beatoun had never set fit in Lintlaw. She's 
 spoiled my life for me at its ootset,' said 
 Hew, with increased bitterness.
 
 SACRED HOURS, 189 
 
 Very gently Christian's hand stole to her 
 brother's tall shoulder, and her true eyes 
 looked with tender sympathy into his face. 
 
 1 Hew, I'm to learn the meanin' o' hope 
 deferred also,' she whispered ; ' an' I ken 
 hoo hard it maun be for you. But dinna 
 lose heart, for as sure as I stand here, 
 Elsie '11 come back, an' she'll be reigning in 
 Lintlaw long afore I be at the Manse. See 
 if my words dinna come true.' 
 
 ' Ye're a very witch o' Endor, Kirsten,' 
 said Hew, with a glimmer of the old pleasant 
 smile which had been missing from his face 
 for many a day. ' Ye mak' a man believe 
 ye in spite o' his better judgment. I dinna 
 wunner Laidlaw couldna help hissel'. Weel, 
 gin yer words come true, ye shall hae the 
 best silk goon in Dalkeith for the waddin'.' 
 
 There was a touch of the old jesting spirit 
 in Hew's words which did Christian's heart 
 good ; and so, with an answering smile on 
 her lips, she opened the door and they entered 
 the house. Does it seem strange to you that 
 there could even be the semblance of a jest 
 upon any subject in their minds or on their 
 lips in the very outset of their motherlessness ?
 
 1 90 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Nay, for though the bodily presence was gone, 
 the spirit of the mother would never leave 
 Lintlaw, and it had ever been an enemy to 
 gloom and darkness, a lover of gentle, harm- 
 less mirth, of every sunny and beautiful thing 
 on earth. 
 
 After Hew went up to bed, Christian 
 lingered a little beside her father, thinking 
 it would be best to acquaint him at once with 
 the decision to which she and Mr. Laidlaw 
 had come. 
 
 ' Ye'll be tired, Kirsten?' said Lintlaw, 
 looking with affectionate eyes at his daughter's 
 face. 
 
 She had her mother's eyes, and the same 
 unselfish, happy spirit which, for thirty years, 
 had made the sunshine of his home, looked 
 out upon him from these grey depths. 
 
 ' Not very, father,' answered Christian ; 
 then suddenly her eyes filled with tears. * I 
 just want to tell you to-night that I am not 
 going to the Manse as long as you need me. 
 I promised mother, and John knows, and will 
 wait for me until Effie can fill my place,' she 
 added, gathering strength as she went on, and 
 speaking in quiet and composed tones.
 
 SACRED HOURS. 191 
 
 Her father looked at her in surprise. His 
 firm under lip trembled slightly, for he was 
 deeply moved. 
 
 ' My bairn, I couldna accept sic a sacrifice 
 at your hands an' John's. The Manse is a' 
 ready for ye, an' gang when ye like, ye tak' a 
 father's prayers an' blessin' wi' ye.' 
 
 ' Oh, but father, I couldna be happy at the 
 Manse thinkin' on you here yersel', an' Effte 
 fechtin' wi', maybe, a strange servant's help to 
 do for you an' the laddies. I'd rather bide ; 
 it wad break my heart to see ony thing gaun 
 wrang in Lintlaw, an' me no' here to help it 
 Father, in the meantime my duty an' my 
 happiness lies here, the other '11 come by 
 and by.' 
 
 The light upon Christian's face as she 
 spoke was beautiful to see. Lintlaw utterly 
 broke down, and covered his face with his 
 hands. 
 
 ' Kirsten, ye are a rebuke to me. I was 
 but sittin' repinin' afore ye came in, thinkin' o' 
 the ruin and desolation that wad fa' upon 
 Lintlaw when baith yer mither and you were 
 awa'. Wha am I that I should hae been 
 blessed wi' sic a wife and sic a dochter ?
 
 192 CARLO WR1E. 
 
 Bide, my lassie, bide, and help yer faither to a 
 better knowledge of the love of God. Young 
 as ye are, ye hae mair o' His grace than me.' 
 
 Then, for the first time since she was a 
 little toddling bairnie, Christian crept into her 
 father's arms, and laid her arms about his 
 neck. She did not know what boundless 
 good that simple caress did to her father's 
 sore heart, hungering for sympathy and love. 
 
 So at the very beginning God blessed 
 Christian Dalrymple's efforts to fill her 
 mother's place, and surely in heaven that 
 mother looked down upon her in approving 
 tenderness and joy.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LYNDON PRIORY. 
 
 N a high - backed old - fashioned 
 tapestry-covered chair, in the library 
 at Lyndon Priory, sat Elsie Beatoun 
 on the morning of Christmas day. It was a 
 beautiful morning, clear and bright and brac- 
 ing, with just sufficient snow on the ground to 
 make the landscape beautiful to look upon. 
 The carollers had been early at the windows 
 of the Priory, and even now the bells of 
 Lyndon were ringing a merry, merry peal, for 
 there should be nothing but joy and goodwill 
 in hearts to-day. But the sweet face of the 
 maiden, sitting alone by the crackling wood 
 fire, was sad to look upon, and there were big 
 tears in the beautiful pathetic eyes. And yet 
 
 what sorrow or c?.re could touch the loved and 
 
 17
 
 194 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 cherished grand-daughter of the Lady Anne ? 
 Had she not horses and carriages, men ser- 
 vants and women servants, fine raiment and 
 costly jewels, and many other things which 
 are commonly the delight of the feminine 
 mind ? Ay, she had all these, but they were 
 not enough. Her heart was breaking for love; 
 her eyes dim with unutterable yearnings for 
 the sight of Scottish faces, the touch of Scot- 
 tish hands, for one glimpse of that dear home 
 within sight of the green braes of Crichtoun. 
 
 The house was very still. The majority of 
 the inmates had gone to attend the Christmas 
 service in the church at Lyndon, only the 
 Lady Anne herself had not yet left her dress- 
 ing-room. She was failing every day, and 
 those who were skilled in such matters pre- 
 dicted an early death. But though the body 
 had grown feeble, the mind was powerful still; 
 not a jot of its old force and energy was 
 abated, nay, it had increased rather, for in 
 these latter days the Lady Anne brooked not 
 the semblance of contradiction to her will. 
 When the solemn clock in the hall chimed 
 eleven, the library door opened, and the Lady 
 Anne entered the room. She was a gaunt,
 
 L YNDON PRIOR Y. 195 
 
 pale, hollow-eyed spectre now, about whom 
 her trailing robes hung loosely ; but the eye 
 was as keen as of yore, and the mouth had 
 lost none of its firmness. She looked deeply 
 surprised to see the slender figure buried in 
 the armchair on the hearth. 
 
 1 You here, Elsie ! ' she exclaimed. ' Why 
 are you not at church with the others ? ' 
 
 ' I did not care to go this morning, grand- 
 mother,' replied Elsie, and rose to offer the old 
 lady her chair. ' Are you well to-day, you look 
 so pale and worn, I fear you have not slept ? ' 
 
 ' No, I have not,' said the Lady Anne, 
 sinking wearily into the chair. ' Sleeplessness 
 is one of the many disagreeable attributes of 
 age. And why are you moping alone here ? 
 You have been crying, Elsie; I see tears on 
 your eyelashes.' 
 
 ' Yes, grandmother/ said Elsie simply, and, 
 moving over to the low window, stood looking 
 out upon the whitened landscape, across which 
 came pealing the chime of Lyndon bells. 
 
 ' Has Deborah Conroy gone to church, 
 Elsie ? ' asked the Lady Anne harshly. 
 
 ' Yes, grandmother ; I said I would do any- 
 thing you might require. It is a great plea-
 
 196 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 sure to Deborah to go to church. You will 
 not be angry with her, grandmother ? She 
 has not many pleasures in life.' 
 
 Elsie meant no disrespect or slur upon her 
 grandmother, she only spoke the simple truth. 
 Deborah Conroy had indeed reason to bless 
 the day that Elsie came to Lyndon Priory, for 
 the young girl, fearless in her innocence and 
 tender sympathy, had stood between her and 
 her kinswoman's wrath times without number. 
 As a natural result, Deborah Conroy wor- 
 shipped the very ground upon which Elsie trod. 
 
 ' Does Deborah Conroy complain to you, 
 Elsie ? She has little need. I took her from 
 beggary, and clothed and fed her. She sits at 
 my table and eats of my bread. What more 
 does the creature require ?' 
 
 ' How can you speak so, grandmother ? ' 
 asked Elsie, her delicate face flushing with 
 indignant shame. ' Deborah works hard, and 
 owes you nothing. As for complaining, such 
 a thing is not in her nature, but I should not 
 wonder if she did.' 
 
 ' You are very bold in your speech, Elsie. 
 You are not afraid to presume on my love for 
 you, said the old woman grimly, yet inwardly
 
 L YND ON PRIOR Y. 197 
 
 not displeased, for she loved to see a fearless 
 spirit displayed in man or woman, and for 
 such as poor Deborah Conroy she had the 
 utmost contempt. 
 
 ' Grandmother, when are we going to Scot- 
 land ? ' was Elsie's sudden and unexpected 
 question. 
 
 ' I have not yet decided,' replied the Lady 
 Anne. ' Are you discontented already with 
 my English home ? I am sure it is fair enough 
 to satisfy any heart.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but, grandmother, I love Scotland 
 best,' answered Elsie, her soft eyes strangely 
 dim. ' You promised me that we would go 
 at Christmas time, and that I should see them 
 all at Lintlaw.' 
 
 ' Child ! child ! are you fretting after these 
 peasant folks yet ? ' queried the old woman, 
 in tones of querulous displeasure. ' I had 
 thought that so much change of scene and 
 the difference in your life and prospects would 
 have cured you of that. It is not seemly for 
 a Traquair to be so bound up in those so far 
 beneath her.' 
 
 Elsie's bosom heaved, her soft eyes now 
 flashed indignant fire.
 
 198 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 ' You do not know me nor them, grand- 
 mother,' she said, in clear, unfaltering tones. 
 'No punishment would be too great for me 
 were I to forget what they did for me, how 
 they clothed and fed and cherished me, when 
 I was a friendless orphan on the face of the 
 earth. And among all the people I have met, I 
 have seen none to compare with those of whom 
 you so contemptuously speak as peasant folk.' 
 
 It was curious to see the varying expressions 
 which crossed the face of the Lady Anne 
 while her grand-daughter was speaking. She 
 was very angry, but she hid it well. 
 
 ' You flatter me, and those of my friends 
 to whom you have been introduced,' she said 
 slowly. ' Tell me, then, do Howard Traquair 
 and his sister rank as low in your estimation ? ' 
 
 A glimmering of a smile dawned upon 
 Elsie's face. 
 
 ' Oh no, grandmother, I love both my 
 cousin Howard and Marjorie ; I love all 
 beneath the roof-tree of the Priory,' she said. 
 1 But you cannot wonder that my heart clings to 
 my first friends with a deep and yearning love.' 
 
 1 Come here, Elsie.' 
 
 The commanding tones Elsie obeyed at
 
 L YND ON PRIOR Y. 1 99 
 
 once, and, kneeling by her grandmother's 
 chair, she looked up questioningly into her 
 face. Oh, what childlike purity and truth, 
 what innocent loveliness was on her face as 
 she did so ! In her inmost heart the proud old 
 woman was deeply moved, and she laid one 
 slender hand on the sunny head. 
 
 ' You love your cousins Howard and 
 Marjorie ?' she repeated questioningly. 
 
 ' Oh yes, grandmother. I could not live 
 without Marjorie, she is such a comfort to me ; 
 and Howard is a dear, good boy, though he 
 teases me so dreadfully,' replied Elsie, without 
 the least hesitation. 
 
 'You know that Howard is Laird of 
 Traquair and Glenshee ? ' she said slowly. 
 ' That the summer will see him settled upon 
 his own fair domain, which has not its equal 
 in broad Scotland ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I know,' nodded Elsie, 'and Marjorie 
 will go with him until one or other marry.' 
 
 ' Howard's wife will have a great position, 
 Elsie,' said the Lady Anne. 
 
 ' Yes ; and oh, I hope he will get one 
 worthy of him, grandmother,' exchimed 
 Elsie. 'He is so good and noble and kind,
 
 200 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 he deserves the best woman in the world, I 
 am quite sure.' 
 
 ' Elsie, there is but one woman in all the 
 world for Howard, and you are the one,' said 
 the Lady Anne bluntly. 
 
 Elsie looked at her for a moment with 
 dumbfoundered eyes, then a deep and painful 
 flush overspread her fair face, and she hid it 
 upon the arm of her grandmother's chair. 
 
 ' Since ever you were /providentially restored 
 to me, my child/ began the Lady Anne, with 
 something of gentleness in her tone, ' it has 
 become the dream of my life to see you 
 united to Howard Traquair. Such a union 
 would blot out all the bitter memories of 
 the past, and would atone for what I have 
 suffered these many years. It is a position 
 any young girl might covet, and Howard 
 Traquair is one whom any woman might love. 
 Elsie, Elsie, be good to him and me. I am 
 an unhappy woman, drawing very near the 
 end of what has been a painful life. Give me 
 a gleam of sunshine before the end. Let me 
 see the restoration of the house of Traquair. 
 Let me die knowing that its honour is safe in 
 your hands. I am asking no sacrifice at your
 
 L YNDON PRIOR Y. 
 
 hands, my child ; nay, rather, I am only asking 
 you to make yourself as well as others happy.' 
 
 A convulsive shiver ran through Elsie's 
 frame, but she made no reply, and a long 
 silence ensued. Nothing was to be heard in 
 the quiet room but the ticking of the clock, 
 and from afar the wild, sweet chime of Lyndon 
 bells. At last, with gentle force the Lady 
 Anne lifted the fair head from its resting- 
 place, and looked into Elsie's face. How pale 
 it had grown ! how deep and pathetic the 
 shadow dwelling in the big dark eyes ! 
 
 ' Child ! child ! what is the meaning of this 
 sorrow ? ' she asked chidingly. ' What is there 
 in the thought of a marriage with Howard 
 Traquair to bring such a shadow to your lips?' 
 
 Then Elsie stood up, and, folding her hands 
 before her, looked at her grandmother with a 
 mingling of timidity and resolution on her face. 
 
 4 It is time now to tell you, grandmother, 
 what I have concealed from you during the 
 six months I have been under your roof-tree,' 
 she said quietly, though her lips trembled. 
 1 1 know you will be very angry with me, for 
 a time at least, because your disappointment 
 will be great. Although I do not love
 
 202 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 Howard Traquair as a woman must love the 
 man to whom she gives herself, there is 
 another reason which would prevent me enter- 
 taining the idea of marrying him for a moment. 
 I I am not free, grandmother. I left Lint- 
 law in the spring as the promised wife of Hew 
 Dalrymple, and though he has never answered 
 my letters, I will be true to him. I I could 
 not wed another, grandmother, while my heart 
 is so wholly his.' 
 
 The Lady Anne rose, and the passion on 
 her face was awful to see. Elsie looked upon 
 her in affright. She spoke no word, but 
 began to move slowly towards the door. 
 Then Elsie sprang to her side. 
 
 ' Grandmother, do not look at me with these 
 eyes,' she cried almost wildly. ' Be kind, be 
 merciful to me. If you can never forgive me, 
 give me money to take me away from Lyndon. 
 Let me go back to Scotland to those who 
 have loved and cared for me longest and 
 best. I am not ungrateful, grandmother, and 
 I will always love you ; but oh, my heart is 
 breaking for home ! ' 
 
 The Lady Anne cast off the pleading hand.. 
 Her white lips essayed to utter the words upon
 
 L YNDON PRIOR Y. 203 
 
 them, but failed. But the eyes seemed to slay 
 Elsie where she stood. She was glad to press 
 her hands to her own to shut out that look. 
 
 ' Wicked, ungrateful girl ! ' came at length 
 passionately from the Lady Anne's lips. 
 ' Child of a perverse mother, would to God I 
 had left you to your low-born friends and your 
 peasant lover ! ' 
 
 Then she tottered from the room, and 
 up-stairs to her own, to brood anew over the 
 downfall of the hopes which had blossomed 
 anew over Elsie. Ay, that was a bitter, bitter 
 hour indeed for Anne Lyndon Traquair. 
 
 Elsie stood for a few minutes after her 
 grandmother left her, then turning, threw 
 herself upon a couch, and buried her face in 
 the pillow. The same bitter pain her mother 
 had so often endured was hers to-day. She 
 lay there stunned, unable to weep, scarcely to 
 think, until the sound of merry voices in the 
 hall proclaimed the return of the church- 
 goers. Then Elsie rose, but before she could 
 escape, the door opened, and Howard entered 
 the room. A smile was on his face, bantering 
 words on his lips, but at sight of his cousin's 
 face he stopped short, looking at her blankly.
 
 204 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 1 Why, Elsie, what is it ? Who has been 
 annoying or vexing you ? ' he asked, with real 
 concern in his pleasant voice. 
 
 ' Nobody. I have vexed grandmother. 
 Don't ask me any questions, please, Howard,' 
 said Elsie pitifully ; then, seeing in his face 
 confirmation of her grandmother's words, her 
 face flushed once more. 
 
 ' If you had said Aunt Anne had vexed 
 you, I would believe it more readily,' he said 
 quickly. ' Can't I help you, Elsie ? You 
 know there is nothing on earth gives me 
 greater pleasure than to serve you.' 
 
 ' No, thank you, dear Howard. I am not 
 ungrateful, but nobody except God can help 
 me in this trouble. Is Marjorie up-stairs ? 
 I I think I will go to her.' 
 
 So saying, Elsie stole softly from the room, 
 leaving Howard both perplexed and sorely 
 troubled. With weak and weary feet, Elsie 
 climbed the wide staircase, and entered the 
 dressing-room she shared with Marjorie. 
 Howard Traquair's sister was the counter- 
 part of himself, gay, light-hearted, happy 
 souled, full of lively humour and true loving- 
 kindness, a sunbeam of peace and beauty
 
 L YNDON PRIOR Y. 205 
 
 wherever she went. She had accepted the 
 great change in her fortunes with the same 
 serene contentment with which she had borne 
 poverty. Riches cannot spoil such whole- 
 some natures as these which have been trained 
 and purified in the fine school of hardship 
 and self-denial. She was standing at the 
 mirror unfastening her fur cloak, but at Elsie's 
 entrance turned a rosy and winsome face all 
 smiles to greet her. 
 
 'Why, Elsie, dear, what has happened to 
 you ? Who has been annoying my pet ? ' she 
 cried, with the impulsive and caressing ways 
 peculiar to her. Her voice was very musical, 
 and had an English accent which contrasted 
 oddly with Elsie's Scottish tongue. 
 
 1 Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie, my heart is very 
 sore!' cried Elsie, and in a moment her 
 head was pillowed on Marjorie's faithful 
 breast. ' Just let me lie here where I feel so 
 safe. Oh, dear Marjorie, I have nobody now 
 on earth but you and Howard, for grand- 
 mother will never forgive me.' 
 
 Then a flood of tears came to relieve the 
 overcharged heart
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 
 
 MMEDIATELY 
 
 her 
 
 upon ner return 
 
 from church, Deborah Conroy was 
 summoned to the presence of the 
 Lady Anne. She found her sitting by her 
 dressing-room fire, her face deadly pale, and 
 wearing an expression which Deborah knew 
 well enough to dread. Her kinswoman was 
 in one of her worst moods to-day. 
 
 ' I I hope you were not vexed because I 
 went to church, Anne ? ' she said falteringly. 
 1 Elsie said she would see whether you wanted 
 anything while I was away.' 
 
 ' I cannot ask Elsie to perform your duties, 
 Deborah Conroy,' said her ladyship harshly. 
 ' But I will let it pass. I shall not be able 
 to come down-stairs to-day, I am so feeble
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 207 
 
 and far spent. The vicar and his wife dine 
 with us to-day, but my grand-daughter will 
 convey my apologies to them, and you will see 
 that everything is provided for their comfort.' 
 
 1 Yes, Anne, I ordered the dinner before I 
 went away, and I am sure it will be very nice,' 
 murmured Deborah, nervously working with 
 the fringes of her shawl. 
 
 It was pitiful to see the shrinking of the 
 poor creature in the presence of her austere 
 relative, of whom she stood in awe amounting 
 to fear. 
 
