V Tfc. Tk - THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE LONE HOUSE BY AMELIA E. BARR AUTHOR OF " JAN VEDDER'S WIFE," " A DAUGHTER OF FIFE," " THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON," " THE SQUIRE OF SANDAL SIDE," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. PS THE LONE HOUSE. CHAPTER I. The rocky Rhinns o' Galloway, The Covenanters' sure retreat : The wild, waste moors o' Galloway, Trod by the Martyrs' weary feet. r I ^HERE is an exceedingly picturesque prom- 1 ontory at the extreme end of the western coast of Scotland called Galloway. It is no un- kenned land. The Roman galleys sailed its estuaries. The first stone church in Scotland was within its boundaries ; and Saint Ninian made its shrines famous throughout the Anglo- Saxon kingdoms, and all the races of Ireland, and even far beyond the native seas. Memo ries of the Bruce and his brave deeds are written on the hills that guard Loch Trool. The Covenanters fled to its moors and moun tains for shelter, and some of them left there a 3 4 THE LONE HOUSE. testimony of martyrdom which is green even to this generation. It was the home of the great families of Gordon of Kenmuir, of the Ken- nedys, Hurrays, Hays, Dalrymples, M'Dougalls, and of those M'Cullochs who so harassed the people of the Isle of Man, that they had a common prayer against them : " Keep me, my good cows, my sheep, and my bullocks, From Satan, from sin, and those thievish M'Cullochs." Walter Scott used its grand coast for local colouring in Guy Mannering ; and the castle of Baldoon, belonging to the Earl of Galloway, was the scene of that tragedy immortalized in " The Bride of Lammermoor." Burns sang of " Banks of the Cree," and in the annals of war and learning the men of Galloway have ever been famous. Still, its religious element is in its modern history its dominant one ; and from the Rhinns of Galloway have come men of the most profound religious convictions forefront men in any question of Dissent descendants of those heroes who, in the days of the Stuarts, fled to the rocky fastnesses not only to save their lives, but also to scatter the good seed in a land of hills and caves, a land desolate and THE LONE HOUSE. 5 inaccessible to those less purposeful than they themselves. There is now a railway station at Port Brad- don in the Rhinns of Galloway, but sixty years ago it was an unplanted wilderness all along the moors of its storm-beaten coast. Here and there a lonely cottage loomed through the pre vailing mists, or stood out bare and bald in the very centre of some moor that was washed to its very bones by the rain-floods. Or down on the shingle there was, perhaps, a little colony of fishers. But even in these clustered homes there was none of the sound and stir of life ; for they were pensioners upon the ocean, a fickle and cruel master, who held in his gift death as well as life. To the Galloway fishers all sea sons had a serious colour ; and their intense piety was but the natural attitude of thoughtful men, dwelling constantly on the confines of Eternity. Sixty years ago there was a little fishing colony of this kind three miles south of Port Braddon, and beyond it to the extremity of the Mull of Galloway, nothing but more and more isolated settlements, separated by lofty rocks and stony inlets, with perhaps here and there 6 THE LONE HOUSE. some ancient castle or well-sheltered modern nobleman's dwelling. This colony had no recognised name, but among its inhabitants was known as "Car- rick's," the man Andrew Carrick being the proprietor of its whole six cottages. Carrick 'himself lived on a house built on the summit of the bluff. He was a man who would nat urally have chosen the highest place he could find for a dwelling ; and destiny had given him the site he would have selected. Two hundred years before his birth there had been an Andrew Carrick, who, flying for life to these solitudes, had gradually acquired an affection for them ; and he had built the house in which his descendant and namesake lived. It was of gray stone, and stood upon the cliff, boldly facing the restless channel in which the Solway Firth and the Irish Sea hold such stormy revels. But it was founded upon a rock, and built of huge blocks of granite; and its deep, narrow windows and thick doors defied the winds that waged nearly constant battle against its walls. The Lone House had originally contained only the " but " and the " ben " common to Scotch THE LONE HOUSE. J cottages ; but Andrew's father had built a second story, with dormer windows facing the moor and the sea. Besides, there was a byre for the cattle, and a small sunk cellar used as a dairy and storeroom. The Carricks were of noble strain, and had been endowed with a double portion of that " protesting " spirit inherent in their race. They had followed Wallace, fought with Bruce, "protested" with Knox, been "out" with