Ait ^-^ 
 
 ^'t3 
 
 "L I E) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 Oi3U 
 v.l-3 
 
 ^- j^
 
 r 'K 
 
 
 i»^#- 
 
 ■f \
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/harrymuirstoryof13newy
 
 HARRY MUIR 
 
 A STORY OF SCOTTISH LIFE 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 OF "MRS. MARGARET MAITLAND," " MEKKLAND," ETC. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 D. APPLETON & COxMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. 
 
 1853.
 
 
 HARRY MUIR 
 
 ti 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " Housekeeping youth have over homely wits." 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 " And this is the pillar that Rob Roy hid behind, the Sab- 
 bath day that he warned the young English gentleman in the 
 kirk. It's the very place itsel. Here was the pulpit — and 
 the seats were a' here, and this is the pillar that hid Rob 
 Roy." 
 
 A party of young men were in the crypt of Glasgow cathe- 
 dral — the little sleek, humble-looking man, who very unobtru- 
 sively acted as Cicerone, was pointing out to them the nota- 
 bility, with these words. 
 
 One of the visitors turned away with a grave smile, and 
 leaving his companions, began to wander slowly down one of 
 the long black aisles. The dim withdrawing vistas — the pil- 
 lars with their floral chaplets — the singular grace and majesty 
 of those dark and ponderous arches — impressed him with very 
 different associations. The young man's smile, slightly scorn- 
 ful at first, melted as he reached the lower end, and looking 
 up through this grand avenue, saw the little knot of dim 
 figures in the distance. He was glad to escape from their 
 laughter, and unsuitable merriment. These noble old cloisters 
 were too grave and solemn, to have their stillness so invaded. 
 
 But he was not suffered long to remain uninterrupted in 
 his contemplative mood. "What ails Cuthbert ? " said one 
 of the younger of the party, a lad in the transition state be- 
 
 ^
 
 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 tween boy and man. " See to him down yonder at the very 
 end, like a craw in the mist — I say, Cuthbert ! " 
 
 As the piping shrill voice called out his name at its high- 
 est pitch, the young man began slowly to advance again. The 
 lad came forward to meet him. " What are you smiling at — 
 what did you go away for ? ", 
 
 " I was smiling at myself, John," answered the accused. 
 
 John was curious. " What for ? " 
 
 " For thinking there were things more interesting here, 
 than the pillar that hid Rob Roy. Come along — never mind. 
 Where are they all bound for, now? " 
 
 They were bound for a very dissimilar place — no other 
 than the crowded Broomielaw, where John's brothers were 
 bent upon showing their Edinburgh cousin, Cuthbert Charteris, 
 and an English stranger who accompanied them, one or two 
 fine ships belonging to " the house " then in port. These 
 young men were the sons of a prosperous merchant, all of 
 them already in harness in the office, and beginning to make 
 private ventures on their own behalf. There were three of 
 them — Richard, Alick, and John Buchanan ; the two elder 
 had reached the full dignity of young manhood, and rejoiced 
 in mighty whiskers, which John, poor fellow, could only covet 
 intensely, and cultivate with all his might ; but even John 
 had begun to have the shrewd man of business engrafted on 
 the boy, and was sometimes precociously calculating, and com- 
 mercial — sometimes disagreeably swaggering and loud — 
 though not unfrequently simple, foolish, and generous, as better 
 became his years. 
 
 " I say, Cuthbert," said the communicative John, as he 
 swung his arm through his grave cousin's, and followed his 
 gay brothers on the way to the river, " did you ever see Harry 
 Muir 1 Dick says he's going to make him come and dine with 
 us to-night." 
 
 " And who is Harry Muir ? " asked Charteris. 
 
 " Oh, he's nobody — only a clerk in the office you know — 
 but you never saw such a clever chap. He can sing anything 
 you like. He's a grand singer. And when Harry's in a good 
 humour, you should just hear him with the fellows in the 
 office. My father looks out of his own room sometimes to see 
 what's the row, and there's Gilchrist sucking his pen, and 
 Macauley and Alick close down over their books, writing for a 
 race, and Muir quite cool, and looking as innocent as can be. 
 You should just see them, and see how puzzled my father is, 
 when he finds that there's no row at all ' "
 
 HARRY MUIK. 5 
 
 '• And in such emergencies, how do you behave yourself, 
 Johnnie?" " ^ ' 
 
 '• Johnnie ! I wish you'd just mind that I'm not a boy 
 now." 
 
 " Jack, then ! Will that please you, young man," said 
 Charteris, smiling. 
 
 " Me ? I behave the best way I can," said the mollified 
 John. '• The best plan is, to set to working, and never let on 
 that you hear the door open ; but we like to get him among a 
 lot of us when there's nobody in the way ; and you'll just see 
 to-night, Cuthbert, what a grand fellow he is for fun." 
 
 Cuthbert did not look very much delighted. " And when 
 is this famous dinner to be?" he asked. " Is Dick to entertain 
 us at home ? " 
 
 Master John burst into a great laugh. " Man, Cuthbert, 
 what a simple fellow you are ! You don't think my mother 
 would ask Harry Muir to dine." 
 
 '• And why not, my boy ? " asked the Edinburgh advocate. 
 
 " Why not ! Man, is that the way you do in the east 
 country ? He's only a clerk, and everybody knows you Edin- 
 burgh folk are as proud as proud can be. Would you ask 
 your clerk to dine with you ? " 
 
 '• I don't possess such an appendage. Sir John," said the 
 briefless barrister, *' except it be a little scrubby boy like what 
 you were the last time I was west here — and he certainly 
 would need some brushing up. So he's not a gentleman, this 
 wit of yours ? He would not be presentable in the drawing- 
 room ? " 
 
 " Hum ! I don't know," said honest John, hesitating. 
 '• He looks quite as well as Dick or Alick, or that Liverpool 
 man there." The lad drew himself up and arranged his neck- 
 cloth complacently. '' There's handsomer men, to be sure ; 
 but I think Muir's better looking than any of you, Cuthbert." 
 
 Charteris laughed : " Is he not well-bred, then ? " 
 
 '• Oh yes, he can behave himself well enough. He's got a 
 way of his own, you know; but then he's a clerk." 
 
 " And so are you, Jack, my man," said Charteris. 
 
 '• Oh yes, but there's a difference. He's got no money — 
 and more than that," said the juvenile merchant, '• he's got no 
 enterprise. Cuthbert. There's Alick, he had a share in a plan, 
 sending out a lot of things to San Francisco on a venture, just 
 when the news came abnit the gold, you know, and he cleared 
 a hundred pounds : that's the wav to do. But then, that fel-
 
 6 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 low Muir, he never tries a thing; and worse than that, he 
 went away and married somebody last year, and he had three 
 sisters before, and them all living with him. Just think of 
 that. Four women all dragging a young man down when he 
 might be rising in the world. Isn't it awful? " 
 
 '• A very serious burden," said Charteris, smiling, " but 
 what is his salary, John ? " 
 
 '• His salary's sixty pounds ; my father gives very good 
 salaries. He's just a clerk, you know. The cashier has two 
 hundred." 
 
 '• Sixty pounds ! and five people live on sixty pounds ! " 
 said the lawyer. 
 
 " And they've got a baby," said John^ solemnly. 
 
 It was the climax ; there was no more said. 
 
 The respectable firm of George Buchanan and Sons had 
 its office in a dingy business street near the Exchange. The 
 early darkness of the February night had almost blotted out 
 the high sombre houses opposite, except for the gleaming gas- 
 light streaming from office windows in irregular patches from 
 garret to basement. It was not a very busy time, and at five 
 o'clock the clerks were preparing to leave the office. 
 
 " I say, Muir," cried Richard Buchanan, bursting in hastily, 
 '• come and dine with us." 
 
 Charteris was behind. The famous Harry Muir was cer- 
 tainly handsome — very much better looking than any other of 
 the party, and had a fine, sparkling, joyous, intelligent face — 
 but the lines of it had everything in them but firmness. 
 
 " Not to-night," said the clerk, " you must not ask me to- 
 night. " 
 
 " Why not to-night ? " said the young master. " Come 
 along now, Harry. Do be a good fellow. Why it's just to-night 
 of all nights that we want you. There's my cousin Charteris, 
 and there's an Englishman ; and we're all as flat as the Clyde. 
 Come along, Muir, don't disoblige us." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Muir, " but I can't stay in town 
 to-night. Let me off to-night ; I will be more obedient next 
 time." 
 
 " He wants to get home to nurse his wife," said Buchanan, 
 with a sneer. 
 
 " My wife is quite well," answered Harry, with a quick 
 flush of anger ; " she does not need my nursing, Mr. Bu- 
 chanan," 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan ! don't be ill-natured, Harry — come along,"
 
 HARRY MUIR. 7 
 
 " No, no ; I cannot go to-night. I don't think I can stay 
 to-night," said the brilliant facile clerk. 
 
 The entreaties continued a little longer ; the resistance 
 became feebler and more feeble, and at last, stipulating that 
 he was to leave them early, the genius of the counting-house 
 consented. 
 
 '• Harry, my man, send a message to your wife," said a 
 grave snuffy person, who enjoyed the two hundred pounds a 
 year of which John had boasted, and was cashier to the 
 Messrs. Buchanan. « 
 
 Harry wavered a moment. " Where is the boy? " 
 
 " Perhaps she'll come for you, Harry," suggested the ma- 
 licious Buchanan. 
 
 The poor clerk threw down, angrily, the pen he had taken 
 up, and lifted his hat. In another minute, with quickly re- 
 covered gaiety, they went out in a band to the adjacent square 
 where they were to dine. 
 
 " There's the makings of a capital man in that lad, and 
 there's the makings of a blackguard," said the grave Mr. Gil- 
 christ, shaking his head ruefully, and taking a pinch of snuff; 
 '- it'll be a hard race — which of them will win ? " 
 
 The dinner in George's-square went off very well, and the 
 young clerk, as he warmed, dazzled the little company ; he 
 was only a clerk — they were inclined to patronize him at other 
 times — but now the unmistakable, undesired pre-eminence, 
 which these young men yielded to their poor companion, was 
 a noticeable thing. The matter of ambition now, was, who 
 should seem most intimate with — who should most attract the 
 attention of the brilliant clerk. 
 
 Cuthbert Charteris was a more completely educated man 
 than any other of the party. The thorough literary training 
 will not ally itself to the commercial, as it seems. None of 
 the young merchants had time for the long discipline and ath- 
 letic mental exercises of the student. They were all making 
 money before they should have been well emancipated from the 
 school-room — all independent men, when they should have been 
 boys — and the contrast was marked enough. There was a 
 good deal of boisterousuess in their enjoyment, and they were 
 enjoying themselves heartily, while Cuthbert, getting very 
 weary, felt himself only preserved from utter impatience of 
 their mirth by the interest with which the stranger inspired 
 him — this poor, clever, facile Harry Muir. 
 
 The quick mind of this young man seemed to have attained
 
 8 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 somehow to the results of education without the training and 
 discipline which form so principal a part of it. He seemed to 
 have been a desultory reader, a devourer of everything which 
 came in his way, and while the Buchanans knew few books .be- 
 yond the serial literature of the time, Harry threw delicate allu- 
 sions about him, which, it seemed he made only for his own enjoy- 
 ment, since the arrows flew most innocently over the heads of 
 all the rest. Threads of connection with those great thoughts 
 which form the common country of imaginative minds, ideas 
 radiating out from the centre of these, like the lessening cir- 
 cles in the water — the student Cuthbert heard and understood, 
 and wondered — the Buchanans applauded, and did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 One of them at last proposed to go to the theatre — the 
 rest chimed in eagerly. Cuthbert, anxious to have the even- 
 ing concluded as soon as possible, and resolving to seek no 
 more of the delectable society of his young cousins except at 
 home, where they were tolerable, remonstrated only to be 
 laughed at and overpowered. The grown-up, mature, educated 
 man resigned himself to their boyish guidance very wearily — 
 and what would their wit do now ? 
 
 He said he would go home — he took up his hat, and played 
 hesitatingly with his gloves. He was excited with the com- 
 pany, the applause, and a little with the wine, and was per- 
 mitting himself to parley with the tempter. 
 
 " Come along, Muir, it's only for once ; let us just have 
 this one night." 
 
 '' No, no." The noes grew faint ; the hesitation increased. 
 He consented again. 
 
 And so, louder and more boisterous than before, they 
 again entered the busy streets. John Buchanan was a good 
 deal inclined to be obstreperous. It was all that Cuthbert 
 could manage to keep him within bounds. 
 
 They had reached the Trongate, and Cuthbert stopped his 
 3^oung companion a moment to look down the long gleaming 
 line of the crowded street. It had been wet in the morning, 
 and the brilliant light from the shop windows glistened in the 
 wet causeway in long lines, and the shifting groups of passen- 
 gers went and came, ceaselessly, and the hum and din of the 
 great thoroughfare was softened by the gloom and brightened 
 by the light of traflSc that illuminated all. 
 
 '• What are you looking at ? See they're all away across 
 the street. What's the good of glowering down the Trongate?
 
 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Man, Cuthbert, how slow you are," said John Buchanan, 
 dragging the loiterer on. 
 
 There was a crowd on the opposite side which had ab- 
 sorbed the others. Cuthbert and John crossed over. 
 
 The accident which attracted the crowd was a very com- 
 mon one — an overtasked horse, wearied with the long day's 
 labour, had stumbled and fallen ; and now, the weight of the 
 cart to which it was attached having been removed, was mak- 
 ing convulsive plunges in the effort to rise. The carters, and 
 the kindred class who are always to be found ready in such 
 small emergencies, were leaping aside themselves, and pressing 
 back the lookers on, as the poor animal struck out his great 
 weary limbs, endeavouring to raise himself from the ground. 
 
 Suddenly there was a shrill cry — " The wean — look at the 
 wean ; the brute's fit'U kill the wean." 
 
 John Buchanan had pushed his way into the crowd, drag- 
 ging with him the reluctant Cuthbert — and there indeed, close 
 to the great hoofs of the prostrate animal, stood one of those 
 little pale, careworn, withered children whom one sees only in 
 the streets of great cities, and oftenest only at this unwhole- 
 some hour of night. But the acuteness peculiar to the class 
 seemed to have forsaken the very little wrinkled old man of 
 the Trongate. He was standing where the next plunge would 
 inevitably throw him down, with the strange scared look which 
 is not fear, common to children in great peril, upon his small 
 white puckered face. Again the panting horse threw out his 
 hoofs in another convulsive exertion. The child was down. 
 
 A shadow shot across the light. There were several cries 
 of women. The child was thrown into somebody's arms unin- 
 jured. The horse was on his feet, and a man, indistinctly 
 seen in the midst of the eager crowd, struggled ineffectually 
 to raise himself from the ground, where he had fallen. 
 
 '• I am hurt a little," said the voice of Harry Muir. 
 '• Never mind, it is not much, I dare say. Some of you help 
 me up." 
 
 There was a rush to assist him ; a burst of eager inqui- 
 ries. 
 
 '■ I got a blow from the hoof; ah ! I can't tell what it is," 
 gasped the young man, over whose face the pallor of deadly 
 sickness was stealing. He could not stand. They carried 
 him — these rough strong men, so gently — with his friends 
 crowding about him, to the nearest surgeon's. Everybody 
 was sympathetic : every one interested. But Harry Muir's 
 1*
 
 10 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 head had sunk upon his breast, and the light had gone from 
 his eyes. He was conscious of nothing but pain. 
 
 The accident was a serious one ; his leg was broken. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ■ He sent me hither, stranger that I am, 
 To tell this story." 
 
 As YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 " CuTHBERT," said Richard Buchanan, '• do, like a good fellow, 
 go and tell his wife." 
 
 " Do you not see. man, that a stranger would alarm her 
 more? Why make me the messenger ? You say she knows 
 you, Dick." 
 
 "Ay, she knows him," said the second brother, "but she 
 does not know him for any good. You see, Cuthbert, Dick's 
 always enticing poor Muir away — as he did to-night — and the 
 wife wouldn't flatter him if he went up now." 
 
 '- 1 don't care a straw for the wife," said Richard angrily. 
 •" It's yon grim sister Martha, and that white-faced monkey of 
 a girl. I say, Cuthbert — ^you needn't go in, and they don't 
 know you — do go before and tell them he's coming. I'll come 
 up with him myself in the noddy — ^just to oblige me, Cuth- 
 bert, will you go ?" 
 
 " He lives in Port Dundas-road, it's not very far. John 
 will show you where it is," urged Alick. 
 
 Cuthbert consented to go ; and the obstreperous John was 
 very much subdued, and very ready to accompany his cousin 
 to poor Muir's house. It was now nearly ten o'clock. The 
 young men were all greatly concerned, and in an inner room 
 poor Harry was getting his leg examined, and looking so 
 deadly sick and pale as to alarm both surgeon and friends. It 
 was his temperament, so finely organized, as to feel either 
 pain or pleasure far more exquisitely than is the common lot. 
 
 " What will you say to them? Man, Cuthbert, are you 
 not feared?" asked John. 
 
 " Why should I be feared ? I am very sorry for her, poor 
 woman — but is she such a fury, this wife ? " 
 
 •' It's not the wife, it's his eldest sister. Dick went home
 
 HARRY MUIR. 11 
 
 with Muir one night when he was'nt quite able to take care of 
 himself, and I can tell you Dick was feared." 
 
 '• Dick was to blame — I do not feel that I am," said Char- 
 teris ; " but why was he afraid ? — did she say much to him ? " 
 
 " She didn't say anything to him ; but you know they say 
 she's awful passionate, and she's a great deal older than 
 Harry ; and she's just been like his mother. They're al- 
 ways so strict, these old maids — and Miss Muir's an old maid." 
 
 " Wait, then, till I see, John," said Cuthbert ; " don't try 
 to intimidate me." 
 
 '• Yonder's the house," said John. 
 
 They had just passed a great quarry, across which the 
 dome of some large building loomed dark against the sky. 
 Then there was a field raised high above the road, with green 
 grass waving over the copestone of a high wall, and at the 
 end of the field stood a solitary house. A house of some pre- 
 tensions, for it boasted its street-door, and was " self-con- 
 tained ;" and albeit the ground-floor on either side was occu- 
 pied by two not very ambitious shops, the upper flat looked 
 substantial and respectable, although decayed. 
 
 They were on the opposite side — the street was very quiet, 
 and their steps and voices echoed through it, so clearly that 
 the loud John sank into whispering and felt himself guilty. 
 The light of a very pale moon was shining into one of the 
 windows. Looking up, Cuthbert saw some one watching them 
 — eagerly pressing against the dark dull panes ; as they 
 crossed the street, the face suddenly disappeared. 
 
 "That's one of them," whispered John. " Isn't it awful 
 that a poor fellow can't be out a little late, but these women 
 are watching for him that way ? " 
 
 Cuthbert did not answer. He was thinking of " these 
 women," and their watching, rather than of the poor fellow 
 who was the object of it. 
 
 They had not time to knock, when the door was opened 
 wide to them, and a pale girl's face looked out eagerly. She 
 shrank back at once with a look of blank -disappointment 
 which touched Cuthbert's heart, " I — I beg your pardon — I 
 thought it was my brother." 
 
 '• Your brother will be here very soon. He has done a 
 very brave thing to-night, and has had a slight accident in 
 consequence. I beg you will not be alarmed," said Cuthbert 
 hastily. 
 
 •' Oh ! come in, sir, come in," said the young sister. '* A
 
 12 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 very brave thing." She repeated it again and again, under 
 her breath. 
 
 " There's the noddy," whispered John, as he lingered be- 
 hind. '' I'll wait and help him in." 
 
 The door admitted into a long paved passage, terminating 
 in a little damp "green." John Buchanan remained at the 
 door, while Cuthbert followed the steps of his eager conductor, 
 through the passage, and up an '■ outside stair," into the house. 
 She seemed very eager, and only looking round to see that he 
 followed her, ran into a little parlour. 
 
 " Harry is coming. He has been helping somebody, and 
 has hurt himself, Martha ; the gentleman will tell you," ex- 
 claimed poor Harry's anxious advocate, placing himself beside 
 the chair where sat a tall faded woman, sternly composed and 
 quiet. 
 
 " Is Harry hurt ? " cried another younger and prettier per- 
 son, who occupied the seat of honour by the fireside. 
 
 " He has done a very brave thing ; " Cuthbert heard it 
 whispered earnestly, into the elder sister's ear. 
 
 He told them the story. The little wife was excited and 
 nervous — she began to cry. The sister Martha sat firmly in 
 her chair, her stern .face moved and melting. The younger 
 girl stood behind, witTi her arm round her sister, and her bright 
 tearful face turned towards Charteris. " Our Harry — our poor 
 Harry ! it was this that kept him. Martha — and he saved the 
 child." 
 
 " What shall we do ? Will he be lame ? " sobbed the little 
 wife. 
 
 The grave Martha suddenly rose from her chair as the 
 faint sound of wheels reached them. " He is here. Eose, 
 make the room ready for him, poor fellow. Do not let him 
 see you crying, Agnes. Come to the door and meet him." 
 
 They went away hastily, leaving Charteris still in the 
 room. Rose vanished by another door into an inner apart- 
 ment. They were overmuch excited and anxious to remember 
 the courtesy due to a stranger ; and the stranger, for his part, 
 was too much interested to leave them until he had seen how 
 the sufferer bore his removal. 
 
 '• Rose," said a very small voice, "has Harry come home? 
 — Rose ! " Charteris looked round him a good deal puzzled 
 for there was no visible owner of the little voice. There cer- 
 tainly was a cradle in a corner, but nothing able to speak could 
 inhabit that.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 13 
 
 " Rose ! " 
 
 There was no answer. Then there followed a faint rust- 
 ling, and then a third door opened, and a little head in a white 
 nightcap, looked out with a pair of bewildered dark eyes, and 
 suddenly shrank in again, when i't found the room in posses- 
 sion of a stranger. The stranger smiled at his own somewhat 
 strange position, and began to move towards the door — but 
 suddenly the cradle gave sound of life, and a lusty baby voice be- 
 gan to cry. They were carrying the baby's father then, into 
 the house. The good-humoured Cuthbert rocked the cradle. 
 
 Poor Harry was still very pale, though the surgeon who 
 accompanied him was as tender of him as the most delicate 
 nurse, and the strong young arms of the Buchanans carried 
 the patient like a child. They made their escape immediate- 
 ly, however, — but divided between sympathy for the family, 
 and a consciousness of his own somewhat ridiculous position, 
 Cuthbert stood at his post, rocking the refractory cradle. 
 They all passed into the inner apartment. He was alone 
 again. 
 
 It was a very plain parlour, and various articles of femi- 
 nine work were scattered about the room : some small garment 
 for the sleeping baby lay on the ground, where it had fallen 
 from the young mother's hand ; on the table, where Martha 
 had been sitting, was a piece of fine embroidery, stretched on 
 two small hoops which fitted closely into each other. She had 
 been engaged in filling up the buds and blossoms of those em- 
 broidered flowers with a species of fine needlework, peculiar to 
 Glasgow and its dependent provinces. Another hoop, and 
 another piece of delicate work, remained where Rose had left 
 it. The sisters of the poor clerk maintained themselves so. 
 
 The baby voice had ceased. Groans of low pain were 
 coming from the inner room. Cuthbert felt that he did wrong 
 to wait, and turned again towards the door — but just then 
 Miss Muir entered the parlour. 
 
 " The doctor thinks he will do well," said Martha. " To- 
 night I can hardly thank you. But he is everything to us 
 all — poor Harry ! — and to-night you will excuse us. We 
 can think of nothing but himself Come again, and let us 
 thank you ? " 
 
 " I will come in the morning," said Cuthbert, " not to be 
 thanked, but to hear how he is. Good night." 
 
 She went with him to the door, gravely and calmly : when 
 she had shut it upon him, she stood still, alone in the dark, to
 
 14 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 press her hands against her heart. Again — again ! — so long 
 she had hoped that this facile temper would be steadied, that 
 this poor brilliant wandering star would be jBxed in his proper 
 orbit. So often, so drearily, as her hopes had sunk into that 
 blank of pain. Poor Harry ! it was all they could say of him. 
 When others praised the gay wit, the happy temper, the quick 
 intelligence, those to whom he was dearest, could only say. 
 poor Harry ! for the good and pleasant gifts he had, made the 
 bitterness of their grief only the deeper. Their pride in him 
 aggravated their shame. Darkest and saddest of all domestic 
 calamities these women, to whom he was so very dear, could 
 not trust the man in whom all their hopes and wishes centred. 
 He had not lost their affection — it seemed only the more 
 surely to yearn over and cling to him, for his faults — but he 
 had lost their confidence. 
 
 They could not believe him: they could not rely upon 
 word or resolution of his. When Harry was an hour later 
 than his usual time of home-coming, Martha grew rigid in her 
 chair, her strong heart beating so loud that almost she could 
 not hear those footsteps in the street for which she watched 
 with silent eagerness ; and the work fell from the hands of the 
 young wife, and Rose stole away, pale and agitated, into the 
 inner room, to watch at the window in the darkness ; and even 
 the little sister — the child — was moved with the indefinite 
 dread and melancholy which is the grief of childhood. There 
 were many grave people who would have smiled at poor 
 Harry's sins, and counted them light and venial, but so did not 
 these. 
 
 To lose confidence in those who are most dear to us, to be 
 able no longer to trust word or vow — it is the climax of wo- 
 manish misery, — a calamity terrible to bear ! 
 
 And Martha Muir, under this discipline, was growing old. 
 Morning after morning there had been a rebound of eager 
 hope, only to be utterly cast down when the night fell. She 
 had had something of the mother's pride in him — had trans- 
 ferred to Harry the natural ambition, the eager hopes and 
 wishes, which for herself had all faded with her fading prime 
 — and now, she who had so strong a will, so resolute a mind, 
 to see this man with all his gifts, and the free scope he had to 
 exercise them, sinking, falling, tarnishing with mean sins, the 
 lustre and glory of his youth. Poor Harry ! his stern sad 
 sister said nothing more of blame, but as she turned again 
 along the damp passage, and up the stairs, the heart within her
 
 HARRY MUIR. 16 
 
 sunk into the depths. She pressed her hands upon it. Strange 
 sympathy between the frame and the spirit, which makes it no 
 image to say that there is a weight upon the heart ! 
 