 ' You will bring me some writing materials 
 up here. I have some correspondence to 
 attend to ; and when the letter-bag is ready 
 for despatch to Lyndon you will bring it up 
 here to me, and I will put in my letters and 
 lock it myself.' 
 
 ' Very well, Anne/ said Deborah Conroy, 
 too unsuspicious to think there was anything 
 peculiar in such a request. 
 
 ' That is all ; but stay, go and see where 
 Elsie is, and come and tell me ; ' and Deborah, 
 glad to escape, hastened to obey. 
 
 On her way down-stairs she met Marjorie, 
 and paused to ask where Elsie was.
 
 ao8 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 'She is lying down, Deborah. She has a 
 bad headache, and I promised that no one 
 should disturb her. If Aunt Anne is asking 
 for her, tell her she has fallen asleep.' 
 
 That message Deborah at once carried to 
 the Lady Anne, and then, having brought 
 the writing materials, was dismissed from her 
 presence. 
 
 At four o'clock in the afternoon the letter- 
 bag was laid upon the hall table, ready for the 
 groom to take to the post-office at Lyndon. 
 
 While Elsie and Marjorie were having a 
 cup of tea together in their dressing-room, 
 Deborah Conroy, unobserved, removed the 
 bag and carried it up to the Lady Anne. 
 She had finished writing her letters, and 
 requested Deborah to send up tea for her 
 in a quarter of an hour. When she was 
 again left alone the Lady Anne unlocked 
 the bag and lifted out the letters, of which 
 there was a goodly number, for the servants 
 were allowed to send their letters in the 
 Priory bag, and it being Christmas, were 
 exchanging greetings with their friends. 
 Very deliberately the Lady Anne lifted 
 them out one by one There were several
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 209 
 
 in Howard's bold, beautiful handwriting, and 
 one in Marjorie's flowing hand, addressed 
 to a friend in London. At length a gleam 
 of satisfaction crossed the face of the Lady 
 Anne, for she had found the one she sought, 
 an envelope addressed in Elsie's handwriting, 
 to Mrs. Dalrymple, Lintlaw, Gorebridge, 
 Scotland. Without hesitation the Lady 
 Anne broke the seal, tossed the envelope 
 in the fire, and, smoothing out the neatly- 
 folded sheet, read what was written thereon. 
 Dark, dark grew her brow as she perused the 
 passionate epistle, every line of which breathed 
 a yearning and unaltered love. It prayed for 
 but a line in return, to ease the agony of sus- 
 pense and pain which she was suffering. It 
 begged them not to forget her yet awhile; 
 and closed with an assurance that, please 
 God, she would come again some day soon 
 to make her home with them for all time ; 
 to be the Elsie of old, loved and cared for 
 far beyond what she deserved. There were 
 many inquiries about every separate member 
 of the family, and only one brief allusion to 
 Hew. 'Tell Hew, dear Aunt Erne,' ran the 
 trembling words, and just then a big tear-drop 
 
 18
 
 210 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 had fallen and made a blot upon the page, 
 ' that even in the midst of a silence which 
 my aching heart cannot understand, I am 
 and will be true to him still.' 
 
 Even in her anger one thing struck the 
 Lady Anne, and awakened in her heart some- 
 thing akin to remorse. Although her name 
 was several times mentioned, it was always 
 in terms of gratitude and love ; there was 
 not even the most distant allusion to her 
 harsher moods, or to what had passed that 
 very morning. She was repaying that unself- 
 ishness with a treachery black and bitter ; 
 and though she had the child's welfare as well 
 as her own ambition at heart, she had for- 
 gotten those warning words of Holy Writ 
 ' Ye may not do evil that good may come.' 
 
 Having read and re-read the letter, she 
 threw it into the dancing flames and watched 
 it disappear; then she turned to replace the 
 letters in the bag, when her eye was riveted 
 by another address, evidently written by one 
 of the servants : 
 
 4 Miss Ritchie, 
 
 ' Scotstoun, Gorebridge, 
 4 Scotland.'
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 
 
 Reading that, a sudden inspiration flashed 
 across the mind of the Lady Anne, and she 
 foresaw an easy and speedy ending to the 
 difficulties which beset her, and which, once 
 removed, would surely secure her the desire 
 of her heart. 
 
 Punctually at the hour, Deborah Conroy 
 herself brought up the tea tray, and found 
 her kinswoman leaning back in her chair, 
 apparently asleep. The letter-bag, safely 
 locked, lay on the table beside her. 
 
 ' Is that you, Deborah ? ' asked she lan- 
 guidly. ' Take down the letter-bag and 
 send Barrett off with it at once. My letters 
 are in. How does the dinner progress ? Is 
 Elizabeth Ritchie very busy ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, Anne ; but I believe she will be 
 nearly through now,' said Deborah, some- 
 what astonished at the question, for it was 
 very seldom that the Lady Anne expressed 
 much interest in household matters, though 
 she was quick enough to blame when any 
 hitch occurred. 
 
 1 Elizabeth is a good cook and a faithful 
 servant, is she not, Deborah ? How long 
 has she been with us now ? '
 
 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 * Seven years, Anne. Yes, she is a good 
 servant, but I do not like her. She is so 
 quiet and cunning,' said Deborah simply. 
 
 ' You judge harshly, Deborah,' said the 
 Lady Anne severely. ' She is a Scotch- 
 woman, remember, and that reticence and 
 stillness which you call cunning is only a 
 mark of her nationality. I was thinking to 
 make each of the servants a little Christmas 
 gift, Deborah, because since last Christmas 
 so many happy changes have befallen me. I 
 would seek to mark in some way my grati- 
 tude for the restoration both of my beloved 
 grandchild, and of my nephew the Laird of 
 Traquair. I will begin under my own roof- 
 tree. You shall have twenty pounds, De- 
 borah, and that amethyst brooch of mine 
 for which you have such an admiration. 
 Next week, if my health is a little improved, 
 we will make arrangements for giving the 
 poor people of Lyndon and Amhurst a sub- 
 stantial dinner and tea ; and we will have 
 a party here on New Year's Eve. Young 
 people must have some enjoyment, Deborah. 
 The quiet life which satisfied two old women 
 will not do for the new members of our family.
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 213 
 
 Deborah Conroy looked upon her kins- 
 woman in surprise, mingled with a little 
 anxious fear. She could scarcely believe 
 that in a sane moment the Lady Anne 
 would utter such sentiments as these. The 
 ghost of a smile touched for a moment the 
 pale lips of the Lady Anne. 
 
 ' Why do you look at me so ? I am in 
 earnest, Deborah,' she said. ' Now, leave me, 
 and tell Elizabeth Ritchie that when she is 
 at liberty I shall be glad to see her here for 
 a few minutes.' 
 
 ' Very well, Anne/ replied Deborah Conroy, 
 and retired to ponder in solitude over this 
 strange new whim of the Lady Anne. In 
 about half an hour, Elizabeth, or Betsy 
 Ritchie, as she was commonly called, came to 
 her mistress's chamber door, and was at once 
 requested to come in. 
 
 She was a tall, pale, dark-browed woman, 
 with strongly-marked features and piercing 
 black eyes, which, with their furtive gleam 
 and the peculiar droop of the lids, gave 
 evidence that there was some truth in 
 Deborah Conroy's prejudice against her. 
 She was a daughter of Adam Ritchie of
 
 214 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Windymains, who had been a son of one 
 of the Faas of Yetholm, so there was gipsy 
 blood in Betsy's veins. She was not well 
 liked by her neighbour servants, who were 
 mostly flighty English girls, as different from 
 her as could well be imagined. She kept 
 herself to herself, as the saying goes, and 
 was proud in her consciousness of being an 
 invaluable servant, who could command her 
 labour's worth anywhere. 
 
 When she entered the room the Lady 
 Anne looked at her keenly, as if to judge 
 whether she could trust her. Then she 
 motioned her to a chair. 
 
 ' Sit down, Elizabeth. Miss Conroy would 
 tell you, probably, why I sent for you ? ' 
 
 ' No, my lady,' said Betsy, who, when 
 speaking to her mistress, laid aside her own 
 tongue. ' I hope you have no fault to find 
 with me ? ' 
 
 There was an aggressive note in Betsy's 
 voice which told that she was prepared to 
 resent any rebuke. 
 
 ' Oh no, Elizabeth ; you are, and have 
 ever been, a faithful friend and servant to me 
 since you came to Lyndon. I would seek
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 215 
 
 now to mark my appreciation of these ser- 
 vices by a small gift,' said the Lady Anne, 
 and, unlocking a small desk on the table beside 
 her, took from thence five golden sovereigns, 
 and counted them into Betsy's palm. A slight 
 flush of surprise and pleasure tinged for a 
 moment the woman's pale cheek, for she had 
 all a gipsy's greed of gold ; yet, unlike these 
 wandering people, she hoarded up every 
 penny, scarcely expending what was necessary 
 on clothing for herself. 
 
 ' Thank you, my lady,' she said, dropping a 
 profound courtesy, and slipping the sovereigns 
 into her pocket. 
 
 ' How long is it since you were in Scotland, 
 Elizabeth ? ' 
 
 ' It is eleven years, my lady, since I came to 
 London as cook in the family of Mrs. Graham 
 of Meggatlee. I left them there, and took 
 service with the Bishop of Raylands, whom I 
 left seven years come Whitsuntide to come 
 here,' replied Elizabeth quietly. 
 
 1 And you have never been home to your 
 own people since then ? ' 
 
 4 Never, my lady. My old home is broken 
 up. My father and mother died in Windy-
 
 216 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 mains, and my brother Adam has the farm 
 now. He's married now, but I keep up no 
 correspondence with him or his wife ; we 
 never could agree,' said Betsy, unconsciously 
 beguiled to tell more of her history than had 
 passed her lips for many years. 
 
 1 It seems a strange and lonely kind of 
 thing for you to be cut off from all your 
 kindred, Elizabeth,' said the Lady Anne. 
 ' You have been a good and faithful servant 
 to me. I would not grudge you a holiday, if 
 you wish it, to revisit Scotland.' 
 
 Very great was the surprise on the face of 
 Elizabeth Ritchie at that moment. 
 
 ' You are very kind, my lady. But I have 
 no great desire to go back to Scotland. The 
 only person I would like to see there would 
 be my cousin Ailie Ritchie at Scotstoun.' 
 
 ' Scotstoun! Where is that, Elizabeth ?' 
 
 ' It is a farm place near the village of Gore- 
 bridge, my lady, quite near to Lintlaw, where 
 Miss Elsie lived so long.' 
 
 ' Ah, then, did you know the Dalrymples 
 of Lintlaw ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady ; but they were 'proud people, 
 with whom I never could get on. But
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 217 
 
 my cousin Ailie made a great work with 
 
 them.' 
 
 ' Do you ever hear from this cousin of yours, 
 
 Elizabeth ?' queried the Lady Anne. 
 
 It was a great effort for her to stoop thus to 
 question a dependent, but great events might 
 hang on the issue of this interview. 
 
 ' Sometimes, my lady,' was all Elizabeth re- 
 plied, for she would not volunteer much infor- 
 mation unasked. 
 
 ' In her letters to you does she ever make 
 any allusion to my grand-daughter or the 
 people of Lintlaw ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady ; Ailie often speaks of them.' 
 
 ' Probably she has alluded to some love 
 affair which at one time existed between my 
 grand-daughter and the son of the house ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady. In her last letter to me, 
 written about four months ago, my lady, she 
 said that Hew Dalrymple was not the same 
 man since Miss Elsie went away, and that she 
 was sore missed at Lintlaw.' 
 
 The Lady Anne remained silent for a brief 
 moment, shading her face with her hand. 
 Then suddenly she raised her head and looked 
 the woman full in the face. 
 
 19
 
 218 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 1 Elizabeth, can I trust you as a friend to me 
 and the house of Traquair ? I am in a sore diffi- 
 culty, out of which you can help me if you will.' 
 
 ' I shall be honoured by your ladyship's 
 confidence. You know I am not one of these 
 babbling fools who can keep nothing. I can be 
 as secret as the grave,' replied Betsy quietly 
 but respectfully. 
 
 1 Then, Elizabeth, listen to me,' said the 
 Lady Anne, leaning forward in her eagerness. 
 ' You can see any one can see the devotion 
 of the Laird of Traquair to my grand-daughter. 
 Such an alliance would bring happiness to all 
 concerned, and would make the building up 
 of the house of Traquair. My grand-daughter 
 returns the love of the Laird, but in the 
 meantime she foolishly considers herself 
 bound to this young farmer in Scotland. 
 This foolish idea is the only barrier to her 
 happiness, and is making the child miserable. 
 If by any means she could hear that this 
 Dalrymple was about to marry or was married 
 to another, her scruples would vanish. He 
 has evidently forgotten her, seeing he has not 
 written to her once since she came to me. 
 You follow me, Elizabeth ?'
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 219 
 
 ' Yes, my lady,' replied Betsy Ritchie, with 
 a peculiar droop of the eyelids. ' I under- 
 stand you quite well.' 
 
 ' If you could go to Scotland and bring 
 back word to me of Hew Dalrymple's mar- 
 riage, I could break it to her, referring her to 
 you for confirmation. It would be a harmless 
 deception, Elizabeth, seeing the young man 
 has already proved faithless.' 
 
 'Would a letter purporting to come from 
 my cousin at Scotstoun not do as well, 
 my lady ? ' said Betsy meaningly. ' I have 
 no desire to go to Scotland at the present 
 time.' 
 
 1 Yes, Elizabeth, it will do quite as well. 
 You understand, I see, and are willing to aid 
 me in securing the happiness of those so dear 
 to me,' said the Lady Anne, with effusion. ' In 
 consideration of your help, I shall give you 
 fifty pounds upon New Year's day, Elizabeth, 
 and fifty more upon the marriage of the Laird 
 and my grand- daughter. You will not find a 
 Traquair an ungrateful recipient of kindness, 
 Elizabeth.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my lady ; I am sure of that/ 
 said Betsy Ritchie, in well - pleased tones.
 
 220 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 1 May I go now, my lady ? I fear the dinner 
 requires my attention.' 
 
 The Lady Anne bowed, and her servant 
 withdrew. She was well satisfied with the 
 result of the interview, and congratulated 
 herself upon having so deceived Elizabeth 
 Ritchie as to make her request seem a small 
 and trifling thing. But, clever though she was, 
 the Lady Anne was no match for Adam 
 Ritchie's daughter, in whose veins ran the 
 cunning blood of the Faas. 
 
 Late in the evening, just before the vicar 
 and his wife arrived at the Priory, the Lady 
 Anne rang for Deborah Conroy, and bade her 
 send Elsie, when she was dressed, into her 
 chamber. Elsie came at once, a fair, sweet, 
 pure vision in flowing white, with no orna- 
 ment but some natural blossoms nestling at 
 her bosom. She was very pale and trembling, 
 for the day had been long and trying for her. 
 She looked timidly at her grandmother's face, 
 and, seeing a kind smile there, stole over to 
 her chair, and knelt down beside it. 
 
 ' My child, my darling, I was very rough 
 with you this morning,' said the Lady Anne, 
 with the utmost gentleness. ' I am a pas-
 
 MISS RITCHIE'S COUSIN BETSY. 221 
 
 sionate, cross old woman, who even in age 
 has not learned that life is full of disappoint- 
 ments. I would not break your heart, my 
 Elsie, only do not leave me for a little while. 
 Stay by me till the end. I shall not see the 
 year out, and then you can go back to the 
 friends you love so well.' 
 
 Elsie burst into tears. The relief was so 
 great that she was unable to bear it. By and 
 by, growing calmer, she rose, and, folding 
 her soft arms about her grandmother's neck, 
 pressed her pure lips to the furrowed brow. 
 
 1 Stand back a little, my child, till I look at 
 you,' she said a little hurriedly, for that kiss 
 stabbed her selfish heart to the core. ' You 
 look fair and sweet, Elsie, but you must have 
 some other ornament than these flowers.' 
 
 4 1 like flowers best, grandmother. I have 
 mamma's necklace, you know, but I did not 
 put it on,' said Elsie gently. 
 
 ' I have something for you, my child, which 
 you must wear to-night in token of forgive- 
 ness. Unlock the wardrobe and fetch me my 
 large jewel-case from the lower shelf.' 
 
 Elsie obeyed, and stood by while her 
 grandmother opened the case. From thence
 
 222 CARLO WR1E. 
 
 she took a necklace of turquoise as blue as 
 the forget-me-not, set in gold, of rare and 
 costly workmanship. 
 
 ' That was one of my wedding gifts, given 
 me by my aunt the Countess of Lyndon. 
 Put it on,' she said ; and then, lifting out the 
 upper tray, revealed to Elsie's gaze a sparkling 
 array of diamonds, showing in exquisite relief 
 against the rich purple velvet upon which they 
 lay. ' I had hoped these also would be yours. 
 They are destined for Howard's wife,' said 
 the Lady Anne, introducing an admirable 
 ring of regret in her voice. ' But never mind, 
 I know your heart is not set upon such 
 baubles. Now, put past the case, and run 
 down-stairs to be in readiness for the guests.' 
 
 Elsie obeyed, and flew down-stairs singing, 
 for the nightmare which oppressed her heart 
 had fled, and the sun shone again. 
 
 It would all come right in the end, oh yes, 
 she told herself. In her softer moods her 
 grandmother would grant her anything, and 
 before the summer came, her happy feet 
 would once more cross the threshold of dear 
 Lintlaw.
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 
 
 .HERE is Elsie, Marjorie?' asked 
 Howard Traquair, coming into the 
 drawing-room at Lyndon one lovely 
 afternoon in the early summer. 
 
 4 I think she is in the conservatory, Howard. 
 What do you want with her ? ' 
 
 ' To speak to her, of course. I can't leave 
 my good-bye till the last minute. I won't likely 
 see her again for long enough. Aunt Anne 
 speaks of coming to Traquair in the autumn, 
 but when I looked at her to-day, I thought 
 the chances were against it.' 
 
 Marjorie rose from her seat in the low 
 window where she had been resting, after the 
 bustle of packing for the Scotch journey 
 she was to begin that evening. The brother
 
 224 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 and sister had lingered long at Lyndon, loving 
 it for Elsie's sake more than for its own, but 
 now they were going to make their home in 
 Scotland. The brief visits Howard had paid 
 to the goodly heritage which was now all his 
 own, had convinced him that his presence 
 there was greatly needed. But the Lady 
 Anne had been loth to let them go, and 
 Howard did not suspect the chief cause of 
 that reluctance. 
 
 1 Howard,' said Marjorie, laying a gentle 
 hand on her brother's arm, 'don't say any- 
 thing to Elsie yet. I know she will not listen 
 to you. She has never told me, but I am 
 afraid her hearf is left behind in Scotland. I 
 tell you this to save you needless pain.' 
 
 Howard bit his lip, and slightly turned 
 away. Well, it was not a pleasant piece of 
 news. 
 
 'I'll try my luck, any way, Marjorie,' he 
 said ; ' I can but fail, and Elsie will be honest 
 with me, I know.' 
 
 So off he went, hoping yet fearing, to the 
 conservatory which opened off the dining- 
 room of the Priory. Elsie was not there, but 
 through the windows he caught a glimpse of a
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 22$ 
 
 figure in sober grey, walking with listless 
 steps among the elms in the park. In a few 
 seconds he was striding across the turf towards 
 her. She heard his step, and came to meet 
 him, with a frank, sweet, yet somewhat mourn- 
 ful smile on her lips. 
 
 'I left Marjorie resting, Howard, and came 
 out for a breath of air. Is it not pleasant out 
 of doors to-day ?' 
 
 'Very; and that is a fair picture/ said 
 Howard, pointing to the wide acres of 
 meadowland which stretched in undulating 
 waves away across to the low range of hills 
 in the far distance. 
 
 It was truly a pleasant view,* suggestive of 
 peace and plenty and quiet loveliness. ' But 
 that day Elsie's eyes, longing for the green 
 vales and rugged heather hills of her native 
 land, could see no beauty in an English land- 
 scape. 
 