the Covenanters, seceded with the Relief Kirk, and at the time my tale opens the man Andrew Carrick was in the midst of a soul-searching in quiry regarding the movement of Dr. Chalmers for the glory of a Free Kirk, with a most decided natural inclination to follow the great doctor. Andrew was a shoemaker, and he sat upon his bench mending a fisherman's boot, and arguing the question conscientiously out with himself ; and the jerky or solemn way in which he pulled his waxed thread through the leather was an emphatic, though quite unconscious, commentary upon his thoughts. He had a large, stern face, with that remarkable length of jaw from ear to chin which is a leading trait in the portraits of all the men of Covenanting 8 THE LONE HOUSE. note. His hair was long and black; his brow seamed with firm, broad wrinkles ; his large, grey eyes had no sparkle in them, but they gleamed with a haughty independence of virtu ous honesty, mingled with much spiritual pride. By and by he became conscious of some sound interrupting the even flow of his thoughts. He lifted his head and looked towards the fireside. On a creepie before it, and softly singing to herself, sat his youngest daughter, Jeannie. She had been combing wool, and her lap and her idle hands were full of the fleecy stuff. He listened to her a moment, and then he asked, "What is it you are singing at a', Jeannie ? " " Just a line or two from Bobbie Burns. There is no wrong in that, father." "Is there naebody to put a word in your lips but that graceless ne'er do weel, Jeannie ? Think shame o' yoursel', my lassie." " I was just humming a bit from ' Bonny Lesley ; ' " and she looked him bravely in the face and gaily sang, " 'To see her is to love her, And love but her forever.' There is nothing ill in that, father." THE LONE HOUSE. 9 " And there's naething good in it. And whar there is no good, thar is plenty o' ill. Forbye, I'm thrang wi' a controversy that taks a' the grace and skill God has gi'en me." Jeannie smiled at him brightly, but did not speak ; and Andrew softened under the smile. Jeannie Carrick was not beautiful, but she had that charm which strictly beautiful faces often want. Her eyes fascinated and her smile com pelled. Every one was glad to please Jeannie Carrick, and sorry even when they were obliged lawfully to grieve her. So in a very few min utes Andrew became restless in the silence he had commanded. The want of Jeannie's song was now worse than its sweet low murmur ; and he said far more kindly, " I dinna approve o' Robbie Burns, Jeannie, but there are plenty o' songs that are lawfu' and not a'thegither devoid o' a gracious mem ory. I'll put by my ain work and my ain thoughts a wee and you can sing ' The Cove nanter's Lament,' and maybe I'll slip a word or two in mysel', dearie." Then he left his bench and sat down beside her in the firelight, and after a moment's silence 10 THE LONE HOUSE. Jeannie began to a wild pathetic melody the mournful Lament : " There's nae Covenant noo, Lassie 1 There's nae Cov'nant noo; The solemn League and Cov'nant, Is a' broken through. There's nae Renwick noo, Lassie ! There's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyrs' hill ! The last four lines were almost like a sob, and Andrew's stern face reflected the senti ment, as if he personally had been bitterly wronged in the matter. " The Martyrs' hill's forsaken In summer's dusk sae calm; There's nae gathering noo, Lassie ! To sing the evening psalm ! But the Martyrs sweetly sleep, Lassie, Aneath the waving fern." Then she stood up and looked at her father, and in a tone of triumph finished the verse. " But the Martyrs' grave will rise, Lassie, Above the warriors' cairn! " In these last two lines Andrew joined his daughter ; indeed, it seemed to be an under- THE LONE HOUSE. II stood thing between them, and a part of a programme often rehearsed. The solemn enthusiasm of the singers was not a thing to be repeated or transferred to some other subject, and Andrew sat with his head in his palms, gazing into the fire. He was enjoying a retrospective reverie which sufficed him ; for his soul was wandering in a part of Scotland very dear to him, and to which he made frequent pilgrimages that pastoral solitude where Pentland falls with easy slope into the Lothian plain. For there mighty deeds had been done for the faith by those iron apostles whom God sends in iron times to make smooth his ways. There the solemn chant and the startling war cry of the Covenanting Men had rung, and there God's saints had died for faith and freedom, and gained the Martyr's Crown. As he sat musing thus, Jeannie drew her little wheel to his side and began to spin. There was silence in the houseplace, but a silence full of meaning ; peopled with the dis tinct thoughts of minds which had not learned the modern trick of generalisation ; which were not crowded with events, but could