 '■ Martha, has Harry come home?" said the little sister, 
 standing in her white night-dress at the door of the small bed- 
 closet which opened from their parlour. The child's eyes were 
 bright and wide open, as if, in her compulsory solitude in tho 
 closet, she had been steadily fixing them to keep herself 
 awake. " When I looked out I saw a gentleman. And where's 
 Rose and Agnes, Martha ? Is Harry no weel ? " 
 
 '• You must go to bed, Violet," said Martha. " Poor Harry 
 has got a broken leg. He was in the Trongate to-night with 
 the Buchanans, and saved a child's life — but you cannot sec 
 him to-night, the doctor is with him just now, poor fellow ; but 
 go to bed, you shall see him to-morrow." 
 
 Little Violet began to cry, and the dark bewildered wide 
 open eyes looked up inquiringly into Martha's face. Violet 
 knew that Harry did not need to be in the Trongate with the 
 Buchanans, and that they all waited for him very long before 
 they would take their humble cup of tea. 
 
 " He will not be able to go out for a long time, Violet — 
 and he saved the bairn's life," said Martha, as she put her lit- 
 tle sister into the dark closet bed, which she herself and Rose 
 shared, '• and you must not cry — rather be thankful that the 
 little boy's mother has not lost him, Lettie, and ask God to 
 bless poor Harry — poor Harry ! do you know you should 
 always think of him, Violet, when you pray ? " 
 
 " And so I do. Martha," said little Violet, looking up 
 through her tears as she clung to her elder sister, the only 
 mother she had ever known. 
 
 '• Then you must let me go to him now, poor fellow," said 
 Martha. " Hush ! he will hear you crying — lie still, Lettie, 
 and fall asleep." 
 
 One of Violet's tears rested on Martha's faded cheek — 
 other tears came as she wiped it away. " Poor bairn — poor 
 bairn," said the elder sister, " I might be her mother — and so 
 I am." 
 
 When she entered the sick-room, the surgeon was just pre- 
 paring to leave it. He had set the broken bone, and done all 
 that could be done to give his patient ease. Harry, greatly 
 exhausted, and deadly pale, was lying quiet, not strong enough 
 to express even his suffering by more than a faint groan — and 
 his wife and Rose watched anxiously beside him. But Har-
 
 16 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 ry's mind was very much at ease, and tranquil. His accident 
 covered triumphantly any error he had committed, and his 
 anxious attendants were tranquil and satisfied too — for who 
 could think of Harry's fault or weakness, when Harry's gener- 
 ous bravery had brought him so much pain. They were con- 
 ►tent to believe — and they did believe, poor eager loving hearts ! 
 that no one else could have been so daring ; no one else had 
 so little thought of personal safety — and were saying, with tears 
 in their eyes, what a providence it was for the child and its 
 mother, that " our Harry," and no other, was there to res- 
 cue it. 
 
 " I am to sit up with him, Martha," said the little wife. 
 
 " But there is the baby, Agnes," said Rose ; " you must let 
 me sit up with Harry." 
 
 " You must go away both of you, and sleep," said Martha. 
 " Hush, speak low ! I cannot trust any of you, bairns — I must 
 watch him myself No, little matron, not you. I must take 
 care of my boy myself — my poor Harry ! " 
 
 These words so often said — expressing so much love, so 
 much grief, they were echoed in the hearts of all. 
 
 Poor Harry ! but his conscience did not smite him to- 
 night: only his heart melted into tenderness for those who 
 were so very tender of him, and involuntarily there came into 
 his mind gentle thoughts of all he would do for them, when 
 he was well again ; for Harry never feared for himself. 
 
 They left his wife with him for a short time, and returned 
 to the fireside of the little parlour — it was Saturday night, 
 and some of their delicate work had to be finished, if possible, 
 before the twelve o'clock bell should begin the Sabbath day. 
 
 They were but lodgers in this house. The mistress of it, 
 a decayed widow, strong in her ancient gentility — had three 
 daughters, who maintained themselves and an idle brother 
 by the same work which occupied the Muirs. The collars and 
 cufi"s and handkerchiefs of richer women, embroidered by other 
 workers, principally in Ayr and Ayrshire, were given out at 
 warehouses in Glasgow, to the Muirs and E-odgers, and mul- 
 titudes of other such, to be " opened," as they called it — which 
 " opening " meant filling up the centre of the embroidered 
 flowers with delicate open-work in a variety of '• stiches" in- 
 numerable. Very expert, and very industrious workers at this 
 could, in busy times, earn as much as ten weekly shillings — and 
 thus it was that Martha and Rose Muir supported themselves 
 and their little sister, and were no burdens on the scanty 
 means of Harry.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 1*7 
 
 " Well, Martha ! '' said Rose, breathlessly, as the door of 
 the inner room closed upon the little wife. 
 
 Martha could not lift up her eyes to meet her sister's. 
 " Well, my dear ? " 
 
 " I am sure," said Rose, '• I am sure, you are quite satis- 
 fied to-night." 
 
 •' Surely, surely," said the less hopeful sister — a sigh burst- 
 ing, in spite of her, out of her heavy heart. 
 
 " Surely, surely — what do you mean, Martha ? " said the 
 dissatisfied Rose. " Poor Harry ! you are surely pleased with 
 him to-night." 
 
 " I said so, Rose," said Martha. " Poor Harry ! " 
 
 The younger sister did not speak for a moment — then she 
 put her work away and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 '■ You will never trust him — you will never trust Harry, 
 Martha ! " 
 
 Martha sighed. " I will trust God, Rose." 
 
 Rose Muir dried her eyes, and took up her work again — 
 there was nothing to be said after that. 
 
 Martha was rocking the cradle softly with her foot; and 
 Martha, mother-like, was fain to divert the younger heart, and 
 make it lighter than her own. " Our poor wee Harry," she 
 said with a smile. " Did you see what a strange nurse he had 
 to-night ? " 
 
 '• Was it the gentleman ?" said Rose ; " did you say any- 
 thing to him, Martha — he would think us very ungrateful." 
 
 " I can trust the person who rocks our cradle," said Martha. 
 " He is coming back to-morrow to be thanked." 
 
 " On Sabbath-day ! " 
 
 '• It is charity to come to Harry," said Martha. " Poor 
 Harry, how every one likes him ! " 
 
 Their eyes were becoming wet again— it was a relief to 
 hear a quiet knock at the parlour door. 
 
 The visitor was the younger Miss Rodger — a large, soft, 
 clumsy, good-humoured girl, with a pleasant comely face. She 
 wore a broken-down faded gown, which had once been very 
 gay, and a little woollen shawl, put on unevenly, over her 
 plump shoulders, and her hair in its enclosure of curl-papers 
 for the night ; ends of thread were clinging to the fringes of 
 the shawl, and the young lady was tugging it over her shoul- 
 ders, conscious of deficiencies below ; but the good-humoured 
 offer to " take the wean," or do anything that might be needed, 
 covered the eccentricities of Miss Aggie's general house dress
 
 18 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 and appearance. The precious child was not entrusted to her, 
 but the hoyden's visit enlivened the sisters, and immediately 
 after, they finished their work, and Martha saw Rose and 
 Agnes prepare for rest, and then took her own place noiselessl 
 by her brother's bedside. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " How still and peaceful is the Sabbath morn !— 
 The pale mechanic now has room to breathe." 
 
 Graham, 
 
 Early on the following morning, Cuthbert Charteris, after a 
 long walk from his uncle's house, presented himself at Harry 
 Muir's door. The street was very still and Sabbath-like. 
 Some young workmen, in suits of snowy moleskin, stood 
 grouped about the corner of the Cowcaddens, enjoying the sun- 
 shine, and some few who were of the more respectable Church- 
 going class, and could not spend the after-part of the day in 
 such a manner, were returning from early walks. There were 
 very few shadows, however, to break the quiet, undisturbed sun- 
 shine of the usually crowded street. 
 
 The blinds were all drawn down in Mrs. Rodger's respec- 
 table house — all except one in the little parlour of the Muirs. 
 The outer door stood ajar — it was generally so during the day 
 — and as Cuthbert proceeded up the stairs, the grave doleful 
 voice of some one reading aloud struck on his ear. This, and 
 the closely-veiled windows, made him somewhat apprehensive 
 — and he quickened his pace in solicitude for the sufferer. 
 
 The door of the house was opened to him by a little slip- 
 shod pseudo-Irish girl, who held the very unenviable situation 
 of servant to Mrs. Rodger. The door opened into a large airy 
 lobby, at the further end of which was Harry Muir's little-par- 
 lour ; but Cuthbert's attention was drawn to another open 
 door, through which he had a glimpse of a large kitchen, with 
 various figures, in strange dishabille, pursuing various oc- 
 cupations in it — one engaged about her toilette — one preparing 
 breakfast — and another trying to smooth out with her hands 
 the obstinate wrinkles of a green silk gown. They were talk- 
 ing without restraint, and moving about continually, while at
 
 HARRY MUIR. 10 
 
 a large decal table near the window, with her back turned to 
 the open door, sat a tall old woman, in a widow's cap, with a 
 volume of sermons in her hand, reading aloud. The voice was 
 most funereal and monotonous, the apartment darkened by the 
 blind which quite covered the window. One of the daughters 
 caught a glimpse of the stranger, and hastily closed the door. 
 Cuthbert turned to the little parlour with a puzzled smile. 
 
 The room was small, and garnished with a faded carpet, 
 an old sofa, half-a-dozen ponderous mahogany chairs, and the 
 cradle which Cuthbert had rocked the previous night. The 
 little table was covered with a white table-cloth, and glancing 
 with cups and saucers ; and by the side of the little clear fire 
 the kettle was singing merrily. Rose, in her Sabbath dress of 
 brown merino, stood at the window with the baby. Martha, 
 newly relieved from her long night's vigil in the sick room, was 
 cutting bread and butter at the table ; and in the arm-chair, 
 with great enjoyment of the dignity, sat Violet ; her attention 
 divided between the psalm she was learning, and the little 
 handsome feet in their snowy-white woollen stockings and 
 patent-leather shoes, which she daintily rested upon the fender. 
 As Cuthbert entered the room, the young wife looked out 
 from the door of the inner apartment, with her finger on her 
 lip, to telegraph that Harry had fallen asleep. They were all 
 of that sanguine mood and temperament which springs up new 
 with the light of the morning, and even on the pale dark face 
 of Martha there were hopeful smiles. 
 
 '• The surgeon has been here already," she said, " and 
 Harry is not sufi"ering so much as we feared he would. The 
 symptoms are all favourable, and we may hope that it will 
 have no ill results : the doctor says that he will not be lame, 
 poor fellow ; and now, Mr. Charteris, we have to thank you 
 for preparing us so gently last night for the accident. It was 
 very kind — very kind — to take so disagreeable an office on 
 yourself, and not leave it to your cousins." 
 
 " I can assure you they were sincerely grieved," said 
 Cuthbert, '• and are very anxious about your brother." 
 
 " They are only lads," said Martha, quietly, " and have not 
 the consideration. We could not trust youths like them, as 
 we can trust a more mature judgment. For our own sakes, I 
 am very glad, Mr. Charteris, that you saw poor Harry's acci- 
 dent, and the cause of it — poor Harry! " 
 
 Cuthbert Charteris was very much interested — so much 
 so, that it did not occur to him what a very unsuitable time
 
 20 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 he had chosen for his visit — nor that the teapot on one side 
 of the old-fashioned grate was beginning to puff a faint inti- 
 mation that it had been left there too long, and that the kettle 
 on the other was boiling away. It was very nearly ten o'clock, 
 and, in a few minutes, the Church-going bells would ring forth 
 their summons. Rose began to look embarrassed, and to 
 dread being too late for Church ; but the gentleman was talk- 
 ing to the baby and to Martha, and steadily kept his place. 
 
 At last Rose, listening in terror for the first notes of the 
 bell, shyly suggested to Martha that perhaps Mr. Charteris 
 had not breakfasted. 
 
 But Mr. Charteris had breakfasted ; and as Martha lifted 
 the puffing teapot from the place which was too hot for it, and 
 bade Violet lay down her psalm-book, and began to fill the 
 cups, Mr. Charteris drew his seat into the window, and kept 
 possession. He had settled himself already quite on the foot- 
 ing of an old friend, and began to feel it very pleasant to sit 
 there, looking out on the fresh wintry sunshine, and the clean 
 humble families who began to set out in little bands for the 
 far-away old parish Churches of Glasgow — not choosing to 
 content themselves with the Chapel-of-ease, politely called St. 
 G-eorge's-in-the-Fields — profanely, the Black Quarry. There 
 were a few such in this immediate neighbourhood, who went to 
 the Barony, and the Tron and High Churches, as old resident- 
 ers, and rather looked down upon the new. To look out on 
 these — the mechanic father and thrifty mother, and group of 
 home-spun children, embellished, perhaps, with a well-dressed 
 daughter, working in the mills, and making money — and to 
 look in again upon the little bright breakfast-table, and the 
 three sisters — the mature, grave, elder woman — the Rose, in 
 the flush of her fairest years, half-blown — the little, shy, dark- 
 eyed child — Mr. Charteris felt himself very comfortable. 
 
 They had to speak very low, for Agnes stole to the door 
 of the inner room now and then, to lay her finger on her lips 
 again, and telegraph the urgent necessity for silence — and 
 speaking in lialf whispers makes even indifferent conversation 
 look confidential. The friendship waxed apace — very rarely 
 did such a man as Charteris come within sight or knowledge 
 of this family. The atmosphere of commerce is rarely lite- 
 rary — in their class they had read of the fully equipped intel- 
 lectual man, but had met him never. 
 
 They themselves were of an order peculiar to no class, but 
 scattered through all ; without any education worth speaking
 
 HARRY MUIR. 21 
 
 of, except the two plain indispensable faculties of reading and 
 writing, Harry Muir and his sisters, knowing nothing of the 
 world, had unconsciously reached at and attained the higher 
 society which the world of books and imagination opens to 
 delicate minds. They were not aware that their own taste 
 was unusually refined, or their own intellect more cultivated 
 than their fellows, but they were at once sensible of Cuth- 
 !)ert\s superiority, and hailed it with eager regard — not with- 
 out a little involuntary pride either, to find that this, almost 
 the most highly cultivated person they had ever met, was, after 
 all, only equal to themselves. 
 
 There are the bells echoing one after another, through the 
 now populous streets. Mrs. McGarvie, from the little shop 
 below, has locked her door, and issues forth, with her good 
 man, who is a rope-maker and deacon of his trade, to the 
 Barony Kirk, with Rab, her large good-humoured red-haired 
 son. and her little pretty daughter Ellen, a worker in the mill, 
 following in her train ; and with great dignity, in green silk 
 gowns and tippets of fur, Miss Jeanie and Miss Aggie Rodger 
 sail from the door, bound for the Relief Meeting-house, while 
 Rose Muir ties on Violet's neat bonnet, and arranges her little 
 cloak, and glides away herself to complete her own dress, 
 wondering, with a little flutter, what Mr. Charteris will do 
 now. 
 
 Mr. Charteris very speedily decided the question, for he 
 stood waiting, with his hat in his hand, when Rose entered 
 the parlour, cloaked and bonneted. Mr. Charteris had never 
 heard Dr. Jamieson, He thought if the young ladies would 
 permit him, he should be glad to walk with them to the 
 Church. 
 
 And the young ladies did permit him, with much shy good 
 will, and Mr. Charteris listened to Dr. Jamieson's fine voice 
 and polished sentences with great edification. The Doctor 
 was a man in his prime, bland and dignified, and knew all the 
 economics of sermon-writing, and that famous art of domestic 
 wisdom which makes a little go a great way ; nevertheless, 
 Mr. Charteris turned back some distance on the road, when 
 the service was ended, to animadvert upon the Doctor, and to 
 get up a very pretty little controversy with Rose, who, as in 
 duty bound, refused to hear a word in detriment of her min- 
 ister, so that the discussion carried Mr. Charteris back again 
 to the very door, and gave him another prospect of the Misses 
 Rodger's green silk gowns, at sight of which, rai.sing his hat,
 
 22 HAKliY MUIR. 
 
 to the great admiration of Violet, Mr. Charteris turned reluc- 
 tantly away. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " For the sweet Spring that bringeth joy to all, 
 Frets the pale sufferer bound to painful couch, 
 Or chamber dim and still." 
 
 The following evening was signalised in the quiet house of 
 Mr. Buchanan, by such a discussion as never before startled 
 its respectable echoes. Cuthbert Charteris, lawless as Ishmael, 
 lifted his hand against every man, and refused to confess him- 
 self worsted, though George Buchanan and Sons, as a firm, and 
 as individuals, not to speak of Adam Smith, and the law of 
 supply and demand, were set in battle array before him. 
 
 The subject of controversy was one which would have 
 made the blood boil with indignation and wrath in the veins 
 of Harry Muir, being nothing less, indeed, for a starting-point, 
 than his salary, which the advocate, looking on the matter in 
 a theoretical point of view, and not admitting into his consid- 
 eration the " everybody else " whose practice had so large a 
 share in forming the opinions of his cousins, condemned very 
 strongly and clearly, to the great wrath of Richard and Alick, 
 and the half-convinced irritation of their father, as quite an 
 unfair and inadequate remuneration for the full time and la- 
 bours of an — at least partially — educated man. Cuthbert 
 had not at all a commercial mind, and the natural right and 
 justice continually overshadowed with him the laws of supply 
 and demand. It was impossible to persuade him, that any 
 law required of him a systematic wrong, nor that a man's own 
 personal conscience had nothing to do with his position as an 
 employer of other men. Cuthbert would not be convinced — 
 neither would Dick and Alick — and Mr. Buchanan himself, 
 head of the firm and the house, took up his candle abruptly and 
 went ofi", in some excitement, to his own apartment, there to 
 sleep upon sundry propositions which had entered, like arrows, 
 sharp and irritating, into a mind which would hear reason, 
 whether its possessor chose or no. 
 
 Cuthbert remained some weeks in Glasgow — he had little 
 practice to neglect at home, and the western magnates made
 
 IIAKKV MUIK. 23 
 
 much of him, greatly esteeming in their hearts the metropoli- 
 tan '• rank " so very different from their own, which they af- 
 fected to despise ; — and the intercourse which he had with the 
 Muirs, already bore a character of friendliness and confidence, 
 such as not unusually elevates an acquaintance formed at some 
 family crisis, into a warm and lasting friendship. But Char- 
 teris at length was going home, and, not without many jibes 
 from his young cousins, about the strange attraction which 
 drew him so often to visit the invalid, he set out from the 
 oflBce for the last time to see Harry Muir. 
 
 Very different is the look which this bustling street bears 
 in its every-day occupation from the Sabbath quietness which 
 hushes all its voices. Great carts are constantly passing with 
 ostentatious din and clamour, as if proud of their load — light 
 unburdened ones, flj^ing up and down, with the driver perched 
 on his little movable seat, and the end of the whip floating 
 like a streamer over his horse's head — while now and then 
 wearied travelling people come slowly down, carrying box and 
 carpet bag, fresh from the tedious journeys of the canal. Vio- 
 let Muir stands at the door of the little room wherein Mrs. 
 McGarvie lives, and eats, and sells butter, brose-meal, and 
 '' speldrens," lovingly conversing with Tiger, McGarvie's great 
 ferocious, sinister-looking dog. He is by no means prepos- 
 sessing, this friend of Violet's, and has a wiry yellow coat, 
 and a head largely developed in the animal parts, and small 
 in the intellectual, with a fiery red truculent eye ; — yet, never- 
 theless, he is Violet's friend, and the little girl like the fairy 
 Titania has beauty enough in her own eyes and heart to glorify 
 her friend withal — so Tiger is sufficiently adorned. 
 
 Shaking hands kindly in passing, and patting the little shy 
 head which drooped under his eye, Cuthbert went up stairs 
 through the always open door to the now familiar parlour. 
 Harry was rapidly recovering ; he had been removed from his 
 room for the first time to-day, and now lay on the sofa, while 
 his little wife gaily danced about the crowing baby before him. 
 They made a pretty group, as Agnes leaned over the great 
 arm-chair, and little Harry put forth his dimpled hand to 
 stroke his father's cheek, bub there was a little peevishness 
 and impatience in the face which the rosy child's fingers passed 
 over so lightly. The invalid was slightly querulous this morning. 
 
 '• Just the time of all the year that I enjoy most," said 
 Harry, " and to be shut up here now ! It tries a man's 
 patience — open the window. Rose."
 
 24 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Rose got cold last night, when you had the window open," 
 said Agnes with humility, '' and the baby is not well — it may 
 hurt yourself too, Harry." 
 
 " Nonsense. Rose can sit somewhere else. Open the 
 window." 
 
 " Surely, if you wish it, Harry," said Rose promptly. 
 
 The day was bright, but cold, and the wind blew in, with 
 a sudden gust, through the opened window, tossing poor Rose's 
 hair about her face, and shaking her with a momentary shiver, 
 but saying nothing, she withdrew quietly to a corner and re- 
 sumed her work. Rose had never ventured all her life to dis- 
 pute any one of Harry's caprices. 
 
 " One likes to have a glance at the world again," said 
 Harry, raising himself on his pillows. '• Yonder comes the 
 postman, Agnes — see, he is holding up a letter — run, and get 
 it. Rose ; and yonder is Rab McGarvie, carrying a peck of 
 brose-meal to somebody, and little Maggie McGillivray clipping 
 at the door. It is pleasant to see them all, and this wind, how 
 fresh and wholesome it is. Lift the window a little more, 
 Martha — ^just for a moment." 
 
 " It is very cold, Harry," pleaded the little wife. 
 
 " Nonsense," repeated Harry, " don't you think it is quite 
 warm for the season, Mr. Charteris ? Martha ! " 
 
 Martha rose with sudden impatience, threw down her work, 
 and rapidly closed the window. She did not speak, but Cuth- 
 bert saw a strange combination of the strongly-marked lines 
 on her forehead, and a close compression of her lips, which 
 did not look very peaceable. The act itself was not very peace- 
 able certainly, but there was a suppressed passion in her look 
 and manner, which had a singular effect upon the stranger. 
 
 Harry Muir said nothing, but he threw himself back upon 
 the pillow, sullen and offended. There was a scared timid 
 expression on the face of the young wife, and little Violet 
 glided up behind Martha, and laid her hand upon her sister's 
 shoulder in childish deprecation. 
 
 Just then Rose entered with the letter. " It is from Ayr, 
 from my uncle." she said. " Shall I open it, Harry 7 " 
 
 '• As you please," said Harry, sulkily. 
 
 She cast a hurried glance round the room, pausing for a 
 moment with a searching, inquisitive, painful look, as her eye 
 fell on Martha. Then she came to her brother's side, and laid 
 her hand softly with a half caress upon his arm. 
 
 '•' Shall I read what my uncle says, Harry, for everybody's
 
 HARRY MUIR. 25 
 
 benefit 1 Uncle Sandy always writes to the whole of us, you 
 know." 
 
 There was no answer. Cuthbert took up his hat, and rose 
 with erabarrassmeut. The scene was becoming painful. 
 
 " You are not going away, Mr. Charteris," said Agnes, 
 anxiously ; " pray don't go away so soon, when this is your 
 last visit too ; and I am sure Harry has never had an oppor- 
 tunity before to thank you for your kindness, nor indeed any 
 of us, except Martha. Martha had to make all our thanks." 
 
 " Did you, Martha ? " asked Rose. 
 
 Cuthbert turned away his head. He did not wish them 
 to think that he saw through those little palpable affectionate 
 artifices of theirs to heal the new-made breach. 
 
 '• Martha ! " repeated Rose, under her breath. 
 
 And Cuthbert looked stealthily at this passionate face. 
 The rigid lines were relaxing slowly ; the muscles of the 
 mouth moving and trembling ; fierce and strong anger melting 
 into inexpressible tenderness and sorrow. Vain anger, boot- 
 less yearnings, which might spend their strength for ages, like 
 the great sea upon the sand, and never change its form. 
 
 " Mr. Charteris, I fear, got but few thanks from me," said 
 Martha, slowly ; " but Mr. Charteris has seen us since, and 
 knows that to do kindness to Harry is to have the greatest 
 gratitude we can feel." 
 
 There was another pause, and the stranger could easily 
 perceive that, facile as Harry was elsewhere, he liked to reign 
 at home, and did not very readily forgive any resistance to his 
 will. He had, indeed, been very querulous, and unreasonable 
 this morning, and this was only the climax of a series of petty 
 selfishnesses which had exhausted Martha's powers of long- 
 suffering. 
 
 •' Shall we see you soon in Glasgow again? " asked Harry, 
 at length, turning once more to Cuthbert. 
 
 " In a few weeks, perhaps ; I may have some business," 
 said Cuthbert, with embarrassment. " You will be strong 
 again then, I hope. My uncle commissions me to say that 
 you must take full time to recover, and not hurry to the office 
 too soon." 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan is always very kind," said Agnes. 
 
 '• Is he ? " said Cuthbert, smiling, " scarcely kind enough, 
 
 I am disposed to think ; but I believe it is not the inclination 
 
 that is defective in my uncle. These trammels of ordinary 
 
 usage — doing as other people do — have a great effect upon 
 
 2
 
 26 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 men occupied as he is. He does not take time to judge for 
 himself, and exercise his own generosity and justice." 
 
 Cuthbert concluded in some haste. Quite consistent as 
 this apology was with his own previous thoughts, it suddenly 
 occurred to him that it was quite irrelevant and unnecessary 
 here. 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan has done perfect justice to Harry, I fancy," 
 said Martha Muir, raising her thin figure from its habitual 
 stoop, and speaking in a tone of cold hauteur^ which, like the 
 passion, revealed a new phase of her character to Cuthbert, 
 who watched her with interest ; " and as for generosity, Mr. 
 Charteris, your uncle seems by no means deficient where there 
 is any scope for that. I see his name often in the papers. 
 You judge Mr. Buchanan hardly." 
 
 Cuthbert comprehended, and was silent. Between the 
 rich man's indifference and the poor man's pride it was difficult 
 to steer ; and Richard and Alick Buchanan were not more 
 haughtily offended at the accusation of treating their clerks 
 unfairly than was Harry Muir's sister at the suggestion that 
 his employer's generosity could reach him. 
 
 " This poor leg of mine is nearly a month old now," said 
 Harry, '• and except some grave visits from Grilchrist, no one 
 has ever taken the trouble to inquire for me. I suppose your 
 cousins are more pleasantly occupied." 
 
 " I rather think Dick is afraid," said Cuthbert. 
 