 4 1 was not thinking about it, Howard. I 
 am very sad and miserable,' she replied list- 
 lessly. ' What do you suppose will become of 
 me after Marjorie and you are away ? ' 
 
 'You will miss us, then, Elsie?' asked 
 Howard bluntly, and his eyes were danger-
 
 226 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ously eloquent, only Elsie's face was turned 
 away, and she did not even take heed of his 
 words. Her heart was filled with one unutter- 
 able, passionate yearning to travel with them 
 to Scotland, to breathe the air of the land 
 she loved, to tread its soil, and, last and best 
 of all, to see face to face once more the dear 
 ones at Lintlaw. Oh, but all the waywardness 
 of past years, the foolish yearnings for an idle 
 and luxurious life, were bitterly punished 
 to-day ! 
 
 ' Aunt Anne has promised to bring you to 
 Traquair in the autumn, Elsie,' said Howard, 
 with a gentleness which was beautiful in its 
 manliness. ' You will come to Marjorie and 
 me, dear ? we will be hungering for you.' 
 
 ' Yes, Howard, I will come if grandmother 
 will let me/ she said ; and, turning her head, 
 lifted her eyes full of tears to his face. ' For- 
 give me crying, Howard. I am only a poor, 
 weak girl, and I feel so helpless alone here, 
 and life seems so hard just at present ; and oh, 
 I am grateful to Marjorie and you for all your 
 love and kindness to me ! ' 
 
 That look, these pathetic words, cast 
 Howard Traquair's prudence to the winds.
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 227 
 
 He bent forward, and the eyes looking into 
 Elsie's so overflowed with passionate love 
 that hers fell. 
 
 ' Elsie, Elsie, come with us now ! I can 
 give you a sweeter, happier life than this. 
 You will do just as you will. I love you, 
 Marjorie loves you. Come with us ! ' he said 
 eagerly. ' I want you for my wife, Elsie ; I 
 love you beyond anything on earth.' 
 
 Elsie trembled from head to foot, and 
 covered her blushing face with her hands. 
 Oh ! why was life so hard ? why was it that 
 she must be unkind to those she loved, and 
 stab truest friends to the heart ? 
 
 ' Howard, Howard, hush, oh hush, my heart 
 will break ! ' she said, in low and broken tones, 
 and, leaning against the tree beside her, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 It cost Howard Traquair a mighty effort 
 to restrain the impulse prompting him to 
 clasp the drooping figure in his strong arms, 
 to shelter her from every breath of sorrow or 
 care. But he dared not, for her trembling 
 words had rung the death-knell of his hopes. 
 
 ' Elsie, forgive me if I have pained you,' 
 he said humbly and earnestly. ' I did not
 
 228 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 mean it. I could not help myself, I loved 
 you so.' 
 
 Then Elsie raised her head and looked at 
 him again with steadfast, mournful eyes. 
 
 ' I would give the world almost, Howard, 
 if I could have said yes to what you ask me,' 
 she said quite quietly. ' I love you so well, 
 as a sister might, dear Howard, that I will 
 tell you what I have never told a soul on 
 earth but grandmother, that my heart is not 
 mine to give. I gave it away, Howard; and 
 though I believe mine will never be a happy 
 love, I cannot bring it back. I think those 
 born in Scotland are leal aye to their first 
 love.' 
 
 Howard Traquair turned away for a 
 moment. The struggle was sharp but brief. 
 When Elsie saw his face again it wore an 
 expression of sympathy, of tender compassion, 
 beautiful to see. 
 
 ' God help and strengthen you, dear Elsie/ 
 he said, with a great gentleness. ' I love you 
 so well that it will be my hope and prayer 
 that happiness may yet be yours, if he is 
 worthy.' 
 
 Then he went away, and Elsie saw him no
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 229 
 
 more, until, just in the last bustle of parting, 
 he took her hand in a grip of iron, and looked 
 straight into her face, his true eyes dim with 
 a feeling which could find no expression in 
 words. Never had he seemed so noble, so 
 manly, so altogether worthy of a woman's 
 love. Never had Elsie so honoured him, so 
 loved him, as she did at that moment. She 
 bent her head over his hand and lightly 
 touched it with her lips. When he got out 
 of doors he saw that she had left a tear 
 upon it. Poor Ho ward! Poor Elsie! Very 
 ravelled is the skein of life ! 
 
 That evening the Lady Anne Traquair 
 came down to the drawing-room for the first 
 time for many weeks. She was carefully and 
 elegantly dressed, but the rich black silk hung 
 loosely on her wasted frame, and the fine lace 
 ruffles about her throat seemed to show more 
 plainly the painful thinness and the ghastly 
 pallor of her face. She found in the drawing- 
 room, as she expected, her grand-daughter 
 and Deborah Conroy. The latter was at her 
 usual work, these hands dared know no 
 idleness, but Elsie was lying back on a low 
 chair, with her eyes closed and her hands idly
 
 230 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 folded on her lap. The Lady Anne entered 
 softly and stood looking for a little time upon 
 the unconscious face of her grand-daughter. 
 These weary months of suspense and heart- 
 sickness had told, and very sorely, on Elsie 
 Beatoun. The rounded cheek was sharpened, 
 the eyes looked out from shadowy hollows, 
 while the sweet lids had a pitiful droop in 
 them sadder than tears. 
 
 It was early summer now, as I said, and 
 still there had come no answer to Elsie's 
 letters, and of late there had crept into the 
 girl's mind a feeling of bitterness akin to 
 anger against those who had treated her with 
 so much coldness and neglect. She had done 
 nothing to merit such treatment, for it was 
 not of her free will that she had come to 
 Lyndon, and in her letters she never failed 
 to repeat that when she reached the age 
 of one-and-twenty no power on earth should 
 keep her away from Lintlaw, and from the 
 fulfilling of her plighted troth. All these 
 assurances, as well as the passionate, loving 
 pleadings which accompanied them, had been 
 passed over with an unbroken silence which 
 seemed to mean contempt. They had never
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 231 
 
 loved her as she loved them ; ah, no ! else 
 they never could have forgotten her so soon. 
 
 Never, even in her hours of darkest doubt 
 and bewilderment and pain, did a suspicion ot 
 treachery enter the mind of Elsie Beatoun. 
 She was herself pure and high-souled and 
 open as the day, and, moreover, had been all 
 her life long accustomed to good, honest, 
 upright folks, therefore she was the more 
 easily deceived in her grandmother. She 
 was grateful for her considerate kindness 
 during that weary time, doubly so for her 
 silence regarding Hew Dalrymple, and she 
 showed that gratitude in a thousand nameless 
 and endearing ways, which might have moved 
 the stoniest heart. But the Lady Anne, 
 though sometimes touched, steeled herself 
 against her better impulses, and fixed her 
 mind unalterably on the end she had in view. 
 Would she live to see her dream fulfilled, or 
 would death cut her off in the midst of her 
 scheming and plotting before she saw the 
 building up of Traquair ? That question rose 
 up ceaselessly before the Lady Anne's mind, 
 especially in the silent night watches when 
 she was alone with her own thoughts. Watch-
 
 232 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ing her grand-daughter keenly, noting the 
 gradual paling of the delicate cheek, the fading 
 of the lustre from the bright eyes, she decided 
 that it was time now to pluck up the loosely- 
 rooted hope which she was well aware still 
 lingered in the girl's heart. 
 
 With her usual nervous solicitude for her 
 kinswoman's comfort, Deborah Conroy rose 
 to place for her a chair near the hearth (for 
 though it was May there were fires in the 
 Priory rooms still), and Elsie opened her eyes. 
 
 'Oh, grandmother, have you come down ?' she 
 asked, in surprise. ' Do you feel much better ? ' 
 
 ' I am at least no worse,' replied the Lady 
 Anne. ' Deborah, leave us for a little ; I 
 would speak with my grand-daughter.' 
 
 Deborah obeyed, nothing loth ; she was in- 
 finitely more at ease out of her kinswoman's 
 presence than in it. 
 
 Then the Lady Anne sat down very close 
 to the fire, for she was always chilly now, and 
 looked with keen eyes into the sweet, pale 
 face of the girl before her. Oh, how like she 
 was to the fair young mother she had so early 
 lost ! Looking at her the Lady Anne's heart 
 was stirred by a thousand memories of the
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 233 
 
 past. She could almost have forgotten the 
 lapse of years, and think it was her own 
 daughter sitting beside her, as she had been 
 used to do, before the sorrow fell upon 
 Traquair. To banish these memories, as well 
 as any emotion which naturally accompanied 
 them, the Lady Anne broke the silence. 
 
 ' The house seems strange and desolate 
 to-night. Doubtless you sorely miss Howard 
 and Marjorie,' she said. ' We never know 
 how we love until those dear to us are parted 
 from us.' 
 
 It was an injudicious speech, for it was the 
 very echo of every feeling in Elsie's heart 
 Her lip quivered, and her hand stole up to 
 her eyes, as if to hide what was revealed in 
 them. With failing bodily strength, Elsie's 
 power of self-control was failing also ; she was 
 more easily moved to tears, more easily hurt 
 than of yore ; her sensitiveness in every point 
 had greatly increased. 
 
 ' You will greatly miss them, Elsie ? ' pur- 
 sued the Lady Anne, in a questioning tone. 
 
 ' Of course I will, grandmother,' Elsie 
 answered her. ' It would be strange if we 
 did not all miss Howard and Marjorie.'
 
 234 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ' If I mistake not, the Laird of Traquair 
 was loth to leave Lyndon, even for his own 
 heritage,' said the Lady Anne. ' My child, 
 I have never broached the subject since that 
 unpleasant Christmas morning. Am I seeking 
 too much if I ask you to tell me whether 
 Howard has not himself confirmed what I 
 said regarding his sentiments towards you ? ' 
 
 ' You have a perfect right to know, grand- 
 mother, and I would have told you sooner 
 or later,' said Elsie, with listless tranquillity. 
 ' Howard asked me to-day to be his wife.' 
 
 'And you you did not altogether re- 
 fuse ? ' said the Lady Anne, with an eagerness 
 painful to behold. 
 
 ' I did, grandmother, and I told him why. 
 Howard and I understand each other. He 
 knows that I love him as dearly as I could a 
 brother of my own, and that is all.' 
 
 The Lady Anne shaded her face with her 
 hand now, to hide the angry gleam in her 
 proud eyes. She must labour to hide her real 
 feelings, else all chance of success would be 
 gone. 
 
 Thinking her grandmother was once mom 
 sorely displeased with her, Elsie rose and knelt
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 235 
 
 down by her chair, laying her hand lightly on 
 her arm. 
 
 ' Grandmother, look at me. Don't be angry 
 with me, dear grandmother; I am so unhappy,' 
 she pleaded. ' And I want to ask something 
 from you, grandmother, only I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Ask, and if within my power, and I think 
 it for your good, I will not refuse,' said the 
 Lady Anne, striving to speak not only calmly 
 but with kindness. 
 
 ' It is this, grandmother,' said Elsie, and 
 her beautiful eyes were wide and pathetic in 
 their pleading, ' that you will give me some 
 money, and let me go away to Scotland to see 
 for myself whether they have forgotten me. 
 It would satisfy me, dear grandmother, and I 
 would come back to you content, and devote 
 the rest of my life to you. Oh, grandmother ! 
 don't refuse ; let me go, for I cannot bear this 
 heart-agony much longer.' 
 
 There was a brief silence. Then the Lady 
 Anne looked full into the pleading upraised 
 face with a well-assumed expression of sorrow 
 on her own. 
 
 ' My child, my poor, foolish, trusting child,' 
 she said, ' I dare not keep the truth from you
 
 236 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 any longer. You will try to bear it with 
 becoming fortitude.' 
 
 ' Bear what, grandmother ? what truth is it ? 
 Are they all dead at Lintlaw ? ' asked Elsie, 
 wildly starting up. 
 
 ' Be calm, my child. Kneel down again 
 beside me, and be calm, else I cannot tell 
 you,' said the Lady Anne firmly. Elsie at 
 once obeyed, but she was trembling from head 
 to foot. ' You know my cook, Elizabeth 
 Ritchie, has relations at a farm in Scotland 
 quite near to your Lintlaw,' said the Lady 
 Anne, with slow emphasis. 
 
 ' Has she ? No, I did not know. Oh, 
 grandmother, is it possible that the Ritchies 
 of Scotstoun are her friends ? ' exclaimed 
 Elsie, who never had heard of Miss Ritchie's 
 cousin Betsy in her life. 
 
 * That is the name ; such a peculiar one, I 
 always thought,' said the Lady Anne musingly. 
 ' Well, Elsie, she has some correspondence 
 with them, and I, knowing that probably they 
 might sometimes mention your friends, asked 
 her some time ago if she knew anything of the 
 Dalrymples, so that, if possible, I might ease 
 your suspense, my darling/,,
 
 BLIGHTED HOPE. 237 
 
 ' Yes, grandmother,' said Elsie, in a strained, 
 intense voice. 
 
 1 My child, how can I tell you ? It is as I 
 thought. They were never worthy of your 
 love ; for this Hew Dalrymple is to be married 
 this summer to a young girl ; her name, if I 
 remember rightly, is Katie Gray ; she lives at 
 a farm quite near to Scotstoun. Am I right ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; Katie Gray, at Southside. I 
 know her,' said Elsie, in a voiceless whisper. 
 
 ' I kept it from you, my child, as long as I 
 could. But I could no longer endure to see 
 you fretting after a faithless lover, you who 
 could mate, if you willed, with the highest in 
 the land. If you wish to hear any further 
 particulars, ask Elizabeth ; she will give you 
 them, or show you her cousin's letter, which 
 she gave to me to read. Why, my child, 
 what is it ? You promised to be calm.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I will be, grandmother,' said 
 Elsie, rising with trembling limbs. ' Let me 
 go away up- stairs, grandmother, just to be 
 alone for a little.' 
 
 So saying, she walked unsteadily from the 
 room, and toiled up the staircase to her own 
 chamber. When she entered she shut the
 
 238 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 door, and then a great dead stillness seemed 
 to settle down upon Lyndon Priory. 
 
 Just at the darkening-, when the Lady Anne 
 was about to leave the drawing-room, Elsie 
 glided into the room. The Lady Anne could 
 have cried out at the change these hours 
 had wrought upon the girl's sweet face. It 
 was no puny grief which had ploughed these 
 deep pain-lines upon the low, white brow, no 
 imaginary sorrow which had drawn the lips, 
 and cast that deep, dark shadow in the beauti- 
 ful eyes. Nay, it was the agony of blighted 
 hope, wounded pride, maidenly shame, the 
 blackness of desolation and despair. Her 
 voice when she spoke was cairn and quiet, 
 but the sweetest note of its music was gone. 
 
 'It is over, grandmother,' she said. 'Hence- 
 forth I am yours. I will devote ^myself to 
 you, for your love will not fail me. And when 
 the time comes, I pray God and I think He 
 will answer my prayer that He will take us 
 together to Himself.' 
 
 Then, as if to seal her vow, she laid one 
 arm about the neck of her grandmother, and, 
 lifting her head, kissed her on the lips.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TRAQUAIR. 
 
 iUST at the sunset hour, on the 
 evening of the third day after their 
 departure from Lyndon, Howard 
 Traquair and his sister arrived at Traquair. 
 There was no railway within thirty miles of 
 their home, but a carriage had been awaiting 
 them at the station when they left the train. 
 Their drive lay through some of the most 
 magnificent scenery of the Highlands, and 
 Marjorie, unaccustomed to the wild and 
 awful grandeur of the mountain passes, and 
 the deep but lovely valleys, was awed into 
 utter silence. Howard, who had seen it 
 several times before, was not so much ab- 
 sorbed in its contemplation, his mind being 
 occupied chiefly with thoughts of Elsie. So
 
 240 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 there was little conversation between them 
 while the fleet horses carried them over the 
 rocky roads to their future home. 
 
 The day and hour of their arrival had, 
 in accordance with Howard's express desire, 
 been kept secret, so that when they swept 
 through the picturesque village of Traquair, 
 there was no demonstration of any kind. But 
 the carriage, and the Laird himself, were recog- 
 nised, and the news of their arrival quickly 
 spread. 
 
 Just when the red glory of a magnificent 
 sunset was tinging hill and dale and wild 
 moorland with its wondrous light, the carriage 
 swept through the stone gateway into the 
 policies of Traquair, and up an avenue of 
 spreading birch and elm to the house. 
 
 It was a wild, lovely, picturesque spot. 
 The house was of massive and stately pro- 
 portions, but it was the architecture of a 
 bygone day. The windows were small, the 
 doorway low and arched, its whole appearance 
 quaint in the extreme. Ivy of a century's 
 growth clung to the grey, weather-beaten 
 walls, and crept about the windows, while the 
 battlements were clothed in moss of living
 
 TRAQUAIR. 241 
 
 green. Looking at it, the warm heart of 
 Marjorie overflowed, and her eyes filled. 
 
 ' Oh, Howard, how beautiful ! If only 
 mamma had lived to come with us, to see 
 the house of which she had heard so much 
 and so often from papa ! ' she exclaimed, in 
 tones of yearning regret. 
 
 Howard did not speak, but, handing his 
 sister from the carriage, took her on his 
 arm and entered the house. The servants 
 were gathered in the hall, anxiously waiting 
 to see the Laird's sister, who was to be 
 their mistress until he brought a wife home 
 to Traquair. The sweet, open, girlish face, 
 the pleasant smile, the frankly outstretched 
 hand to one and all, won their hearts at 
 once ; and one who had grown grey in the 
 service of the Traquairs, and who had 
 mourned over its long desolation, ran sob- 
 bing from them in his joy. 
 
 As the brother and sister stepped beneath 
 their own roof-tree, an overwhelming sense of 
 loneliness, and of great responsibility, suddenly 
 came upon them both, and Marjorie's fingers 
 tightened on her brother's manly arm. He 
 drew her into the library, and threw about
 
 242 CARLOWRHL 
 
 her a protecting arm, upon which she was 
 glad to hide her wet eyes and trembling lips. 
 
 ' This is a great heritage, Marjorie, bringing 
 with it a great responsibility,' he said, with a 
 falter in his manly voice. ' You will help me 
 to do my work well ? ' 
 
 *Yes, dear Howard, with all my heart, so 
 long as you need me,' Marjorie answered 
 back ; ' and God will help us both.' 
 
 ' I would seek not only to restore in some 
 measure the former honour of Traquair, Mar- 
 jorie, but to spend and be spent in God's 
 service, who has so unspeakably blessed us,' 
 said Howard dreamily. 'With such oppor- 
 tunities for doing good, may He help us to 
 use them all for His glory, and the good of 
 those about us.' 
 
 Entering with such feelings, such earnest 
 resolutions, upon his inheritance, did Howard 
 Traquair not bid fair to become a model 
 master, a boundless influence for good in 
 Traquair ? Ay, truly ; and bright, bright 
 was the day now dawning for Traquair and 
 Glenshee. 
 
 That was an evening of quiet but deep 
 joy for the brother and sister; and though
 
 TRAQUAIR. 243 
 
 Elsie Beatoun's answer to his question had 
 cast a shadow over the heart of Howard 
 Traquair, he was too manly to allow it to 
 master him, or make him gloomy and morose. 
 With so many blessings, dared he repine 
 though one was withheld, even although it 
 seemed the sweetest one on earth ? From 
 the lips of their gentle English mother, 
 Howard and Marjorie Traquair had learned 
 the most precious truths of religion, the 
 sweetest and most useful lessons of life. 
 One she had never failed to impress upon 
 their minds, and it was the fruit of her own 
 chequered experience, was, never to allow 
 disappointment to take too deep a hold 
 upon their hearts, but to cheerfully accept 
 the portion allotted to them in this life, 
 thanking God that it was no worse. Howard 
 Traquair remembered that gentle teaching, 
 and it was in that spirit he accepted what 
 was the greatest disappointment he had yet 
 experienced. The evening was spent in 
 roaming through the wide and spacious 
 rooms of the old house, exploring the pic- 
 ture gallery and the armoury, and a thousand 
 other things which teemed with bygone asso-
 
 244 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 ciations, with many strange and fascinating 
 memories of the past 
 
 They were up betimes next morning, for 
 Howard was anxious to take Marjorie out 
 of doors. She was so interested, so pleased, 
 so rapturous over everything, that uncon- 
 sciously the spell of her sunshine was cast 
 over her brother's heart, banishing every 
 thought but the happiness of the present. 
 And it was happiness, to look abroad from 
 the windows of the stately mansion upon 
 the wide acres of hill and dale, wood and 
 meadow, which owned his sway. Traquair 
 of Traquair and Glenshee ! Ay, it was a 
 proud, proud name indeed ! 
 