set 12 THE LONE HOUSE. each one in space, and survey it from every side. ' Very soon a heavy shower of rain smote the window smartly, and recalled Andrew to the actualities of daily existence. " Whar is Ann ? " he asked. " She will be in the byre, no doubt." " The kye ought to be milked lang ere this hour." " The grass is green now, and they are long in coming home." He rose in a hurry, as if moved by some urgent thought, and went out. In a few min utes Jeannie heard Ann in the dairy straining the milk, and shortly afterward her father returned to his chair and resumed his medita tions. But they were evidently of a very dif ferent character. A contemplation on the suffering of the martyrs imparted to his dark solemn face the rapt enthusiasm of a Jewish seer. His own trials gave it a much more earthly expression. Anger, fear, hatred, a sense of wrong, were all there, but with nothing that elevated them above the natural feelings of the man. To ennoble passion all self must be taken out of it. And Andrew Carrick's anger THE LONE HOUSE. 13 that night was full of selfish considerations, though he gave them much more lofty names. Jeannie watched him in silence. She had in her own mind a glimmering of the subject which annoyed him. And her suspicions were justi fied by her father's impatience. The mere movement of the dishes in the dairy appeared to fret him, and when Ann entered the room he never glanced at her. She smiled faintly at Jeannie, and began to prepare the evening meal, making as she moved about in the mingled twilight and firelight, a picture well worth look ing at. She was fair, and finely proportioned, with a round, rosy face, and good features. " A pretty, pleasant girl " would have been any one's first impression ; but to a closer scrutiny, the broad forehead, firm chin, and clever, capable looking hands revealed a far nobler character. She set the round table before the fire, and began to put out the cups and plates and infuse the tea. Then Jeannie laid by her wheel and watched her sister as she went quickly and quietly to and fro watched her with interest, and perhaps also with a shade of jealousy; for there was an unusual brightness in Ann's face, a gleam of happiness that Jeannie could only 14 THE LONE HOUSE. read in one way Walter Grahame had been in the byre when Ann was milking. The meal was a silent one. After the "blessing of the bread," few words were spoken. But when it was over, Ann said : " Father, I have a paper you will be right glad to see. Walter Grahame brought it from Wigton. It is the manifest of Dr. Chalmers anent the Free Kirk, and the main step will have to be taken this very month." "Weel! Weel! Gie me the paper. The message may be good, though the messenger be ill to bide." Then Ann put it into his hands. It was but a small pamphlet, but it had moved Scotland from Shetland to Galloway, and it stirred Andrew Carrick's heart like a trumpet. His swarthy face glowed, his eyes kindled, his fingers twitched the potent leaflets as if he were handling a sword. It took him but a very short time to come to a decision. "Lasses!" he cried, "I maun awa' to Eclin- bro'. What for will I be sitting quiet in my ain house when the Kirk is in danger? My forbear and namesake was among the saxty thousand wha' signed the Covenant in the THE LONE HOUSE. 1 5 auld Greyfriars' Kirkyard. If I wasna to the forefront now I wad be shamed to meet him in anither warld. I sail stand by Dr. Chalmers and the Free Kirk to the last breath I hae ! " "Thae days are over," said Ann quietly. "King nor Kaiser could light again the mar tyrs' fires in the Grassmarket." " Weel, I'll stand by them to my last shilling then, and maybe that is as gude a test as the ither ane." He was in a fever of religious excitement, as he read aloud paragraphs of extraordinary power, and then amplified them. "There will be a searching o' consciences now, lasses ! " he said, triumphantly ; " and the men who hae had their sops out o' the dish o' patronage will hae the question to answer now. And there's many that will not thank Dr. Chal mers for putting it to them ; but they are men, and I dinna doubt but they will speak out as they should do. I'm trusting most o' them ; but I'll be easier in my mind if I am on the vera spot, bairns ; " and he looked first at one, and then at the other, with a singular inde cision. Ann stood on the hearth beside him, her 1 6 THE LONE HOUSE. knitting in her hand, and her whole attitude full of interest. Jeannie sat on a low rush chair opposite, and its gay patchwork cushions made an effective background for her small, dark head. The great national question did not trouble Jeannie much. She was thinking of the unusual lights in Ann's eyes, and con necting it with the fact that Walter Grahame had been talking to her. " I shall ride my pony into Wigton. I can get the railway from thar to Edinbro' ; and I shall