 He was singularly unfortunate in his choice of subjects. A 
 little red spot began to burn on Harry's cheek ; poor fellow, 
 he wanted to be angry. 
 
 "Afraid!" 
 
 " I mean, they would rather not encounter the ladies till 
 you are quite recovered. Persuading you to go with them, 
 you know, burdens their conscience, because it exposed you to 
 this accident. Not, of course, that any one was to blame," said 
 Cuthbert, hurriedly, and with some confusion. 
 
 " Their conscience is over scrupulous," said Harry, looking 
 round him with a smile of defiance. " I went with them for 
 my own pleasure ; so far as there is any blame it is entirely 
 mine." 
 
 Poor Harry, weak and yielding as the willow in the wind, 
 there was no blame to which he was so nervously susceptible 
 as this — no accusation which he denied and defied with so 
 much anger. 
 
 Cuthbert turned again to the window. Just before him,
 
 HARRY MUIR. 2*7 
 
 in a half-built street, which struck off at right angles from the 
 road to Port Dundas. Maggie McGillivray sat in the cold sun- 
 shine on the step of her mother's door, " clipping," * with a 
 web of tamboured muslin on her knee and scissors in her hand. 
 Maggie, as Violet Muir could have testified, was only sixteen, 
 tijough her " clipping " had helped the family income for seve- 
 ral years, and her own money had purchased for her the little 
 oright red tartan shawl which just covered her stout shoulders, 
 but left her arms unincumbered and her hands free. On the 
 half-paved road before her stood a mill-girl, with whom work 
 was •' slack," and who had spent a full hour this morning 
 elaborating the beautiful plaits and braids of her crisped hair. 
 This young lady, with much gesture and many superlatives, 
 was describing to the busy little worker an itinerant show 
 which had fixed its temporary quarters at Port Dundas, where- 
 in there was a giant and a dwarf, a beautiful lady who danced, 
 and a boy who had pink eyes, and which she herself was on the 
 way to see ; but Maggie clipped and shook her head, unfolding 
 the web, to show her tempter how much had to be done before 
 one o'clock, when she must lay it by, to take up the pitcher 
 with her father's broth, and carry to him his wholesome din- 
 ner : and when the idler sauntered on, to seek some less scru- 
 pulous companion, Maggy returned to her labour with such 
 alacrity, that Cuthbert fancied he could almost hear the sound 
 of the shears, and the loud clear tilt of the " Learig," to which 
 they kept time. 
 
 Yet Maggie McGillivray was only a humble little girl, 
 while Harry Muir, in his way, was an accomplished man. 
 Cuthbert looked back upon the young man's fine intelligent 
 face, on which the proud look of defiance still lingered, with a 
 sigh of pity and regret — not so would he have overcome the 
 temptation. 
 
 * Another feminine craft peculiai* to the " west country," whei*e many 
 young girls, of a class inferior to the workers of embroidery and spinning, 
 are employed to clip the loose threads from webs of worked muslin.
 
 28 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " She had such a nature, 
 
 You would have thought some fairy, 'ware o'th' hour, 
 "When out of heaven came a young soul, predestined 
 For a King's heir, to make a conqueror of him 
 Had, by some strange and wondrous art, diverted 
 The new-born spirit from its proper course, 
 And hid it in the form of a poor maiden ; 
 Leaving the princely weakling in his cradle, 
 Shorn of the fate that waited him : the other 
 
 Chafing at its caged limits all its days " 
 
 Old Plat. 
 
 A SELF-WILLED, pi'oud, ambitious woman, with a strong, clear, 
 bold intellect, a passionate temper, and vehement feelings, 
 Martha Muir had been born. So much education as she had 
 tended all to reduce her to the due humility of poverty and 
 womanhood, but surrounded always by placid natures, who 
 never fully comprehended the stormy spirit with which they 
 had to deal, Martha, dwelling alone, and hiding in her own 
 heart the secret aspirations which no one round her could have 
 understood, remained as proud, as self-willed, and as ambitious 
 as she had been born. 
 
 For hers were not the hopes and fancies common, as people 
 say, to youthful women. Advantages of appearance she had 
 never possessed, and the children who were growing up at her 
 feet absorbed all the passionate affections of their grave sister ; 
 but Martha's hopes were visions of unmitigated ambition, 
 eager to work out for itself a future worthy of its own bold 
 spirit, for it was not of windfalls, or happy chances, or of for- 
 tune to be bestowed on her by another, but of that ladder " to 
 which the climber upwards turns his face," that the solitary 
 woman dreamed. 
 
 To raise them — these children — to that indefinite rank and 
 honour which exists in the fancy of the young who are poor, to 
 win for them exemption from those carking cares amid which 
 her own youth, a strong plant, had grown green and flourished. 
 Such hopes were strong in the heart of the passionate girl 
 when people round her thought her only a child ; and when 
 darker necessities came, when following many little pilgrims, 
 the father and the mother went away, leaving her the head of 
 the sadly diminished family, her strong desire, intensified by 
 great grief, possessed her like a fiery tormenting spirit. She
 
 HARRY MUIK. 29 
 
 was then a woman of only twenty years, while Harry was but 
 thirteen ; and Martha prayed in an agony for means — only 
 means, to let her strong energies forth and labour for her chil- 
 dren, but the means never came — how could they? and all she 
 could do in her passion of ambitious love was to toil day and 
 night for their bread. 
 
 No one of all her friends knew how to deal with Martha, 
 so that her impatient soul knew no discipline except the inevi- 
 table restraints of poverty, and these, if they humble the pride, 
 are but spurs to the eager fancy, burning to escape from their 
 power. Through all the years of romance the wish and hope 
 to do somewhat had filled Martha's mind with visions ; but 
 then came those slow, gradual steady years, wherein the light 
 of common day began to blot out the radiant mists of the 
 morning, and as her hopes fell one by one, and one by one the 
 months lengthened, filled with the tedious labour which gave 
 such scope for thought, bitterness came in like deep waters 
 into the fierce heart, which rendered all its strength to that 
 might of disappointment, and wrestled with itself like a caged 
 eagle. To find that after aspiring to do all, one can do no- 
 thing — that soaring in fancy into the broad firmament, in the 
 body one must condescend to all the meanest and smallest 
 cares of daily life — to dream of unknown heights to be attain- 
 ed, and to find instead that by the slow toil of every long unin- 
 teresting day one must labour for daily bread, it is not wonder- 
 ful that the awaking was bitter, and all the more, that in both 
 the dream and the awaking she was uncomprehended and 
 alone. 
 
 They all lay dead these hopes of her strange solitary youth, 
 but as they died others rose. This boy, in whom the young 
 beautiful life rose with a grace which she knew it never had 
 in herself, what might he not do 1 and so she set herself to 
 train him. The old lore that is in all hearts of the brave and 
 of the great, the histories of Scripture, which live for ever ; all 
 that God has recorded for us of his servants' stout lives, and 
 much that men have written in lesser records. The lonely 
 young woman, feeling herself grave and old among her neigh- 
 bours, poured all her vehement heart into the glowing intelli- 
 gence of the boy. She began to think it well that those 
 chimeras of her own had fallen like withered leaves to enrich 
 the soil, and in him would be the glorious spring. 
 
 How was it now? The deep red flush which sometimes 
 burned on Martha's cheek, the anger which only one of so dear
 
 30 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 regard could awaken, and sadder still, the utter heaviness with 
 which her heart sank in the rebound, proclaimed the end of 
 her second harvest. The first time she had sowed in proud 
 wilfulness, it was meet she should reap disappointment ; but 
 the second seed-time had been in hope more Christianlike, and 
 with strong crying for the sunshine and the dew — the wonder- 
 ful sunshine and dew of high heaven — which never had fallen 
 upon her seed. 
 
 It seemed that her fate had been born with her. The 
 proud and passionate temper to be thwarted and crossed at 
 every turn. The vehement ambitious mind, to be disgraced 
 and humbled, and with those arrows in her heart, she was now 
 fighting with herself a greater fight than she had ever hazarded 
 before, subduing herself to herself, and to the Higher One, 
 who thus painfully had brought back the rebel soul to His 
 allegiance. It was hard to subdue the old passion — the old 
 pride, but she had begun to sanctify her contest now, when it 
 had come to the bitterest. 
 
 No other trial could have been so hard to her as this, it 
 struck at her very life. Misfortunes against which she could 
 struggle would have been happy discipline to Martha, but to 
 look on helplessly while these elements of ruin were develop- 
 ing in the life of her brother ; to stand by and see him fall 
 lower and lower into the poor and petty sins which she des- 
 pised — to watch the slow coming of disgrace and wretched- 
 ness which she could not lift a finger to avert, who can won- 
 der that the proud spirit was chafed into passions of fierce 
 anger sometimes, and sometimes into very despair, but Martha 
 never spoke of what she suffered — she only said " Poor 
 Harry ! " 
 
 " Shall I read my uncle's letter now ? " asked Kose, when 
 Cuthbert was gone. 
 
 '• Surely," said Harry, whom some slight incident had re- 
 stored to perfect good-homour. " Surely, Rosie, let us hear 
 what the old man says." 
 
 " I write this to let you know that I am quite well," read 
 Rose, "though a little troubled with the rheumatism in my 
 right arm, which always comes on about the turn of the year, 
 as you will all mind ; and I am very sorry to hear of Harry's 
 accident; but there is less matter for lamentation, it being 
 gotten in a good way, as I have no doubt Martha will mind. 
 The town crier, Sandy Proudfoot, broke his leg at Hogmanay, 
 and it's never mended yet ; but I cannot see what better the
 
 HAKKY MUIR. 31 
 
 daidling body had to expect, it being a thing well known, that 
 when the accident was gotten he was as he should not have 
 been, which is a great comfort in respect of Harry. I hope all the 
 rest of ye are well and doing well, and desire to see some of you at 
 Ayr as soon as ever it can be made convenient. If Violet is 
 inclined to be delicate, send her out to me for a change. The 
 guard of the coach would take good care of her, and I will pay 
 iier passage myself I hope she is minding her lessons and 
 learning to help the rest with the opening, and that Rose is 
 intent, as the cottar says, and minds her duty duly, and that 
 Harry is steady and 'grees with his wife. As for Martha, see- 
 ing she knows what is right better than I can tell her, I have 
 nothing to say, but that I hope she keeps up to the mark, 
 which she knows, and has her own judgment in her favour, of 
 which, if she is sure, I know she will be feared for no other in 
 the world. And so I remain, my dear bairns, your affection- 
 ate uncle — Alexander, Muir." 
 
 " What do you say, Agnes," said Harry, " do we agree ? " 
 
 The little wife smiled. " When you behave yourself, 
 Harry." she said, laying her child in the cradle. 
 
 ^' If we could manage it," said Martha, " when Harry is 
 able to walk, Agnes, I think you should go down together to 
 see my uncle. You have never been in Ayr." 
 
 Agnes looked up brightly. " And I should like so well to 
 go ; and it would do Harry so much good. But then, Martha, 
 how can we afford it ? " 
 
 Harry winced visibly. Some debts of his own, recklessly 
 and foolishly incurred, had made the long-projected journey to 
 Ayr impracticable a year ago ; the fifteen pounds could do so 
 little more than provide for the bare wants of the quarter ; 
 and yet again there were other debts waiting the next pay- 
 ment of salary. Poor Harry ! 
 
 '• I have been thinking," said Martha, quietly ; " I see how 
 we can manage, Agnes ; we will only work the more busily. 
 Rose and I, while you are away, and Harry will be the better 
 of it. I see how we can do it. It will do Harry good to see 
 my uncle and the little quiet house again." 
 
 Harry felt there was meaning in her voice. To dwell 
 again under the humble roof where all her hopes for his young 
 life had risen ; where she had nursed and tended the dawniiv 
 mind within him, and laboured to lift his eyes, and teach huw 
 to look upward bravely, like a young eagle to the sun. Alas, 
 poor Harry ! For this revival of the unstained hopes of youth,
 
 32 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Martha was willing to toil all the harder at her tedious un- 
 ceasing toil ; and he felt, almost for the first time, how hope- 
 less these hopes were. How difi'erent were his expectations 
 and hers. 
 
 " It is a shame," he said, abruptly, '• for a rich man like 
 Buchanan to keep us down so. We require a little relaxation, 
 a little ease, as well as them ; and I would like to know how 
 it is possible we can get it on sixty pounds a year ? " 
 
 " Peter McGillivray has only fourteen shillings a week," 
 said Rose. 
 
 " And what then 1 " 
 
 " He keeps a family on it, Harry ; at least his wife does ; 
 but then she is very thrifty." 
 
 " Thrifty ! nonsense. Is not Agnes thrifty too 1 You are 
 a foolish girl, Rose," said her brother : " you think a few 
 shillings is a great fortune. There now, a pound or two would 
 take us comfortably down to my uncle's ; but how can we 
 spare that ofi" the pittance they give me ? " 
 
 Yet Harry remembered that his own private expenses — the 
 little debts of which his wife and sister knew nothing — 
 amounted to more than that needful pound or two, and the re- 
 membrance brought a flush to his face and made him angry. 
 
 " There is a meanness attends this mercantile wealth," he 
 exclaimed hastily ; '• a want of thought and consideration of 
 others. What are we clerks but the stuff these masters of 
 ours are made of? and yet how they keep us down." 
 
 " They were themselves kept down, and overcame it," said 
 Martha. 
 
 " Well, it is not a very noble art, the art of making money," 
 said Harry, with assumed carelessness. " Dick Buchanan 
 and the rest of them are shallow fellows in spite of it all. 
 And their father, he has made a fortune, but the honest man is 
 no genius." 
 
 " But it is a noble art to refuse to be kept down," said the 
 ambitious Martha, with a kindling of her eye. " I am ashamed 
 to think that Mr. Buchanan or any other ordinary person can 
 keep down my brother ; and he cannot, Harry. You have 
 less perhaps than you ought to have now, but win more ; that 
 is your refuge. And don't let us throw the responsibility on 
 other people. We have only to answer for ourselves." 
 
 " Well, Martha," said Harry, looking up, '• we have not 
 iruch of the mammon of unrighteousness to answer for. I 
 will tell my uncle you have grown charitable ; that is, if it be 
 at all possible to get to Ayr."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 33 
 
 " What do you think, Martha ? " said Agnes, with some 
 solicitude in her face. 
 
 '• You must go ; that is all," said Martha, 
 
 The little wife was by no means self-opisiated. She had a 
 great reverence for, and faith in, the decrees of Martha, and 
 knew that what her grave sister resolved would be accomplish- 
 ed " some way," so she returned pleasantly to the cradle. 
 
 '• And / don't want to go, Martha," whispered little Violet, 
 desiring to have her sacrifice appreciated. " My uncle will 
 give the money to Agnes, and I will stay at home and help 
 you to open." 
 
 " But you would like to go, Lettie ? " said Rose. 
 
 " No ; I would rather stay at home with Martha and you. 
 I think, Martha," whispered Violet again, " that it will be 
 fine to be our lane just for a wee while — when Agnes is with 
 Harry." 
 
 In the elder mind there was a response to the child's 
 thought — to know that Harry was safe with the good uncle, 
 and the anxious little wife to guard him, while yet they them- 
 selves were left a little while alone, freed from their constant 
 anxiety, to rest and take breath for the future which remained, 
 with all its unknown cares before them. There was something 
 in the thought which gave Martha relief, and yet oppressed her 
 with a heavier sadness ; but Agnes was already gay in antici- 
 pation, and eagerly discussing what she should take of her 
 little wardrobe, and how many frocks for baby Harry — for 
 Agues was still only a girl, and the unusual pleasure filled her 
 with wholesome natural delight — a good and happy contagion 
 which soon spread itself in softened degrees over all the rest. 
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 " He left mo wi' his deein» breatb, 
 A dwelling-house, and a' that." 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 '• I WANT a next of kin, Charteris," said an Edinburgh W. 
 S.. entering the little office where Cuthbert sat, solemnly con- 
 sidering the morning's paper, opposite an elbow-chair, which 
 had very seldom been honoured by the presence of a client. 
 " I want a next of kin, and I can't tell where to find him." 
 2*
 
 34 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 The speaker was a young man about Cuthbert's own age, 
 who like himself had newly begun to encounter for himself 
 the cares and responsibilities of business. They had come 
 together through the training of the High-School and College, 
 and now were great friends and allies, furthering each other's 
 progress, by all means in their power. 
 
 " Advertise," said the laconic Cuthbert, from behind the 
 folds of his newspaper. 
 
 " Oh, oracle ! " answered Mr. David Lindsay, throwing 
 down a black crumpled " Times," which struck upon the fair 
 broadsheet of " Tlie Scotsman^^^ and compelled the reader's 
 attention. " And suppose I have advertised, and failed — 
 what then % " 
 
 " It's a cold day, Davie," responded the learned advocate. 
 " Sit down. Lord Lion, and tell me all about it." 
 
 '• I say, Cuthbert, there's a story," said the W. S. mysteri- 
 ously. 
 
 Cuthbert stirred the fire, and prepared to listen. 
 
 " Up near the links of Forth, there is a gray old house 
 called AUenders," said Lindsay, with some importance, " and 
 in the house there dwells a family as your penetration will 
 guess — or rather, dwelt a family — for they are now extin- 
 guished — AUenders of AUenders — and between four and five 
 hundred a-year ; now that's what I want a man for, Cuthbert." 
 
 " Between four and five hundred a-year," repeated Cuth- 
 bert gravely. " I would take it myself, to oblige you, Davie." 
 
 " Thank you — I could get lots," said the representative of 
 the poet King-at-Arms. " But the right man, Charteris — 
 by-the-bye, I should say' the right woman — the right two 
 women — where to lay my hands on them." 
 
 " So the heir is extant after all," said Cuthbert ; " you 
 know that, do you ? " 
 
 " Wait a little, and I'll tell you what I know. They have 
 always been a highly respectable family, these AUenders, 
 mind, and you know what that means ; comfortable, slow, com- 
 mon-sense folk, with no hair -brained sentimental traces about 
 them. Well ! the last father of them had seven sons — there 
 was no appearance of a lack of heirs then — and one of the 
 sons, the third or fourth I think, took it into his head to be a 
 — what is your most philosophical name for it — the AUenders 
 said a sentimental fool — which means, you know, that he mar- 
 ried somebody." 
 
 '• I beg to assure you that there is no sort of philosophy 
 in that achievement. Lion," said Cuthbert.
 
 HARRY MUIR. • 35 
 
 "Don't interrupt me, Charteris — why, man, a romantic epi- 
 sode in the history of a dull family is a treasure. This son, 
 his name was John — everybody's name is John — married 
 some poor girl or other in Stirling, and thereupon followed a 
 regular tragic disowning of the refractory son. The good 
 people were startled out of their propriety ; never an Allen- 
 der had been known before to do anything out of the ordinary 
 jog-trot, and the example of his daring aroused his father 
 and his brethren. They cast him out — they banished him 
 from the paternal countenance, and from all hope of ever in- 
 heriting the paternal acres, and so left him to seek his fortune, 
 as he best could. That was seventy years ago." 
 
 " Seventy years ! why, the man must be dead," said Char- 
 teris. 
 
 " Very possibly. It does not concern me that," said Lind- 
 say. " Well, Charteris, this sentimental John got some sort 
 of situation in Stirling, and was by no means annihilated by 
 the family ban. He throve and multiplied for a few years — 
 then his wife died suddenly, leaving him with two daughters, 
 and then he disappeared. 
 
 " Where he went to, there is not the least clue. The man 
 was half mad with grief, I suppose. It was said he was going 
 to England — and it was said he was going to America. It 
 seems quite impossible to discover — every trace of him is gone. 
 And now all the seven sons are exhausted ; after all, it must 
 be best to be stagnant, Charteris — for see you, whenever this 
 romance stepped in among the decent people, what a blight it 
 brought upon them. Four of them died unmarried — other 
 two had children who have grown old and died during the 
 lingering lifetime of the last proprietor. He was a childless 
 widower — and now the old man has gone too ; and where am I 
 to get those heirs 1 " 
 
 " Did he know nothing of them? " said Cuthbert. 
 
 " Nothing ; he died very old — upwards of ninety — and his 
 senses failed him ; but his memory seems to have turned with 
 a strange kind of affection to this poor sentimental lost John. 
 There are some far away cousins who would claim as heirs, but 
 the old laird left a will, ordaining that search should be first 
 made for the children of John Allender's children ! they will 
 not be fj[uite youthful now." 
 
 " And there is no trace ? " said Cuthbert. 
 
 '• None, but a rather fantastic one," said Lindsay, smiling. 
 " The favourite female name of the Allenders family was 
 Violet — old AUender thought it certain that one of those chil-
 
 36 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 dren would be called Violet — and their mother's name was 
 Rose. What's the matter, Cuthbert?" 
 
 " Strange ! " said Cuthbert, looking up, with a start. 
 '• Why, I met a family in Grlasgow, last month, in which there 
 were both these names." 
 
 " Ay — where ? what's their name ? who are they ? " said 
 Lindsay eagerly. 
 
 '• Their name is Muir — they are rather a noticeable family 
 in many respects," said Cuthbert, with a little hesitation ; " but 
 so far as pecuniary matters go, very humble people. Could it 
 be ? Rose and Violet — there can be no mistake about the 
 names. I'll tell you what, Lindsay, I'll go through, myself, to 
 the west, and find it out." 
 
 " Many thanks. I had no idea you took so much interest 
 in these professional investigations," said Lindsay, with some 
 curiosity, " I think it is more in my department than yours, 
 Cuthbert." 
 
 " You don't know them, Davie, you're an alien and a 
 foreigner, and an east countryman, whereas my mother is a 
 Buchanan ! I am free of the city, Lion, and then, I know the 
 Muirs." 
 
 " Well, Cuthbert, you know your own secrets, I suppose," 
 said Lindsay, laughing, " and whether it is just professional 
 zeal, or no, all this I won't inquire, but as for all your rubbish 
 about east countrymen, you don't mean me to believe that, you 
 know. Of course, if you are acquainted with the family, that 
 is a great matter. But mind, be cautious ! " 
 
 " Look at ' The Scotsman^^ Davie," said Cuthbert, " and 
 keep silence, while I read your advertisement. There now, be 
 quiet." 
 
 Two stories up in the honourable locality of York Place, 
 lived Cuthbert's mother. They were not very rich, certainly, 
 but the old lady had a sufficient portion of the means of com- 
 fort, to prove her a Buchanan. She was a little, brisk, active 
 woman, under whose management everything became plentiful. 
 It was not an economical propensity, but, refined and somewhat 
 elegant though Mrs. Charteris' own individual tastes were, it 
 was an indispensable thing with her that there should be 
 " routh " in her house. So there were dependants hanging 
 about her door at all times, and stores of bread and broken 
 meat dispensed to all comers. Mrs. Charteris had unlimited 
 faith in her two neat, blooming, sister servants. She thought 
 they could discriminate the line between plenty and waste,
 
 HARRY MUIR. 37 
 
 almost as distinctly as she did herself, and when Cuthbert return- 
 ed home that day he found his mother delivering a short lively 
 lecture on the subject — a lecture such as was rather a habit of 
 hers — to the elder of the two trusted confidential maids. 
 
 " You see, Lizzie, my woman, to lay the moulins out of the 
 bread-basket on the window-sill for the sparrows is very kindly 
 and wiselike — a thing that pleases me — but to crumble down 
 one side of the good loaf that we're using ourselves, is tvaste. 
 You see the difference. It might have been given to some 
 poor body." 
 
 " Yes. mem," said Lizzie, demurely, " and so I did. I gi'ed 
 the ither half o' the loaf to Margaret Lowrie." 
 
 Mrs. Charteris looked grave for a moment. " We were 
 using it ourselves, Lizzie ; but to be sure, in a house where 
 there's plenty, there should aye be the portion for folk that 
 have more need, and as long as it's lawfully used, Lizzie, I 
 never find fault, but to waste is a great sin. Now, you'll mind 
 that, and take the moulins after this for the sparrows." 
 
 " It's Mr. Cuthbert, mem," said Jess, the younger sister of 
 the two, returning from the door, and the little active old lady 
 rustled away in her black silk gown to her parlour to see what 
 had brought home her son at so unusual an hour. 
 
 The parlour or drawing-room, for it might be called either, 
 was a handsome room, though it was on the second story, and 
 its very comfortable furniture had an air of older fashion than 
 the present time, which suited very gracefully with the age of 
 its mistress. Near one of its large windows stood an antique 
 spider-legged table, bearing a work-box of somewhat elaborate 
 manufacture, an open book, with Mrs. Charteris' silver thimble 
 lying on it for a mark, and Mrs. Charteris' work by its side, 
 while within reach of these stood an easy chair and a footstool. 
 The spring was brightening rapidly, and Mrs. Charteris' chair 
 stood always in this window, when the weather permitted her 
 to leave the fireside, for here, as she plied her sewing, or glanced 
 up from her book, she could observe the passengers in the 
 street below, and watch for Cuthbert as he came home from 
 bis little ofl&ce. Cuthbert had a slight look of excitement to- 
 day, his mother thought, as she took off her spectacles and 
 looked at him with her own kindly unassisted eyes. Mrs. Char- 
 teris fancied her son had perhaps got a brief 
 
 " Well, Cuthbert, my man, what brings you home so soon ? " 
 said Mrs. Charteris, sitting down in her chair, and drawing in 
 her footstool.
 
 38 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " I think I will go through to Glasgow to-morrow, mother," 
 said Cuthbert hastily. 
 
 The old lady looked up with her glasses on. There was 
 certainly an unusual flush and a happy embarrassed smile upon 
 the face of her good son. 
 
 " The laddie's possessed ! " said Mrs. Charteris. " What 
 would you do in Glasgow again so soon ? It is not a month 
 since you came home, Cuthbert ! " 
 
 " Neither it is. mother,'' said the advocate, " but I have 
 got some business in hand — a myster}^, mother, to exercise my 
 legal judgment on." 
 
 Mrs. Charteris was interested. '• Aye, what's that ? " 
 
 There was a good deal of hesitation — about the learned 
 gentleman — it was evident there was no fee in this case. 
 
 " I told you about that young man, mother, — that family 
 of Muirs." 
 
 The old lady looked up quickly. She was a good deal 
 interested in this family of Muirs, partly because her son had 
 spoken much of them, and still more because he seemed so very 
 willing to return to the subject. " What about them, Cuth- 
 bert ? " 
 
 " I had Davie Lindsay with me to-day," said Cuthbert, 
 lifting up and turning over the pages of his mother's book. 
 '"' He is very anxious to trace out the heirs of a small old 
 estate near Stirling, and I've a notion these Muirs are the peo- 
 ple he wants." 
 