 After a long ramble through the park and 
 surrounding woods, they returned home to 
 prepare for a drive round the neighbourhood. 
 They were met by a servant, who announced 
 visitors in the drawing-room. 
 
 ' Already, Marjorie ! ' laughed Howard Tra- 
 quair. ' Are you ready to play the hostess ? 
 Can you assume, in a moment, that stately 
 dignity which Aunt Anne is so particular about, 
 and which she would say befits a Traquair ? ' 
 
 1 1 cannot be dignified, Howard. I wonder
 
 TRAQ.UAIR. 245 
 
 would Aunt Anne call it a breach of good 
 manners were I to appear in the drawing- 
 room in this costume ? ' said Marjorie wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 'Whether or no, you look charming,' said 
 Howard gallantly ; and he looked admiringly 
 at the neat, girlish figure, in its simple muslin 
 garb; at the sweet, winsome face smiling under 
 the big sun -hat. 
 
 ' Well, come away,' smiled Marjorie back. 
 ' Sir James and Lady Graham-Orde, Mr. and 
 Miss Hamilton. Do you know any of them, 
 Howard ?' 
 
 ' Only Sir James ; a fine old gentleman, 
 with whom you will be at home at once. 
 They live at Castle-Orde, the big frowning 
 keep on the brow of yonder hill,' said Howard, 
 and that speech brought them to the door of 
 the drawing-room. When they entered, Sir 
 James Graham-Orde, who was standing on 
 the hearth, came forward with outstretched 
 hands. He was a tall, military-looking gentle- 
 man, past middle life, with a handsome, kindly 
 face, and pleasant, though keen blue eyes. 
 
 ' Welcome again to your inheritance, Mr. 
 Traquair,' he said heartily. ' And this is your
 
 246 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 sister ? My dear, let me kiss you. Your 
 father and I were boys together, and many a 
 happy day we had trout-fishing in the Garry.' 
 
 That greeting put Marjorie at her ease at 
 once, and she was able to turn with perfect 
 self-possession to her other guests. 
 
 Lady Graham -Orde's words of welcome to 
 Scotland were if possible warmer than her 
 husband's; her childless heart warmed to 
 the sweet, frank, unaffected girl who looked 
 up into her face with a smile, and a tear 
 struggled for the mastery in her eye. 
 
 ' Miss Hamilton Miss Traquair, Mr. Keith 
 Hamilton ; my niece and nephew from the 
 Lowlands,' said Lady Graham-Orde ; and 
 Marjorie bowed, first to the tall, pale, aris- 
 tocratic-looking young lady, and then to her 
 handsome brother. His eyes, as he bent 
 them upon her flushed face, were full of 
 undisguised admiration. 
 
 Keith Hamilton had been in dead earnest 
 about Elsie Beatoun, but, seeing she had so 
 absolutely refused to listen to him, he had 
 done his best to think no more about her, 
 and was now free to admire another. He 
 had gone off to the Continent after Elsie
 
 TRAQUAIR. 247 
 
 went to Lyndon, and his mother and sister 
 saw no more of him for months. But at 
 Christmas he appeared at Alnwick Hall, 
 apparently cured. 
 
 For a time the conversation was general, 
 turning upon such topics as Highland scenery 
 and life, and the prospects for the fishing and 
 shooting season. Edith Hamilton, anxious 
 for a private word with Miss Traquair, at. 
 last managed to move to her side, to a smalt 
 table, out of hearing of the others. 
 
 ' You have just come from Lyndon Priory, 
 M iss Traquair. Pray tell me something of Elsie 
 Beatoun,' she said eagerly. ' Is she well ?' 
 
 1 Oh yes, Elsie is well. She is coming to 
 Traquair, Miss Hamilton, in the autumn. 
 If you are at Castle-Orde then, you will see 
 her,' answered Marjorie, and quite uncon- 
 sciously glanced in her brother's direction as 
 she spoke. Edith Hamilton noted that look, 
 and put upon it her own construction. 
 
 ' Tell me something more about her. Next 
 week my brother and I go home to Mid- 
 lothian. We have not been at Tyneholm for 
 fully a year ; and I shall be pleased to carry 
 to Elsie's old friends the latest news of her.'
 
 248 CARLOIVRIE. 
 
 ' Really there is little to tell, Miss Hamil- 
 ton,' smiled Marjorie. ' Our life at Lyndon 
 was very quiet. Aunt Anne is not strong, 
 you know, and Elsie is devoted to her.' 
 
 * Lady Traquair returns that devotion. She 
 will be extremely fond of Elsie, I should 
 imagine ?' said Miss Hamilton inquiringly. 
 
 1 Oh yes ; Aunt Anne worships Elsie, I 
 verily believe. Howard and I thought she 
 was even selfish in her love sometimes. I 
 do not know how she will ever part with 
 her,' said Marjorie, and again her unconscious 
 eyes travelled to her brother's face. He was 
 not many yards distant, and she was only 
 wondering whether their conversation was 
 audible to him. 
 
 1 Ah, then, there is a prospect of Elsie 
 leaving her grandmother,' said Edith Hamil- 
 ton, with a slightly amused smile, which pro- 
 voked an answering one on Marjorie's face. 
 
 ' Elsie is very fair and loveable, Miss 
 Hamilton, and she will not likely remain 
 at Lyndon all her life,' she replied lightly. 
 ' You knew Elsie's life in Scotland ? ' she 
 added inquiringly. 
 
 'Intimately. The people with whom she
 
 TRAQUAIR. 249 
 
 lived are farmers on our lands of Tyneholm,' 
 answered Miss Hamilton. 
 
 Another question was upon Marjorie's lips, 
 which, for Howard's sake, she was longing to 
 ask. But she would be loyal to Elsie ; for 
 since Elsie had not told her, what right had 
 she to pry into that past life, to learn its 
 innocent secrets from the lips of others ? 
 
 ' I should think they must have missed her 
 very much/ she said a little sadly. ' I hear 
 Lady Graham-Orde talking of going ; you will 
 excuse me, Miss Hamilton, I must speak to her.' 
 
 ' I have a bit of news for you, Keith,' said 
 Edith Hamilton the first moment she was 
 alone with her brother. ' From what Miss 
 Traquair said, I gather that Elsie is engaged 
 to her brother, and that the marriage is likely 
 to take place in the autumn.' 
 
 ' A good match for her. Traquair seems a 
 fine fellow,' replied Keith, his careless tone 
 proving that the news did not affect him 
 vitally; 'and his sister is very charming. 
 When Elsie becomes the Lady of Traquair 
 and Glenshee, will it be congt for her, I 
 wonder, or will they be going to live happily 
 en famille ? '
 
 250 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 * I don't know, Keith ; of course I did not 
 ask. But I wonder what they will say to this 
 at Lintlaw.' 
 
 ' I don't know. It will be rather a drop, I 
 should imagine, on Dalrymple of Carlowrie. 
 I say, Edith, I wish you'd get my mother to 
 ask the Traquairs to Tyneholm while we're 
 there, will you ? ' 
 
 'Ask her yourself, Keith; you know you'll 
 get anything from mamma for the asking,' 
 replied Edith. ' I cannot help thinking of 
 this news, Keith. Lady of Traquair and 
 Glenshee ! What a position for our unpre- 
 tending little Elsie ! She could patronize me 
 then if she liked, Keith, for Traquair is an 
 older and more honourable name than Hamil- 
 ton. Won't I triumph over mamma ! She 
 used to laugh so at me for saying Elsie 
 would grace any station, and that I believed 
 she was d lady born.' 
 
 1 Elsie has never been back at Lintlaw since 
 she left, I suppose ? ' said Keith. 
 
 ' I am not sure, but I rather think not. 
 From what mamma saw of Lady Anne 
 Traquair, and also from what Miss Traquair 
 said to-day, I should imagine that Elsie will
 
 TRAQUAIR. 251 
 
 have some difficulty in getting away from her 
 grandmother. It will be better for her too, 
 Keith, not to keep up intercourse with the 
 Dairy mples. Now that Mrs. Dairy mple is 
 dead, it would not matter so much. I should 
 have been sorry if she had been grieved over 
 the parting from Elsie. Of course she can be 
 properly grateful, and all that, without making 
 a fuss over them. How I should like to see 
 Elsie again ! We must make an effort to 
 come here in August. You were always fond 
 of shooting over the moors of Castle-Orde.' 
 
 Keith laughed at his sister's little bit of 
 diplomacy. 
 
 1 You get the Traquairs to Tyneholm next 
 month, Edith, and I'll arrange the autumn visit,' 
 he replied. ' So we will make a bargain of it.' 
 
 So they laid their plans, and talked over 
 Elsie's coming as mistress of Traquair, as 
 if it was a settled thing. Edith Hamilton 
 had allowed her imagination to get the better 
 of her, and because she thought it would be a 
 suitable match for Elsie, at once resolved that 
 it was to take place. 
 
 But when autumn came, Elsie Beatoun's 
 future was settled in another way.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DEAR LINTLAW AGAIN. 
 
 IN the parlour window at Lintlaw sat 
 Christian Dalrymple on a summer 
 afternoon, busy with the weekly pile 
 of mending. The house was very quiet, Mr. 
 Dalrymple being busy in the hayfield, Erne 
 picking currants for the jelly-making, and the 
 laddies, as usual, at school. Christian liked the 
 quiet hour intervening between dinner and 
 tea ; for then, over her knitting or sewing, she 
 could recall tenderest, sweetest memories of 
 * mother,' and think over all the blessings and 
 joys as well as the cares of her life. I think 
 Christian's face was, if possible, sweeter than 
 it used to be. 
 
 Her experience as a sister-mother in that 
 motherless household had lent to her an added 
 
 262
 
 DEAR LIN TLA W A GAIN. 253 
 
 tenderness and gentleness. Looking at her, 
 you seemed to know that she had care and 
 thought for everybody, and that she was, 
 indeed, a guiding light, a pillar of strength 
 and loving-kindness to Lintlaw. She was 
 very happy, happier, I believe, than she had 
 ever been before. Her hands were full, and her 
 heart too, for there were many, many claims 
 upon her love ; but though her labours knew 
 no end, though household and family cares so 
 encompassed her that she had little time for 
 any thought of self, she had her reward in her 
 father's utter dependence and strange rugged 
 clinging to her, in Effie's looking up for guid- 
 ance in learning of household ways, in the 
 clamorous demands made upon her time by 
 the noisy laddies, whom mother had been so 
 ' wae ' to leave. Then, had she not that other 
 love, purified, strengthened, grown sweeter and 
 stronger and more precious in its unselfish- 
 ness, to cheer her on her way; and last and 
 best of all, the consciousness that God's bless- 
 ing was upon her aye ? It was nine months 
 now since mother went away from Lintlaw. 
 The first bitter edge of the grief had worn 
 away, and now it was only a tender, lingering
 
 254 CARLOIVRIE. 
 
 regret, a regret which at times became a 
 yearning hunger of the heart, and caused the 
 eyes to overflow at sight of the empty chair. 
 Not yet had Christian quite lost the habit of 
 looking to see that mother in her accustomed 
 place. Sometimes, especially in the stillness 
 of the afternoons, she would catch herself 
 listening for her stirring in the bedroom 
 up-stairs, and then hold her breath, almost 
 expecting to hear her footfall on the stair. 
 Not all at once can we lay aside these little 
 things, and I think it well that the weaning 
 comes so gradually, it seems less hard to bear. 
 Sorrow will lead us gently, if we will allow 
 ourselves to be led ; and even in the path of 
 shadows there is a strange, fearful joy, which 
 savours more of heaven than earth. Such 
 Christian Dalrymple had often experienced 
 since that mournful day on which mother left 
 Lintlaw. 
 
 About three o'clock Christian heard Rover's 
 warning bark, as he lay basking in the sun in 
 front of the house, and she rose and went to 
 the door to see if there was any one coming. 
 Shading her eyes with her hand, she saw 
 coming across the Cows' Park from the Lady's
 
 DEAR LINTLA W A GAIN. 255 
 
 Road the angular figure of Miss Ritchie of 
 Scotstoun. Then Christian went back to see 
 that the kettle was on the hob, and stole 
 away to meet her, calling to Effie, as she went 
 past the garden dyke, to leave her currant- 
 picking and get her face washed. 
 
 Christian was dressed for the afternoon in 
 a print dress, a white ground with a running 
 black flower upon it ; a nice black apron, and 
 her usual spotless collar and cuffs. The print 
 dress was her father's especial admiration, 
 and the admiration of somebody else as well. 
 
 She had not far to go, for Miss Ritchie was 
 a brisk walker, and was just preparing to step 
 over the stile when Christian reached it. 
 
 ' I saw you coming, Miss Ritchie/ said 
 Christian blithely. ' I am pleased to see ye. 
 What's come ower ye this long time ? ' 
 
 ' I dinna ken ; ae thing an* anither. Are 
 ye yer lane ?' queried Miss Ritchie. 
 
 1 Yes, an' no' much adae. This was 
 washin' week, an' I aye tak' a rest for twa 
 days after it.' 
 
 ' Are ye aye washin' awa' yersel', Kirsten ?' 
 queried Miss Ritchie, as they leisurely ap- 
 proached the house. ' Ye' re an awfu' lassie.
 
 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 Workin' early an' late, an' ay sae blithe an' 
 cheery. The very sicht o' ye does a body 
 guid.' 
 
 ' Mother aye said a laugh was cheap medi- 
 cine, an' seldom failed to cure,' said Christian, 
 not sadly, but with that tender mingling of 
 regret and love which was inseparable from 
 any thought or mention of her mother. 
 
 1 Ay,' said Miss Ritchie. ' Oh, Kirsten, 
 woman, I miss yer mither,' she added, with an 
 earnestness which had something yearning 
 and passionate about it. 
 
 ' A'body misses mother,' replied Christian 
 very softly, and her tender eyes travelled with 
 unconscious but loving gaze to the green brae- 
 side of Crichtoun, where the gowans blew 
 above a precious grave. 
 
 Then in silence they entered the house, and 
 though Miss Ritchie refused as usual to go 
 up-stairs to take off her bonnet, she laid it 
 down on the side-table, and they sat down in 
 the window to have a quiet chat. 
 
 'An' hoo's the minister, Kirsten ?' inquired 
 Miss Ritchie, with her usual lack of ceremony. 
 ' He'll hae sitten doon to his bachelor ways in 
 the Manse again ?'
 
 DEAR LINTLA W A GAIN. 257 
 
 ' Yes; he was here yestreen, an' he'll be here 
 the night likely,' answered Christian, with a 
 little smile. ' It's just his e'enin' walk frae 
 the Manse to Lintlaw.' 
 
 ' That's weel. He maun be a great comfort 
 to you, an' you to him,' said Miss Ritchie. 
 ' I never saw twa sae weel fitted, nor I never 
 saw twa bear a trial in a mair beautifu' spirit. 
 Ye are a lesson to us a', Kirsten Dalrymple.' 
 
 ' Wheesht, wheesht, Miss Ritchie,' said 
 Christian, and her eyes filled. ' Only oor 
 duty, plain and simple. It lay straight in my 
 way, an' I couldna pass it by. I deserve nae 
 praise, though I mony a time think no' mony 
 men wad hae dune just like Mr. Laidlaw.' 
 
 1 Ye may say't ; but yer reward's comin', 
 yours an' his, and there'll be a happy wife at 
 the Manse by and by,' said Miss Ritchie. 
 ' Weel, Kirsten,' she broke off, with a sudden 
 change of tone, ' I've corned to tell ye I've 
 made a perfect fule o' mysel'.' 
 
 'In what way, Miss Ritchie?' asked 
 Christian, but her eyes were brimming with 
 laughter, for she had a pretty good guess at 
 what Miss Ritchie meant. 
 
 ' Oh, I believe ye ken brawly. I'm five-
 
 258 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 an'-forty, Kirsten Dalrymple, an' I'm gaun to 
 mak' a fule o' mysel' by marryin' Robbie Blair 
 afore Martinmas,' said Miss Ritchie, with a 
 comical blending of humour and earnestness 
 in her manner. ' I couldna rest till I corned 
 to tell ye, Kirsten, as I wad hae telled yer 
 mither had she been here.' 
 
 * God bless ye, an' gie ye every happiness, 
 Miss Ritchie,' said Christian heartily, and, 
 bending forward, she took Miss Ritchie's toil- 
 hardened palm in her firm, kindly clasp. ' I'm 
 sure ye'll be baith happy and comfortable at 
 Newlandburn, an' it's nearer Lintlaw than 
 Scotstoun.' 
 
 ' Ay, an' ye dinna think me sic a fule after 
 a' ? ' said Miss Ritchie wistfully. ' I said to 
 Robbie Blair I thocht perfect shame to let 
 folk ken. It's no' as I had been a young 
 lass siccan as you, Kirsten.' 
 
 1 Why should ye think shame ? Ye should 
 rather be prood, as ony woman might be, 
 o' a fine man like Mr. Blair,' said Christian. 
 1 I'm sure father an' a'body that hears it '11 be 
 pleased. I'll be yer bridemaiden, if ye like, 
 Miss Ritchie.' 
 
 ' God bless ye, Kirsten, ye are yer mither's
 
 DEAR LINTLA W A GAIN. 259 
 
 dochter, I can say nae mair/said Miss Ritchie, 
 and she actually shed a few tears of emotion. 
 
 Thus Christian Dalrymple was sister and 
 friend in one to the lonely middle - aged 
 woman whom many made fun of, never think- 
 ing of the good, sound, true heart which 
 underlay the eccentric ways. Before Chris- 
 tian could say any more upon the interesting 
 subject of Miss Ritchie's approaching wedding, 
 there was a knock at the door, and presently 
 Effie showed in Katie Gray of Southside, a 
 bonny, winsome lassie, a frequent visitor and 
 a great favourite at Lintlaw. She stayed to 
 her tea, of course, and about seven o'clock 
 Hew came over from Carlowrie to compare 
 his haymaking progress with his father's. 
 
 Hew Dalrymple had either cast aside or 
 buried deeply all the bitter pain which Elsie's 
 faithlessness had caused him. Her name was 
 never mentioned either in Lintlaw or Car- 
 lowrie, but she was not and would never be 
 forgotten. Only it was better not to speak 
 about her, because all the talking in the world 
 would never explain away her ungrateful treat- 
 ment of those who had loved her so well. 
 Miss Ritchie left at seven to be home in time
 
 260 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 for her milking, but Katie Gray remained to 
 supper at Lintlaw, and Hew took her home. 
 
 ' I say, father,' said Hew just as they 
 were leaving, ' the Laird's folk came to 
 Tyneholm the day. I saw the Laird at a 
 distance craw-shooting in the wud at the Back 
 Braes.' 
 
 ' Ay, man, then we maun be at him aboot 
 Carlowrie fences, an" aboot sinkin' a new well 
 for ye.' 
 
 ' Ay, I think that. There's neither water for 
 man nor beast at Carlowrie. The Laird '11 
 dae that for us, I dinna doot,' replied Hew. 
 ' Weel, Katie, are ye ready ? ' 
 
 ' Comin', Hew. I'm just askin' Christian 
 for a pattern for a toilet cover. Men folks 
 dinna ken onything aboot that,' laughed Katie, 
 and came out to the door, rolling up her work 
 as she spoke. 
 
 After the good-nights were said, Christian 
 and her father stood a minute on the door- 
 step watching the well-matched pair go down 
 the path together. 
 
 ' Ay, Kirsten, div ye think it's Katie Gray 
 that's to be mistress o' Carlowrie efter a' ? ' 
 said Lintlaw slyly.
 
 DEA R LIN TLA W AGAIN. 261 
 
 A tremulous smile touched Christian's sweet 
 lips, and she shook her head. ' That '// never 
 be, father,' was all she said; for none knew 
 better than Christian whose image dwelt 
 abidingly in Hew's constant heart It was 
 not in the Dalrymples to cast love off and put 
 it on at will. Once and for all was their way. 
 