be awa' the morn's daylight. You will lock the doors at sundown, Ann ; and you will let neither manbody nor womanbody o'er the threshold till I win hame again." "I canna promise all that, father : for it is a sin to make a promise that you arena like to keep. I shall want women to help me with the spring cleaning and bleaching; and there's many an occasion that might bring both men and women folk across the door-stone. You hae left us often before, and we aye did the thing that pleasured you. What are you feared for the now?" " I am feared for that Grahame o' Port Brad- don. He sail not speir after my daughters. THE LONE HOUSE. If And he sail not come under my roof-tree, for he is of an evil seed. Mind what I say ! " " He canna help his name, father. Because there was one devil among the Grahames, are none of them to be good ? " " I'll no leemit the possibility, Ann. A bot tle may be marked ' Poison ' and there may be no poison in it ; but a wise body will just tak' it at its name, and not be trying expeeriments wi' it. That is enou' o' Grahame. He isna for either o' you, lasses. I wad stop the join ing o' hands in sic a bridal yes, I would though I called death himsel' in, to strike them apart. You'll not daur to think o' Wal ter Grahame ; neither o' you ! " In Jeannie's downcast eyes there was noth ing to intimate any resistance to Andrew's positive command ; but Ann's face and atti tude spoke dissent and protestation. Andrew supposed that, as a matter of course, his in junction, " You'll not daur to think o' Walter Grahame," settled the question ; but an hour afterward the girls resumed the subject in their own room. Jeannie was the first to speak. " Do you think father is right about Walter Grahame?" she asked her sister. 1 8 THE LONE HOUSE. " I am sure he is right for Andrew Carrick ; but I am not sure if he is right for Ann Carrick." " And what think you of Walter ? " " I think no harm of the lad." " What did father say to him in the byre ? " " He said, ' Master Grahame, my daughters are na for your company. And the bit o' Scotland I own isna for your feet to tread. And I'll be plain with you,' he went on, ' and bid you keep to your ain place and your ain folk.' " "And what answer made Walter to that ?" " He spoke very civil-like. He said, ' I am sorry you dinna like me, Master Carrick, and I dinna ken what I have done to anger you. 1 " "And what could father say to that ? " " He said, ' You'll be going, Sir. And if God please to do so, he'll give you a good night ; but you will keep in mind that you arena wanted here again not while me and mine are in the Lone House.' " " Poor Walter ! And he so blythe and bon- nie and kind-hearted. It was a black affront to Walter. Whatna for is father so set against the Grahames ? " THE LONE HOUSE. 19 " I am sure he has a ' because ' of his own, and we are bound to take heed to it." " Father thinks o' siller more than love. I can see that he is aye pleased when Ringan Fullerton speaks to me, or comes to my side. Ringan hasna a single merit but a bank book. I'll not marry for money ! Would you, Nannie ?" " There's no use, Jeannie, in setting up the golden image of our own opinions. If they arena like father's opinions, we shall just re quire to give them up." " Eh, Nannie ! You have a lot o' good sense on your tongue. But if you wanted to marry Walter ? " " I don't want to marry Walter. And after father's words anent such marriage, I would think myself daft to give Walter another thought. As for Ringan Fullerton, he is a person of some weight in the world, and you might do worse than think o' him." "I might do a deal better." " That is a question neither you nor I, nor yet the General Assembly, can find an answer to. Marriage is simply unaccountable." " But for a' that father says, I think Walter is a very nice young man." 2O THE LONE HOUSE. "We had best keep clear of him. He will not now be an improving friend for either of us, Jeannie. We have got our orders, and the road of disobedience is an ill road. The de'il is aye on it, and on all roads leading to it ; and we be to take care o' the de'il, Jeannie." " I dinna take any care for him. He's weel able to take care o' himself, and his ain side." "You know what I mean, Jeannie. What for are you playing with my words ; right is right, in the de'il's teeth, and father is right, and no doubt about it ! But I must be up early the morn, and am requiring to sleep now ; so good night to you, Jeannie, and good dreams." " Of Walter Grahame ? " queried Jeannie with a mocking laugh, as Ann put out the light, and both girls with little sighs of sleep- content, laid their fair heads down upon their pillows. CHAPTER II. Truth is a dangerous thing to say When high-throned falsehoods rule the day : But He hath lent it voice : and lo ! From heart to heart the fire shall go. BLACK IE. ANDREW did not think it at all necessary * to speak to