 Mrs. Charteris dropped her work on her knee, and looked 
 up with much interest. 
 
 " The lost heir had two daughters called Rose and Violet, — 
 rather a singular conjunction. Now the two younger Muirs 
 bear these names — a strange coincidence, if it is nothing else 
 — and if one could help such a family. I told you how much 
 they interested me, mother." 
 
 ^'' Yes," said the old lady, " Violet — that was the little girl 
 — I heard you mention her — but which of them is Rose? " 
 
 Mr. Cuthbert Charteris looked a little foolish, and with- 
 drew into the shadow of the curtain, which fortunately was 
 green, and neutralized the slight unusual flush upon his face. 
 •• One forgets these girls' names," he said, with a short laugh, 
 '• though this is rather a pretty one. The elder one is Martha, 
 you know, mother — a grave enough name to make up for the 
 romance of the other two — the intermediate young lady is 
 Rose."
 
 IIARRV iMUIR. 39 
 
 " How old is she, Cuthbert ? " interrogated his mother. 
 
 " I really am no judge — I could hardly guess — quite young 
 though," said Cuthbert hurriedly, "but the similarity of 
 names is very striking, and if I could trace out a relation- 
 ship, I should be exceedingly pleased, mother ; besides, that 
 one is bound, as a matter of duty, to assist in proving a birth- 
 right in any circumstances — ;and this young man will never do 
 in business, it is clear — whereas he might make a capital coun- 
 try gentleman." 
 
 Mrs. Charteris was a little prejudiced. She shook her 
 head : " It is not so easy to make a gentleman, Cuthbert ; the 
 transition from sixty pounds a-year to five hundred, though 
 it must be very comfortable, no doubt, will never accomplish 
 that." 
 
 " Harry Muir, mother," said Cuthbert, " is not a wise man 
 by any means — at five and twenty, I scarcely think I was very 
 wise myself — but Harr}' Muir with his sixty pounds, is a gen- 
 tleman already. I am afraid Dick Buchanan would suffer 
 very greatly if you saw them together, and compared the two." 
 
 '■ Ritchie Buchanan is your cousin, Cuthbert," said the old 
 lady, warmly. '• He is called after my father, who ivas a gen- 
 tleman though he was not so rich as his son. To be sure these 
 laddies were very loud the last time I saw them, and I believe 
 Ritchie had a ring, and no glove upon his hand — but still, 
 Cuthbert, you must not be an ill bird." 
 
 " Well, we shall see," said Cuthbert, smiling. '^ Wait till 
 I show you Harry Muir, mother — no discredit to Dick, or any 
 of them — but my uncle's clerk is a very difi"erent person ; poor 
 fellow ! — if he only had half as much prudence as the youngest 
 of them, it would be better for him. He is of that class, who, 
 people say, are nobody's enemies but their own." 
 
 *; And that is just the most hopeless class of all, Cuthbert," 
 said Mrs. Charteris : " you may cure a bad man that has 
 '- faith^^ you may turn a vessel that is ballasted and steady into 
 another course, but for your bits of gay pleasure-boats that float 
 with the stream, alack and woe is me ! It is a hopeless work, 
 Cuthbert, you never tried your hand at anything so vain." 
 
 •' That is the sister's work, not mine, mother," said Cuth- 
 bert, '• and I can believe it is not a very promising one, but in 
 the meantime, I must try and lay my hands upon the clue which 
 will conduct Davie Lindsay to his end, and give him an heir 
 to AUendcrs. Of course, I will not speak of it to the family 
 till I have ascertained something more about these names, but
 
 40 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 I think the result is very likely to be what I heartily wish it 
 may." 
 
 " I will wager you a silver crown, Cuthbert," said Mrs. 
 Charteris, " that the bairn is called after old Mrs. Violet 
 Primrose of Govan, and that Mrs. Hervey of Monkland, is the 
 name-mother of the elder one ; and to make it the more ap- 
 propriate, to-morrow is the first of April, and Davie Lindsay 
 has sent you on a gouk's errand, for a credulous callant as you 
 are ; now mind, I told you." 
 
 "Very well, mother, we shall see," replied Cuthbert. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " He has a secret motive in his search, 
 Honest, yet would he not that all the world 
 Saw full into his heart : — a right good heart — 
 Devising nothing evil, yet aware 
 Of certain silent'sccrets of its own." 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 It was not without a little embarrassment that Cuthbert pre- 
 sented himself next day at the office of his uncle. It was the 
 day before the dispatch of one of the mails, and everybody in the 
 office was very busy. Round the desk of Mr. Gilchrist, the 
 cashier, who had the capital business head, and the two hundred 
 yearly pounds, the snuff lay in little heaps, and all the clerks 
 of meaner degree were working furiously, with scarcely time to 
 interchange now and then the usual badinage of the counting- 
 house ; while, in Mr. Buchanan's room, Richard sat writing 
 letters beside his father. 
 
 " Better get away out of town, Cuthbert," said the mer- 
 chant, " we shall be late to-night ; but your aunt and Clemie 
 are at home, and are always glad to see you, you know, whereas 
 we shall only bore you, if you wait for us. I think you had 
 better go down to Greenbank at once." 
 
 " Very well, uncle," said Cuthbert. He was quite re- 
 signed to postpone his enjoyment of their company for a few 
 hours. " I have some business to do, but I shall get home 
 before you, I think." 
 
 " I say, Cuthbert," said Richard in an aside, " why don't 
 you ask for Harry Muir ? I believe you've been there al- 
 ready."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 41 
 
 " Then you believe nonsense, Dick," said Cuthbert, with a 
 little heat. " How is he, poor fellow ?" 
 
 " He's gone down to Ayr. Oh, he's recovering fast," said 
 Richard. " These women made it worse than it was, you 
 know, with their lamentations. I suppose you're going to call, 
 Cuthbert ? " 
 
 '' I am going to look after a case which my friend Lindsay 
 ^ engaged in," said Cuthbert, with some dignity. " I must 
 «!o that before I make any calls. There now, that will do — 
 you are sure to be late with your letters, Dick." 
 
 " I should not wonder," mused Dick Buchanan, as Cuth- 
 bert made his escape, " if his business was in Port Dundas 
 after all." And the curious young merchant endeavoured to 
 discover, through the opaque window, which course his cousin 
 took ; but the endeavour was quite unsuccessful. The dim 
 yellow pane preserved Cuthbert's secret. 
 
 It was past mid-day when Cuthbert reached the busy road 
 to Port Dundas. It was, as usual, noisy and loud, and 
 crowded with echoing carts on its causeway, and streams of 
 mill-girls pouricg along its pavement, returning to the facto- 
 ries after dinner. Little stout round forms — faces sometimes 
 sallow, but by no means unhealthy — hair dressed with extreme 
 regard to the fashion, and always excellently brushed, and in 
 the finest order — made these passengers, in their coloured 
 woollen petticoats and bright short gowns, a very comely part 
 of the street population. Very true most of them planted 
 broad, sturdy, bare feet upon the dusty pavement ; but the 
 free loud mirth, no less than the comfortable habiliments, 
 showed them quite removed from the depressing effects of ex- 
 treme poverty — as indeed they were. 
 
 And opposite Harry Muir's house, in the little half fin- 
 ished street, Maggie McGillivray still sat clipping, with her 
 brisk scissors in her hand, sending her loud clear voice into 
 the din like an arrow — and still another branch of the Glas- 
 gow feminine industry came under the amused observation of 
 Cuthbert before he reached the little parlour. 
 
 Miss Aggie Rodger, with her large shoulders bursting 
 from under the little woollen shawl, and a great rent in the 
 skirt of her faded large-patterned cotton gown, sat on the 
 highest step of the stair, holding in her hand a very dingy 
 piece of embroidered muslin, which she was jerking about with 
 wonderful rapidity as she '' opened it." Miss Aggie, like the 
 humbler clipper, was lightening her task with the solace of
 
 42 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 song ; but, instead of the clear flowing canty " Learig," Miss 
 Aggie, with great demonstration, was uttering the excellences 
 of the Rose of AUandale. Both the natural voices were 
 tolerably good ; but Cuthbert thought he preferred Maggie 
 McGillivray's. 
 
 In the little '• green," to which the paved passage from the 
 street directly led, Miss Rodger, the elder sister, was laying 
 out the collars and caps of the family to bleach. Miss Rodger 
 was, in her way, a very proud person, and had a severe care- 
 worn face, which, six or seven years ago, had been pretty. 
 From the green, Cuthbert heard her addressing her sister : 
 
 •• Aggie, baud your tongue. Folk would think to see ye 
 that you kent nae better than the like of that lassie McGilliv- 
 ray. They'll hear ye on the street." 
 
 " Ye can shut to the door, if ye're so proud," responded 
 Miss Aggie, drawing out the long quavers of her song with 
 unabated zeal. 
 
 Miss Jeanie, the prim intermediate sister, looked out from 
 the kitchen window, and interrupted the dialogue in a vehe- 
 ment whisper : — " Aggie, will ye come out of that, and no let 
 yoursel be seen, such a like sicht as ye are 1 do ye no see the 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 Miss Aggie looked up — saw Cuthbert standing below — 
 and, snatching up the torn skirt of her gown in her hand, fled 
 precipitately, leaving behind her a considerable-sized dilapi- 
 dated slipper, trodden at the heel, which had escaped from 
 her foot in her flight. 
 
 " I've lost yin o' my bauchals. Throw it into us, woman 
 Jean — what will the strange man think? " cried Miss Aggie, 
 disconsolately, as she reached the safe refuge of the kitchen. 
 
 Miss Jeanie was dressed — for this was the day on which 
 they carried home their finished work to the warehouse which 
 supplied them. Miss Jeanie was very prim, and had a little 
 mouth, which she showed her appreciation of, as the one ex- 
 cellent feature of her tolerable face, by drawing her lips to- 
 gether, and making them round. She was magnificently ar- 
 rayed in a purple silk gown, bound round the waist with a 
 silken cord, from which hung a superb pair of tassels. This 
 dress was by far the grandest article of apparel in the house ; 
 and with great awe and veneration, Violet Muir had just inti- 
 mated to her sisters, that Miss Jeanie was going to the ware- 
 house, and that she had on her Adelaide silk gown. Adroitly 
 extending the skirt of this robe of state to cover the unlucky
 
 HARRY MUIR. 43 
 
 " bauclial '' of Miss Aggie, Miss Jeanie primly stood by the 
 open door, admitting the visitor, and Cuthbert entered with- 
 out making any further acquaintance with the family. 
 
 The same universal feminine work re-appeared in the par- 
 lour, where Martha sat by the window in her usual place, busy 
 with her usual occupation, while Kose, seated by the table, and 
 occasionally pausing to glance down upon an open book which 
 lay before her, listened with a smile, half of pleasure, half of 
 amusement, as Violet, standing by her side, with a glow upon 
 her little pale face, poured forth page after page of the Bridal 
 of Triermain. Martha, too, raised her eyes now and then, 
 with a smile of playful love in them — for little Lottie's low- 
 voiced intense utterance, and enthusiasm, refreshed and pleased 
 the heart which knew so many harder sorrows than the evils 
 of romance. Rose was Violet's governess ; in an evil hour 
 the young teacher had bidden her pupil choose any poetry she 
 liked for her task, and learn as much of it as pleased her. 
 Now Violet did at that time particularly afiect the minstrelsy 
 of Sir Walter, and the result was, that already one canto of 
 Triermain had been accomplished, and another, and another, 
 remained to say. 
 
 Out of doors in the sunshine, Maggie McGillivray sung 
 the " Learig," and with a gay flourish of her shears accompa- 
 nied the swell of the •' Owerword," as she ended every verse. 
 At the window in the kitchen. Miss Aggie Rodger sat in a 
 heap upon the table, and stayed her needle in mid-course, 
 while she accomplished the Ro-o-se of A-ah-allandale ; and 
 within here the little form of Violet expanded, and her small 
 face glowed, as her story progressed ; while Rose smiled and 
 worked, and glanced at the book ; and Martha, with fresh and 
 genuine pleasure, listened and looked on. After all, the gift 
 of song is a fair gift to this laborious world. There was noth- 
 ing very grand or elevated in either the ballads or the fable, 
 yet enough to stir the heart, and keep the busy hands from 
 weariness — and to do that, is to do well and merit a hearty 
 blessing of the world. 
 
 Cuthbert was loth to disturb this pretty home scene, as he 
 did at his entrance ; but notwithstanding, Cuthbert was very 
 well satisfied with the bright surprise and shy pleasure, which 
 one at least of the little group displayed, and took his place 
 among them like an old friend. Violet's copy-book lay opesi 
 on the table ; and Violet made very bad pot-hooks indeed, 
 and hated the copy intensely, though she liked the poetry.
 
 44 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 The copy lines set for her were not very beautiful either, 
 though they were written in a good, sensible, female hand, 
 which had some individuality in it, and was not of the fashion- 
 able stylo. Such copy lines ! stray lines out of books, as di- 
 verse and miscellaneous as could be collected, differing most 
 widely from those sublime, severe, abstract propositions, which 
 in common cases introduce the youthful student to wisdom 
 and half-text. Cuthbert could not help a visible smile as he 
 glanced over them. 
 
 " I have interrupted my little friend's lesson," said Charte- 
 ris, as he laid down the book. 
 
 Rose was shy of him. She did not answer. 
 
 " Violet has a great appetite for verse," said Martha ; " we 
 shall have all the rest of it at night." 
 
 " Triermain." Cuthbert was a little surprised that the 
 child should be so far advanced — innocent Cuthbert ! he did 
 not know what a host of books, of all kinds and classes, the 
 little Violet had devoured already. 
 
 •• How is Mr. Muir ? " asked Cuthbert. " I heard at the 
 office he was not at home, and I was very glad to find that he 
 was able for travelling. Have you heard from him 1 How 
 is he?" 
 
 " He is getting strong rapidly, Agnes writes," said Martha. 
 " They are with my uncle in Ayr. We were brought up 
 there, all of us, and so we say Harry has gone home. I hope 
 it will strengthen him — every way," she added, with a sup- 
 pressed sigh. 
 
 " And so you like Sir Walter, Violet," said Cuthbert ; 
 " come and tell me what you have read besides Triermain." 
 
 Violet came shyly to his side, and dropped her head, and 
 answered with bashfulness, " I have read them all." 
 
 " Ptead them all ! not quite, I think — how many books 
 have you read, altogether? " said the puzzled Cuthbert, 
 
 Violet looked up with mingled astonishment and pity, and 
 opened her eyes wide. She, who had already begun to look 
 at advertisements of books ; and to tease Mr. Syme, the 
 librarian in the Cowcaddens, about new publications, which he 
 had never heard of, and which in the ordinary course, would 
 not reach him these hundred years — she to be asked how many 
 books she had read ! Violet was amazed at the want of appre- 
 hension, which such a question displayed. 
 
 " I have read a great heap — and 1 can say the Lord of the 
 Isles, by heart, and bits of the Lady of the Lake."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 45 
 
 Cuthbert's ignorance had given Violet a little courage : 
 but as she met his eye, her head drooped again, and she re- 
 lapsed into her former shyness. 
 
 '• And how old arc you, Violet ? " 
 
 '• I will be eleven next May." Violet had already had 
 very grave thoughts on this subject of her age. It seemed a 
 stupendous thing to pass that tenth milestone. 
 
 '• Violet — where did you get that pretty name of yours," 
 said Cuthbert, drawing his hand over her small dark head. 
 
 " It was my mother's name," said the little girl reverently. 
 
 The conversation came to a sudden pause. Conscious that 
 he had a motive in asking those seeming simple questions, 
 Cuthbert felt confused, and could not go on — so he turned to 
 the copy-book. 
 
 '• Have you written all this yourself, Violet ? " 
 
 He had turned to the beginning, and there certainly was 
 to be traced the formation of a different hand from Violet's — 
 the respectable, womanly writing which had placed those odd 
 copy lines on the later pages ; he traced it as it improved, 
 through a good many different steps of progress, and at the 
 end found a clear, good-looking signature, proclaiming it to be 
 the work of Rose A. Muir. 
 
 " Rose A. Muir," he repeated it unawares aloud. 
 
 The bearer of the name started with a slight blush. Mar- 
 tha glanced at him with grave scrutiny — and little Violet 
 looking admiringly at her sister's hand-writing, explained, 
 "• Rose was called after my grandmother." 
 
 '• It is not a common name," said Cuthbert, growing em- 
 barrassed under the grave eye of Martha. " May I ask. Miss 
 Rose, what is represented by this A." 
 
 '• It will be Annie or Alice, or some stupid woman's name," 
 he said to himself, while his heart beat a little quicker. 
 
 '• I was called after my grandmother, Mr. Charteris, as 
 Lettie says, " said Rose, shyly. " It is Rose Allenders — that 
 was her name." 
 
 The young man started visibly. He had no idea of falling 
 on anything so clear as this ; but Martha looked at him with 
 sudden curiosity, and he felt himself compelled to make some 
 explanation. 
 
 '• It is by no means a usual name, Miss Muir," said Cuth- 
 bert, turning to the elder sister. " I know something. I am 
 slightly acquainted with a family called Allenders. Did this 
 lady — your grandmother, Miss Rose — come from the east 
 countrv ? '"
 
 46 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " I cannot tell, indeed," said Rose. " She died very long 
 ago— before any of us were born." 
 
 " I think they came from London," said Martha ; " I have 
 heard my uncle say so — there were two sisters of them ; and 
 their father died in Ayr. Mrs. Calder, in the old town, was 
 very kind to the orphans, and took them in : and there the 
 younger sister — her name was Violet — died; and my grand-, 
 mother married Mrs. Calder's son. I have heard she died 
 young too, and called her only child, who was our mother, 
 after her little sister. It is a sad story altogether ; but we 
 heard my uncle speak of it often ; and I remember how many 
 of the old people in Ayr recollected Rose Allenders." 
 
 " My mother's name was Violet Calder," said Lettie, " but 
 I am only plain Violet. She did not call me after all her name ; 
 but Rose has got two names because she's after my grand- 
 mother." 
 
 " I am going further west," said Cuthbert. " I shall be in 
 Ayr for a day or two, I believe. I think I must ask you to 
 introduce me to your uncle, Miss Muir." 
 
 " He will be glad to see you," said Martha, quietly. " But 
 if you go now, you will find Harry established there. Give 
 Mr. Charteris my uncle's address, Rose — but indeed you hard- 
 ly need that, for every one knows my uncle." 
 
 But Cuthbert had not the least desire to meet Harry in 
 Ayr. So he was careful to excuse himself, and suddenly dis- 
 covered that he could not be able to make acquaintance with 
 Alexander Muir, the uncle, for a full fortnight, by which time 
 it was certain that Harry must have returned. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " There is all hope in thee, sweet Spring, sweet Spring ! 
 Dull voices, speaking of thee, unawares, 
 Bewray themselves to sing. 
 For every name thou hast such music bears ; 
 Whether 'tis March, when all the winds are gay— 
 Or April, girlish in her wayward way — 
 Or sweetest May." 
 
 Day by day passed, of Harry Muir's last bright week at Ayr, 
 passed no less happily to the three sisters, than to himself and 
 his little wife — and at last, fresh, healthful, and in high spirits, 
 the youthful couple and their baby returned home.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 47 
 
 To walk to the coach-office to meet them, was of itself a 
 jubilee for the home-dvvellers, and Mrs. llodger herself held 
 the door open for them, in stately welcome. Mrs. Rodger 
 was a tall old woman, gaunt and poverty-stricken, in her dingy 
 widow's cap, and black cotton gown ; but Mrs. Rodger had 
 been " genteel " once, and never forgot it. She extended one 
 of her long arms, and gave Harry's hand a swing, as he stop- 
 ped to greet her. '• I was just telling our weans," said Mrs. 
 Rodger, '■ that the house was na like itself, wanting you — and 
 I hope you find your leg strong, Mr. Muir ; bless me, how the 
 wee boy's grown ! I would scarce have kent him ; bring him 
 ben, Violet, and let the weans get a look o' him. What a size 
 he's turned ! " 
 
 Miss Aggie, the youngest of the aforesaid weans, plunged 
 out of the kitchen, and seized the baby with loud expressions 
 of admiration. The little wife was easily flattered by praise 
 of that blue-eyed boy of hers, and was by no means unwilling 
 to accompany him herself, and exhibit him to the assembled 
 '• weans " in Mrs. Rodger's kitchen. 
 
 This apartment, which answered all purposes to the family, 
 was a good-sized room, showing an expanse of uncovered floor, 
 not over clean, and a great wooden '• bunker " for coals, as 
 its most noticeable feature. The " bunker " is an article 
 which belongs exclusively to the household arrangements of 
 Glasgow. This one was not very high as it happened, and on 
 the corner of it sat Miss Jeanie, her hands busy with her work, 
 her feet deposited on a chair below. Miss Aggie, in like man- 
 ner, occupied a corner of the table in the window. Their work 
 required a good deal of light, and they were fettered by no 
 punctilios as to attitude. Miss Rodger, the eldest sister, flit- 
 ted in and out of a dark scullery, and withdrawn as far as 
 possible from the light in the dusky corner, by the fireside, sat 
 a shabby and not very young man, with shuffling indolent 
 limbs stretched across the hearth, and pins, the sole gathering 
 of his idleness, stuck in the lappel of his dusty, worn coat, and 
 a face that promised better things. This was " Johnnie," as 
 they called him, Mrs. Rodger's only son. Poor Johnnie had 
 begun this sad manner of life by a long illness, and now, be- 
 tween his rheumatism and his false shame, incapable, as it 
 seemed, of any strenuous endeavour to make up for what he 
 liad lost, had sunk into the state of an indolent dependant 
 upon the little earnings of his sisters. They had their faults, 
 these women ; but never one of them murmured at tlic burden
 
 48 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 thus tlirown upon them. Living very meanly, as they were 
 constrained to do, they were still perfectly content to toil for 
 Johnnie. It never seemed to occur to them at all, indeed, 
 that the natural order of things was reversed in their case. 
 Sometimes, it is true, there was a quarrel between the mother, 
 who was a termagant, and the poor indolent shipwrecked son, 
 whose temper was easily galled, having always this sore con- 
 sciousness to bear it company ; but never one of the sisters up- 
 braided Johnnie, or made a merit of labouring for him. 
 Amidst all their vanity, and vulgarity, this one feature elevated 
 the character of the family, and gave to those three very com- 
 mon-place young women, a standing-ground of which no one 
 could possibly be less conscious than they were themselves. 
 
 The large good-humoured hoyden, Miss Aggie, danced the 
 baby in her arms, and carried him to the fireside to her bro- 
 ther. Poor Johnnie took the boy more gently, and praised him 
 to his mother's heart's content, while Violet, no longer shy, but 
 at present very fluent and talkative, stood by the side of her 
 special friend and ally, Mr. John. The little girl and the 
 poor indolent man, were on very intimate terms. 
 
 " I was just telling our weans," repeated Mrs. Rodger, 
 " that the wee boy would be just another creature after awhile 
 in the country ; and cheeks like roses you've gotten yoursel, 
 Mrs. Muir. It would be unco' dull though, I'm thinking — if 
 it had been the saut water — but it's no the season for the saut 
 water. I mind when Archie was living — that's their father — 
 we gaed down regular to Dunsoon, and it was just a pleasure 
 to see the weans when they came hame." 
 
 " Agnes, Martha says the tea's ready," said Violet, " and 
 I'm to carry little Harry ben." 
 
 The tea-table in the parlour was pleasantly covered, and 
 still more pleasantly surrounded, and Agnes's basket, which 
 the good uncle's own hands had packed, remained still un- 
 opened ; so the baby was given over to the safe keeping of 
 Rose, and the busy young wife began to distribute uncle San- 
 dy's tokens of remembrance. 
 
 " This pot of honey is for you, Martha, — uncle Sandy 
 thought you would like to give it to us all, now and then, on 
 high days — and here is a bottle of cream from Mrs. Thomp- 
 son, at the corner, and a little silk handkerchief to Rose, and 
 the last of the apples to Violet— and see here, look, all of you, 
 look ! " 
 
 Two little flower-pots carefully packed with moss, one of
 
 HAIIRY MUIR. 49 
 
 them bearing a tuft of fragrant little violets, the other proudly 
 supporting a miniature rose-bush, with one little bud just ap- 
 pearing from its green leaves — good, gentle uncle ! lie had 
 been at so much trouble getting this fairy rose, and cherishing 
 it in his little sitting-room, till this solitary bud rewarded his 
 nursing. It was hailed with a burst of delight from Violet, 
 and by the elder sisters, with a pleasure which almost reached 
 to tears. 
 
 '• It is so like my uncle," said Rose. 
 
 And then with some happy excitement, they gathered round 
 the tea-table. Harry had a great budget of local news to 
 open, and the blithe Agnes interruj)ted him every moment to 
 tell of her first impressions, and new acquaintance. There 
 had been beautiful weather, sunny and soft as it often is in 
 the early part of April, and the young wife had left all cares 
 behind her on the grave shoulders of Martha. Harry had 
 been so well, so happy, so considerate — enjoying so thoroughly 
 the simple pleasures of his old home, and the society of his 
 pure, unsophisticated uncle — Agnes thought she had never been 
 so happy. 
 
 And Harry's face was sparkling with healthful, blameless 
 pleasures. He looked so man-like, the centre of their anxieties 
 and wishes, and was in reality so fresh-hearted, and capable of 
 innocent enjoyment, that Martha's troubled heart grew glad 
 over the success of her experiment. He had been home — he 
 had seen again in these old scenes, the pure heroic fancies of 
 his earliest youth, and many days hence the anxious sister 
 thought the happy effect would remain. 
 