 Just as Hew and Katie Gray emerged from 
 Lintlaw road-end, a gentleman on horseback 
 rode swiftly past in the direction of Newland- 
 rigg. Darkness was beginning to creep over 
 by the Camp Wood, but it was light enough 
 for them to recognise the Laird on High- 
 flyer, and for him to distinguish them. 
 Hew touched his cap, Keith Hamilton turned 
 in his saddle, and returned the salutation with 
 a broad smile on his face. Evidently Hew 
 Dalrymple, as well as he, had concluded not 
 to mourn over Elsie Beatoun. Of course he 
 did not fail to mention the little incident to 
 his sister, and, needless to say, she was greatly 
 interested, a little chagrined, perhaps, for she 
 expected to find Hew Dalrymple disconsolate 
 for the loss of Elsie. 
 
 Next morning she drove her ponies through 
 Newlandrigg, and up the familiar way to
 
 262 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 Lintlaw. Leaving them with the footman 
 down beside the duck-pond, she walked up 
 the brae and through the trees round to the 
 front of the house. Then she caught sight of 
 Christian in the garden, with a basket over her 
 arm, among the currant bushes, and instead of 
 going straight to the house, she went past the 
 gig-house and through the garden gate. It 
 creaked on its hinges when she opened it, 
 and then Christian looked round. Her face 
 paled slightly, for the sight of Edith Hamilton 
 recalled many memories both bitter and sweet. 
 Nevertheless she set down her basket, and 
 came forward to meet her quietly and with 
 outstretched hand. 
 
 ' Welcome back to Tyneholm, Miss Edith,' 
 she said courteously. ' I am pleased to see 
 you look so well and strong. 1 
 
 ' Thank you, Christian ; I never was better, 
 and I never was so glad, I think, to get back 
 to Tyneholm. And how are you and Mr. 
 Dalrymple, and all the rest ? ' 
 
 ' They are well, thank you,' answered 
 Christian, and slightly turned her head away, 
 for the sweet eyes were troubled, and some- 
 how a blurring shadow seemed to have fallen
 
 DEAR LINTLAW AGAIN. 263 
 
 all at once over the sunshine of the summer 
 day. 
 
 'Will ye come in, Miss Hamilton?' she 
 added at length. ' Father's away to Had- 
 dington Fair, an' the laddies are at the school, 
 but Effie and me '11 be pleased to see you.' 
 
 ' I will just sit here for a little, Christian, 
 and do you go on with your blackberry 
 gathering,' said Miss Hamilton, seating herself 
 on the rustic bench which, at Elsie's sugges- 
 tion, Hew had long ago erected under the 
 apple-tree right in the middle of the garden, 
 facing the gate. 
 
 Christian silently turned to the currant- 
 bushes, but her fingers trembled so that the 
 few berries she picked fell to the ground 
 before they reached the basket. 
 
 ' Oh, Christian, I cannot bear to corne to 
 Lintlaw when your dear mother is not here,' 
 cried Edith Hamilton, breaking the silence 
 and bursting into tears. It was but another 
 tribute to the memory of the angel-mother 
 who would be sorely missed by gentle and 
 simple alike for many a day. These tears 
 banished the momentary bitterness which had 
 touched Christian's heart at sight of Edith
 
 264 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Hamilton, to whom they still attributed, in- 
 directly at least, their woful separation from 
 Elsie. One thing Christian earnestly hoped, 
 that Miss Hamilton would not mention Elsie's 
 name, lest her prudence should vanish, and 
 she should speak out of the fulness and the 
 sorrow of her heart. 
 
 ' I heard, Christian, how nobly you gave up 
 your own happiness to fill your mother's place,' 
 said Miss Hamilton gently. ' It was most 
 unselfish.' 
 
 ' Not so very unselfish, Miss Hamilton/ said 
 Christian, with a slight smile. ' It was no trial 
 to me to live on in Lintlaw, with my father 
 and the rest. I love them and they love me, 
 so it is happiness for us all to be together.' 
 
 ' That is a nice way to put it, Christian ; 
 nevertheless, if you are like other women, it 
 must have been a trial. And how is your 
 brother at Carlowrie ? ' 
 
 ' He is well, thank you, Miss Hamilton/ 
 replied Christian very low, and again turned 
 her face away, knowing it was coming now. 
 
 ' Poor fellow, it must have been hard for him 
 to give up all thought of Elsie. Of course 
 you hear often from her ? '
 
 DEAR LINTLAW AGAIN. 265 
 
 ' Can you tell me anything about Elsie, Miss 
 Hamilton ? ' asked Christian. ' We heard 
 that she was to be married in the summer to 
 the Laird of Traquair.' 
 
 ' Oh, you have heard that rumour, Christian ? 
 Yes, I can confirm it. We have just returned 
 from Castle-Orde, and the day before we left 
 we called at Traquair, and heard from Miss 
 Traquair that Elsie is well and happy, and de- 
 voted to her grandmother. And from what 
 she added, I gathered that it was likely she will 
 make her home at Traquair in the autumn.' 
 
 Christian's face was turned away again, for 
 not until to-day had all faith in Elsie been 
 quenched in her heart. For Hew's sake she 
 had hoped on even against hope, but all that 
 was over now, and Elsie, in the new and in- 
 creased grandeur of her wedded life, would 
 be further than ever removed from Lintlaw. 
 
 ' God give her happiness in her new life, 
 Miss Hamilton,' she managed to say at last, 
 for it would not do to show Miss Hamilton 
 what a blow this was. ' Tell me one thing 
 more. Is the Laird of Traquair a man who 
 will make her happy ? ' 
 
 ' I should think so. Every one thinks well 
 23
 
 266 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 of him, and my uncle, Sir James Graham- 
 Orde, is always singing his praises. And he 
 is so handsome and noble-looking, like all the 
 Traquairs. He is indeed worthy of our sweet 
 Elsie,' said Miss Hamilton warmly. 
 
 1 Will you be seeing Elsie before the wed- 
 ding, Miss Hamilton?' 
 
 ' I do not know ; but we certainly shall see 
 her immediately after her home-coming, as we 
 are going back to Castle-Orde in the autumn.' 
 
 1 Then you will tell her what good wishes 
 follow her from Lintlaw, Miss Hamilton,' said 
 Christian quietly. * Now, won't you come in, 
 and take a drink of milk and a bit scone as 
 you used to do ? ' 
 
 ' Not to-day, thank you, Christian. I must 
 be going ; Macpherson is waiting for me down 
 at the pond. But stay, tell me, I am so in- 
 terested in everything that concerns you, 
 is it true that your brother is to marry Mr. 
 Gray's daughter at Southside ? ' 
 
 Christian laughed. 
 
 ' Dinna believe a' ye hear, Miss Hamilton. 
 Mony besides Katie Gray hae been spoken 
 of as mistress o' Carlowrie,' she replied, and 
 would give her curious questioner no more
 
 DEAR LINTLA W AGAIN. 267 
 
 satisfaction than that. She was rather impatient 
 to-day of Miss Hamilton's talk of their affairs ; 
 she had not yet learned all her mother's gentle- 
 ness and forbearance. So Miss Hamilton 
 went away, and when she got home she sat 
 down and wrote a letter to Marjorie Traquair. 
 She would have written to Elsie if she had 
 known her address. 
 
 'When you write to Elsie Beatoun, dear 
 Miss Traquair,' she wrote, ' tell her I have 
 seen all her old friends at Lintlaw, and that 
 they are well, and asking kindly for her. 
 Also tell her that I hear the rumour, which is 
 sure to be true enough, that Hew Dairy mple 
 is to be married by and by to Katie Gray of 
 Southside. Nothing but marrying and giving 
 in marriage, Miss Traquair. When will our 
 time come ? ' 
 
 Marjorie Traquair did not fail faithfully to 
 remit Miss Hamilton's words in her next 
 letter to Elsie. So Edith Hamilton's idle 
 imagination and foolish meddling with the 
 affairs of others, added yet another pain to 
 Elsie's sore heart, and made more hopeless 
 the web of misunderstanding and estrange- 
 ment which lay between her and Lintlaw.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LADY ANNES WILL. 
 
 SEPTEMBER was wearing to a close. 
 Harvest was past in the sheltered 
 and peaceful lands which surrounded 
 Lyndon Priory. The leaves were golden and 
 russet- brown on the oaks in the park, and 
 they were beginning to fall noiselessly, for 
 the year was past its prime. Without, there 
 were signs of decay and approaching death, 
 and within, a human life was coming very 
 near its end. The days of the Lady Anne 
 Traquair on earth were numbered. She lay 
 in her bed in her magnificent chamber, for the 
 most part unconscious of what was passing 
 around her. Ay, her life was nearing to its 
 end, and as yet her dreams were all unful- 
 filled ; the ambition for which she had laid 
 
 HI
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 269 
 
 upon her conscience a heavy sin had not been 
 realized. Elsie ministered with unceasing care 
 and tenderness by her bed, a pale, fragile- 
 looking figure, with languid step and lustreless 
 eye, who looked as if she too would very soon 
 lie upon a sickbed. This strange, desolate 
 life, coupled with the agony of her heart- 
 sickness and her unutterable yearning for 
 home, was killing Elsie Beatoun, and her 
 grandmother knew it well. I could not write 
 down all that was in the mind of the Lady 
 Anne during these last days, when she became 
 conscious that earth and earthly things were 
 slipping away from her. The indomitable 
 pride which had upheld her in the past had 
 not failed her yet, and there was still sufficient 
 strength of will to enable her to crush down 
 any softer impulse which would at times steal 
 into her heart. Before the Lady Anne was 
 finally laid aside, she had set her house in 
 order. Her London lawyers had come to the 
 Priory, and Mr. Ketterly, the attorney from 
 the neighbouring town of Alchester, was sent 
 for frequently. Evidently she was determined 
 that there should be no confusion, no doubt 
 or trouble concerning her affairs after she
 
 270 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 was gone. But now everything was in order, 
 nothing had been forgotten or left to a more 
 convenient season ; so she frequently said. 
 But what of the affairs of the next world ? 
 What of the dread unknown, the unfathomed 
 mystery of that which was to come ? 
 
 On a grey, still, cheerless afternoon, Elsie 
 was sitting by her grandmother's bedside with 
 a book on her knee, watching while she slept. 
 For a long time there had been no sound in 
 the quiet room but the breathing of the 
 sleeper, and the low, steady tick of the Lady 
 Anne's watch on the dressing-table. By and 
 by, however, Lady Anne stirred, and fixed 
 her hollow eyes on her grand-daughter's face. 
 
 ' You are there, Elsie ? ' 
 
 * Yes, grandmother, always here when you 
 want me,' replied Elsie, with an infinite gentle- 
 ness, the same womanly tenderness, with 
 which in long gone days she had ministered 
 to poor Saunders Beatoun at Carlowrie, was 
 called into play now ; only there was a deep 
 pathos in it which was lacking then. Ay, 
 Elsie had passed through the deeps since old 
 Carlowrie days, and lived a very lifetime of 
 sorrow !
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 271 
 
 4 Where is Deborah Conroy, Elsie ? ' 
 
 4 Down-stairs, grandmother. Do you want 
 her?' 
 
 'No, no ; it is you I want. Have you 
 written to Howard and Marjorie yet ? Is it 
 in Paris they are ? How long will it be 
 before they can be here ? ' 
 
 4 Only a few days, grandmother,' answered 
 Elsie soothingly, for the Lady Anne spoke 
 with feverish impatience. ' My letter will 
 have reached them, and probably by this 
 time they are on their way.' 
 
 4 That is well ; I wish they would come 
 before the end. I have some things to say 
 to Howard.' 
 
 4 Yes, grandmother, I told him that, and I 
 am sure they will come as quickly as they 
 can. Do you feel weaker to-day ? ' 
 
 4 1 am dying, Elsie,' replied the Lady Anne, 
 with a strange calm, which impressed Elsie 
 with a kind of dread. 
 
 ' You are perfectly happy and at peace, 
 grandmother ? ' she said timidly. ' Heaven is 
 a happier home than this.' 
 
 4 Child, at your age earth should be fairer 
 than heaven. It is only old age, borne down
 
 272 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 with many sorrows and cares, which longs to 
 be at rest. Tell me, are you still nursing in 
 your breast a hopeless passion ? and is the 
 true love of Howard Traquair to go unre- 
 warded ? ' 
 
 4 1 am done with love, grandmother,' replied 
 Elsie, striving to speak very quietly, though 
 her heart was throbbing with rebellious pain. 
 
 ' That is a foolish way to talk,' said the 
 Lady Anne, with severity. ' What is to be- 
 come of you when I am gone ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, grandmother ; God will open 
 up my way, and there will be a home pro- 
 vided, I have no fear,' replied Elsie bravely ; 
 but suddenly her composure gave way, and 
 she buried her face upon the coverlet, sobbing 
 bitterly. She was desolate indeed. 
 
 ' Hush ! my child, I cannot bear to see you 
 weep,' said the Lady Anne. ' The Priory 
 will be your home, and Deborah Conroy can 
 remain with you without being a burden upon 
 you, for she will have her own income to 
 support her. And perhaps some day you will 
 change towards Howard Traquair.' 
 
 4 Dear grandmother, you are kind and 
 thoughtful, and I am heedless of your weak-
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 273 
 
 ness ; forgive me/ said Elsie ; and, drying 
 her tears, she rose to administer a stimulant 
 to the feeble sufferer. 
 
 ' Elsie,' said the sick woman, fixing hollow, 
 wistful eyes upon her as she bent over her 
 with the cordial in her hand, ' you believe 
 I love you, that I would do anything to 
 further your happiness ? ' 
 
 ' Dear grandmother, have I not proved it ? ' 
 asked Elsie simply and lovingly. 
 
 ' And after I am gone, Elsie, promise me you 
 will think kindly of me, and whatever tran- 
 spires, you will try to believe that all I did 
 was out of love for you, from a great desire 
 for your welfare,' said the Lady Anne, with a 
 strange eagerness. 
 
 ' Dear grandmother, what strange things 
 are these you say ? Do I not love you ? Do 
 I not know how you have loved and cared 
 for me, and borne with my weakness and my 
 repinings with gentleness so long ? ' queried 
 Elsie, with gentle reproach. 
 
 The Lady Anne put up her hand as if to 
 deprecate her words. 
 
 'Hush! hush! you do not know. But 
 kiss me, Elsie. You have been a good
 
 274 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 and dutiful child, an unspeakable comfort to 
 me. I am weary now, and would sleep; 
 later to-morrow, perhaps I shall tell you; 
 yes, all/ 
 
 So saying, the Lady Anne turned drowsily 
 upon her pillow and closed her eyes. Elsie 
 stood silently by the bed until the quiet, 
 regular breathing indicated that her grand- 
 mother was asleep, then she stole softly 
 down-stairs to ask Deborah Conroy to come 
 and sit by the sickbed, while she took a 
 few hours' rest She did not undress, but, 
 simply throwing off her outer garments, 
 wrapped a rug round her, and lay down 
 on the couch in her dressing-room. She 
 was very weary, and fell asleep at once. 
 Shortly after sunset she was awakened by 
 a maid hurriedly entering the room. 
 
 4 Miss Beatoun, will you come up-stairs, 
 please ? Miss Conroy sent me. Lady Tra- 
 quair is is ' 
 
 ' Not dead, Isabella ? ' asked Elsie, spring- 
 ing to her feet in affright 
 
 * No, ma'am, but coming very near the end. 
 Oh, make haste, she is calling for you.' 
 
 Half-dressed as she was, and with her hair
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 275 
 
 streaming about her shoulders, Elsie ran to 
 her grandmother's room. She was stopped 
 on the threshold by the sight of Deborah 
 Conroy, who held up a warning finger, and 
 there were tears on her poor, thin cheeks. 
 Elsie stole softly across the floor, and took 
 one look at the face of her grandmother. It 
 was enough ; for though it was long since she 
 had last seen death that memorable Sabbath 
 morning at Carlowrie, she was not deceived. 
 Ay, the long struggle was over now ; the sad, 
 proud, embittered life closed for ever.; and the 
 Lady Anne had gone to render her account 
 above. 
 
 4 Oh, Deborah, why did you not call me 
 sooner ? ' cried Elsie, in tones of anguish. 
 
 ' I could not, dear ; it is not five minutes 
 gone since Anne awoke out of her sleep, and 
 cried out, " Elsie, Elsie, forgive ! " then she just 
 sank back and expired,' replied poor Deborah 
 Conroy, wringing her hands helplessly, for 
 what was to become of her and of the Priory 
 without the guiding of that strong mind and 
 will ? 
 
 ' Poor grandmother !' said Elsie tenderly and 
 sadly, and, bending down, kissed with loving
 
 276 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 lips the pain-lined brow. Then, leaving the 
 others to perform the last sad offices, she 
 stole away back to her room to weep in 
 solitude, for she indeed felt as if all she 
 loved on earth were taken away from her 
 now. No, not yet; for Howard and Mar- 
 jorie were left. While they lived she would 
 not be utterly friendless, and her heart went 
 out to them in a rush of yearning love. 
 
 Strange and sad and still fell that chill 
 September night upon Lyndon Priory. De- 
 borah Conroy and Elsie sat together by the 
 dining-room fire, talking low and softly of the 
 dead. There was nothing but tenderness in 
 their thoughts of her, and even Deborah 
 Conroy's memories of her kinswoman were 
 softened by the strange, sad thought that 
 she was gone away from Lyndon for ever- 
 more. 
 
 They retired to rest early, and both slept, 
 for they were worn out with their long and 
 anxious vigil. 
 
 All the next day Elsie kept watch at the 
 front windows for the coming of Howard and 
 Marjorie ; but the early darkness fell, windows 
 were shut in and lamps lighted at the Priory,
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 277 
 
 yet there were no signs of their arrival. So 
 Elsie had just to settle down by the fireside 
 with Deborah Conroy, and hope they would 
 come to-morrow. About seven o'clock, how- 
 ever, there came a loud knocking at the hall 
 door, and Elsie, hearing Howard's voice, flew 
 to meet him. Oh, what strength and comfort 
 seemed to come to her at sight of his true 
 face ! She clung to his hands, and then 
 buried her face upon them ; and he felt her 
 hot tears dropping, and had great difficulty 
 in restraining his impulse to clasp her to his 
 heart. 
 
 ' Dear, dear Howard, how good it is to see 
 you ! ' she said, with all the wistful simplicity 
 of a child. ' But you are alone. Where is 
 Marjorie ? ' 
 
 ' She was too much fatigued, dear, to come 
 down to-night. We only arrived in London this 
 afternoon, after travelling night and day. But 
 she will come to-morrow,' said Howard gently, 
 and turned to greet courteously Deborah Con- 
 roy, who had followed Elsie out to the hall. 
 
 After Howard had changed his travel- 
 stained garments and partaken of some 
 refreshment, he went away up alone to the
 
 278 CARLOWKIE. 
 
 chamber of death. But Elsie followed, and 
 stole softly in behind him, and he almost 
 started to find her standing beside him at 
 the bed. 
 
 'Poor Aunt Anne!' said Howard, and 
 folded back with reverent hand the covering 
 from the face. So peaceful was that face, that, 
 looking upon it, great rest seemed to steal 
 over Elsie's heart. The pain-lines were gone, 
 the anxious, fretful expression smoothed away, 
 and there had stolen back something of the 
 beauty which had been so rare in early youth. 
 
 'The face is sweeter in death than it was 
 in life, 1 said Howard musingly. ' Tell me 
 how she died.' 
 
 Briefly and brokenly Elsie told him of the 
 hastened end ; then they talked low and softly 
 of the dead, only remembering her at her best, 
 so swiftly and beautifully does death still all 
 harsher thoughts, and soften what in life was 
 so rugged and unpleasant and hard to bear. 
 
 ' Dear grandmother ! she was ever kind and 
 loving to me. I shall never forget her,' said 
 Elsie, and, bending once more, kissed the 
 marble brow. ' Howard, let us go.' 
 
 There was no mention made that night of
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 279 
 
 any plans for the future, though they were 
 much in the mind of Howard Traquair. 
 
 Early on the morrow, Mr. Ketterly, the 
 attorney from Alchester, came to the Priory, 
 and had an interview with Elsie, at which 
 Howard was present. He seemed a little 
 nervous and embarrassed, and, though he had 
 some formidable documents with him, appeared 
 in no hurry to open them. 
 