his daughters in the morning about Walter Grahame. Obedience was the natural result of a parent's injunction to chil dren, and the law was, in his opinion, as firmly settled as any law could be. There might be law-breakers, but he had no more fear of Ann and Jeannie Carrick breaking the fifth com mandment than he had of their breaking the sixth. Neither did the two girls contemplate such a sin. The temptation to commit it had not yet been made to seem reasonable to the heart of either girl. And if they had been questioned on the subject, they would both have unhesi tatingly declared that their father's command was just and imperative, and far beyond their 21 22 THE LONE HOUSE. breaking. Not until a garment is washed, do we know whether it will shrink in the wetting or not ; and a character must be tested by temptation, ere we can safely say whether it may be trusted or not. Very early in the morning, Andrew rose and called his daughters. He hurried them in the preparation of the breakfast, but he took unusual care and deliberation about the morning " exer cise." He did the latter as a mortification and reproof to the natural man, which was impa tient of any detention. Therefore he read a double portion of The Word, and sang a long Psalm, and prayed for his household and him self, for the heathen, and the Kirk in her sore distress, and for the world in general, with a particularity that it is reasonable to suppose was extremely tedious to every one present but Andrew Carrick. Really he had no special anxiety about his daughters. His journey as far as Edinburgh was not an extraordinary affair. He was accus tomed to leave them at intervals on matters pertaining to his business sometimes to drive a few cattle into Dumfries market for sale, sometimes to go even as far as Glasgow, to buy THE LONE HOUSE. 2$ the leather he required for his trade as a shoe maker. And Ann and Jeannie Carrick were not troubled by such absences, indeed, they rather anticipated them with a very natural girlish expectation. They were pleasant household intervals, which were always taken advantage of, as offering opportunities for having a dress maker in the house ; or for washing and bleaching the napery ; or for the turmoil of a thorough house cleaning ; or for any other domestic event when women find menfolk decidedly in the way. This spring Ann had been anxiously waiting for her father to " take a wee journey," that she might have her hands more at liberty for the annual house cleaning and bleaching. And as Andrew v was aware of her domestic inten tions, he was enabled to add to his other sources of satisfaction the knowledge that he was doing a thing very agreeable to his daughters, and also very necessary for the welfare of the house and its plenishing. There was, therefore, no pretence of anything but pleasure in his restrained "farewell." He held Ann's hand a minute as he told her again, 24 THE LOA T E HOUSE. " to draw all the bolts well at night," and when he was in the saddle he said kindly, " God keep you baith, lasses, till I win hame ance mair !" But it never entered his mind to give them a kiss or a tender word, though as he commended them to God's care, he did touch Jeannie's head softly, and his last look was into her bon- nie bright face. Then he trotted dourly away over the moor. He never turned his head once, and his daughters never expected him to do anything so purposeless. They watched him for a short time, and then went into the house-place and sat down. " We must go to work with a will, Jeannie," said Ann, looking thoughtfully around. " No one can tell what may send father home, or keep him away, and we be to have a' things put in order, while there's no man-body round to worry, because 'folks can't make things clean without mair dirt and disorder than they take away' that is aye father's word about a cleaning. Suppose you go down to the cot tages for a woman to help me in the house, and I'll be making a' things ready for her." "Ay ; I'll like to do that, Nannie," answered Jeannie. THE LONE HOUSE. 2$ " Weel, throw your plaid o'er your nead, and be off, then. And be sure to hurry a wee, Jeannie, for there is mair work before me than I can set my face to, unless a' things go well with me." The sun was shining brightly, though the tossing sea looked green and cold, but in the fresh salt air Jeannie soon forgot Ann's injunc tion to " hurry." It was an easy thing to forget, when the merry wind was blowing her to and fro, and the sunshine was warm and bright ; and in the sheltered corners there were bits of green fern, and palish flowers to be found. It seemed to Jeannie that just to be free and out-of-doors in such lovely weather was a delight. Therefore, when she returned to the Lone House, she was very happy to see that Ann had brought out from the great oak kists all the fine linen of her grandmother's and mother's spinning