 They closed the evening, as it was always closed in the 
 house at Ayr, with the simple and devout worship of the 
 family. Harr}', with his fine mind so clear to-night, and hap- 
 pily elevated, a young household priest, conducted those sim- 
 ple fervent devotions — for the religious emotions were strong 
 within him. They swayed him much sometimes, as, unfortu- 
 nately other feelings swayed him at other some ; but he was 
 deeply susceptible at all times to all the beauty, all the gran- 
 deur of the holy faith he professed. The young man's voice 
 trembled, and his heart swelled as he appealed to the Grreat 
 Father for the sake of the wonderful Son. And as, most hum- 
 bly and earnestly, he asked for strength against temptation, 
 the tears in Martha's eyes were tears of hope — almost of joy. 
 She thought that surely never again this young ingenuous 
 spirit would fall-^-never again forsake that holy brotherhood
 
 50 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 at whose head He stands, who was once tempted for the sake 
 of us, to defile its garments with the mean sins of former times. 
 There was a shadow of deep quiet upon all their faces as they 
 rose from their knees, they thought they had come to the be- 
 ginning of a purer, happier time. They, these anxious women, 
 thought so for him ; and he, poor Harry ! for himself, with 
 those joyous eyes of his, looked forward to the future without 
 fear. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " I was gay as the other maidens— all the springs and hopes and youthful things of the 
 world were like me : prithee, lady, think not I say so out of envy of your fair estate ; 
 for in good sooth, youth is estate enough for a free heart. But before youth goes, troubles 
 come — yourself must meet them anon— and be not fearful, gentle one ; for it may be 
 they will leave rare Avealth with you, and take but a little sunshine away." 
 
 Old Plat. 
 
 The next day Harry entered blithely upon his old duties 
 again. The morning was sunny and bright, and Agnes stood 
 at the window with the baby, to watch him as he emerged 
 from the outer door below, and turned to look up to her, and 
 take off his hat in playful salutation. He had a little cluster 
 of fresh spring primroses, pulled last morning in the Ayr gar- 
 den, gracing his buttons-hole, and there was a spring in his 
 step, and an elastic grace in his manner as he went away, that 
 made glad the heart of the little wife. They were all very 
 blithe this morning — the gladness came involuntarily from 
 Agnes' lips in the familiar form of song, she sang to the baby — 
 she sang to them all. 
 
 She was still a girl, this pretty wife of Harry Muir — a girl 
 belonging to that very large class, who never discover that they 
 have hearts at all, until they have sent them forth on some 
 great venture, perilling all peace for ever. Agni3s had been a 
 very gay, perhaps a rather foolish girl — liking very greatly the 
 small vanities which she could reach, and managing to keep 
 out of sight the graver matters of life. She knew what it was 
 to be poor — but then she had known that all her life, and the 
 difficulties fell upon elder people, not on herself, and Agnes 
 sailed over them with innocent heedlessness. The heart 
 slumbered quietly in her bosom — she scarcely knew it was 
 there, except when it beat high sometimes for some small
 
 HAKKY MUIK. 51 
 
 merry-making; scarcely even when she married Harry Muir . 
 were those gay placid waters stirred. She liked him very 
 much — she admired him exceedingly — she was very proud of 
 him, but still she had not found out her heart. 
 
 But when the cloud began to steal over the gay horizon of 
 her life — when she had to watch for his coming, and tremble 
 for his weakness, and weep over his faults those sad apologetic 
 tears, and say, poor Harry ! then this unknown existence be- 
 gan to make itself felt within the sobbing breast of the little, 
 pretty, girlish wife. The sad and fatal weakness, which made 
 him in a certain degree dependent upon them — which aroused 
 the feelings of anxious care, the eager expedients to protect him 
 from himself, gave a new character to Agnes. In sad peril 
 now was the happiness of this young, tender, sensitive heart ; 
 but the danger that threatened it had quickened it into con- 
 scious life. 
 
 He went away with smiles, and hopeful freshness to his 
 daily labour. He came home, honestly wearied, at an earlier 
 hour than usual, having his conscience free of offence that day. 
 So happily they all gathered about the little tea-table ; so gaily 
 Agnes presided at its tea-making, and Martha placed on the 
 table the little crystal vessel full of honey — odorous honey, 
 breathing out stories of all the home flowers of Ayr — so much 
 the travellers have still to tell, and the dwellers at home to 
 hear. 
 
 '• And. now, Martha," said Harry, '• put on your bonnet, and 
 come out. I believe she has never been out, Agnes, all the 
 time we have been away." 
 
 •• Yes, indeed, Harry — Martha was always at the Kirk," 
 said the literal Violet. 
 
 '' But we are not going to the Kirk to-morrow — come Mar- 
 tha, and taste this April air." 
 
 Martha looked at her work. '• It is a temptation Harry ; 
 but I think you had better take Hose — see, Rose looks white 
 with working so long, and I have to go to the warehouse." 
 
 '• To the Candleriggo ! " said Harry, laughing. " Where 
 you scarcely can tell when it is June and when December ; 
 and if Rose is white, you are absolutely green with sitting 
 shut up here so long — come Martha." 
 
 It was not very complimentary, but the pallid faded cheek 
 of Martha actually bore to eyes which had been in the sun- 
 shine, a tinge of that undesirable hue. Save for the beneficent 
 rest of the Sabbath-day, and the walk through the hushed 
 
 tSBRARt 
 UNIVERSmfOFlUiHOSS
 
 52 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 streets to church, Martha had indeed, since her brother went 
 to Ayr. never been out of doors. The luxury of sending Harry 
 to the pure home atmosphere was not a cheap one. She had 
 been hibouring for, while he enjoyed it. 
 
 '- But what if Mr. Charteris comes ? " said Rose, with a 
 little shyness : no one else seemed to remember that Mr. 
 Charteris was to come. 
 
 " We will not stay long," said Harry ; " you must keep 
 him till we return." 
 
 Rose seemed half inclined to go too ; but she remembered 
 how often Martha had sent her out to enjoy the walk which 
 she had denied herself ; and there were a great many " holes," 
 as those very prosaic sempstresses called the little spaces in 
 the centres of embroidered flowers, at which they worked, to 
 be finished before they were returned to the warehouse to-mor- 
 row — so even at the risk of a little additional conversation 
 with the formidable Mr. Charteris, Rose made up her mind 
 to stay. 
 
 And Martha and Harry went out alone. They were not 
 within reach of any very pleasant place for walking, but they 
 struck off through some of those unsettled transitional fields 
 which hang about the outskirts of great towns, to the side of 
 the canal. Those soft spring evenings throw a charm over 
 the common-place atmosphere of even such ordinary haunts 
 as this — and it is wonderful indeed, when one's eyes and heart 
 are in proper trim, how the great sky itself alone, and the vast 
 world of common air, in which we breathe, and through which 
 human sounds come to us, can suffice to refresh our minds. 
 Nature is beautiful in every place. 
 
 The distant traffic of the " Port," to which this canal is 
 the sea ; the flutter of dingy sloop sails, and a far-off prospect 
 of the bare cordage, and brief masts of little Dutch vessels, 
 delivering their miscellaneous cargoes there, gave a softened 
 home look, almost like the quiet harbour of some little sea- 
 port, to a scene which close at hand could boast of few advan- 
 tages. But the air was bright with the haze of sunset, and in 
 the east the sky had paled down to the exceeding calmness 
 of the eventide, lying sileotly around its lengthened strips 
 of island cloud like an enchanted sea. Dull and blank was 
 the long level line of water at their feet, yet it was water still, 
 and flowed, or seemed to flow ; and along the bank came the 
 steady tramp of those strong horses, led by a noisy cavalier 
 whose accoutrements clanked and jingled like a steam-engine.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 53 
 
 piloting the gaily-painted " Swift " boat from Edinburgh, with 
 its crowds of impatient passengers to the end of their tedious 
 journey. These were homely sights — but the charmed atmos- 
 phere gave a harmony to them all. 
 
 And there were some trees upon this side of the canal — 
 and grass as green as though it lived a country life, and stout 
 weeds, rank and vigorous by the side of the way — and the 
 hum of the great town came softly on their ear, with here and 
 there a distant sound breaking the inarticulate hum of that 
 mass of busy life. Better than all these, there was such per- 
 fect confidence between the brother and sister, as had scarcely 
 been before, since he was the unstained boy, innocent and igno- 
 rant, and she the eager teacher, putting forth a second time 
 in this young untried vessel, the solemn venture of her hopes. 
 It was not that Harry had anything to confide to the anxious 
 heart, which noted all his thoughts and modes of feeling so 
 narrowly ; but the little daily things which sometimes have so 
 weighty a bearing upon the most important matters of life ; 
 the passing fancies, the very turns of expression which show 
 the prevailing tone of the speaker's mind, were so frankly visi- 
 ble to the eye of the watchful sister, that Martha's heart re- 
 joiced within her with solemn joy. 
 
 Meanwhile, Rose sat alone in the parlour doing her work, 
 somewhat nervously, and hoping fervently that Mr. Charteris 
 would not come till '" somebody was in " to receive him. 
 
 The baby lay sound asleep in the cradle. Agnes had gdne 
 down to Mrs. McGarvie to negotiate about some washing, and 
 was at this moment standing in Mrs. McGrarvie's kitchen, near 
 the small table where Mrs. McGarvie herself, with the kettle 
 in one hand, and a great horn spoon in the other, was pouring 
 a stream of boiling water into a bowl half filled with the 
 beautiful yellow peasemeal, which keeps the stomachs of Glas- 
 gow in such superlative order, compounding the same into 
 brose, for the supper of Rab, who newly come in, had just re- 
 moved his blue bonnet from his shaggy red head in honour 
 of his mother's visitor. Mrs. McGarvie had undertaken the 
 washing, and Agness in her overflowing happy spirits, was 
 telling her about the journey, from which they had just re- 
 turned. 
 
 Violet, last of all, was in Mrs. Rodgers's " big room," a 
 very spacious, fine apartment, which was generally occupied by 
 some lodger. They had no tenant for it at present, and were 
 this evening entertaining a party in the large, lofty, shabbily-
 
 54 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 furnished dining room. Violet had gone in among these 
 guests with the natural curiosity of a child, and poor Rose, 
 nervously apprehensive of the coming of this formidable Mr. 
 Charteris, sat in the parlour alone. 
 
 Her busy fingers began to flag as she filled up these 
 " holes ;" and now and then, the work dropped on her knee. 
 The ordinary apprehensions about Harry, which generally 
 formed the central object of her thoughts, were pleasantly 
 hushed to-night. Rose was not thinking about anything par- 
 ticular — she would have said so, at least — but for all that, 
 long trains of indefinite fancies were flitting through her mind, 
 and her thick blunt needle was altogether stayed now and then 
 — only recovering in hysteric bursts its ordinary movements, 
 when Rose trembled to fancy that she heard a step on the 
 stair. If Agnes would only come in — if Harry and Martha 
 were but home again ! 
 
 At last a step was heard on the stair in reality. " May be 
 it is Agnes," said Rose to herself as her needle began to fly 
 again through the muslin — but it was not only Agnes, it was 
 the foot of a man — poor Rose wondered if by any possibility 
 she could run away. 
 
 And there he was, this sad ogre whom Rose feared, quietly 
 opening the parlour door, as if he had some right to be there. 
 Mr. Charteris was almost as shy as Rose herself He sat 
 down with pleased embarrassment, and looked exceedingly 
 awkward, and spoke by no means so sensibly as he was used 
 to do. Rose eagerly explained the reason why she was alone, 
 and went to the window in haste to look for Agnes. 
 
 Mr. Charteris' eye had been caught by something of a 
 very faded neutral hue, in a black frame, which hung above 
 the mantelpiece. He asked Miss Rose if it was embroidery. 
 
 Miss Rose was moved to laughter, and her laugh dispersed 
 the mist of shyness very pleasantly. " It is onl}'^ an old sam- 
 pler of my grandmother's, Mr. Charteris." 
 
 Mr. Charteris rose to look at it. 
 
 " There is not much art in it," said Rose, " it seems that 
 all the landscapes on samplers are of one style — but my mother 
 gave it to me when I was a girl — a little girl — and I used to 
 be proud of it, because it was my own." 
 
 Mr. Charteris took it down to examine its beauties more 
 closely. It bore the name of the artist at full length, " Rose 
 Allenders," and had a square house, and some very original 
 trees, like the trees of very old paintings, elaborately worked 
 upon it.
 
 HARRY MUIU. 55 
 
 '' I think you said she had been long dead," said Cuthbert. 
 
 " Long ago — very long ago." said Rose. " When my 
 mother was only a child, my grandmother died. Her name 
 is on the stone, among the rest of the Calders, and her father 
 and her little sister are near her. in the churchyard. Uncle 
 Sandy used to take us there when we were children. I believe 
 he thought they would feel lonely in their very graves, because 
 they lay among strangers." 
 
 There was a pause. Cuthbert again hung up the faded 
 sampler, and Rose worked most industriously at her opening. 
 Each was earnestly endeavouring to invent something to say 
 — and both of them were singularly unsuccessful It was the 
 greatest possible relief to Rose to hear Harry's voice in tbe 
 passage. 
 
 The two young men greeted each other heartily — it seemed 
 that there was some charm in these very faults of poor Harry 
 — for everybody learned to like and apologise for, even while 
 they blamed him. 
 
 '• And so you are going to Ayr," said Harry, " why did you 
 not come a little earlier, Mr. Charteris, that I might have 
 shown our town to you ? You will not appreciate the beauties 
 it has. unless some one native to it, points them out." 
 
 '" For which cause I am here to seek an introduction which 
 Miss Muir promised me to your uncle," said Cuthbert. 
 
 " To my uncle ? are you a character hunter, Mr. Charteris 1 " 
 said Harry quickly, and with something which Rose thought 
 looked like rudeness. 
 
 "No, I don't think so — but why do you ask me ? " 
 
 " Because the vulgar call my uncle a character and an 
 original," said Harry. '• I thought your cousin, who saw him 
 once, might have told you so, — and he does not like the im- 
 putation. We are jealous of my uncle's feelings, as we have 
 a good right to be, for he has been a father, and teacher, and 
 companion alike to all of us." 
 
 " I had some business in the neighbourhood of Ayr," said 
 Cuthbert, with a little conscious embarrassment — " one of 
 those things in our profession that border upon the romantic, 
 — there are not many of them, Miss Rose ; I want to trace out 
 some links of descent — to find some lost members of an old 
 family. I shall find them only by means of gravestones I ap- 
 prehend, but that will answer my purpose. It is not quite in 
 my department, this kind of business : but it is pleasant to 
 have some excuse for seeing so fine a country in this time
 
 56 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 when 'folk are longen to go on pilgrimages,' — I think you 
 must begin to feel this longing, Miss Muir ? " 
 
 " It is wonderful how easily one can content oneself," said 
 Martha, with a smile which spoke of singular peace. •' We 
 have only to shut our eyes. Rose and I, and straightway we 
 are at home, or to send some one else to enjoy it, Mr. Char- 
 teris. Harry and Agnes, have brought us so much of the 
 atmosphere that I scarcely desire it now for myself" 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Ay, even here, in the close city streets, 
 'Tis good to see the sunset — how the light, 
 Curious and scornful, thrusts away the masses 
 Of vapour brooding o'er the busy town, 
 Yet leaves a trace of rosy light the while 
 Even on the thing it scorns. 
 And the rich air gives sweetness to all sounds ; 
 And hazy sunbeams glorify young faces — 
 And labour turns aside, glad of its hour 
 Of aimless idling." 
 
 CuTHBERT Charteris, mucli agaiust his will, was detained 
 a week longer in Glasgow. His uncle, a man of unbounded 
 hospitality, an almost invariable characteristic of his class, was 
 not without a little family pride in Cuthbert's attainments and 
 position — and such a succession of people had been already 
 invited to '-meet" Mr. Buchanan's advocate nephew, that 
 Cuthbert's good humour, though already sufficiently taxed, 
 would not suffer him to disappoint them. — Nether was it until 
 the very last evening of the week, when he had made positive 
 arrangements for going to Ayr next day, that he had leisure to 
 call on the Muirs. 
 
 The sun was setting on the soft April evening, and the 
 slanting level sunbeams streamed through the dusty streets, 
 drawing out in long shadows the outline of the houses. With- 
 in these shadows the bystanders felt almost the chill of winter, 
 while in the sunshine at the street corners, lounging groups 
 congratulated each other that summer had come at last. 
 
 Here the light fell on a white '• mutch" or two, and on the 
 sun-burnt heads of innumerable children of whose boisterous 
 play the gossip mothers took no notice. — There it glimmered 
 and sparkled in braids and curls, and plaits of beautiful hair
 
 HARRY MUIR. 5 7 
 
 which a coiffeur might have studied for the benefit of his art, 
 and which you could scarcely fancy the short thick toil- 
 hardened fingers of these laughing mill-girls able to produce. 
 But toilsome as their factory life was. it had its edge of en- 
 joyment, quite as bright and enlivening as the evening recrea- 
 tions of any other class — and with those young engineer work- 
 men clustering around them, and the evening sunshine and 
 the hum of continual sound — sound which expressed repose 
 and sport, and scarcely had the least admixture of the labori- 
 ous din of full day — filling the atmosphere, there were many 
 scenes less pleasant and less graceful, than the street corner 
 and its groups of mill-girls. And here, up the broad road, 
 now almost free of the carts which usually crowd it, dashes at 
 full speed a bright little equipage glowing in green and gold, 
 which draws up with a flourish at the corner. Straightway 
 the " close mouths," and " common stairs " pour forth a stream 
 of girls and women, carrying vessels of every form and size, 
 from the small china cream-jug from some lonely lady's tea- 
 table to the great pitcher under which little Mary staggers as 
 she carries it home in her arms to supply the porridge of a 
 dozen brothers and sisters ; and you never were refreshed 
 with richer milk under the deepest umbrage of summer trees, 
 than that which gives forth its balmy streams from the pretty 
 green barrels hooped with brilliant brass, which rest upon the 
 light framework of the Port Dundas dairy cart. 
 
 Rose Muir stood at the door as Cuthbert approached — he 
 had chosen a later hour than usual for his visit, that he might 
 not disturb them at their simple evening meal — but as he 
 glanced at the downcast face of Rose, over which an uneasy 
 colour was flushing, he saw that the old anxiety, the origin of 
 which he had guessed at before, had now again returned. The 
 long wistful glances she cast along the street — the eager 
 expectant look with which she turned to himself — once before 
 the herald of poor Harry — would have almost sufficed to 
 reveal the secret of the family to Cuthbert had he not guessed 
 it before. 
 
 '• Harry has not come home yet," said Rose, with an 
 unconscious apology in her tone ; *' they are sometimes kept 
 very late at the office — but my sisters are up stairs, Mr. 
 Charteris. will you come in?" 
 
 Cuthbert followed her silently. He had become so much 
 interested in the fortunes of the family, that he felt his own 
 3*
 
 55 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 heart sink, as he remembered that " the office" had been 
 closed a full hour ago. 
 
 Agnes was alone when they entered the parlour, and 
 Cuthbert, roused to observation, saw her sudden start as they 
 opened the door, and the pallor and sickness of disappoint- 
 ment which came over her pretty youthful face, when her eye 
 fell upon himself The work she had been busy with, fell 
 from the fingers which seemed for the moment too nervous to 
 hold it. The little wife had been so confident — so sure of 
 Harry's reformation. — and her heart was throbbing now with 
 a positive agony of mingled fear and hope. 
 
 Cuthbert seated himself on the sofa, and began to talk of 
 the baby — it was almost the only subject which could soothe 
 the young mother — but even while he spoke, he could see how 
 nervously awake they both were to every sound ; how Rose 
 suspended her work and held her breath at every footstep in 
 the street below which seemed to approach the door — and how 
 the needle stumbled in .the small fingers of Agnes, and the 
 unusual colour flickered on her cheek. 
 
 " You are very late, Harry." said Martha, entering from 
 the inner room — Cuthbert's back was towards her — she 
 thought it was her brother. 
 
 " It is Mr. Charteris, Martha," said Rose. 
 
 There was a fiery light in Martha's eyes — an impatience 
 almost fierce in the evident pang and short suppressed excla- 
 mation with which she discovered her mistake. She too had 
 been strong in her renewed hope — had began to rest with a 
 kind of confidence in the changed mind of Harry. 
 
 But now the former chafing had commenced again, and 
 the bitter hopelessness which once before overpowered her, 
 returned upon her heart — Cuthbert thought of the old grand 
 picture of the bound Prometheus — of the lurid background, 
 and the cold tints of the captive figure, rigid in his manacled 
 strength, with the vulture at his heart. Bitterest of dooms, 
 to be bound to this misery, without one free hand to struggle 
 against it. 
 
 But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation 
 was very languidly carried on. Insensibly Cuthbert felt the 
 same anxiety steal over himself — he felt that he ought to go 
 away, but yet he remained. By degrees the conversation 
 dwindled into broken remarks from himself, and faltering 
 responses from Rose and Agnes ; sometimes indeed Martha 
 spoke, but her words were harsh and bitter, or else full of a
 
 HARRY MUIR. 59 
 
 conscious mockery of light-heartedness, which was more pain- 
 ful still. 
 
 The tea-tray with its homely accompaniments stood on the 
 table — the little kettle sang by the side of the old-fashioned 
 grate — but the night was now far advanced and reluctant to 
 shut out the lingering remains of daylight, the sisters had laid 
 aside their work ; it was almost dark and still Harry had not 
 come. 
 
 " Where is Violet, Agnes ? " said Martha after a long 
 silence. 
 
 " She went out to play," said the little wife. " Some of 
 her friends were down here, and they wanted her. I could 
 not keep Lettie in, Martha, on so fine a night." 
 
 '• I was angry at the poor bairn," said Martha, with a 
 singular humility, " I did wrong. I will go myself and look 
 for her — our troubles are not so few that we should make 
 additions to them of our own will." 
 
 There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which 
 Martha spoke, and in the sudden melting of the strained 
 vehement heart. Cuthbert saw the trembling hand of Agnes 
 steal up to her eyes, and heard the appealing deprecatory 
 whisper of Rose, '• Oh Martha ! " He could see its meaning 
 — he could hear in it an echo of that other exclamation — 
 poor Harry ! so common in this house. 
 
 Little Violet had been at play in the street below, carry- 
 ing the vague blank grief of childhood into her very sport. 
 As Martha rose, the little girl suddenly burst into the room. 
 " Agnes, Harry's coming." 
 
 They were all very quiet — a sort of hush of deep appre- 
 hension came upon the sisters, and Rose went out hastily to 
 the door. 
 
 In another moment, Harry had entered the room — look- 
 ing very pale, and with an unmeaning smile upon his face. 
 He came forward with great demonstration to greet Charteris, 
 and hurried over an elaborate account of things which had 
 detained him — the strangest complication of causes, such as 
 came in no one's way but his. 
 
 " Why don't you light the candles ? " said poor Harry, 
 with an ostentatious endeavour at high spirits. " Have you 
 been sitting in the dark like so many crows ? Rosie, quick 
 light this, and get another candle. You don't think we can 
 see with one, and Mr. Charteris here. Have you not got tea 
 yet. Agnes ? Nonsense, what made you wait for me ? 1 can't
 
 60 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 always be home at your hours, you know — when a man hasn't 
 his time at his own disposal, you know, Mr. Charteris — what 
 is it now ? — what do you want, Lettie 1 " 
 
 The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the 
 table. It threw a painful illumination upon Harry's perfectly 
 colourless face, as he stood in the middle of the room, with 
 an unsteady swing in his movements. Agnes had left the 
 arm-chair to him. but still he stood by the table — while Rose, 
 with a paleness almost as great as his upon her face, went 
 about painfully arranging things that needed no arrangement, 
 and Martha sat rigid in her chair. 
 
 " I say, what is it, Lettie ? " repeated Harry. 
 
 " Nothing, Harry — only you've torn your coat," said 
 Violet. 
 
 She showed it to him — some one had seized his skirt appa- 
 rently to detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought 
 a sudden flush to the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush 
 was of defiance and anger. He struck Violet with his open 
 hand, and exclaimed impatiently, " Get away, what business 
 have you with that 7 " 
 
 It was a very slight blow — and Violet shrank away in si- 
 lence out of the room ; but a deep red burning colour flushed 
 over Martha's faded face, and with a quick impulsive start she 
 rose from her chair. 
 
 " Harry ! " Her harsh hoarse voice seemed to sober the un- 
 happy lad. He looked round him for a moment on those other 
 pale faces, and on the grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with 
 the defiant stare which he had tried to maintain before : but as 
 his eyes turned to Martha, and to the deep and painful colour 
 of shame and anguish on her face, poor Harry's courage fell. 
 He did not speak — he glided into the vacant chair, and sud- 
 denly abandoning his poor design of concealment covered his 
 face with his hands. 
 • '• Harry is not well — he is not strong, poor fellow," said 
 Agnes, almost sobbing, " get a cup of tea for him, Rose. 
 Martha, sit down." 
 
 Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in 
 the face of poor Harry's passionate sister. The fierce impa- 
 tience of her anger seemed melting away — melting into that 
 utter despondency and hopelessness — that deep humiliation, 
 which with the second sight that sometimes adds new pangs 
 to sorrow, saw that to hope was useless, and yet in the depths 
 did only cling the closer to this impossible hope. Poor
 
 HARRY MUIR. 61 
 
 Harry ! Martha was not giveu to weeping, but then she could 
 have wept such desperate burning tears, as only come out of 
 the depths. 
 
 Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain 
 by being a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by 
 hastening immediately away. 
 
 " I shall have a long walk," he said, with forced ease, " and 
 I think I must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss 
 Muir. What am I to say to your uncle? " 
 
 " That you left us — nay," said Martha, restraining herself 
 with a great effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange 
 yearning look of grief, ''• say little to the old man, Mr. Char- 
 teris. He knows how he would wish us to be in his own 
 gentle heart — and it is best to leave it so ; say we were well 
 — and now we must not detain you. Harry, have you any- 
 thing to say to my uncle 1 " 
 
 Poor Harry uncovered his white, unhappy face. "I? — 
 nothing — nothing — you know I have nothing to say — good- 
 bye, Mr. Charteris." 
 
 '• It is so short a time since we left Ayr," said Agnes, offer- 
 ing Cuthbert her trembling hand. 
 
 And then he left the room. 
 
 The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard 
 some sound like a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, 
 and closed the parlour door. It was Violet sitting in gloom 
 and solitude on the ground, with her little desolate heart well 
 nigh bursting. Martha had been displeased at her. Harry 
 had struck her — and fearful dreams of being utterly alone, 
 and having no one in the world to care for her, were passing 
 drearily through Violet's mind. That sad dumb anguish of 
 the child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we 
 have children to deal with, weighed down the young spirit to 
 the very dust. She thought, poor solitary girl, miserable 
 proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them to grieve for her 
 when she was dead, who would not care for her enough when 
 she was living — and she thought, too, of toiling on alone to 
 the vague greatness which children dream of, and shutting up 
 her heart in her solitary course, from those who had chilled 
 and rejected it so early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent 
 poetic child, who in an hour could be bright as the sunshine 
 again — but while it lasted there were few things in elder life 
 so bitter as that childish pain. 
 
 Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, hold-
 
 62 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 iug the weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. '' Mr. 
 Charteris," said Rose eagerly, " do not say anything to my 
 uncle about — . I mean, will you just tell him we are well, 
 and not say that anything ails Harry ? Will you, Mr. Char- 
 teris ? " 
 
 Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither 
 did Rose ; but whatever it was it cheered her ; and as he 
 went away, the youthful woman lingered in the darkness, 
 stooping over the child. Rose had reached a further stage 
 than Violet in this grave journey of life; and if she knew 
 more fully the absolute causes of the family aflSiciion, she had 
 outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other thoughts, 
 too, came in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of her 
 own heart, as she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harr}^ 
 hitherto had been constantly the central object in her mind — 
 the dearest always, and in his brightest times the best — per- 
 haps only the more endeared for all his weakness ; but now 
 there began to dawn upon Rose a stronger, purer, higher ideal. 
 Stealthy and tremulous the thought glided into her mind ; a 
 higher excellence than poor Harry's — a fairer fate than that 
 of Harry's sister. She put it away as if it had been guilt ; 
 but still it had looked in upon her, and left a trace of secret 
 sunshine behind. 
 
 Thus they were, the child and the girl — Violet already 
 cheered by the gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with 
 the fair fantastic light of her own thick-coming fancies. 
 Neither forgot the sorrow which was parted from them only 
 by these slight walls — neither yet could stay their involuntary 
 tears — and the elder heart overflowed with pity and tenderness 
 for poor Harry ; but yet there were others than Harry in the 
 world for both. 
 
 Within that little room it was far otherwise. He was 
 sitting there still, his clasped hands covering his face, and the 
 cup of tea, which Agnes had poured out for him, standing un- 
 tasted on the table. No one else had thought of beginning 
 this joyless meal. Agnes sat near him, leaning her arm 
 upon his chair, touching his shoulder sometimes, and murmur- 
 ing, -'Harry;" but he had not lifted his head. Opposite 
 him, Martha sat very still, her eyes wandering about, her 
 fingers convulsively clasped, her features moving. Sometimes 
 she started suddenly, as if she could have dashed that aching 
 brow of hers against the wall ; sometimes a low unconscious 
 moan escaped from her lips ; and when, after wandering round
 
 HARRY MUIR. 63 
 
 the room, noting the little well-known peculiarities of its fur- 
 niture, as people only do in their bitterest moments, her eyes 
 turned to Harry lying motionless in his chair, with the damp 
 hair clustering upon his brow, and his hands hiding his face, 
 the anger and passion fled away from her brow like shadows. 
 Poor Harry ! in his weakness, in his sin — only so much the 
 more her own — not the strong man now, for whom she had 
 woven dreams of fond and proud ambition — but ever and 
 always the dependent boy, the child she tended long ago — the 
 unhappy lad over whom her heart yearned now as a mother. 
 Martha rose — the tears came out from under her dry eyelids 
 — a sad smile dawned upon the stern harsh features of her 
 face. She laid her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 '" Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have 
 nothing but you — no hope in this world but you. Will you 
 take it from us, Harry 1 Will you make us desolate ? " 
 
 The little wife looked up through her tears, begging for- 
 bearance. Poor Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped 
 the hands she held out to him. " Never again — never again." 
 
 Her tears fell upon the clasped hands, and so did his. 
 '■ Never again." Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her 
 little hand upon his arm. Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her 
 head upon his shoulder, almost happy again in the reconcili- 
 ation ; and Rose stood behind his chair. 
 
 Poor Harry ! They all heard his vow ; they all tried to 
 take up their hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. 
 No one believed more devoutly than he did himself that now 
 he could not fall again. No one was so confident as he that 
 this sin was his last : " Never again." Heavy, unseen tears 
 flowed from under Martha's closed eyelids that night, when all 
 the rest were peacefully asleep — poor Harry first of all. Never 
 again ! The words moved her to anything but hope. Poor 
 Harry !
 
 64 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " "Winter hath many days most like to Spring; 
 Soft thawing -vvinil^ and rains like dew, and gleams 
 Of sweet inconstant sunshine. — I have seen 
 An old man's heart that ne'er was done with seedtime, 
 Abiding in its gracious youth for ever." 
 
 The next morning very early, while Martha Muir, unable to 
 rest, sat at the window, carefully mending the torn coat which 
 was poor Harry's only one, Cuthbert Charteris set out on the 
 top of the coach for Ayr. What he had seen on the previous 
 night oppressed him heavily, weighing down even the natural 
 exhilaration which the morning sunshine usually brought to a 
 mind void of offence towards men, and walking by faith hum- 
 bly with God. Continually that scene rose up before him — 
 the hidden tears and trembling of Agnes and Rose — the stern 
 agitation of Martha — the fatuous smile upon poor Harry's 
 white conscious face. " Poor Harry ! " the stranger echoed 
 with emotion, the sad tenderness of this lamentation so familiar 
 to Harry's nearest friends. 
 
 Harry, meanwhile, was peacefully asleep, unconscious of the 
 hopeless musing of his sister, as she sat by the window not 
 long after sunrise, doing this sad jDiece of work for him, and of 
 the gloom which he cast over the happier mind of his friend ; 
 a common case — almost too common to need recording. 
 
 It was the afternoon before Charteris left his inn to seek 
 the house of Alexander Muir. In the intermediate time he 
 had been wandering about the town, and hunting through one 
 old churchyard which lay in his way for the graves of the AUen- 
 ders ; but his search was not successful. The afternoon was 
 bright and warm, the month being now far advanced, and he 
 was directed easily to the residence of the old man whom 
 everybody seemed to know. It was in one of the quiet back 
 streets of the town, a narrow-causewayed lane, kept in a kind 
 of constant twilight by the shadows of tall houses. The house 
 he sought was not tall — a low door opened immediately from 
 the rough stones of the street; and on either side was a square 
 window fortified with strong panes of greenish glass, which gave 
 a hue by no means delightful to the little checked-muslin
 
 HARRY MUIR. 65 
 
 blinds within. The upper story was a separate house, and had 
 an outside stair ascending to it, which stair darkened the 
 lower door, and served as a sort of porch, supported on the 
 further side by a rude pillar of mason-work. Outhbert thought 
 it a very dim dusky habitation for the gentle uncle of the 
 Muirs. 
 
 A little maid-servant, with a striped red and black woollen 
 petticoat and "short gown" of bright printed cotton opened 
 the door for him. Descending a single step, Outhbert entered 
 a narrow passage at the end of which was another open door, 
 with a bright prospect of trees, and flowers, and sunshine be- 
 yond. The lobby was paved with brick, very red and clean, 
 which the little servant seemed just to have finished scouring ; 
 and an open door on one side of it gave him a glimpse of a 
 trim bed-chamber, with flowers on its little dressing-table ; on 
 the other side was another door (closed) of another bed-room ; 
 and, looking to the garden, the kitchen and the little parlour 
 occupied the further side of the house. 
 
 " Will ye just gang in, sir," said the girl, removing her pail 
 out of Cuthbert's way ; '' ye'll get him in the garden himsel." 
 
 Outhbert obeyed, and passed by himself to the other door. 
 
 A very singular scene awaited him there. The garden was 
 a large one, and formed the greatest possible contrast to the 
 dusky front of the house. Apple-trees in full blossom, and a 
 bright congregation of all the flowers of spring, surrounded the 
 more homely produce in which the large enclosure seemed 
 rich. The door was matted round with climbing plants, roses, 
 and honey-suckles, which, in a month or two, would be as 
 bright and fragrant as now they were green ; and a splendid 
 pear-tree, flushed with blossom, covered one entire side of the 
 house. 
 
 But the animate parts of the picture were still more remarka- 
 ble — scattered through the garden in groups, but principally 
 here near the door where some fine trees sheltered, and the 
 sun shone upon them, were a number of girls, from fourteen to 
 twenty, working the Ayrshire work as it is called — to wit, the 
 fine embroideries on muslin, which the Muirs " opened " — and 
 talking, as girls generally talk, very happily and gaily — with 
 snatches of song, and pleasant laughter. They had all the 
 average good looks, and were dressed becomingly as girls in 
 their class, who maintain themselves by needlework, generally 
 are. Oompletely astonished at first, Outhbert became amused 
 and interested in the scene as he stood a moment unperceived
 
 66 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 at the door, especially when, through the embowering leaves, 
 he caught a glimpse of the person he had come to see. 
 
 He was a little spare man, with hair nearly white, and a 
 hale, ruddy cheek. Seated in an arm-chair, in front of his par- 
 lour window, with a book in his hand, it was very evident that 
 the good man's book had very little share of his attention. 
 At present he was telling a story to his audience ; and Cuth- 
 bert admired the natural eloquence, the simple grace of lan- 
 guage, in which he clothed it. His speech was quite Scottish, 
 and even a little provincial, but untainted with the least mix- 
 ture of vulgarity ; and when he had rounded his tale with a 
 quotation from Burns, he opened the book in which he had 
 been keeping his place with his finger, only to close it again 
 immediately, when a new demand was made upon his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Eh, Mr. Muir," said one of the girls, '• what for have 
 ye such lots of horse-gowans yonder in the corner ? " 
 
 " They're no horse-gowans, Beatie, my woman — they're 
 camomile," said the old man. 
 
 "And what's it for? is it for eating?" asked the curious 
 Beatie. 
 
 " It's for making drinks for no weel folk," volunteered a 
 better-informed companion. 
 
 " It's for selling to John Wilson, the man that has taken 
 up physic at his own hand," said the chairman of this strange 
 assembly. '' They tell me he's a friend of Dr. Hornbook's ; 
 you've all heard of Dr. Hornbook in Burns." 
 
 There was a general assent ; but some, among whom was 
 the Beatie aforesaid, looked wistful and curious, and had 
 not heard of that eminent personage. 
 
 "It's a profane thing, a profane thing." said Alexander 
 Muir. " Keep to the cotter, like good bairns. Ye'll get no 
 ill out of it. But what ails ye, Beatie, my woman ? " 
 
 " Eh, sirs," it's a gentleman," said Beatie, under her 
 breath. Whereupon there ensued a dead silence, and a fit of 
 spasmodic industry came upon the girls, occasionally inter- 
 rupted by a smothered titter, as one of the more mischievous, 
 who sat with her back to the door, tempted to laughter her 
 companions, whose downcast faces were towards the stranger. 
 
 Cuthbert introduced himself in a few words, and was 
 heartily greeted by the old man. '• I have an obligation to 
 you. sir, as well as the rest of them for your care of Harry," 
 said the uncle ; '• and ye left them well ? they are my family,
 
 HARRY MUIR. 67 
 
 these bairus, an old solitary man as I am, and their friends 
 are most welcome to me." 
 
 '' You seem to have another family round you here," said 
 Cuthbert, looking with a smile on the demure group before 
 him, some of whom were painfully suppressing the laugh 
 which they could not altogether conceal. 
 
 " Neighbours' bairns," said Alexander Muir ; " bits of in- 
 nocent things that have not the freedom of a garden like mine 
 at home. There is a kind of natural kin between them and 
 the spring. I like to see them among my flowers, and I think 
 their work gets on all the better, that they are cheery in the 
 doing of it ; but to tell you the truth, I cannot see, Mr. Char- 
 teris, how oue's own bairns should think themselves better in 
 Glasgow than with me. now that Harry has gotten a wife." 
 
 '• They wish to remain together, I fancy," said Cuthbert, 
 sadly remembering the bitter tie which kept them beside poor 
 Harry : " but both for health and happiness, Mr. Muir, I 
 should fancy they would be better with you." 
 
 '• Say you so ? " said the old man, eagerly, " for happiness ; 
 aye, say you so? " 
 
 Cuthbert hastened to explain away, so far as he could, the 
 painful meaning of his words, leaving it to be inferred that it 
 was only the fresh air and freedom of this pleasant place of 
 which they stood in need. 
 
 '' I am going in for a while with this gentleman," said 
 uncle Sandy, raising his voice as he turned to his little con- 
 gregation ; " but mind there is no need for your turning idle 
 because I am not here to look after you ; mind and be eident, 
 as the cotter's bairns were bidden to be." 
 
 The girls acknowledged the smiling speech addressed to 
 them by a great demonstration of industry ; and for a few min- 
 utes the blue stamped leaves and branches of their muslin 
 grew into white embroidery with wonderful speed. The old 
 man looked round upon them with a smile as they sat bending 
 down their heads under the glistening sunshine over their 
 pretty work, and then, laying his book in his chair, he led the 
 way into the house. 
 
 The parlour was a very small one, considerably less than 
 the best bed-room, which occupied the front of the house, and 
 which, by an occupant of less poetic taste, would have been 
 made the sitting-room. But Alexander Muir did not like the 
 dull prospect of the little back street; he preferred to look out 
 upon the garden in which so mufh of his time was spent ; and
 
 68 IIAKRY MUIR. 
 
 tlie little room was large eiiougli for all his quiet necessi- 
 ties. 
 
 His old easy chair had been removed from the fireside 
 corner to the window. It was a latticed window, furnished 
 with a broad shelf extending all the length of its deep recess, 
 which seemed to have been made for plants, but no plants in- 
 terposed themselves between the sunshine and the books, 
 which were the best beloved companions of the old, gentle, 
 solitary man. Cuthbert looked at them as they lay in little 
 heaps in the corner of the window. There was no dust about 
 them, but almost as little arrangement. They lay, as their 
 contents lay in the head of their good master, mingled in plea- 
 sant friendliness. The Fourfold State and the Crook in 
 the Lot embraced the royal sides of Shakspeare, and a much- 
 used copy of Burns lay peacefully beside the Milton, which, 
 to tell the truth, opened more easily at Comus or at II Pen- 
 seroso than in either Paradise. Besides these, there were 
 Cowper and Young, an odd volume of the Spectator, an old 
 time-worn copy of the Pilgrim, with Samuel Rutherford's 
 Letters, and Fleming, the interpreter of prophecy, and the 
 quaint Willison ballasting some volumes of Scott and Gait. 
 Daily friends and comrades were these, bearing marks of long 
 and frequent use, some of them encased in homely covers of 
 green cloth, which the old man's own careful hands had cover 
 ed them with ; some half bound, after his fashion, with stripes 
 of uncultivated " calf" defending their backs, and their boards 
 gay with marbled paper. It was pleasant to see them in their 
 disarrangement upon the broad ledge of the window — friends 
 too intimate and familiar to be kept on ceremonious terms. 
 
 " Take a seat, Mr. Gharteris," said uncle Sandy ; " if you 
 had come while Harry was here it might have been pleasanter 
 for you, for Harry, poor man, is a blithe companion ; maybe 
 over blithe sometimes for his own well-doing. And you 
 think the bairns would be better with me ? " 
 
 '• Nay," said Gharteris, hastily, " except in so far as this 
 house of yours, Mr. Muir, is certainly a most pleasant con- 
 trast to the din and haste of Glasgow, and your nieces, you 
 know, like your young ft-iends yonder, are akin to spring." 
 
 The old man had seated himself in his easy chair, which 
 Cuthbert would not take. He took off his spectacles to wipe 
 them with his handkerchief, and shook his head. " There 
 is liose, to be sure, and little Lettie ; but my niece, Martha, 
 Mr. Gharteris — well, I cannot tell — the spring may come to
 
 HARRY MUIR. 69 
 
 her yet after the summer has passed. I would not put the 
 bondage of common use about Martha, for the like of me is 
 little able to judge the like of her. It is a hard thing to un- 
 derstand. It might have been a question in the days of the 
 auld philosophy, what for the mind that would have served a 
 conqueror should be put into her — a mind that can ill bow 
 to the present yoke, when there is even too much need of 
 such in high places. It will be clear enough some time, but it 
 has aye been a wonder to me." 
 
 '• There may be difficulties in her way to conquer, more 
 hopeless than kingdoms," said Cuthbert, involuntarily. 
 
 " Young man, do you ken of any evil tidings ? " asked Alex- 
 ander Muir, with sudden haste and energy. 
 
 •' Nothing, nothing," said Cuthbert, annoyed at himself for 
 speaking words from which inferences so painful could be 
 drawn. " You must hear my special mission to Ayr, Mr. 
 Muir. Your niece has told me that the name of her grand- 
 mother was Allenders ; it is an unusual name. Could you 
 give me any information about the family ? " 
 
 The old man looked considerably surprised. " They were 
 strangers here," he said ; " I mind of Mrs. Calder very well, 
 whose daughter Violet married James Muir, my brother. He 
 was ten years younger than me, and so I mind of his good 
 mother, though she died long ago. They came from London, 
 Mr. Charteris. There was a father and two daughters in the 
 family. I will let you see all that remains of them — their 
 grave." 
 
 '■ And are there no papers — no way of tracing the family 
 to their origin ?" said Cuthbert, with some uneasiness. 
 
 " "\Ye have never thought it of any importance," said the 
 old man, smiling ; " if it is, we may fall on some means may- 
 be. It sharpens folk's wits to have something to find out — 
 but what depends on it, Mr. Charteris ? " 
 
 '' I have said nothing of it to our friends in Glasgow — 
 fearing that the name might have misled me," said Cuthbert ; 
 "but there is, I am glad to tell you, an estate depending upon 
 it — not a great one, Mr. Muir — a comfortable small estate 
 producing some four hundred pounds a-year." 
 
 Cuthbert wanted to be rather under than over the mark — 
 four hundred pounds a-year ! the sum was princely and mag- 
 nificent to the astonished old man. He looked at Cuthbert 
 in a mist of bewilderment. He took off his spectacles and 
 wiped their glasses again. He put up his hand to his head,
 
 10 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 and rubbed his forehead in confused amazement. " Four hun- 
 dred pounds a-year ! " 
 
 " So far as I have gone yet, it seems almost certain that 
 your nephew is the heir," said Cuthbert. " The surname of 
 itself is much, and the Christian names confirm its evidence 
 very strongly. If you think there can be anything done to 
 trace the origin of these Allenders, I should be glad to pro- 
 ceed to it at once." 
 
 The old man had bowed down his head — he was fumbling 
 now with nerveless fingers at his glasses, and suddenly he 
 raised the handkerchief with which he had been wiping them, 
 up to his eyes. Some sounds Cuthbert heard like one or two 
 broken irrepressible sobs, " For Harry — for the unstable cal- 
 lant — the Lord's grace to save him from temptation — that I 
 should live to see this hope ! " 
 
 The short, broken sobs continued for a moment, and then 
 he raised his head. " I see, sir," said the old man, with na- 
 tural dignity, '• that to thank you for troubling yourself in 
 this way with the humble concerns of these orphans, who can 
 render you little in return, would be to hold you in less es- 
 teem than is your due. I take your service, as, if I had been 
 as young and well endowed as you, I think I could maybe 
 have rendered it — and now tell me what it is you want to 
 discover, that I may further it, if I can, without delay." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " What ! mine own boy ? " 
 
 Almost in Lindsay's words, Cuthbert told to the old man the 
 story of the Allenders. He listened without making any re- 
 mark, but evidently, as Cuthbert saw, with great attention. 
 
 " John Allenders — yes, that was the name," he said, when 
 his visitor had concluded. " And Violet and Rose — it looks 
 like — very like, as if these bairns were the folk you seek. I 
 pray heaven they may ; no for the siller," continued the old 
 man, turning back on his way to the pin where hung his low, 
 broad-brimmed hat : " no alone or even specially for the siller ; 
 but for other matters, Mr. Charteris, other things of more
 
 HARRY MUIR. 71 
 
 concern to Martha and me, and the rest of them, too, poor 
 things, than silver and gold ; though no doubt an honourable 
 maintenance, no to say a grand independence like that, is to 
 be thankfully received for itself, if we would not sin against 
 our mercies — and now, sir, I am ready." 
 
 Charteris followed without any question, 
 
 The old man turned first to the garden door, and looked 
 out. His young guests had slackened a little in their indus- 
 try ; one of them sat solemnly in the arm-chair, reading with 
 great emphasis from the book he had left. Another had 
 thrown down her work to arrange in elaborate braids a fa- 
 vourite companion's hair ; and two or three other groups, 
 with their heads close together, were discussing - the gentle- 
 man ;" and what could possibly be his errand with Maister 
 Meur. '•' Bairns,-' said the old man, looking out smilingly. 
 With a sudden start the ^irls resumed their work, the occu- 
 pant of the arm-chair threw down the book in great haste, and 
 fled to her own seat. 
 
 '• The book will do ye no harm ; ye may read it out loud, 
 one at a time," said the gracious patron of the young em- 
 broiderers ; '• but see that you do not forget what work must 
 be done, or make me forsworn of my word, when I promised 
 to see ye keep from idleness. Mind ! or we will cast out the 
 morn."' 
 
 Saying which, the old man turned to the street door, 
 directing his little Jessie as he passed the kitchen, to have 
 tea prepared with some ornamental additions to its ordinary 
 bread and butter, which he specified in a whisper, exactly at 
 six o'clock. 
 
 '• And I have a spare room that you are most kindly wel- 
 come to, if ye can put up with my small accommodations, Mr. 
 Charteris," said the master of the little house, as they passed 
 into the street ; •• but I see you are for asking where we are 
 to go. There is one person in the town that may very likely 
 help us, I think. She was aunt to my sister-in-law. that's now 
 departed, and knew all about the Allenders. She is an old 
 woman. I would not say, but she has the better of me by 
 twenty years ; but she's sharper at worldly business yet, than 
 many folk in their prime. She has some bits of property and 
 money saved that will come to the bairns no doubt some time, 
 but the now she holds a firm grip, and is jealous of respect on 
 the head of it. I will take it kind if ye will just grant her 
 the bit little ceremony that has grown a necessity to her. Mr.
 
 72 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Charteris. She is an aged woman, and it does not set youth 
 ill to honour even the whims of gray hairs." 
 
 " I shall be very careful," said Cuthbert with a smile, for 
 he did not think it needful to add that he was a very unlikely 
 person to show any want of courtesy to the aged or the weak. 
 
 They walked through the town somewhat slowly, for the old 
 man paused now and then to point out with genuine pride and 
 affection the notable things they passed. The polemic Brigs, 
 the Wallace tower. His mild gray eye kindled as he remind- 
 ed his visitor that this was doubly classic ground. The land 
 of Wallace, and of Burns — of the old traditional hero whose 
 mighty form looms over his country still, and of the unhappy 
 poet whom the poor of Scotland cherish in their hearts. 
 
 Alexander Muir was one of those whose end of life seems 
 almost as pure as its beginning. A spirit so blameless and 
 placid, that we might almost think it had only been sent here, 
 because it is a greater joy to be a man, and know by certain 
 experiment the wonderful mystery of redemption, than to be 
 satisfied with such knowledge as the sinless in heaven can 
 gain. It is happy for us, amid the dark records of common 
 lives, that here and there God permits us one such man, born 
 to be purer than his fellows, so much lower than the angels 
 that the taint of native sin has come with him into the world 
 — so much higher than they, that the mantle of the Lord has 
 fallen upon him, and that he stands accepted in a holiness 
 achieved by the Master and King of all. Lichened over with 
 the moss of age, in quiet places here and there live gracious 
 souls of this happy class, and Alexander Muir was one. 
 
 But very human was the pure unworldly spirit, deeply 
 learned in the antiquities of the country, with which his very 
 life seemed woven. Happily proud of all its fame and all its 
 great men, and interested even in its prejudices, there could 
 have been found nowhere a guide more pleasant. Cuthbert 
 and he insensibly began to use the language of intimates — to 
 feel themselves old friends ; and when the children in the 
 streets came forward to pull the old man's skirts, and solicit 
 his notice, the young one, impatient at first of the delay, 
 became soon so much interested in the universal acquaintance- 
 ship of his cheerful companion, as to linger well pleased when 
 he chose to linger. Almost every one who met them had a 
 recognition respectful and kindly for uncle Sandy. His pas- 
 sage through the street was a progress. 
 
 " But we are putting off our time," said uncle Sandy at 
 last. " This way, Mr. Charteris."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 73 
 
 They were then in the outskirts of the town, before a two- 
 story house, of smaller proportions than his own ; the old man 
 at. last concluded his walk. The door stood open, and the 
 sanded passage leading to a flight of stone stairs, floury and 
 white with " camstane." proclaimed the house to have more 
 occupants than one. A door opening into this passage gave 
 them a glimpse of a family apartment, where the mother stood 
 at an ample tub washing, while children of all sizes overflowed 
 the limits of the moderately clean kitchen. This woman, Mr. 
 Muir addressed kindly, inquiring after her exuberant family 
 first, and then for Miss Jean. 
 
 '• Ou ay, there's naething ails her," was the answer, given 
 not without some seeming ill-humour. " I was paying her the 
 rent yestreen. She's glegger about siller now than ever I was 
 a' my days ; and as for gieing a bawbee to a wean, or an 
 hour's mercy to a puir body, ye micht as weel move the heart 
 o' a whinstane ; no that we're needing ony o' her charity. I 
 have a guid man to work for me, that has been even on sev^n 
 year wi ae maister, and there's no mony could say that ; but 
 it's awfu' to see an auld body wi' such a grip o' the world." 
 
 Leaving Miss Jean's tenant, operating with angry energy 
 upon the garments in her hands, they proceeded up the cam- 
 staned stair to the door of Miss Jean's own habitation. A 
 very small girl, dressed in a remote and far-away fashion, with 
 a thick cap covering her short-cut hair, admitted them, re- 
 cognising the old man with a smile of evident pleasure, and 
 looking with a little alarm at his companion. 
 
 " You will tell Miss Jean it's me, Katie, and a stranger 
 gentleman I've brought to see her," said uncle Sandy ; " and 
 when is she to let you home to see your mother?" 
 
 " Whisht," said the little girl in a whisper ; " she'll hear. 
 She'll no let me at a'. Oh, if you would speak to her, uncle ! " 
 
 " So I will, Katie, my woman," said the old man kindly, 
 patting the head of the little drudge as she showed them into 
 a front room ; " and mind you and be a good bairn in the 
 mean time, and dinna be ill to her, even if she is ill to you: 
 and now you must tell Miss Jean." 
 
 The child lingered a moment. '• If ye please, uncle — may- 
 be she'll no let me speak to you after — is Lettie ever coming 
 back again?" 
 