 ' Did Lady Traquair make any allusion to 
 the state of her affairs to the manner in 
 which her bequests were made in your 
 hearing, Miss Beatoun?' he asked, rubbing 
 his spectacles with his silk handkerchief. 
 
 * Only one remark, Mr. Ketterly ; she said 
 that the Priory was to be mine,' replied Elsie 
 reluctantly, for she could not bear to discuss 
 such things in the first keenness of her sorrow. 
 
 ' Just so. Did she make you aware that 
 it was left only conditionally?' pursued Mr. 
 Ketterly. 
 
 ' No, that was all/ answered Elsie. 
 
 Then the lawyer folded out the paper and 
 cleared his throat. 
 
 4 Some weeks ago, as you are aware, her 
 ladyship sent for me for the purpose of making
 
 2So CARLOWRIE. 
 
 some change in the will I drew up for her 
 early in the year,' he began. ' I did not 
 think the change she contemplated desirable, 
 and strongly urged her ladyship to leave the 
 document untouched. But it was useless. I 
 presume you, Miss Beatoun, and you, sir/ he 
 added, looking at Howard, ' are perfectly well 
 aware that Lady Traquair's commands were 
 not to be disputed, and that she was seldom 
 turned from any object which she had in view?' 
 
 He paused then, for Elsie did not appear 
 to be listening to him. She was indeed look- 
 ing through the library window down the long 
 avenue, watching for the carriage which was 
 bringing Marjorie to Lyndon. 
 
 ' May I request your attention, Miss 
 Beatoun, if you please ? ' he said impressively ; 
 and Elsie turned with a start and sat straight 
 up on her chair, with her white, delicate hands 
 folded above her black dress, and her beautiful 
 eyes fixed on his face. That look of child- 
 like innocence somewhat discomposed the 
 hard-headed man of business. Involuntarily 
 Howard took a step nearer to Elsie, dreading 
 what was coming. The lawyer, noting that, 
 smiled slightly, and appeared reassured.
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 281 
 
 ' I need not trouble you with a detailed 
 reading of this document, which might only 
 prove wearisome to you, Miss Beatoun,' he 
 said. ' I will simply state the purport of 
 it, which is that the lands and estate of 
 Lyndon Priory are bequeathed to you solely 
 upon the condition that you become the 
 wife of Mr. Howard Traquair. Failing 
 fulfilment of that condition, Lyndon falls to 
 Miss Marjorie Traquair, with the exception 
 of the sum of two hundred pounds, which 
 will be paid to you on the first day of 
 January of every year while you live. 
 You' 
 
 He stopped abruptly, for with deep-flushed 
 face, and wild, indignant eyes, Elsie sprang to 
 her feet and rushed from the room. The face 
 of Howard Traquair was as pale as death, 
 and set in righteous anger. 
 
 ' That is a wicked and unjust will, Mr. 
 Ketterly,' he said, with difficulty controlling 
 his ire. ' Must it stand ? ' 
 
 ' No power on earth can set it aside. See, 
 it bears the Lady Anne's legible and indisput- 
 able signature at the bottom of the page,' 
 
 replied the lawyer courteously, and held out 
 
 24
 
 282 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 the paper, but Howard only turned away with 
 .a gesture of impatient scorn. 
 
 ' It is cruel and iniquitous thus to oppress 
 a defenceless girl like Miss Beatoun,' he said 
 bitterly. ' God forgive me, Mr. Ketterly, and 
 grant me more kindly charity towards the dead.' 
 
 'As I already stated, I did my utmost to 
 persuade Lady Traquair that a will so worded 
 might only cause confusion and trouble. But 
 pardon the question Was her ladyship not 
 aware that such a marriage was more than 
 likely to take place ? ' 
 
 'No/ replied Howard briefly and sternly. 
 ' You have lived long enough, Mr. Ketterly, 
 to know that coercion is not the best way to 
 win a woman's heart. I do not know what to 
 say or do, because this wretched document 
 will destroy the pleasant, unrestrained relation- 
 ship which has hitherto existed between Miss 
 Beatoun and my sister and myself.' 
 
 ' Mr. Traquair, there is another clause which 
 I had no time to read to Miss Beatoun, but 
 which, though I do not know the circumstances 
 to which it alludes, seems more cruel and un- 
 just still,' said the lawyer in a troubled voice. 
 ' It contains her ladyship's last prayer, which
 
 LADY ANNE'S WILL. 283 
 
 she would seek to make binding upon her 
 grand-daughter's conscience and heart, that 
 she will not return to those with whom she 
 dwelt before she came to Lyndon, and that 
 if she does she will know she is breaking her 
 grandmother's last wish and dying prayer.' 
 
 Dark, dark grew the brow of Howard 
 Traquair. 
 
 ' Mr. Ketterly,' he said, with clear, proud de- 
 cision, ' may I request that that clause be kept 
 entirely from the knowledge of Miss Beatoun ? 
 It will inflict upon her needless pain. Let 
 her go back to those early friends, whom 
 she loves, untrammelled by any such haunting 
 thought. Will you grant my request ? ' 
 
 ' Most willingly. I deeply sympathise with 
 Miss Beatoun and with you,' was the lawyer's 
 ready and kind reply. 
 
 Then Howard abruptly quitted the room 
 and the house. His mind was in a tumult of 
 pain and shame and justifiable wrath. For now, 
 if ever he had had a hope of winning Elsie's 
 love, that hope was dashed to the ground. 
 
 ' Cruel, cruel ! ' he muttered to himself as he 
 strode wrathfully through the autumn woods. 
 ' Relentless to the last I '
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 BOUT an hour later Marjorie Traquair 
 arrived at Lyndon Priory. She was 
 met in the hall by Deborah Conroy, 
 who said that Howard and Elsie had gone out 
 together. Marjorie laughed good-humouredly, 
 saying they might have waited for her, then 
 went away contentedly up-stairs to remove her 
 travelling garb. Deborah accompanied her, 
 and, with her usual minuteness of detail, related 
 all that had transpired at the Priory during the 
 last three days. But of what had transpired 
 in the library that morning she was, of course, 
 unaware. 
 
 Marjorie had arrived too late to see her 
 aunt, for the coffin lid had been screwed down 
 the previous night. But, after she was rested
 
 HOME. 285 
 
 and refreshed, she went to the darkened room 
 and laid upon the lid the wreath she had 
 brought with her from London. Then she 
 kissed the name upon the silver plate, and 
 stole away, a little saddened, but there was 
 no great grief in her heart. She had never 
 loved her Aunt Anne, and being of clearer, 
 more penetrating vision than Elsie, had been 
 oppressed at times with a haunting, indefinable 
 distrust of the haughty mistress of the Priory. 
 She had spoken of it frequently to Howard, 
 and both had compassionated the shrinking, 
 sensitive girl whom the iron will had so 
 completely under control. 
 
 Marjorie roamed over the house, too restless 
 to settle at anything, and finally felt herself 
 drawn by some strange impulse towards the 
 deserted and unused picture gallery. She 
 swung back the folding-doors and entered 
 noiselessly, went towards the window, and 
 threw open one of the shutters. Then she 
 started to hear a sound of sobbing at the end 
 of the room, and, looking in the direction from 
 whence it proceeded, beheld, to her unspeak- 
 able amazement, the figure of Elsie lying on 
 one of the crimson-covered couches, with her
 
 286 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 face buried in the pillows. In a moment she 
 was by her side. 
 
 ' Elsie, Elsie, my darling ! I am here, my 
 dear love! It is Marjorie,' she whispered 
 lovingly, marvelling much at Elsie's abandon- 
 ment of grief. ' Don't sob so, dear ; you will 
 make yourself so ill.' 
 
 With such soothing and endearing words 
 did Marjorie try to comfort Elsie, until she 
 was able to lift her head and look calmly into 
 her winsome face. The sunshine of her 
 presence, the magic of her happy-hearted 
 smile, weaned Elsie away from her brooding 
 over the many sorrows of her life, and by and 
 by Marjorie coaxed her to get her hat and 
 come out with her for a ramble through the 
 autumn-tinted woods. 
 
 4 Who do you think we saw in Paris, Elsie ? ' 
 asked Marjorie, breaking off in the midst of 
 an animated description of the gay capital. 
 ' Some one who admires you very much.' 
 
 Elsie shook her head. 
 
 Unless it be Edith Hamilton, I don't 
 know who it could be, Marjorie.' 
 
 ' It was Keith Hamilton, dear. Such fun ! 
 He came to Castle-Orde, his sister was too
 
 HOME. 287 
 
 poorly to accompany him, and, finding we 
 were away for a trip to Paris, he came off 
 after us. I believe he thought you were of 
 our party,' said Marjorie, with a sly smile, 
 which provoked an answering one on Elsie's 
 pale lips. 
 
 ' Little he cared. I like Keith Hamilton, 
 Marjorie. He was very kind to me. If he 
 comes to Traquair, don't send him away/ she 
 said gently. 
 
 An exquisite blush sprang to Marjorie's 
 rounded cheek, and a lovely light to her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' When Keith comes to Traquair again, 
 Elsie, and I think it will not be long,' she 
 answered simply, ' I will remember what you 
 said.' 
 
 Then Elsie, understanding, paused in the 
 path, and kissed Marjorie with a long, linger- 
 ing kiss. 
 
 ' God bless you, Marjorie, and him ; you 
 are worthy of each other ! ' was all she said, 
 but it meant a great deal. Somehow they 
 did not talk much after that, and by and by 
 wended their way through the cool, sweet 
 September air to the house. Elsie ran up-
 
 288 CARLOIVKIE. 
 
 stairs at once, but Marjorie, hearing her brother 
 was in the library, went away to that room for 
 a word with him. One look told her that he 
 was thoroughly out of sorts, that something 
 had happened to trouble and grieve him very 
 much. 
 
 ' I'm glad you've come, Marjorie,' he said, 
 with a breath of relief, for the very sight of 
 her was like the shining of the sun. ' Sit 
 down till I tell you something which will raise 
 your righteous ire.' 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the varying 
 expressions which crossed the face of Mar- 
 jorie Traquair, while she was listening to her 
 brother's brief recital of the events of the 
 morning. When he was done she sprang to 
 her feet, with flushed face and kindling eyes. 
 
 ' What a shame ! Poor, poor Elsie ! that was 
 the cause of her grief to-day ! ' she exclaimed. 
 ' Let me say it, it will relieve me. Aunt Anne 
 is an old wretch ! ' she added, getting out the 
 word with great energy. ' Yes, I know it is 
 wrong to say it now she is dead, but if she 
 had been alive I would have said it to her. 
 I was often very nearly saying that or some- 
 thing worse when we were here. Me take the
 
 HOME. 289 
 
 Priory, indeed ! Of course Elsie knows very 
 well it is hers just the same as if that sinful 
 thing had never been written.' 
 
 ' But, Marjorie, unless Elsie becomes my 
 wife, the Priory will be yours even against 
 your will. Elsie cannot keep it/ said Howard 
 moodily. ' The longer one thinks of it, the 
 worse it becomes, I do declare.' 
 
 ' If Elsie only would ! oh, what happiness 
 for us all, Howard !' said Marjorie, with eyes full 
 of tears. ' I am sure she would be happy with 
 you. Do you think that perhaps in time she ' 
 
 ' I* dare not permit myself to hope. We 
 will not speak of it now,' interrupted Howard. 
 1 Well, Marjorie, I can't stay here. The 
 atmosphere of the house is not pleasant to 
 me. Let us get away home as soon after to- 
 morrow as possible.' 
 
 ' And Elsie ? ' 
 
 ' Will go with us, of course. You will ask 
 her, and then I shall assure her, as .quietly and 
 earnestly as possible, that she must not think 
 any more about that wretched thing, and that 
 we must just be the same dear friends, brother 
 and sister, if she will, as if it had never come 
 into existence.' 
 
 25
 
 890 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 4 Howard, how noble you are ! How I love 
 and honour my brother ! ' said Marjorie warmly ; 
 and Howard, smiling a little sadly, drew her 
 to him, and fondly kissed her brow. 
 
 ' Not fonder and prouder than I am of 
 my little sister, my sunbeam ! ' he said, with 
 an earnestness which filled Marjorie's happy 
 heart to overflowing. Such happy natures 
 gather sunshine everywhere, and cast it about 
 them as they go. God bless them ! Like the 
 sunshine and the flowers, the singing birds 
 and every other beautiful thing in nature, they 
 are exquisite exponents of His love. 
 
 In the afternoon, Elsie stole down to the 
 drawing-room for a book she had been read- 
 ing, but upon seeing Howard lying on a couch 
 there she would have at once retreated. But 
 Howard, who had indeed stationed himself 
 there for the purpose of seeing her, sprang to 
 his feet, and begged her to come in. A little 
 ashamed of her haste to escape, Elsie came 
 forward into the room, but with apparent 
 reluctance and embarrassment. There ap- 
 peared to be truth in Howard's prediction, 
 that the Lady Anne's unjust will was likely 
 to destroy the pleasant relationship which
 
 HOME. 291 
 
 had hitherto existed between Elsie and 
 himself. 
 
 ' Come in, Elsie ; don't look so askance 
 at me,' he said, striving to speak naturally. 
 ' That wretched document is not to make any 
 difference to us, I hope ? Let us think no 
 more of it. Nobody but Aunt Anne could 
 possibly have made such a will. It will never 
 trouble me. Let me hear you say the same.' 
 
 A faint colour stole to Elsie's cheek, and a 
 slight smile to her lips. It was an unspeak- 
 able relief to her to feel at home with Howard 
 again, and to be assured that he would never 
 let the will come between them. She had not 
 so many friends now that she could afford 
 to let such as Howard Traquair slip away 
 from her. 
 
 4 Thank you, Howard,' she said very gently. 
 ' I might have known, but I could not help 
 feeling about it just at first.' 
 
 ' Of course you couldn't,' said Howard 
 cheerily. ' But come, let me see that all that 
 feeling is swept away by promising to come 
 with Marjorie and me to Traquair after to- 
 morrow is over.' 
 
 1 Marjorie has spoken of it to me. Yes, I
 
 29? CARLOWRIE. 
 
 will come, Howard, and thank you very much. 
 What should I do without Marjorie and you 
 now f ' she said, with fast filling eyes. 
 
 ' And we'll have jolly times at Traquair, I 
 tell you,' said Howard, with boyish eagerness, 
 to hide a deeper feeling. ' And we'll all be 
 happy together as the day is long.' 
 
 ' Marjorie speaks of staying some days in 
 Edinburgh, Howard. You would not mind 
 very much if, while we were there, I went 
 out by myself to where I used to live before, 
 just to speak to Aunt Effie ? I loved and do 
 love her very much. I would just like to tell 
 her that I have not, and never will, forget 
 them,' said Elsie wistfully. 
 
 ' My dear, you shall do not only that, but 
 every other thing on which you set your 
 heart. I am not sure but that if you contem- 
 plated a journey to the moon, Marjorie and 
 I would not assist you to carry it out,' said 
 Howard, with a twinkle in his eye.' 
 
 Elsie smiled also. How could she help it ? 
 
 ' I shall never be able to repay all your 
 kindness, dear Howard, but' 
 
 ' We will never speak of it again,' supple- 
 mented Howard. ' And if you grow strong
 
 HOME. 293 
 
 and well at Traquair, and our heather-scented 
 mountain air brings back the bloom of yore to 
 your cheek, I shall be more than repaid,' was 
 Howard's answer; and, with a heart strangely 
 at rest, Elsie stole away. The tumult was 
 over now ; and though a certain lingering sad- 
 ness must ever remain in her heart because 
 of what was and what might have been, she 
 saw stretching out before her a life of peace 
 and quiet happiness which might in time 
 suffice. 
 
 On the morrow, the oaken casket which 
 contained all that remained of the Lady Anne 
 Traquair was laid in the vault of Lyndon 
 Priory. It had been her expressed desire 
 that her body should not be carried to Scot- 
 land, but should be laid to rest among her 
 own people. Strange that, though she had 
 loved her husband so well, and so faithfully 
 mourned his loss, she should not care to sleep 
 beside him in death. It was but another 
 whim of that strange, unfathomable nature, 
 which seemed to take pride in its strong 
 individuality. ' 
 
 On the succeeding morrow, Howard and 
 Marjorie, with Elsie in their care, left the
 
 294 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 Priory. All were glad to go ; the brother and 
 sister because their hearts were at Traquair, 
 and Elsie because Lyndon Priory had been 
 a species of prison-house to her, where she 
 had been held in bondage, which, though 
 sweetened by love and generous kindness, was 
 bondage still. Between age and youth there 
 is little in common, and the heart of Lady 
 Anne and that of Elsie Beatoun, in its pure 
 and high-souled innocence, were as far apart 
 as earth from heaven. The house was left 
 in the care of Elizabeth Ritchie. Her mis- 
 tress had left her amply provided for, and a 
 charge like the keeping of the Priory during 
 the absence of the young mistress was one 
 after her own heart. Seeing them all depart 
 so happily together, there was no doubt in 
 her mind that Miss Elsie would . ere long 
 become Lady of Traquair, and that in all 
 probability the Priory would only see her for 
 a few weeks or months in the year. That 
 was a very pleasant thought to the soul of 
 Betsy Ritchie. 
 
 The journey to Scotland was singularly 
 pleasant. Howard secured a compartment for 
 their own use, and everything was provided
 
 HOME. 295 
 
 for the comfort and ease of the ladies. They 
 travelled by the East Coast Route, so that 
 Elsie was spared passing through any of the 
 familiar scenes of her youth. But when the 
 carriage awaiting them at the station rolled 
 swiftly along the wide, beautiful thoroughfare 
 of Princes Street, Elsie's heart was stirred 
 with wild, unutterable yearnings, with un- 
 dying memories of the past. On a memorable 
 summer day, three years ago, when Hew and 
 Christian and she had spent a holiday in the 
 city, they had walked through the gardens, 
 and then back on the other side of the street, 
 and there was the very jeweller's window 
 where they had paused to look in and admire 
 the gold and pebble ornaments, and to point 
 out in jest what each would wear upon her 
 wedding day. Howard and Marjorie, under- 
 standing something of her thoughts, did not 
 disturb her or speak to her at all. 
 
 ' You are glad to be in Scotland again, 
 Elsie ? ' Howard said, as he assisted her to 
 alight at the door of the hotel. 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; Scotland is home to me. At 
 Lyndon I was a stranger in a strange land. 
 In dear Scotland everybody is free,' she
 
 296 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 answered, with a smile and a tear, which told 
 that the words came from the very heart. 
 After dinner they had a long drive round 
 Arthur's Seat, and Marjorie was rapturous 
 over the beauties of Edinburgh. But Elsie 
 was absorbed and restless, and could not 
 admire anything, so full was her heart and 
 thoughts of what was coming on the morrow. 
 She had planned to go by an early train, and 
 return in the evening ; but when the morning 
 came, it brought a strange, inexplicable reluct- 
 znce, and she allowed the forenoon to slip 
 away. But Howard took her to the station 
 in time for the afternoon train. She took 
 ticket for a little station a mile beyond Gore- 
 bridge, not caring that the villagers should 
 recognise her. From this little station she 
 
 o 
 
 could walk through the fields to Lintlaw, a 
 shorter and pleasanter way than the toilsome 
 ascent from Gorebridge. 
 
 * I will be home to-morrow, Howard,' she 
 said, ' unless Aunt Effie wants me to stay 
 another day, and then I shall write.' 
 
 ' All right. I hope you will have a safe 
 and pleasant journey, dear, and find a warm 
 welcome among your old friends. Take care
 
 HOME. 297 
 
 of yourself, Elsie ; I shall not be easy in my 
 mind till I see you again.' 
 
 ' Oh, I shall be all right, never fear. This 
 is a familiar line, a familiar train to me. You 
 know I have often made this journey, and 
 it is not far/ she replied cheerfully. ' Good- 
 bye.' 
 