and weaving. For the yearly bleach ing of this treasure was generally confided to Jeannie. It was the one household duty that she thoroughly enjoyed. Indeed, she con sidered it a kind of holiday to carry the fine webs to the hill pasture, where there was a 26 THE LONE HOUSE. spring of clear crystal water, and where the grass was already long and green. Ann helped her with the burden to and fro, but all day long Jeannie remained alone on the breezy hillside with her snowy webs of home spun linen ; watering them in the sunshine, and turning them in the fresh winds, and spending the intervals of time in eating and reading, or in chatting with any neighbour who happened to pass that way. It was in the second day that, either pur posely or by accident, Walter Grahame passed. Now, Walter had long hesitated between the two pretty Carrick girls ; for he always thought the one present the prettier one. And on this afternoon as he watched Jeannie among her linens and damasks, he decided that Jeannie Carrick was the fairest, the gayest, and most lovable woman he had ever seen. Then he sat down by her side on the grass, and told her so. He had never heard of Gessner, and he did not know what an idyllic picture was ; but he felt the spell which he could not describe the season with its sunshine and breezes, and the lovely maiden with her watering can among the snowy blowing linen, made a picture whose THE LONE HOUSE. 2/ charm he had neither the power nor the in clination to resist. And as Walter Grahame was young, hand some, and light-hearted, and Jeannie precisely in the mood to have her imagination and her feelings touched, love grew apace in that lonely, grassy wilderness, and the lovers came speedily to an understanding. They loved or they thought they loved the latter senti ment being the more dangerous of the two con ditions and then they began to invest their position with all the romantic accidents they could evolve or invent, from their parentage and family prejudices. And thus their con scious disobedience, and the secrecy it de manded, became to these foolish young people the very atmosphere of their love and lives. Of this state of affairs Ann had not the slightest suspicion. Women with the yearly house-cleaning on their minds and hands are not apt to think of love-making, unless it is put palpably before them. And hitherto there had been no secrets between the sisters. Even their little nascent love dreams had been ever frankly discussed together. Therefore, as Jeannie never told her sister that Walter 28 THE LONE HOUSE. Grahame came daily to the bleaching, Ann never suspected such a thing. Had she done so, Ann would certainly have put a stop to the bleaching, for her nature was clear as crystal, she despised all secrets and subterfuges, and was essentially a brave girl. On the contrary, Jeannie was a coward, and Nature had armed her with all the stealthy arts she gives to weak natures. As soon as Walter joined her on the hillside, Jeannie resolved to " keep her ain counsel. It will be a bit of pleasuring to me," she thought, "just to have Walter make the long days short. And if nothing comes of it but the hour's daffing, there is nobody hurt ; and so nobody need to be the wiser but our two selves." In this decision she put her father's com mand clean behind her consciousness. " Father is that bigoted anent the Grahames, and so he's no judge o' them," she thought. " Folk all speak weel o' poor Walter, and whatna for should I be ill to him, just because his forbears didna think as the Carricks thought ? Father will never hear tell o' me and Walter ; and what the heart doesna ken it doesna grieve for. And I'll no tell Nannie, either; what for should THE LONE HOUSE. 29 I ? Nannie liked Walter Grahame once. I'm not believing father's ' shall not ' cured her liking. No, I'll not tell Nannie ! " The truth was that Jeannie was in her heart a little jealous of her sister. She had once heard Walter Grahame say, " Ann Carrick is a beauty ! " and she judged Ann's heart by her own, and feared she might yet have the power to take her lover from her. She was also quite sure that Ann would peremptorily oppose any clandestine intercourse with Grahame would, indeed, oppose any intercourse at all so con trary to her father's desires ; and Jeannie could not bear to give Walter up. He was her first real lover, and his beauty and ready tongue and loving ways had quite won her heart. It was easier to disobey her father and deceive her sister than to relinquish her lover. Besides, Walter himself urged her to secrecy. To be slyly wooing the old Covenanter's daugh ter upon his own hillside, and against his express commands,, was a very delightful bit of retaliation ; and though Grahame told himself that he really loved Jeannie Carrick, and was resolved to make her his wife, yet he did feel the slight danger of discovery to be a piquant 3