 '■ Maybe, my dear ; there's no saying," said uncle Sandy. 
 " I will try if she can come to see you, or maybe I will take 
 4
 
 74 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 you to see her ; but, Katie, my woman, you must tell Miss 
 Jean." 
 
 The little girl went away with a lighter step. " She is a 
 faraway cousin," said the old man, '• a fatherless Lairn, poor 
 thing, needing whiles to eat bitter bread ; if our bairns come 
 to their kingdom they must take Katie Calder. I think the 
 blood is warmer on our side of the house ; any way none of 
 them will grudge the bit lassie her upbringing." 
 
 Miss Jean Calder's best room was furnished with a set of 
 old lugubrious mahogany chairs, and a solemn four posted 
 bedstead, with terrible curtains of heavy dark moreen. Neither 
 the bed nor the room were ever used, the other apartment 
 serving all purposes of kitchen, parlour, and sleeping-room to 
 its aged mistress and her little handmaiden. They could hear 
 sounds of some little commotion in it as they sat down to 
 wait. Miss Jean had preparations to make before she could 
 receive visitors. 
 
 At last, having completed these, she entered the room. 
 She was a tall and very meagre old woman, with very false 
 black hair smoothed over the ashy wrinkled brow of extreme 
 age, and a dirty cap of white net, hastily substituted for the 
 flannel one in which she had been sitting by the fireside in the 
 other room ; an old, dingy, much-worn shawl and a rustling 
 black silk apron covered the short-comings of her dress ; but 
 underneath the puckers of her eye-lids, keen, sharp, frosty eyes 
 of blue looked out with undiminished vision ; and, but for the 
 pinched and grasping expression which seemed to have settled 
 down upon them, there would have been intelligence still in 
 the withered features, which once, too, had had their share of 
 beauty. Some one says prettily that Nature, in learning to 
 make the lily, turned out the convolvulus. One may trace 
 something like this in the character of a family as it descends 
 from one generation to another, as if, the idea of a peculiar 
 creation once taken up, experiments were made upon the race, 
 and gradations of the mind to be produced, were thrown, first 
 into one position and then another, until the climax was put 
 upon them all by the one commanding spirit in which the de- 
 sign was perfected. It is not uncommon. Miss Jean Calder 
 was a lesser and narrower example of the mind of Martha 
 Muir; eager in her young days to raise herself above her 
 comrades, she had repelled with disdain the neighbours' sons, 
 who admired her ; while yet she resented bitterly the neglect 
 with which her honest wooers avenged themselves afterwards
 
 HARRY MUIR. V5 
 
 for her disdain. Then the selfish, fiery, proud woman began 
 with firm industry to make a permanent provision for herself; 
 and from that early period until about two years before this 
 time she had toiled early and late, like the poorest of labour- 
 ing men. All that might have been generous and lofty — if 
 there ever was such admixture in the ambition and pride of 
 her youth — had evaporated long ago ; a tyrant of unbending 
 will in her small dominion — a hard, grasping, pitiless creditor 
 to the miserable tenants who happened to be in her power — 
 an unhappy spirit, clinging to the saddest dross of worldliness, 
 she had become. 
 
 A sad object — but yet standing, to the mind of Martha 
 Muir — if we may venture so to speak of the working of Him 
 who creates all — in the relation of a study to a great painting 
 — a model to a finished statue. 
 
 " Good morning to ye, Alexander Muir," said Miss Jean, 
 '• who's this ye've brought in your hand ?" 
 
 " The gentleman is from Edinburgh, Miss Jean," said 
 Alexander. " He is a friend of Harry's, and has been kind 
 to him, as most folk are, indeed, who ken the lad." 
 
 " I tell ye, Sandy, ye have made a fuil of that boy," said 
 the old woman harshly; "a wasterful spendthrift lad that 
 would throw away every bawbee that he had, and mair, that 
 he hasna ; but he needna look to soin on me if ever he comes 
 to want. I have nae mair than I can do wi mysel ; and where's 
 my twenty shillings, guid white monie, that I gied to fit him 
 out?" 
 
 " He will pay it back some day, no fear," said Alexander, 
 " for I hear from this gentleman that Harry is like to prosper, 
 poor man, and no doubt he will mind his friends, Miss Jean. 
 The gentleman has been speaking to me of your guid sister, 
 John Calder's wife. He thinks he kens some good friends 
 she had. Did you ever hear what part that family came 
 from ? " 
 
 " Ay, good friends ? where are they ? what's like to come 
 o't ? " said Miss Jean, fixing the frosty eyes, whose keen light 
 contrasted so strangely with her ashy wrinkled face, on Cuth- 
 bert. 
 
 " I cannot tell," said Cuthbert, warily, '' it depends entirely 
 upon what relationship I may discover — but it may be good 
 for those who were kind to the Allenders, Miss Calder, if I 
 find that they were relatives of the family I suppose." 
 
 "Kind to the Allenders? Do you ken, lad, that it was
 
 •76 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 my mother took them in, when their father died, and the poor 
 things hadna a mortal to look after them? — kind to the 
 Allenders, said he ? — weel, weel — puir bairns, they're baith 
 gane." 
 
 Something human crossed the sharp, pinched, selfish face — 
 even in this degraded spirit there was a memory of the fragrant 
 far away youth. 
 
 "And Mr. Charteris," said Alexander Muir, '"would like 
 to ken where they came from, Miss Jean — it is weel kent how 
 good ye were to the orphans, I am meaning your mother — 
 and no doubt you ken better about them than indifferent folk ; 
 — that was the way I troubled you, and brought Mr. Charteris 
 this length." 
 
 "Wha's Mr. Charteris?" 
 
 " It's the gentleman," said the old man simply. 
 
 '• If they left any papers," interposed Cuthbert, " or books, 
 or any relics indeed from which we might discover their origin 
 — I should feel it a great obligation, Miss Calder, if you would 
 assist me to trace it." 
 
 " Obligation ! I have little broo of obligation," said the 
 old woman with a grating laugh, mingled of harshness and im- 
 becility. " I have seen ower mony folk that I obliged, slip 
 away out of my hand like a knotless thread ; but is there any- 
 thing like to come of it ? I dinna ken this stranger lad — I 
 can put trust in you, Alexander Muir — thut is in what you 
 say ye ken." 
 
 " Well, Miss Jean, it depends upon what the gentleman 
 finds out," said the old man, a little proud of his tactics, and 
 marvelling within himself at his own address, " if he can be 
 satisfied by means of any papers or books or such like — I be- 
 lieve something good may come of it." 
 
 The old woman wavered. " It's a hantle trouble," she 
 said, " to put a frail woman like me to, that have but a little 
 monkey of a lassie to help me in the house, — but there is a 
 kist ben yonder in below the bed — and there may be some 
 bits of things in it — I dinna ken — but neither her nor me are 
 fit to pu' it out." 
 
 " Can I help? " said Cuthbert, hurriedly. 
 
 " Ye're unco ready wi' your offer, lad," said Miss Jean, 
 grimly, " it's no for love o' the wark, I judge, wi' thae bit white 
 lassie's fingers — look at mine," and she extended a long 
 shrivelled hand, armed like the claws of a bird. " na, na, I ken 
 naething about you — but if Katie and you can manage it,
 
 HARRY MUm. 77 
 
 Sandy Muir — and she's a fashionless beat, no worth the half of 
 the meat she eats — I'll be nae hindrance — ye can try." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Oh, lean and covetous old age !— a winter unblessed, 
 Thai blights where'er it touches." 
 
 Alexander Muir instantly proceeded in great haste to the 
 kitchen whither Miss Jean suspiciously followed him. In a 
 few minutes Cuthbert heard " the kist " making audible pro- 
 gress — and a very short time after, the old man called him 
 out to the passage, between the two rooms, whither they had 
 dragged it. 
 
 •• Ye're giving yoursel a hantle fash wi' a thing that can 
 never do you ony good, Sandy," said Miss Jean tauntingly, 
 " for the Allenders were nae connexion to you, even though 
 Violet Calder did marry your brother Jamie — Weel I wat 
 she would have been better wanting him. It's a bonnie story 
 when it's tolled — a woman to live as lang as fifty year. — and 
 syne to dee because her man died — auld taupie ! when she 
 might have been to the fore to have a share of the benefit if 
 there is to be ony benefit — what ailed the fuil to dee ? " 
 
 " Poor woman, she would have been blithe to remain, for 
 the bairns' sakes," said the old man gently, " if it had not been 
 otherwise ordained." 
 
 " Weel, there's the fewer to pairt it among, if onything 
 comes o' this," said the miser. " Ye maun just stand back 
 awee, my man. I dinna open a' ray posies afore friend folk ; 
 and ye're no to think the Allenders left as muckle behind 
 them, clailhes and a' thegither, as would fill the half o' that 
 kist. ' What there is, I'll bring ye, but I'll hae nae stranger 
 middling wi' my gear." 
 
 Cuthbert withdrew as he was ordered, to the door of the 
 '• best room." The chest was a large one, painted a dull brown 
 colour, and judging from its broken lock, containing nothing of 
 any value. The old woman raised the lid, and dived into a 
 wilderness of lumber, faded worn out cobweb-like garments, 
 long ago unfit for use, but preserved nevertheless on the penu- 
 rious principle of throwing nothing away. After long fishing
 
 78 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 amoBg these relics of ancient finery, Miss Jean at last pro- 
 duced from the very bottom of the abyss, a small quarto Bible 
 in a dark decayed binding, much worn at the corners. " Here ! " 
 she said, abruptly handing it to Cuthbert, " ye can look at that, 
 and I'll see if there's ony mair — there should be some papers 
 in the shottle." 
 
 Cuthbert hastily returned to the window to examine the 
 book ; on the fly leaf was written simply the name of John 
 Allenders, a remote date, and a text. It gave no further clue 
 to its owner's identity. 
 
 " Have ye gotten ony thing, Mr. Charteris ? " asked anxiously 
 the old man at his side. Cuthbert could only shake his head 
 as he turned over the dark old pages and looked for farther 
 information in vain. 
 
 The Bible contained, as all Bibles do in Scotland, the 
 metrical version of psalms sanctioned by the Kirk, and be- 
 tween the end of the New Testament and the beginning of 
 these, it is customary to have the family register of births and 
 deaths. Cuthbert turned hastily to this place ; at first he con- 
 cluded there was no entry, but on further examination, he 
 found that two leaves had been pasted together, and that on 
 the outer side of one something was written. He looked at it, 
 " Behold I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a 
 stroke," was the melancholy inscription ; and the handwriting 
 was stiff" and painful and elaborate, most like the hand of bit- 
 ter grief There were mistakes too and slips of the mournful 
 pen. Cuthbert felt it move him greatly — so strange it seemed 
 to see the mark of the faltering hasty fingers, which so long 
 ago were at rest for ever. 
 
 One of the leaves had been a good deal torn in a vain en- 
 deavour to open this sealed record. Cuthbert feeling himself 
 growing excited and anxious, with the wished for evidence so 
 very near him, made other attempts which were as unsuccess- 
 ful. The dead man had shut up the chronicle of his happier 
 days that he might not see it in his desolation, and the jealous 
 grief fc^eemed to linger about it as its guardian still. 
 
 Cuthbert held it up to the light and endeavoured to read 
 through, but with as little success as before. Alexander Muir 
 had been watching him anxiously. There was a glass of water 
 on the table, which Katie had brought for him ; the old man 
 wet his handkerchief, and with trembling hands spread it upon 
 the hidden page. 
 
 " I dinna ken what a' thae papers are," said Miss Jean, en-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 79 
 
 tering with a bundle of yellow letters tied together with a 
 strip of old linen as yellow as themselves, but their's nae se- 
 crets in them, ye may look over them as ye like. What are 
 ye doin' to the book '? " 
 
 '• There's something written here," said the old man, en- 
 deavouring vainly to conceal his anxiety. 
 
 '* Ane wad think there was a fortune coming to you., Sandy 
 Muir," said Miss Jean, ^'ye're unco anxious to bring profit to 
 other folk." 
 
 '■ I aye wished weel to my neighbours," said Alexander, 
 meekly, and with a little self-reproach. He felt as if it were 
 almost selfish to be so anxious about his nephew's fortune. 
 
 In the meantime Cuthbert untied the string, and as the 
 too jealous gum showed yet no indication of yielding, began to 
 look over the papers. The first that came to his hands, 
 evidently added by Miss Jean to the original heap, and osten- 
 tatiously displayed on the top, was an account for the funeral 
 expenses of John Allenders, in which Mrs. Calder appeared 
 debtor to William Lochhead, undertaker ; unfortunately Miss 
 Jean had not observed the rigid honesty with which it was 
 endorsed in a very cramped female hand, '•• Paid by me, out of 
 the notes left by John Allenders for his burial, leaving a 
 balance of three pounds and a penny halfpenny for the behoof 
 of Rose and Violet. Signed Margaret Calder." 
 
 Other tantalizing bits of writing were below this ; a child's 
 note signed Violet, and addressed to the father in some tem- 
 porary absence from home, telling how Rose had begun to 
 '■' flower " a collar, and how the writer herself had bought seeds 
 with her sixpence for Mrs. Oalder's garden. Another bit of 
 paper contained a list in a hand more formed of different arti- 
 cles of •' flowering," received from some warehouse. Then 
 there were school accounts, for the girls, of a still earlier date, 
 and at last Cuthbert came to a letter bearing the postmark of 
 London and Stirling. He opened it in haste. It was a letter 
 of commonplace condolence, beginning, " My dear Sir," and 
 sugiresting the ordinary kind of consolation for the loss of •' my 
 dear departed sister," and was signed by " Daniel Scott." 
 Lindsay had not mentioned the surname of the wife of John 
 Alleiiders — this letter was evidently from her brother. 
 
 Cuthbert went on with great anxiety, and very considera- 
 ble excitement, just glancing up to see that the softening pro- 
 cess carried on by Alexander Muir had not yet produced much 
 effect, and taking no part in the conversation. The next letter
 
 80 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 in the bundle was in the same hand, and in its substance little 
 more interesting ; but its postscript brought a flush of satisfac- 
 tion to Cuthbert's eager face. 
 
 " I hear that your father is but weakly," wrote the matter- 
 of-fact Daniel, " and your brother G-ilbert being dead two 
 months ago, as you were informed, has sent for Walter — that's 
 the captain — home. If you were asking my opinion, I would 
 say you should certainly come back to be at hand whatever 
 might happen ; for when once trouble comes into a family, 
 there is no saying where it may end ; and, after your father, 
 and Walter, and Robert, there is no doubt that you are the 
 right heir." 
 
 This letter had been torn up as if in indignation of the 
 cold-blooded counsel. Cuthbert laid it aside as a link in the 
 chain which he had to form. 
 
 " I'll no have the book destroyed wi' weet. I tell ye, I 
 winna, Sandy Muir," said Miss Jean, extending her lean brown 
 hand. " Let it abee wi' your napkin. I wonder that the like 
 o' you, that pretends to be better than your neighbours, could 
 gie cuch usage to the Scripture. Think shame o' yourself, 
 man ; and be done wi' your slaistering." 
 
 The old man thrust her hand away with less than his usual 
 mildness. " Have patience a moment — just have patience. 
 See, Mr. Charteris, see ! " 
 
 Cuthbert rose — the leaves came slowly separate — and there 
 in this simple record was all he sought. 
 
 " John Allenders, writer, fourth son of Gilbert Allenders, 
 of Allenders, married, on the first day of March, 1 769, to 
 Rose Scott, daughter of Thomas Scott, builder, Stirling." 
 
 Cuthbert laid down the book on the table, and extending 
 his hand, took the somewhat reluctant one of the anxious 
 old man and shook it heartily. " It's all right, said Cuthbert, 
 swinging the arm of uncle Sandy in unusual exhilaration. 
 " It's all right. I have nothing to do but congratulate you, 
 and get up the proof. I thought we would find it, and here it 
 is as clear as daylight. It's all exactly as it should be." 
 
 " What is right ? what's the lad meaning? " said Miss Jean, 
 thrusting herself in between them ; " and what are ye shaking 
 hands wi' that foolish body Sandy Muir for, when it's me that 
 ony thing belonging to the Allenders should justly come to ? 
 We keepit them here in our aiu house ; we gied the auld man 
 decent burial as ye would see, and it's out of my book ye have 
 gotten a' ye ken. What does the man mean shaking hands 
 wi' Sandy Muir?"
 
 HARRY MUIR. 81 
 
 " It's no for me — it's for the bairns — it's for Harry," said 
 Alexander. 
 
 " Hairy ! and what has Hairy to do wi't, I would like to 
 ken ? He's but a far-away friend ; forbye being a prodigal, 
 that it wad be a shame to trust guid siller wi' — Hairy ! — the 
 man's daft ! what has he to do with John Alleuders? " 
 
 '• A little," said Cuthbert, smiling. " He is the heir of 
 John Allenders, Miss Calder." 
 
 "The heir ! " the old woman's face grew red with anger. 
 " I tell ye he had nae lawful heir, if it binna the ane surviving 
 that did him kindness. It's you that disna ken. Hairy Muir 
 is but niece's son to me." 
 
 " But he is grandson to Rose Allenders," said Cuthbert, 
 "and the heir of her father." 
 
 Miss Jean stood still for a moment, digesting the strange 
 purport of those words ; at last she stretched forward her hand 
 to clutch the Bible. " The book's mine — ye ken nocht but 
 what ye have gotten out of my book — gie it back to me, ye 
 deceivers. Am I gaun to gie my goods, think ye, to better 
 Hairy Muir ? Na, na, — ye have come to the wrang hand ; 
 give me back my book." 
 
 '• There is some property in the case," said Cuthbert, keep- 
 ing his hand upon the Bible : " It cannot come to you, Miss 
 Jean ; for, though I believe you were very kind to them, you 
 are not related to John Allenders ; but Harry Muir is. Now, 
 whether would it be be better that this property should go to 
 a stranger, or to your nephew who is in your debt? " 
 
 Miss Jean had been eager to interrupt him, but his last 
 words were a weighty utterance. She paused to consider. 
 " Ye're a clever chield," she said at last, with a harsh laugh. 
 " I wadna say but ye could put a case gey week My nephew 
 that's in my debt — and so he is, that's true — what kind o' 
 property is't? ye'll be a writer, I reckon?" 
 
 " Yes," said Cuthbert, with a smile, " I am a writer. It is 
 some land— a small estate, Miss Jean ; but only one, who is 
 a descendant of John Allenders, can be the heir, and that 
 is Harry Muir." 
 
 '• Weel, I take ye to witness that what ye have said is true," 
 said the old woman, eagerly ; '• that this lad is in my debt ; 
 and payment I'll hae afore he brinks the possession a week. 
 Wasna it out of my book ye got a' ye ken? and wha has sae 
 muckle claim to consideration as me ? I take ye to witness, 
 and you, ye auld sneck-drawer ; it was this ye was thinkiug 
 4#
 
 82 HARRY MITIR. 
 
 about a' the time — Oh Sandy Muir ! me, in my innocence, 
 thinking ye were taking this pains to do me a guid turn : as 
 ye're awn me a day in harst, a'body kens ; and you thinking 
 o' yoursel a' the time. I wonder ye can have the face to look 
 at me ! " 
 
 " I am seeking nothing for mysel, Miss Jean," said Alex- 
 ander, with a little pride, " the little I have will soon go to the 
 bairns, as this will do. And I am thankful to say I owe ye 
 nothing, if it be not in the way of good will." 
 
 '• Guid will," said she, '' bonnie guid will to take a braw 
 inheritance out fra under my very een," said the old wo- 
 man, bitterly. I baud ye bound for the value of that book, 
 Sandy Muir, mind. I'll baud ye bound, and you too, my 
 braw lad ; sae if ye tak it away the noo ye sail bring it back 
 again, or it will be a' the waure for yoursels. Mind what I 
 say ; I'll hae my goods spoiled and my gear lifted for nae man 
 in this world." 
 
 Cuthbert promised with all reverence to restore the Bible, 
 which he had considerable fears he would not be permitted 
 to take away ; and after they had soothed, so far as was possible, 
 her bitter humour, Miss Jean, with as much courtesy as she 
 was capable of, suffered them, rich in these precious documents, 
 to depart. 
 
 " I'll no can speak to Miss Jean to-day, Katie," whispered 
 uncle Sandy, as the little girl stole after them down stairs ; 
 " but keep you a good heart, my bonnie woman, there's blythe 
 davs coming, and may be I'll take you to see your mother my- 
 self." 
 
 " Are you sure this will do, Mr. Charteris ? " continued the 
 old man, when they were again on their way to town. 
 
 Cuthbert was in great spirits. " I will astonish Davie 
 Lindsay," he said, smiling. " Oh yes, it will do, it was just 
 the thing I wanted. Now we must have the register of the 
 different marriages and births ; that part of it will be easily 
 managed, I fancy." 
 
 '' My brother James's Family Bible is in my house," said 
 uncle Sandy, " and he was married by Mr. Clunie, of the old 
 kirk. I will go to the session clerk to-night, if you like, or it 
 will be time enough the morn. He is never far out of the 
 way, being an old man like myself, half idle, half independent. 
 And, speaking of that, ye must see my garden, Mr. Charteris, 
 though this is hardly the best time." 
 
 " You seem to keep it in excellent order," said Cuthbert.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 88 
 
 " It's no bad, you see, Mr. Charteris, the bouse is my own, 
 md so is it." said the old man, with a little natural pride, de- 
 liring to intimate that the substance was not altogether on the 
 Calder side of Harry's ancestry ; and it is just a pleasure to 
 me to dibble in it in my own way. Indeed I think sometimes 
 that it's this work of mine, and the pleasure of seeing the new 
 life aye coming up through the soil, that makes me like the 
 bairns so well." 
 
 " It has not always so pleasant a result," said Charteris. 
 
 " Mostly, I think, mostly," said Alexander. " For exam- 
 ple, now, how could ye think a man that had such thoughts in 
 his heart to a mouse or a gowan, as Burns had, could harm or 
 be unkindly to the bits of buds of his own race ; though to be 
 sure I am not minding what a strong part evil had in that 
 grand earthen vessel. Woes me ! that what might have been 
 a great light in the laud should be but a beacon on the black 
 rocks ; but I never mind that when I read the Cottar." 
 
 " The Cottar is your favourite I think," said Charteris. 
 
 " Aye, I confess I like them all, ill as some of them are," 
 said the poet's countryman ; but the Cottar is near perfect to 
 my vision, all but one place, where he puts in an apostrophe 
 that breaks the story — that about ' Sweet Jenny's unsuspect- 
 ing youth,' you mind. I aye skip that. He kent ill ower 
 weel, poor man." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Here hath been dawning 
 Another blue day." 
 
 Caelylk. 
 
 The next morning, Cuthbert busied himself in obtaining ex- 
 tracts from registers. The proof he procured was very full 
 and clear, establishing the legal as well as the moral cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 That day the family at Port Dundas were pursuing their 
 ordinary employments with a greater hush and stillness about 
 them than usual. Martha and Rose sat together sewing in 
 the parlour. They were both very silent — in the exhaustion 
 of hopelessness, afraid to speak to each other of the one great 
 subject which absorbed their thoughts. Agnes had gone,
 
 84 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 with her baby in her arms, to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. 
 Rodger, and was lingering there a little, willing to be delivered 
 from herself ; while Violet had carried out a little wondering 
 pre-occupied heart into the midst of a juvenile assembly in 
 front of the house, and was gradually awaking out of abstrac- 
 tion into vigorous play. 
 
 The prospect was very cheerful from the window. Yon- 
 der little Maggie McGillivray, with unfailing industry, clipped 
 and sang at her mother's door under the full sunshine of 
 noon ; and here upon the pavement the little form of Violet, 
 poised on one foot, pursued the marble '' pitcher" through the 
 chalked '"beds" necessary for the game, while her playmates 
 stood round watching lest she should infringe its rules, and 
 Mrs. McGarvie's tawny truculent tiger winked in the sun- 
 shine as he sat complacently looking on. The very din of 
 traffic in the busy street was cheering and life-like ; but the 
 two sisters sat, with their little muslin curtain drawn, sick at 
 heart. 
 
 At the window in the kitchen Miss Aggie Rodger stretched 
 her considerable length upon the deal table, while the hapless 
 idle Johnnie occupied his usual chair by the fireside, and Miss 
 Jeanie in a dress a little, and only a little, better arranged 
 than her sister, sat on the wooden stool near her, very prim 
 and very busy. Miss Aggie had laid down her work, and 
 from the table was making desperate lunges at the crowing 
 baby. 
 
 In a dingy printed gown, girded round her waist by an 
 apron professedly white, but as dingy as the print, and with a 
 broad black ribbon tying down her widow's cap, Mrs. Rodger 
 stood conversing with the lodger. " This is Thursday," said 
 Agnes, '-by the end of next week, Mrs. Rodger, I shall be 
 ready with the rent." 
 
 " Very weel, Mrs. Muir," responded the widow, '' what 
 suits you will suit me. It's a new thing to me, I assure you, 
 to be needing to seek siller. When Archie was to the fore, 
 and a guid man he was to me, and a guid father to the weans, 
 I never ance thought of such a needcessity as this ; but ane 
 mauD submit to what's imposed ; and then there's the wearifu' 
 taxes, and gas. and water. I declare it's enough to pit folk 
 daft — nae suner ae body's turned frae the door than auither 
 chaps — its's just an even down imposition." 
 
 '' Look at the pet — Luick, see ! eh ! ye wee rogue, will ye 
 break my side comb," cried Miss Aggie, shaking the baby
 
 HARRY MUIR. 85 
 
 with furious affection, from which the young mother shrunk a 
 little. 
 
 " Dinna be sae wild, Aggie," said her prim sister. " Ye'll 
 frighten the wean." 
 
 " Never you fash your head, Jean. Are ye there, ye wee 
 pet ? Eh, if he has na pittin his finger through yin o' the 
 holes ! " 
 
 Miss Aggie hurriedly snatched up her work, and the little 
 wife drew away the baby in alarm. '• Has he done much 
 harm? " asked Agnes, " give it me, and I will put it in again." 
 
 " It's nane the waur," said the good-humoured hoyden, cut- 
 ting out the injured " hole " with scissors. " I'll put it in with 
 a stitch of point — it's nae size. Jean's at a new stitch, Mrs. 
 Muir — did ye ever see it ? " 
 
 " It's rather a pretty thing," said Miss Jeanie, exhibiting 
 it with prim complacence. " I learned it from Beenie Ure, at 
 the warehouse, and it's no ill to do. I was thinking of coming 
 ben. to show Miss Rose ; but it's no every body that Beenie 
 would have learned it to." 
 