 The train steamed out of the station, and 
 Elsie sank back in her corner, for many strange 
 memories thronged about her heart. What 
 feelings were hers as she was hurried through 
 the familiar landscape ! Past Portobello, with 
 its blue line of shimmering sea ; then the neat, 
 picturesque station at Eskbank ; and thence on 
 to her destination. At Gorebridge she dared 
 not look out, lest she should see any familiar 
 faces. She was now becoming nervous and 
 excited, and could scarcely keep still her 
 trembling hands. How, oh how would they 
 receive her ? she wondered. Would they let 
 her in, or would she find herself forgotten, and 
 cast out of their hearts for ever ? Her hope 
 centred in her aunt. Christian and Hew, of 
 course, would be both settled in their own 
 homes ; but so long as Aunt Effie dwelt 
 beneath the roof-tree of Lintlaw, it was home
 
 298 CARLO WR1E. 
 
 to her. The sun was shining with that clear, 
 still brightness peculiar to October, when she 
 left the train and took her way by the familiar 
 field - paths to Lintlaw. It was the same 
 peaceful landscape, unchanged, beautiful as of 
 yore. Yonder the grey battlements of Borth- 
 wick, the little church, the school, and Mr. 
 Macdougall's house, where she and Christian 
 had often drank tea in summer days gone by. 
 Were they there still, she wondered, and did 
 they ever talk of her ? Presently she left 
 behind the hill from whence Borthwick could 
 be seen, and now the dearest, most familiar 
 scenes of all were before her view. 
 
 Harvest was all in-gathered, and the fields 
 were bare and desolate, save where the earth 
 had been upturned by the plough, and showed 
 in rich brown furrows against the stubble. 
 The leaves were red and yellow on the trees, 
 for it had been a late spring, and there had 
 been no wild winds yet to whirl the late foliage 
 to the ground. In the autumn-tinted hedge- 
 rows the bramble was black upon the boughs, 
 and there were rowans still and crab-apples 
 where they were wont to be, ripe on the trees 
 which divided the lands of Lintlaw from those
 
 HOME. 299 
 
 of the Mount. With a heart well nigh burst- 
 ing, Elsie climbed the stile into the wood, and 
 walked with trembling feet down the moss- 
 grown path. When she reached the open 
 gate which led directly into the field at the 
 back of Lintlaw, she stood still, and, leaning 
 against a tree, tried to summon up that calm- 
 ness and courage which were necessary to 
 enable her to go on. The stackyard was very 
 full, three-and-thirty stacks Elsie mechanically 
 counted, and recalled that there had been but 
 eight - and - twenty the last harvest she had 
 witnessed at Lintlaw. Evidently this had 
 been a prosperous year for Lothian farmers. 
 The full stackyard somewhat obscured the 
 steading, still she could see the long red-tiled 
 roof of the barn, and beyond, the gables of the 
 house itself, from which two blue wreaths of 
 smoke were curling upward to the calm, bright 
 sky. 
 
 In the field she must pass on her way down 
 to the farm, there was a great band of men 
 and women digging and gathering the pota- 
 toes, and she could hear the echo of their 
 voices and laughter, which told that tongues 
 were as busy as their hands. Mr. Dairy mple
 
 300 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 was not among them ; but, coming up behind 
 the band, ' gaffering ' them, was a big strap- 
 ping lad, whose bronzed face under his broad 
 straw hat bore a striking resemblance to Sandy. 
 
 They were working down the drill, so Elsie 
 waited till they had turned again, and were 
 well across the field, before she emerged from 
 her shelter. Then she put up her sunshade, 
 and walked very quickly down the rough, un- 
 even road. None of them recognised her. 
 
 She went straight through the big door into 
 the yard at the back of the house, and saw 
 there a strange woman, attired in the garb of 
 an out-worker, scattering corn for the hens. 
 The woman stared at her, but Elsie passed 
 on and through a little door past the gig- 
 house, and round to the front. And there 
 was Davie squatted on the grass, Rover lazily 
 blinking beside him, and a lot of tools and bits 
 of iron scattered about, with which he was 
 working at his beloved machines. At the 
 sound of footsteps he looked up, and then 
 sprang to his feet. There was something 
 strangely familiar in that slender figure, with 
 its flowing black robes, in that sweet, pale face, 
 and in a moment the truth came home to
 
 HOME. 301 
 
 Davie, and he ran shouting into the house, 
 ' Faither, faither, here's Elsie ! Come oot an' 
 see ; Elsie's corned hame ! ' she heard him cry, 
 and even in that moment of supreme feeling she 
 wondered why he said ' father ' and not mother. 
 
 Before the farmer could get up from his 
 chair (it was just the tea-time at Lintlaw), 
 there was a light footfall in the passage, and he 
 saw in the parlour doorway the figure of Elsie. 
 
 * Guid Lord, Elsie, is'tyou?' he exclaimed, 
 looking at her with dumbfoundered eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, it's me,' she answered brokenly, 
 and then her eyes travelled hungrily round 
 the room, for the house felt strange and deso- 
 late and empty, she could not tell why. 
 
 ' What is it ? Oh, Uncle Davie, where is 
 Aunt Effie ? ' 
 
 A look of deep surprise swept across the 
 rugged face of David Dairy mple. He passed 
 his hand across his brow, then through his 
 grey hair, and slowly pointed upward. 
 
 ' Bairn, did ye never hear ? That's a strange 
 question,' he said, in a voice like the shaking 
 of the wind among the firs. ' " The Lord 
 gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed 
 be the name of the Lord." '
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 
 
 S Aunt Effie dead, Uncle Davie?' 
 asked Elsie, in a voiceless whisper. 
 ' That is surely a needless ques- 
 tion for you to ask, Elsie,' said Lintlaw, with 
 some sternness. ' There was news o' her 
 death, ay, an* mony a letter sin syne, sent to 
 you at yer braw English hame.' 
 
 The look of utter bewilderment upon Elsie's 
 face deepened, and she swayed and would 
 have fallen, had not Lintlaw caught her in his 
 arms. She clung to him, and hid her face 
 on his broad breast, and Lintlaw, feeling her 
 pitiful trembling, knew that there was some 
 great mystery to be unravelled here, and that 
 she was their own Elsie still. 
 
 4 Hold me close, Uncle Davie/ she said. 
 
 SOS
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 303 
 
 ' I never got any letters. I wrote and wrote 
 to you, and then my heart seemed to grow 
 cold and dead. People's hearts don't break 
 in this world, or mine had broken long, long 
 ago. Grandmother is dead, and I was on my 
 way to the north with some friends, when I 
 thought I would like to come just to see why 
 you had all forgotten me.' 
 
 ' There was nae letters came here, Elsie : 
 an' mony, mony a sair heart has been in Lint- 
 law ower ye,' said Lintlaw. ' There has been 
 black treachery somewhere, my bairn ; but 
 wheesht, dinna shake like that. It'll be a' 
 richt noo, please God.' 
 
 Elsie still clung convulsively to her uncle, 
 as if afraid that he too should slip from her grasp. 
 
 David Dalrymple was deeply and strongly 
 moved, as he had not been since the death 
 of his wife two years before. How he had 
 loved the sweet, fair child who had found a 
 home with them, and what a joy it was to 
 find her still worthy of that love, I cannot try 
 to tell you. 
 
 By and by she grew calmer, and looked up 
 into his face with great pathetic eyes. Then 
 he saw how great the change upon the sweet
 
 304 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 face, how worn and thin it was, how aged 
 before its time. After all, hers had been the 
 keener, more hopeless grief. 
 
 ' My bairn, what has the ill English folk 
 dune to ye ? Ye are no' the same,' he said ; 
 and, to Davie's astonishment, he saw his 
 father, with a great gentleness, stroke the 
 sweet, sad face uplifted to his. 
 
 ' It was the waiting that did it, Uncle 
 Davie ; but oh, I want I want Aunt Effie ! ' 
 she said, and, breaking from him, flung her- 
 self on the sofa and burst into tears. They 
 brought relief to the overcharged heart. 
 
 1 But where are all the rest ? Christian 
 will be at the Manse, I suppose ? but Robbie, 
 and Effie, where are they?' she asked at 
 length. 
 
 ' Christian is not at the Manse yet,' said 
 Mr. Dalrymple. ' When her mither died, she 
 wad bide to fill her place a wee ; and she has 
 filled it,' he added, with emotion. ' This is 
 Miss Ritchie's wedding-day, and Hew and 
 Christian, and Effie too, are at the marriage, 
 and Robbie's in Douglas's seed-shop in Dal- 
 keith, an' Sandy's gafferin' the workers, an' 
 here's Davie.'
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 305 
 
 ' Christian not at the Manse yet ! but but 
 Mr. Laidlaw did not marry somebody else, 
 I hope ? ' queried Elsie eagerly. She had 
 not been prepared for so many overwhelming 
 changes, and could hardly grasp them all. 
 
 A smile now came upon Lintlaw's face, like 
 the breaking of the sun through the clouds. 
 
 1 Oh no ; he's made o' true stuff, Elsie. 
 An' noo that Effie's able to manage so weel, 
 she's sixteen, ye ken, they're to be mairret 
 in the spring.' 
 
 ' I don't know what to say, Uncle Davie. 
 How have so many things happened here 
 when nothing happened to me ? ' 
 
 ' Are ye no' mairret, Elsie ? Maybe I'm 
 speakin' to the Leddy o' Traquair ? ' said 
 Lintlaw, a sudden thought striking him. 
 
 ' Oh no, Uncle Davie ; I am Elsie Beatoun 
 still, though grandmother was very anxious 
 that I should drop my own name and be 
 called Miss Traquair/ said Elsie mournfully. 
 
 ' The news that yer marriage was to be, was 
 sent to us by yer grandmither, an' then by 
 Miss Hamilton,' said Lintlaw. ' We thocht 
 ye were to be married this August just gane 
 
 by.' 
 
 26
 
 306 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 1 Did grandmother write and tell you I was to 
 marry the Laird of Traquair ? ' queried Elsie. 
 
 ' She did that ; an' she offered us money, 
 money, Elsie, because ye had had yer hame 
 at Lintlaw ; but yer aunt an' me took nae 
 notice o' that letter, of course. It was an 
 insult to oor love for you, to the very name 
 of Dalrymple.' 
 
 ' And you never got any of my letters, Uncle 
 Davie ? I am sure I wrote twenty or more.' 
 
 ' Never ane ; an' I'm sure there was as 
 many written to you frae here,' replied Lintlaw 
 sternly. 
 
 ' Then grandmother must have kept them 
 back. How could she do such a cruel, cruel, 
 wicked thing ! ' 
 
 The Lord only kens ; but she's deid, ye 
 say, an' dootless by this time has gotten her 
 reward,' was Lintlaw's brief reply. ' But 
 come, my bairn, tak' afif yer bannet. Ye've 
 come to bide ; hame to Lintlaw, as Davie cried 
 in at the door. This' 11 be a blithe, blithe 
 nicht when the bairns come hame.' 
 
 ' Uncle Davie.' Elsie's voice fell very low, 
 and her pale face flushed deep crimson. 
 
 * Weel, my bairn.'
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 307 
 
 1 Shall I see Hew's wife to-night ? Is she 
 at the wedding too ? and will she come up 
 with them ? I I don't think I could bear 
 it just yet.' 
 
 ' Hew's wife ! ' Very comical to see at that 
 moment was the face of David Dalrymple. 
 ' Guid guide us a', lassie, whatten ferlie's that 
 ye've gotten in yer heid ? ' 
 
 ' Is is Hew not married, Uncle Davie ?' 
 
 Lintlaw shook his head. 
 
 ' Na, na ; Carlowrie's waitin' on its mistress 
 yet, an' wha kens, she'll maybe come hame 
 by and by. Lassie, my son has never for- 
 gotten ye. Ye are as dear to him at this 
 meenit as ever ye were. I say it wha ken 
 him best on earth. Many a time my heart's 
 been sair for the laddie, but he has manfully 
 borne his cross.' 
 
 1 Oh, Uncle Davie, they told me he had 
 forgotten me, that he had never loved me, 
 that he was to be married to Katie Gray. 
 I believed it, uncle, because I never heard 
 from Hew or anybody,' cried Elsie, springing 
 to her feet, for was not this the crowning 
 surprise of all ? 
 
 'This has been an unco ravelling, Elsie/
 
 308 CAKLOWRIE. 
 
 said David Dalrymple. ' Thanks be to God, 
 it is made plain at last. We maun pray for 
 kindly thochts o' her that's awa', but it's no easy.' 
 
 ' Will they be late at the wedding, uncle ? ' 
 asked Elsie by and by. 
 
 ' No ; it is a very quiet affair, an' Mr. and 
 Mrs. Blair were to leave by the last train for 
 Edinburgh. So the bairns '11 be name afore 
 the darkenin'.' 
 
 Then Elsie slipped away out of the room 
 and up-stairs, to be alone for a little with her 
 own strange tumult of thought. Joy and grief 
 were strangely intermingled in her heart, 
 joy that she was not forgotten at Lintlaw ; 
 grief that dear Aunt Effie, her more than 
 mother, had not lived to see this day. But 
 up yonder she knew all, thought Elsie, as she 
 looked through the south window of the best 
 room to the green braes of Crichtoun, with an 
 unutterable sense of peace stealing over her 
 weary heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, all unconscious of what had 
 transpired at home, the bairns were quietly 
 enjoying themselves in the parlour at Scots- 
 toun, among the friends gathered together to 
 see Miss Ritchie married.
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 309 
 
 Very nice did the bride look in her neat, 
 well-fitting brown silk, and very happy too ; 
 although she confided to Christian, when she 
 went to make ready for her journey, ' That 
 it was raither a thocht to a body gettin' 
 mairret ; an' she didna ken hoo lassies could 
 flee into the bonds withoot muckle considera- 
 tion/ 
 
 Robbie Blair looked his best, which was 
 saying a good deal, and everybody said they 
 were a fine-looking, well-matched pair. After 
 the carriage drove away with the husband and 
 wife, the guests began to talk of leaving. A 
 few of the gentlemen remained to talk about 
 his sister's marriage with Geordie Ritchie, but 
 the Lintlaw bairns went away, the minister 
 of course accompanying them. Christian and 
 Erne just wore their Sabbath gowns, soft 
 grey merino, relieved by knots of cherry 
 ribbon, and very sweet, indeed, did Christian 
 look in that garb. She walked behind with 
 Mr. Laidlaw, of course, Hew and Effie being 
 a good way in front. When they got up the 
 road a little bit, they saw their father and the 
 laddies waiting at the gate, and Effie declared 
 there was somebody else, a woman, too, who
 
 310 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 had run away up the path at sight of them. 
 When they got to the foot of the brae, to 
 their astonishment the laddies rent the air 
 by a hearty cheer. 
 
 'Hurrah! hurrah! Elsie's hame Elsie's 
 corned hame ! ' they shouted, so loud that 
 even the minister and Christian heard, and 
 stood still almost in affright. The face of 
 Hew grew as pale as death, but just then his 
 father came, and, taking him by the arm, led 
 him on in front, leaving the laddies to tell 
 Effie and the rest all about it. Briefly but 
 perfectly Lintlaw explained the whole story 
 to his son, and it did his heart good to see 
 the look which superseded surprise in his 
 eyes. 
 
 'Ye'd better gang awa' an' see Elsie a 
 meenit by yersel', Hew,' said Lintlaw, with 
 thoughtful consideration, 'an' I'll keep them 
 a' speakin' oot here a while yet.' 
 
 Mechanically Hew obeyed. Dared he be- 
 lieve it ? Could it be that Elsie was come 
 back true to him, to leave them nevermore, 
 some day to become the mistress of Car- 
 lowrie ? He walked like one in a dream, 
 and like one in a dream entered the house,
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE MISTS. 311 
 
 and walked through every room till he found 
 Elsie. She was standing in the middle of the 
 best room, and, even in the deep shadow cast 
 all about her by the twilight, he could see 
 the look on her face, and his heart leaped 
 to see it. 
 
 ' Elsie ! Elsie ! ' he said, and took a step 
 towards her, and the next moment he held 
 her in his arms, her fair head was pillowed 
 on his breast; she was his for time and for 
 eternity. 
 
 Surely that moment of supreme, unspeak- 
 able joy swept away for ever all the bitter 
 memories of the past. 
 
 By and by there came a low yet impatient 
 knock at the door, and the radiant face of 
 Christian peeped in. 
 
 ' It's my turn now, Hew,' she said, her voice 
 tremulous in its great joy. ' Oh, Elsie, Elsie, 
 I aye said ye wad come back ! ' 
 
 After a little they all went down to the 
 parlour, and then what rejoicings ! Mr. Laid- 
 law's earnest hand-clasp, Effie's tearful yet 
 joyful kiss, and the boisterous greetings of 
 the laddies, were like to overwhelm Elsie 
 altogether. Seeing and feeling how dear
 
 312 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 she was to them all, she wondered much 
 how she could ever have brought herself to 
 think they had forgotten her. In the middle 
 of all this deep, thankful joy, there was one 
 regret, one yearning unfulfilled, for at the 
 supper-table there was an empty chair. And 
 yet all felt that the spirit of the sweet mother 
 was hovering near them, that in heaven she 
 was glad with and for them all. 
 
 ' I think we will raise a song of thanks- 
 givin' to our God the nicht, bairns,' said 
 Lintlaw, when Christian handed him the book 
 from the sideboard. Then he read slowly and 
 falteringly the opening verse of the hundred 
 and third Psalm : 
 
 ' O thou my soul, bless God the Lord ; 
 
 And all that in me is 
 Be stirred up His holy name 
 To magnify and bless.' 
 
 Then Christian raised the tune of St. Magnus, 
 and Mr. Laidlaw's clear tenor, and Hew's deep 
 bass, and the laddies' shrill, hearty trebles, 
 mingled sweetly with hers, but neither Lintlaw 
 nor Elsie sang a note. To Elsie's home-sick 
 heart that singing seemed like the very music 
 of the heavenly choir. How often she had
 
 CLEARING A WA Y THE MISTS. 313 
 
 heard it in her dreams, how often longed for 
 it in her waking hours ! The face of Uncle 
 Davie wore a far-off expression, as if his 
 thoughts were far away from earth and 
 earthly things. When the singing ceased, 
 he closed the book, and said reverently, ' Let 
 us pray.' 
 
 That prayer, the outpouring of a thankful 
 and reverent spirit before its Maker, calmed 
 the excited feelings of all kneeling with him, 
 and a great deep peace settled down upon 
 Lintlaw. 
 
 'Aunt Effie is here, Christian,' whispered 
 Elsie when they rose. 
 
 Christian nodded, and answered softly, 
 'Ay, she sees an' kens a'. We hav'na lost 
 mother, Elsie, only she is within the veil, 
 and we are without for a little while.' 
 
 f 
 
 A letter written and despatched to Edin- 
 burgh on the morrow brought Howard and 
 Marjorie Traquair to Lintlaw on the afternoon 
 of the following day. 
 
 Need I say how warmly they were wel- 
 comed, and how little pressure it required to 
 
 make them spend a week beneath the roof- 
 
 27
 
 314 CARLOWRIE. 
 
 tree which had sheltered Elsie so long ? The 
 true, unaffected hearts of the brother and 
 sister, who remembered still the days that 
 had been, when proverty and obscurity had 
 been their portion, not uplifted in any way by 
 their changed fortunes, were thoroughly at 
 home at Lintlaw. 
 
 It was but natural that the certainty that 
 Elsie's love could never now be his, saddened 
 slightly the heart of Howard Traquair. But 
 the sight of Hew Dalrymple one look into 
 his handsome face, on which was written 
 sincerity and nobleness of heart banished 
 selfish regret, and made him glad for Elsie, 
 He was worthy of her ; and so Howard told 
 him, with a grip of the hand which spoke 
 volumes. 
 
 Surely there never had been such happy 
 days at Lintlaw, and the walls rang with 
 young voices, with trills of sweet laughter, 
 with merry jest and song, for Howard and 
 Marjorie kept them all gay. But at length 
 it came to an end. The brother and sister 
 must go to their own home, leaving Elsie 
 behind. Loving regrets followed them ; and 
 they took with them the promise that Christian
 
 CLEARING AWAY THE 'MISTS. 315 
 
 and Elsie at least, and as many more as liked 
 to come, should spend Christmas at Traquair ; 
 and of course Howard and Marjorie were 
 pledged to be present at the double wedding 
 which in the spring would take place at Lintlaw. 
 That night, after they were away, Hew and 
 Elsie walked across the stubble fields in the 
 bright harvest moonlight to see Aunt Effie's 
 grave. The turf was green and fresh, and 
 there were flowers in bloom still, for many 
 loving hands tended that loved resting-place. 
 A white marble stone, with a dove resting on 
 the slab-base, recorded that here slept 
 
 EUPHEMIA AGNES BAILLIE, 
 
 THE BELOVED WIFE OF 
 
 DAVID DALRYMPLE OF LINTLAW; 
 
 and below were the words, inscribed in letters 
 of gold 
 
 ' She being dead yet speaketh.' 
 * Her works do follow her.' 
 
 Reading these words Elsie's tears fell, but 
 they were not tears of sorrow. For though the 
 beloved dead might not return to them, they 
 would go to her, and, as she herself had said in 
 the last days, there was one family in heaven.
 
 316 CARLOWR1E. 
 
 1 Dear Aunt Effie ! ' whispered Elsie. ' Oh, 
 Hew, we must live as she would have us live, 
 and keep her memory in our hearts to the end.' 
 
 ' Ay,' said Hew dreamily. ' Elsie, lookin' 
 back on that time when I thought ye false to 
 me to us all, I shudder. It was all dark. 
 Mother taken away, you lost to us ; every- 
 thing seemed against me thegither. I even 
 said there could be nae God, else such things 
 wouldna be. I ken now, my darling, that I 
 needed that discipline to mak' me mair mind- 
 ful that this life is not all. I can thank God 
 for it now ; but oh, my Elsie, how much 
 harder it was for you than me ! ' . 
 
 'Never mind, Hew; it is over now, thank 
 God,' said Elsie. ' Let us never forget how 
 wonderfully we have been led hitherto.' 
 
 Then Elsie stooped and touched with her 
 lips the name upon the stone. Henceforth 
 that would be a sacred spot to them, as it 
 was to many another heart in the parish. 
 Hew also bent his head, and Elsie heard him 
 say ' Mother,' just as he would have said it 
 had she been standing with them. Then he 
 took Elsie's hand upon his strong arm, and 
 they went away home.
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 N the spring, when there were tender 
 buds on hedge and tree, when green 
 blades and tiny blossoms were peep- 
 ing out everywhere, the double wedding took 
 place at Lintlaw. The brides both wore 
 white, and it was a question which looked 
 best. Christian was the statelier, more hand- 
 some of the two; but Elsie, in her girlish 
 loveliness, was if anything more admired. 
 Howard gave her away. No brother ever 
 acted a more noble, generous part towards a 
 sister than he displayed towards the woman 
 he had hoped to call wife. Sweet Marjorie 
 was there as Elsie's bridemaiden, a capacity 
 which Effie, of course, filled for Christian. 
 It was a quiet wedding, as befitted it should, 
 but there was a deep and thankful joy which is 
 often lacking from more imposing ceremonials.
 
 318 CARLO WRIE. 
 
 The minister and his wife went south, Hew 
 and Elsie to a little out-of-the-world corner on 
 the western coast, to taste of the happiness 
 which dwelt in Eden. 
 
 There was one secret which Elsie kept 
 from her husband till she had been many 
 years mistress of Carlowrie, it related to 
 the Lady Anne's will ; and Hew Dalrymple 
 was a middle-aged man before he knew that 
 his wife in marrying him had forfeited a great 
 estate; and then, of course, it was too late 
 to say anything, even if Elsie would have 
 listened. 
 
 Within a year after the double wedding 
 there were great rejoicings at Tyneholm, when 
 the Laird brought home a winsome bride 
 from the north. After that happy event the 
 ' big house ' was seldom shut up, so great was 
 the love the young wife had for it. What 
 wonder, seeing that she was surrounded there 
 by so many well-beloved friends ? 
 
 After his marriage, Keith 'settled down,' 
 and was at once the most popular and the 
 best-known landlord in the Lothians. In 
 Traquair Howard dwelt alone, and though 
 years went by he found no second love. Yet
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 he was not unhappy. He was content in the 
 fulfilling of his duties, in the affection of his 
 people, in the love of his many, many friends. 
 Need I say he was vsry often in the Low- 
 lands, and that he had his own room beneath 
 Marjorie's roof-tree ? Mrs. Hamilton and 
 Edith, fond of travelling as of yore, roamed 
 about all the yeai round, until the elder 
 lady's health failed, and they settled down 
 permanently with her bachelor brother, Sir 
 Harry Cecil, at Alnwick Hall. Both loved 
 Keith's wife, and paid a yearly visit in the 
 summer-time to Tyneholm. 
 
 Tyneholm, Carlowrie, Lintlaw, the Manse, 
 dear names ! hallowed by many sweet and 
 sacred associations, there were not happier 
 homes in all the Lothians. 
 
 In due course a little Effie came home to 
 the Manse, who was earlv taught to lisp the 
 name of ' Grandma, <uia to love that precious 
 grave. Elsie's baby was a boy, and very 
 proud she was of him too, and she hoped 
 with all her heart he would grow up to be as 
 good a man as his father and his grandfather 
 before him. And when the son and heir 
 arrived at Tyneholm, what rivalry between
 
 320 CARLOWR1B. 
 
 the young mothers ! What comparisons were 
 drawn between the babies ! But of course, 
 since each was perfectly convinced that there 
 was not, and never could be, so lovely a child 
 as hers, each and all were perfectly content. 
 
 These little ones, grown to manhood and 
 womanhood, are among the best and truest 
 Lothian folk to-day.
 
 GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 
 
 A', all. 
 
 Bricht, bright. 
 
 Daur, dare. 
 
 Abe, be. 
 
 Brither, brother. 
 
 Daurna, dare not. 
 
 Abo on (or, abune), 
 
 Brocht, brought. 
 
 Daw tie, darling ; ono 
 
 above. 
 
 Brunt, burned. 
 
 doated on. 
 
 Aboot, about. 
 
 Buik, book. 
 
 Deave, deafen. 
 
 Adae, either. 
 
 Buirdly, stout; broad- 
 
 Dee, die. 
 
 Ae. one ; only. 
 
 made. 
 
 Deed (or, deid), dead. 
 
 Aff, off. 
 
 Bund, bound. 
 
 Denty, dainty. 
 
 Aff-pittin', patting off. 
 
 Burn (or, burnie), rivu- 
 
 Didna, did not. 
 
 Aff-putten, cast off. 
 
 let. 
 
 Dinna, do not. 
 
 Aiblins, perhaps. 
 
 But and ben, back room 
 
 Disna, does not. 
 
 Ajn, own. 
 
 and sitting-room. 
 
 Div, do. 
 
 Aince (or, ance), once. 
 
 Byre, cow-stable ; sheep- 
 
 Dochter, daughter. 
 
 Airth, earth. 
 
 pen. 
 
 Donnert, stupid. 
 
 Amang, among. 
 
 
 Doo, dove. 
 
 Ane, one. 
 
 C A i K N, a mound of 
 
 Dool, grief, trouble. 
 
 Anent, concerning. 
 
 stones. 
 
 Doon, down. 
 
 Anither, another. 
 
 Canna, can not. 
 
 Doot, doubt. 
 
 A' t h i n g, all things ; 
 
 Canny, gentle; well-dis- 
 
 Douce, grave ; serious. 
 
 every thing. 
 
 posed. 
 
 Dour, grim. 
 
 Auld, old. 
 
 Cauld, cold. 
 
 Dowie, sad. 
 
 Ava', at all. 
 
 Ceevil, civil. 
 
 Dreich. slow ; tedious. 
 
 Awa', away. 
 
 Certy, for certain, sure ; 
 
 D r o o k i t, drenched ; 
 
 
 indeed. 
 
 drowned. 
 
 BADE, staid. 
 
 Chairge, charge. 
 
 Droon, drown. 
 
 Bairn, child. 
 
 Chap, tap ; thrum. 
 
 Drucken, drunk. 
 
 Baith, both. 
 
 Cheep, chirp ; a word. 
 
 Dumbfoondered,amazed. 
 
 Bannet, bonnet. 
 
 Chiel (or, ehield,) young 
 
 Dune, done. 
 
 Bauld, bold. 
 
 man. 
 
 Dwine, dwindle. 
 
 Bawbee, a half-penny. 
 
 Claes, clothes. 
 
 
 Behauden, beholden. 
 Ben, in. 
 Ben-end, parlor or sit- 
 ting-room ; kitchen. 
 
 Claith, cloth. 
 Clash, talk ; converse ; 
 gossip. 
 Clud, cloud. 
 
 EE (or, e'e), eye. 
 Een (or, e'en), eyes. 
 Eerie, timorous ; afraid. 
 
 ITftfJT* aflAr 
 
 Bide, stay. 
 Biggin, building, house. 
 Binna, be not; is not. 
 Birr, to make a whirring 
 noise. 
 
 Coont, count. 
 Coorse, course. 
 Crack, talk ; gossip. 
 Cratur, creature. 
 Craw, crow. 
 
 l.in I , ant I. 
 
 Efternune, afternoon. 
 E m b r o, Edinboro' ; 
 Edinburgh. 
 Eneuch (or, enough), 
 
 Bluid, blood. 
 Bode, same as bade, 
 
 Creepie, stool ; hassock. 
 Crood, crowd. 
 
 enough. 
 Ettle, intend ; aim at ; 
 
 staid. 
 Bonnie, or bonny, beau- 
 
 Croon, crown. 
 Croose (or, crouse,> pert ; 
 
 attempt. ^ 
 Eveu doon, downright. 
 
 tiful. 
 
 bold. 
 
 
 Bonnieness, cleverness. 
 
 Cutty, short; small in 
 
 FAITH ER, father. 
 
 Bothy, hut, cottage. 
 
 stature. 
 
 Fan, cake. 
 
 Brae, a hill-slope, ac- 
 
 
 Fash, trouble ; annoy. 
 
 clivity. 
 
 DAE, do. 
 
 Fashious, helpless. 
 
 Braw, fine. 
 
 Daffing, sporting. 
 
 Faur, far. 
 
 Brawly, finely ; well. 
 
 Daft, foolish ; mad. 
 
 Faut, fault. 
 
 Braid, broad. 
 
 Dauchter, daughter. 
 
 Fecht, fight. 
 
 I
 
 GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 
 
 Feckless, worthless ; 
 
 HAE, have. 
 
 Lave, remainder ; rest. 
 
 feeble. 
 
 Haen, had. 
 
 Leddy, lady. 
 
 Fecklessness, careless- 
 
 Haena, have not. 
 
 Leal, "loyal; faithful. 
 
 ness. 
 
 Hail (or, hale), whole. 
 
 Lee, lie. 
 
 Fell, keen or keenly. 
 
 Hnirst, harvest. 
 
 Len', loan. 
 
 Fend, provide. 
 
 Hanic, home. 
 
 Leeve, live. 
 
 Ferlie, wonder (con- 
 
 H a n 1 1 e, a handful ; 
 
 Licht, light. 
 
 temptuously); a fancy. 
 
 much ; many. 
 
 Lichtlie, sneer at ; treat 
 
 Fesh, fetch. 
 
 Hasna, lias not. 
 
 with contempt. 
 
 Fit, foot. 
 
 Hand. hold. 
 
 Lichtit, lighted. 
 
 Flichter. nutter. 
 
 Havena, have not. 
 
 Likit, liked. 
 
 Flooer, flower. 
 
 Heid, head. 
 
 Limmer, a wanton. 
 
 Flure, floor. 
 
 Helpit, helped. 
 
 Lippen, trust. 
 
 Flyte, sfold. 
 
 Hinn, hang. 
 
 Lookit, looked. 
 
 Foondry, foundry. 
 
 Minna, have not. 
 
 Lug, ear. 
 
 Forebear (or, forbear), 
 
 Hizzie, young woman ; 
 
 Lum, chimney. 
 
 ancestress ; ancestor. 
 
 torn-boy. 
 
 
 Forbye, besides. 
 
 Hoo, how. 
 
 MA, my. 
 
 Foment, opposite. 
 
 Hoolet, owl ; owlet. 
 
 Mair, more. 
 
 Forrit, forward. 
 
 Hooly, slowly. 
 
 Maist, most. 
 
 Foucht, fought. 
 
 Hooly ! take leisure ; 
 
 Maister, master. 
 
 Fnie, from. 
 
 stop! 
 
 Maitter, matter. 
 
 Freend, friend. 
 
 Hoose, house. 
 
 Mane, fuss ; ado. 
 
 Frern, strange. 
 
 Hopit, hoped. 
 
 Maun, must. 
 
 Friclit, fright. 
 
 Houp, hope. 
 
 Maunna, must not. 
 
 Fule, fool. 
 
 Howdy-hole, closet. 
 
 Micht, might. 
 
 Fusliionless, incompe- 
 
 Howin, hoeing. 
 
 Midden-dyke, garden 
 
 tent. 
 
 Hubble, confusion. 
 
 wall ; ditch. 
 
 
 
 Mirk, dark. 
 
 GAE, go. 
 
 ILK or ilka, each ; every. 
 
 Mil her, mother. 
 
 Gaed, went. 
 
 Inlae (and, iutil), into. 
 
 Mony, many. 
 
 Gaffer, direct. 
 
 Ither, other. 
 
 Moosie, mouse. 
 
 Gait, way. 
 
 
 Mou', mouth. 
 
 Gane,' gone. 
 
 JIMPY, little ; neat ; 
 
 Muckle, much. 
 
 Gang, go. 
 
 slender. 
 
 Muirland, moor. 
 
 Gar, make. 
 
 Jist, just. 
 
 Mune-liclit, moon-light. 
 
 (lawn, going. 
 
 
 
 Gear, goods ; property. 
 
 KEBBUCK, a cheese-cake. 
 
 NA (or, nae), no, not. 
 
 Genty, elegantly formed; 
 
 Keek, peep; look 
 
 Nae, none. 
 
 neat ; high-bred. 
 
 sharply. 
 
 Naebody, nobody. 
 
 Gey, very ; pretty. 
 
 Keepit, kept. 
 
 Naething, nothing. 
 
 Gey an, very. 
 
 Ken, know. 
 
 Neebor, neighbor. 
 
 Gie, give. 
 
 Kenna, know not. 
 
 Needna, need not. 
 
 Gieti, given. 
 
 Kennin', knowing. 
 
 Neist, next. 
 
 Gif (or, gin), if. 
 
 Kent (or, kenned), 
 
 Nicht, night. 
 
 Girn, grin ; snarl at. 
 
 known, knew. 
 
 Noo, now : at the noo, 
 
 G la i ket, thoughtless ; 
 
 Kep, cape. 
 
 at present ; at once. 
 
 foolish. 
 
 Kintry, country. 
 
 
 Glisk, glimpse. 
 
 Kirn, harvest home ; 
 
 OCHT, aught. 
 
 Gloaming, twilight. 
 
 harvest feast. 
 
 Ongauns, goings on ; 
 
 Gomeril, fool ; dolt ; 
 
 Kittle, ticklish ; nice ; 
 
 doings. 
 
 blockhead. 
 
 intricate. 
 
 Ony, any. 
 
 Goon, gown. 
 
 Kye, cows. 
 
 Oo.'yes. 
 
 Gowan, wild daisy. 
 
 
 'Ooman, woman. 
 
 G rabbit, gnibbed. 
 
 LAIRD, lord ; a land-pro- 
 
 Oor, our. 
 
 Grat, cried. 
 
 prietor. 
 
 Got (or, ooteu), out ; 
 
 Grawn, grand. 
 
 Lairn, learn. 
 
 out of. 
 
 Greet, cry. 
 
 Lanimie, little lamb. 
 
 Oucht, ought. 
 
 G rue, shudder; shiver. 
 
 Lane (his, her, its, etc.i, 
 
 Ower, over. 
 
 Grund, ground. 
 
 alone. 
 
 Oxter, arm-pit. 
 
 Gude (or, guid), good. 
 
 Lang, long. 
 
 
 Gump, wade. 
 
 Laueh, laugh. 
 
 PAIDL'T, paddled.
 
 ULUSSAXX W KfJOTCO. WORDS. HI 
 
 Pat, pot. 
 Patrick (or, paitrick), 
 
 Spate, flood. 
 Speer (or, spier), ask 
 
 Unneeborly; unneigh- 
 borly. 
 
 partridge. 
 
 for ; inquire. 
 
 Uphaud, uphold. 
 
 Peety, pity. 
 
 Speerit, spirit. 
 
 
 Pit, put. 
 
 Stanes, stones. 
 
 VEKRA, very. 
 
 Pleeshure, pleasure. 
 
 Steer, stare. 
 
 
 Pooer, power. 
 
 Stoop, a prop ; a post 
 
 WAD (or, wud), would. 
 
 Poo'rless, powerless. 
 
 fixed in the earth. 
 
 Waddin', wedding. 
 
 Prig, cheapen ; dispute. 
 
 Stoory, dusty ; stormy. 
 
 Wae, sorrowful ; sad. 
 
 Prood, proud. 
 
 Stoppit, slopped. 
 
 Waggit, wagged. 
 
 Puir, poor. 
 
 Stour, dust. 
 
 Wsinlit, wanted. 
 
 Putteu, put. 
 
 Stracht (or, strecht), 
 
 Wark, work. 
 
 
 straight. 
 
 Warld, world. 
 
 QUATE, quiet. 
 
 Stravage, wander or 
 
 Warst, worst. 
 
 Quean, servant - maid ; 
 
 stray. 
 
 Warstle, struggle. 
 
 young woman. 
 
 Stude (or, studer), stood. 
 
 Waur, worse. 
 
 
 Sune, soon. 
 
 Weans, babes ; children. 
 
 RAEL, real. 
 
 Sutten, set. 
 
 Wechty, weighty. 
 
 Reek, smoke. 
 
 Syne, after ; ago. 
 
 Wee, little. 
 
 Eeem, run over. 
 
 
 Weel.well. 
 
 Richt, right. 
 
 TAB, to. 
 
 Whae, who. 
 
 Rin, run. 
 
 Tapsalteerie, topsy- 
 
 Whan, when. 
 
 Roond, round. 
 
 turvy. 
 
 Whatten, what; which 
 
 Roup, sale. 
 
 Tatties, potatoes. 
 
 one. 
 
 Rowan, the mountain 
 
 Telt, told. 
 
 Whaur, where. 
 
 ash. 
 
 Teinpit, tempted. 
 
 Wheen, a number; a 
 
 Rowth, plenty. 
 
 Thack, thatch. 
 
 good deal. 
 
 
 Thae, those. 
 
 Wheesht, be calm, hush. 
 
 SAB, so. 
 
 Thegither, together. 
 
 Whiles (or, whyles), 
 
 Sair, sore ; very, 
 
 Thocht, thought. 
 
 sometimes. 
 
 Saut, salt. 
 
 Thole, bear; endure. 
 
 Whing, cry ; complain ; 
 
 Scone, cake. 
 
 Thon, those. 
 
 fret. 
 
 Scoor, scour. 
 
 Thowless, slack ; lazy ; 
 
 Winna, will not. 
 
 Shoon, shoes. 
 
 heedless. 
 
 Withhaud, withhold. 
 
 Sic (or, siccan), such. 
 
 Tlirapple, throat; wind- 
 
 Workit, worked. 
 
 Sicht, sight. 
 
 pipe. 
 
 Wrang, wrong. 
 
 Siller, silver. 
 
 Thraw(or, throw), twist; 
 
 Wudna, would not. 
 
 Simmer, summer. 
 
 quarrel ; be cross. 
 
 Wull, will. 
 
 Sin, since ; after. 
 
 Thrawn, cross; perverse; 
 
 Wulliut, willing. 
 
 Sinsyne, afterward. 
 
 quarrelsome. 
 
 Wunner, wonder. 
 
 Skelly, squint. 
 
 Thrawnness, perversity. 
 
 Wuh, wish. 
 
 Skep, hive for bees. 
 
 Thraid, thread. 
 
 
 Slippit, slipped. 
 
 Till, to. 
 
 YAMMER (or, yaumer), 
 
 Smeddum, spirit : met- 
 
 Toon, town. 
 
 fret ; scold. 
 
 tle. 
 
 Twa, two. 
 
 Yestreeu, yester even- 
 
 Snell, biting; severe; 
 
 Twal", twelve. 
 
 ing. 
 
 sharp. 
 
 
 Yett, gate. 
 
 Socht, sought. 
 
 UNKENT, unknown. 
 
 Yirls, curls. 
 
 Sodger, soldier. 
 
 Unco, very, strange. 
 
 Yont, beyond.
 
 A 000120201 9