 " Wha's that at the outer door? " asked the idle brother, 
 whose listless unoccupied life had made him quick to note all 
 passing sounds. 
 
 " Losh me ! " said Miss Aggie, looking up, *' its Mr. Muir, 
 and he's in an awfu' hurry." 
 
 Agnes ran to open the door. It was indeed Harry, and 
 the face of pale excitement which he turned upon her, struck 
 the poor wife to the heart. Little Violet ran up the stair after 
 him, with eager curiosity. There was a suUenness, quite un- 
 usual to it, on the colourless face of poor Harry. He passed 
 his wife without saying a word. 
 
 Are you ill? what brings you home at this time? what is 
 the matter, Harry ? " cried the terrified Agnes. 
 
 He only pressed before her into the sitting-room. 
 
 As Harry entered, with Agnes and little Violet close be- 
 hind him, the two melancholy workers in the parlour started 
 iu painful surprise. " Harry is ill ! " exclaimed Hose, with 
 the constant instinct of apology, as she threw down her work 
 on the table. 
 
 '• What now, Harry ? what new misfortune has come upon 
 us now ? " asked the sterner voice of Martha. 
 
 '•Harry, what is it? what ails you?" said poor Agnes, 
 clinging to his arm. 
 
 He took off his hat, and began to press it between his
 
 86 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 hands. " Agnes, Martha," said the young man with a husky 
 dry voice, " it's not my fault — not this time — I've lost my 
 situation." 
 
 The little wife uttered a low cry, and looked at him and 
 the baby. Lost his situation ! the sole means of getting them 
 bread. 
 
 " What do you mean, Harry? " asked Martha. 
 
 The young man's sullen, despairing eye glanced round 
 them all. Then he flung his hat on the table, and threw him- 
 self into the arm-chair. " I mean that, that's all. I've lost 
 my situation." 
 
 For a moment they stood still, looking in each other's 
 blank faces, as people do at the first stroke of a calamity ; 
 then Agnes put the baby into the arms of Kose, and herself 
 glided round to the back of her husband's chair. She could not 
 bear to see him cast himself down so, and hide his face in his 
 hands. Her own eyes were half blinded with tears, and her 
 gentle heart failing ; but however she might suffer herself, she 
 could not see Harry so cast down. 
 
 Violet stole again to the stool at his feet, and sat looking 
 up in his face with the breathless interest of her years. Poor 
 Agnes tried to draw away the hands from his face. He re- 
 sisted her fretfully. Rose went softly about the room with 
 the child, hushing its baby glee, and turning tearful eyes on 
 Harry ; but Martha stood, fixed as she had risen on his en- 
 trance, her hands firmly grasping the back of her chair, and her 
 head bowed down. 
 
 The tears of poor Agnes were falling upon his clasped fin- 
 gers. Hastily the unfortunate young man uncovered his face. 
 " I suppose I shall have to sit by the fire like John Rodger, 
 and let you be a slave for me," he exclaimed bitterly, clasping 
 his wife's hands. Agnes could do nothing but weep and mur- 
 mur " Harry ! Harry ! " 
 
 " I will work on the streets first — I will do anything," said 
 Harry, in hysteric excitement. " I am not broken down yet, 
 Agnes, for all they say. I can work for you yet. I will be 
 anything, I will do anything, rather than let want come to 
 ?/ow." 
 
 And the little wife wept over the hands that convulsively 
 clasped her own, and could only sob again, " Oh, Harry, 
 Harry!" 
 
 " Harry," said Martha, •' what have you done ? Let us 
 understand it clearly. Answer first one thing. Lift up your
 
 HARRY MUIR. Si 
 
 head, and answer me, Harry. Is the fault yours? Is it a 
 misfortune or a sin ?" 
 
 He did not meet her earnest, anxious eye ; but he answer- 
 ed slowly, '• The fault is not mine, Martha. I was. indeed, 
 exasperated ; but it was not me. I am free of this, Martha ; 
 it was no blame of mine." 
 
 She looked at him with jealous scrutiny ; she fancied there 
 was a faltering in his voice, and that he dared not lift his eyes 
 to meet her own, and the misery of doubt convulsed Martha's 
 heart. Could she believe him ? 
 
 " If it is so," she said, with a calmness which seemed hard 
 and cold to Rose, " I see no reason you have to be so much 
 cast down. Agnes, do not cry. This working on the street 
 is quite an unnecessary addition to the shock Harry has 
 given us." 
 
 " If it is so !" cried Harry, with quick anger. " Martha, 
 do you not believe me ? will you not trust my word ? " 
 
 " Be composed," said Martha, herself sitting down with a 
 hopeless composure quite unusual to her ; " tell us what the 
 cause is calmly, Harry. It is a great misfortune ; but every 
 misfortune is to be borne. Let us look at it without exagge- 
 ration ; tell me the cause." 
 
 He had worn her patience out, and the aspect her exhaus- 
 tion took was that of extreme patience. It surprised and 
 hushed them all. Rose laid the baby in his cradle, and 
 stealthily took up her work. Agnes withdrew her hand from 
 Harry's grasp ; even he himself wiped his damp brow, and 
 sat erect in his chair. 
 
 " I went to-day to the Bank to get a cheque cashed," he 
 said, in his usual manner ; " it was only a small cheque, only 
 fifty pounds, and I put the notes in my coat pocket. Every- 
 body does it. I did in that respect just as I have always 
 done ; but I was robbed to-day — robbed of the whole sum." 
 
 " What then ? " said Martha, breathlessly. 
 
 '• Of course I went at once and told Dick Buchanan. His 
 father is not at home, and Dick took it upon him to reprove 
 me for carelessness, and various other things," said Harry, 
 with assumed bravado. " So we got to high words — I confess 
 it, Martha. I was not inclined to submit to that from him, 
 which I could scarcely bear from you. And the result was 
 what I have told you — I gave up my situation, or rather he 
 dismissed me." 
 
 There was a dead silence, for Martha's composure hushed
 
 88 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 the condolences which otherwise would have comforted poor 
 Harry, and made him feel himself a martyr after all. 
 
 " What did young Buchanan blame you for ? not," said 
 Martha, a rapid flush covering her face as she looked at her 
 brother, '• not with any suspicion — not for this.''^ 
 
 He returned her look with one of honest and unfeigned 
 indignation. " Martha !" 
 
 '' I did not know," said Martha, hurriedly. " The lad is a 
 coarse lad. I did not know what you meant. What did he 
 blame you for, Harry? " 
 
 A guilty flush stole over Harry's face. He sighed deeply. 
 " For many things, Martha," he said with simplicity, '• for 
 which you have blamed me often." 
 
 The stern questioner was melted. It was some time before 
 she could resume her inquiries. "And how did it happen? 
 How did you lose the money, Harry? " said Rose. 
 
 " It was no such wonder," answered Harry with a little 
 impatience. " It is a thing that happens every day — at least 
 many men have been robbed before me. They lie in wait 
 about the banks, these fellows." 
 
 " And what way did you put it into your pocket, Harry?" 
 said Violet. " I would have held it in my hand." 
 
 '• Be quiet, Violet ; what do you know about it ? " exclaim- 
 ed Harry angrily. 
 
 "And was it near the Bank you were robbed?" inquired. 
 Agnes. 
 
 Harry faltered a little. " Not very far from it." 
 
 "And did nobody see the thief? Surely if it was done in 
 the open street, somebody must have seen who did it," said 
 Rose. 
 
 " Harry's eyes were cast down. " No," he muttered in a 
 very low tone, " they know their business too well to let any- 
 body see them." 
 
 '• Was it done in the street ? " asked Martha quickly. 
 
 He faltered still more. " I don't know — not exactly in 
 t'le street, I think. I met the captain of one of our — of one 
 of Buchanan's ships ; and I — ^I went with him to a place he 
 was going to call at. I suppose it might be done about 
 there." 
 
 Poor Harry ! his head was bowed down — his fingers were 
 fumbling with the table-cover. He could not meet the eyes 
 which were fixed so anxiously upon him. 
 
 A low groan came from Martha's lips — it was hard to re-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 89 
 
 linquish the comfort of believing that his besetting sin had 
 no share in this misfortune- -hard to have the courage quench- 
 ed out of a heart, which could be buoyant, joyous — in the face 
 of trials and dangers appointed by heaven, to be suffered and 
 overcome — but who could do nothing against a weakness so 
 inveterate and strong as this. 
 
 There was nothing more said for a time — they all felt this 
 add a pang to their misfortunes ; but while Martha's eyes 
 were still fixed on the ground, and Rose and Agnes forbore 
 to look at him, in delicate care for his humiliation, Harry had 
 already lifted his head, and growing familiar with his position, 
 forgot that there was in it any humiliation at all. 
 
 " I forgot to tell you," he said, " what will be very hard 
 upon us — very hard indeed — these monied men have hearts 
 like the nether millstone. Agnes, I don't know what you will 
 do with your accounts. I have lost my quarter's salary as 
 well as my situation." 
 
 The poor little wife looked at him aghast. She had been 
 scheming already how she could get these accounts paid, and 
 begin to " the opening " herself, to keep them afloat until 
 Harry should hear of some other situation ; — but this crown- 
 ing cahimity struck her dumb. 
 
 •• They will hold me responsible for the whole fifty pounds," 
 said Harry, in a low voice. '• I don't think Mr. Buchanan 
 himself would have kept back this that is owing me — this 
 that I have worked for. I should not care so much for the 
 whole debt,-" said poor Harry with glistening eyes, '' because 
 it would be a spur to me to labour more strenuously, and I 
 don't doubt we might pay it off in a year or two — but to 
 throw me on the world, and keep back this poor fifteen pounds 
 — it is very cruel — to leave us without anything to depend on, 
 until I can get another situation — it is very hard — but they 
 do not know what it is to want five pounds, those prosperous 
 men. Mr. Buchanan himself would never have done it — and 
 to think that Dick should turn upon me ! " 
 
 '- It is well," said Martha, harshly. •' I am pleased that he 
 has kept this money — how we are to do I cannot tell — but I 
 would not have had you take it, Harry. What you have lost 
 was theirs, and we must make it up. Some way or other we 
 will struggle through, and it is far better that you did not 
 become further indebted to them by receiving this." 
 
 Harsh as her tone was, it was not blame — poor Harry's 
 sanguine spirit rose. He could take some comfort from the
 
 yO HARRY MUIK. 
 
 little pride that would rather descend to the very depths of 
 poverty than have such a debt as this. The galling burden 
 seemed for the moment to withdraw Martha's thoughts from 
 the more-enduring misery, the weakness that plunged him into 
 so many misfortunes. 
 
 But Agnes sadly considering how to satisfy the poor 
 widow, Mrs. Rodger, who could not do without her money, 
 and how to apologise to butcher, baker, and grocer, — could 
 take no comfort ; — darkly the cloud of grave care settled 
 down upon the soft young features. " But what will I do 
 with Mrs. Bodger," said Agnes, " and Waters, and Mr. Flem- 
 ing—oh Martha ! " 
 
 " I will speak to them myself," said Martha, compressing 
 her lips painfully. " You shall not be subjected to this, 
 Agnes — I will speak to them myself" 
 
 '• And Mrs. McGarvie," said Agnes, " I might have done 
 the things myself if I had only known — and Mrs. Rodger." 
 
 " Mrs. Rodger must be paid," said Martha. " I am going 
 to the warehouse to-day — we must see — we must think about 
 it all, Agnes." 
 
 But they made no reference to Harry. Rose, who had 
 said nothing all this time, was already working very rapidly, 
 pausing for an instant sometimes to look round upon them 
 with affectionate wistfulness, but scarcely slackening the speed 
 of her needle even then ; there was such occasion for labour 
 now, as there had never been before. 
 
 Poor Harry ! He sat in silence, and heard them discuss 
 those sad economics — he saw that they made no reference to 
 him ; and the bitterness of having lost the confidence of those 
 whose strong and deep affection could not be doubted, even by 
 the most morbid pride, smote him to the heart. A momen- 
 tary perception of his position disclosed itself to Harry, and 
 with the instant spring of his elastic temperament, he felt 
 that to perceive was to correct, and that the power lay with 
 himself to recover all that he had lost. With a sudden start 
 he turned to his wife and his sister. 
 
 "Agnes! — Martha! — why do you look so miserable? I 
 will get another situation. We may be better yet than we 
 ever were before." 
 
 " And so we may," said Martha, pressing her hand to her 
 forehead, '• and so we may — we will always hope and look for 
 the best." 
 
 Her voice sounded like a knell. Asjnes, who was not
 
 HARRY MUIK. 91 
 
 quick to discover shades of implied meaning, brightened at 
 the words — but Rose, who deprecated and softened in other 
 cases, could oppose nothing to this. It made herself sick and 
 hopeless — for. worse than all impatience or harshness, was this 
 conscious yielding to fruitless and false hope, as one yields to 
 a fretful child. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " NoM' shall you see me do my daily penance. 
 Mean, say you ?— "tis the grander suffering then. 
 And thus I bear my yoke." — 
 
 It had been Martha's custom at all times to take upon her- 
 self the disagreeable things of daily life. A turbulent stormy 
 spirit, it was impossible to form any apprehension of her 
 character without taking into account the harsh and strong 
 pride which had come undiminished through all her trials, 
 
 " the spurns 
 
 "^""hich patient merit of the unworthy takes," — 
 
 which are only felt by the refined poor. These petty indigni- 
 ties were bitter to Martha, yet she had a certain satisfaction 
 in compelling herself to endure them. To stand among the 
 indiscriminate host who maintained themselves as she did ; to 
 submit her work to the inspection of some small official ; to 
 listen patiently to comments upon it, made for the sake of 
 preserving a needful importance and superiority ; these and 
 many a trifling insult more were very hard to bear, but there was 
 a bitter pleasure in bowing to them, a stormy joy in the con- 
 scious force with which she subdued her own rebellious na- 
 ture, and put her foot upon its neck. It was conquering her 
 pride, she thought, and she conquered it proudly, using its 
 own might to vanquish itself 
 
 But though Martha could bear needful humiliations her- 
 self, this pride of hers, which enabled her to bear them, built 
 a mighty wall round her children. She could not bear humil- 
 iation to brother or sister ; they were hers — heart of her 
 heart, crown of her honour, and with the constant watchful- 
 ness of jealous love she guarded them from derogation. With
 
 92 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 courage unfailing she could bear what was needful to be borne 
 if it might be in her own person, but if it fell on them, the 
 blow struck to her heart. 
 
 And so she passed through crowds of prosperous people, 
 who never bestowed a second look upon her — a woman grow- 
 ing old, with grey streaks in her hair, and harsh lines in her 
 face. A jioor woman, distressed and full of care, what was 
 there to look at ? But if some magic had changed the bodily 
 form, which was a veil to her, into the person of some noble 
 despot king, foiled and despairing, there was enough to rivet 
 the eyes of a world. 
 
 She was carrying back a fortnight's laborious work, and 
 filling up all the interstices of the greater misery, which did not 
 change, were a hundred shifting plans of how to distribute 
 this pittance. A strange chaos was in Martha's mind as she 
 went through those crowded streets. Broken prayers, so often 
 repeated that tbey came vacantly into her mind often, and 
 often fell upon her like strong inspirations, forcing her almost 
 to cry aloud in an agony of entreaty, mingled with those 
 painful calculations of the petty sum she was about to receive, 
 which hovered like so many irritating insects over the dull 
 and heavy pain in her heart. The cloud would not disperse ; 
 the weight would not lighten from her. Harry, at home, had 
 smiles of new confidence on his face already, and had talked 
 Agnes and Bose into hope ; but the days of hope were past 
 for Martha. She desired to submit ; she longed to bend her 
 neck meekly under the yoke, and acquiesce in what God sent ; 
 but the struggle was hard, and it seemed to herself that she 
 could have submitted easily to any afiliction but this — this 
 was the intolerable pain — and this was her fate. 
 
 The warehouse was in the Candleriggs, and a spruce 
 clerk received the work from her, and paid her the joint 
 wages of Rose and herself for the fortnight's labour. It was 
 thirty shillings — a very little sum, though they thought it 
 good. On rare occasions the weekly produce of their united 
 toil was as much as a pound, but this was a more usual 
 amount. 
 
 Filling her little basket with the renewed and increased 
 supply of work given at her request, Martha turned to one of 
 the dim streets of counting-houses which surround the Ex- 
 change. In the same line of buildings the Buchanans had 
 their ofiice, but Martha was not going there. She as- 
 cended another dusty stair at some little distance, and enter- 
 ing a smaller office, asked for Mr. Soramerville.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 93 
 
 Mr. Sommerville was a ruddy comfortable man, in an easy 
 chair ; once a poor Ayrshire Lid, now, totally forgetful of 
 that time, a cautious, shrewd, wealthy merchant, richer than 
 many of the splendid commercial magnates who lightened the 
 dim sky around him. But some claim of distant kindred or 
 ancient acquaintance connected him with the family of the 
 Muirs : though his look of doubt as Martha entered, and his 
 laconic greeting, '• Oh, Miss Muir," when he recognised her, 
 showed that this claim was of the slenderest kind. 
 
 '• I have come to speak to you about my brother," said 
 Martha, standing before him with a flush upon her face : " I 
 mean I have taken the liberty, Mr. Sommerville, for Harry 
 has lost his situation." 
 
 '• What ! the place I got for him in Buchanan's ? " ex- 
 claimed the merchant. " What has he done that for 1 some 
 misconduct I suppose." 
 
 " No misconduct," said Martha, with sudden courage ; 
 " nor have you the slightest ground for supposing so. Harry 
 had money stolen from him on his way between the bank and 
 the oflice — a thing which no one could foresee, and which has 
 happened to many a wiser man. This is the cause ; but this 
 is not misconduct." 
 
 Mr. Sommerville waved his hand impatiently. " Yes, yes, 
 I understand; I see. Money stolen from him : /never had 
 money stolen from me. But I never will recommend a man 
 again ; they invariably turn out iU. How much was it?" 
 
 •' Fifty pounds," said Martha, " for all of which he is res- 
 ponsible, and if he were but in another situation, which we 
 would not fail to pay." 
 
 " Oh yes, that's all very well," said the merchant, " but 
 how is he to get the other situation? There must have been 
 great carelessness, you know, or they never would have dismiss- 
 ed him. I heard he was wild ; young Buchanan told me he 
 was wild, but I did not expect it was to end so soon." 
 
 " And neither it shall," said Martha, controlling, with ab- 
 solute physical pain, the fierce hot anger of her mother-like 
 love. " Mr. Buchanan has already taken from Harry a pro- 
 portion of this sum. I pledge myself that the rest shall be 
 paid." 
 
 '"You!" He looked at her. Certainly, her name would 
 not have been of the smallest importance at a bill; but glim- 
 merings of truth higher than bills, or money values, will flash 
 sometimes even on stolid men. For a moment his eyes rested
 
 94 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 strangely upon her ; and then he turned away his head, and 
 said, "Humph!" in a kind of confidential under tone. The 
 good man rubbed his bushy hair in perplexity. He did not 
 know what to make of this. 
 
 " But unless Harry has employment we can do nothing," 
 said Martha, " all that is in our power, without him, must be 
 the mere necessities of living. You have helped us before, 
 Mr. Sommerville." 
 
 " If that was to be a reason for exerting myself again, in 
 every case of distress that comes to me," said the merchant 
 with complacency, " I can tell you, I might give up all other 
 business at once ; but recommending a man who turns out ill 
 is a very unpleasant thing to creditable people. There is 
 Buchanan now — of course he took my word for your brother 
 — and I assure you I felt it quite a personal reflection when 
 his son told me that Muir was wild." 
 
 " And his son dared !*" exclaimed Martha, with uncon- 
 troulable indignation, " and this youth who does evil of volun- 
 tary intent and purpose is believed when he slanders Harry ! 
 Harry, whom this very lad — that he should have power, vulgar 
 and coarse as he is, with a brother of mine ! — has betrayed 
 and beguiled into temptation. But I do wrong to speak of 
 this. The present matter is no fault of Harry's, yet it is the 
 sole reason why he loses his situation ; and I see no ground 
 here for any one saying that my brother has disgraced them." 
 
 Strong emotion is always powerful. It might be that Mr. 
 Sommerville had no objection to hear Richard Buchanan con- 
 demned. It might be that Martha's fierce defence awoke 
 some latent generosity in the mind she addressed. However 
 that might be, the merchant did not resent her outburst, but 
 answered it indistinctly in a low voice, and ended with some- 
 thing about " partiality," and " quite natural." 
 
 " I am not partial," said Martha hastily. '• No one has 
 ever seen, no one can ever see, Harry's faults as I do. I am 
 not indifi"erent enough to pass over any one defect he has ; 
 but Harry is young. He has reached the time when men are 
 but experimenting in independent life. Why should he lose 
 his good name for a common misfortune like this ?" 
 
 '• You should have stayed in Ayr," said Mr. Sommerville, 
 with a little weariness. " I don't want to injure his good 
 name ! I have no object in hurting your brother ; indeed, for 
 the sake of the old town, and some other things, I would help 
 him to a situation if I could. I'll just speak to my cash- 
 keeper. He knows about vacant places better than I do."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 95 
 
 And parti}' tn get rid of a visitor whose unusual earnest- 
 ness embarrassed him ; partly out of a sudden apprehension 
 that he might possibly be called upon by and by for pecuniary 
 help, if no situation could be got for Harry, Mr. Sommerville 
 left his easy chair, and had a consultation in the outer office 
 with his confidential clerk. Very weary and faint, Martha 
 remained standing in the private room. Many a time in her 
 own heart, with the bitterness of disappointed hope and 
 wounded love, she had condemned Harry, but with the fierce- 
 ness of a lion-mother, her heart sprang up to defend him when 
 another voice pronounced his sentence. She could not bear 
 the slightest touch of censure, instinctively she dared and de- 
 fied whosoever should accuse him, and no one had liberty to 
 blame Harry except the solitary voice which came to her in 
 the night watches wrung out of her own heart. 
 
 In a short time Mr. Sommerville returned, 
 
 " I hear of one place, Miss Muir," said the merchant ; 
 "but there is security needed, and that might be a drawback 
 — seventy pounds a year — a good salary, but then they want 
 security for five hundred pounds. If you could manage that, 
 the place is a very good one — Rowan and Thomson — and it 
 is a traveller they want — not so much confinement as in an 
 office ; it might suit your brother very well, if it were not for 
 the security." 
 
 " It would not do," said Martha, quickly. " Harry cannot 
 be a traveller, it would kill him." 
 
 Mr. Sommerville elevated his eyebrows. " Cannot be a 
 traveller ! Upon my word, Miss Muir, to say that you came 
 asking ray help ; you are very fastidious. I fancied your bro- 
 ther would be glad of any situation." 
 
 '• Not this — only not this," said Martha in haste, as if she 
 almost feared to listen to the proposal. '• Harry is not strong. 
 I thank you, Mr. Sommerville, I thank you ; but it would kill 
 him." 
 
 '• Then, I know of nothing else," said the merchant, coldly 
 resuming his seat. " If I hear of anything, I will let you 
 know." 
 
 Cold words of course, often said, never remembered. Mar- 
 tha turned away down the dusty stairs, blaming herself for thus 
 wasting the time in which she might have been working ; but 
 she could work — could give daily bread to the little household 
 still — and that was the greatest comfort of her life. 
 
 Far different from the mill-girls and engineers of Port
 
 06 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Dundas was the passing population in these dusty streets. 
 Elderly merchantmen with ease and competence in every fold 
 of their spotless broadcloth — young ones exuberant and un- 
 clouded, casting off the yoke of business as lightly, out of the 
 office, as they bore it sensibly within, met Martha at every 
 step. Here come some, fresh from the Exchange. You can 
 see they are discussing speculations, calculating elaborate 
 chances, perhaps " in the way of business," hazarding a 
 princely fortune, which may be doubled or dissolved before 
 another year. And a group of young men meet them, louder 
 and more demonstrative, circling round one who is clearly the 
 object of interest to all. Why ? — he is going out to India to- 
 morrow to make his fortune — and save that it gives him a 
 little importance, and makes him the lion of the day, envied 
 by all his compeers, this youth who is flushed just now with a 
 little excitement, in reality feels no more about his Indian 
 voyage, than if it were but a summer expedition to the Gair- 
 loch, or Roseneath Bay ; and is much more comfortably as- 
 sured of making his fortune, than he would be of bringing 
 home a creditable amount of trout, if the event of to-morrow 
 vras a day's fishing, instead of the beginning of an eventful 
 life. Of the youths around him, one will be the representative 
 partner of his '• house " in far America before the year is out ; 
 another will feed wool in the bush : another learn to adorn his 
 active northern life, with oriental pomps and luxuries by the 
 blue waves of the Bosphorus. And among them all there is a 
 certain fresh confident unconscious life, which, so far as it 
 goes, carries you with it in sympathy. It is not refined, it is 
 not profound, it has little elevation and little depth ; but 
 withal it has such a fresh breeze about it, such a continual un- 
 ceasing motion, such an undoubting confidence in its own suc- 
 cess, that this simplicity of worldliness moves you as if it were 
 something nobler. Not true enough, nor great enough to call 
 the solemn " God speed" out of your heart; yet you cannot 
 choose, but wish the young adventurers well. 
 
 And there are clerks more hurried ; young men with quick 
 business step and eye, whose sons shall be merchants' sons, as 
 carelessly prosperous as are the young masters in the ofiice 
 DOW ;- but some who will live and die poor clerks, yet who will 
 have their share of enjoyed life as well, and end their days as 
 pleasantly, pass and repass among the crowd. Some, too, who 
 will sink and fall, who will break hearts, and give fair hopes 
 the death-blow. So much young life ; so many souls, each to
 
 HARRY MUIR. 97 
 
 make its own existence for itself, and not another. There 
 come solemn thoughts into the mind which looks on such a 
 scene. 
 
 And Martha, half abstracted, looked on it, comparing them 
 with Harrj. But there was none like Harry — not one ; the 
 heart that clasped its arms about him in his misfortune — the 
 dry eye which watched the night long with schemes for his 
 prosperity — could see none worthy to be placed beside him. 
 Poor Harry ! his sister could not see these others, for his con- 
 tinual shadow resting on her heart. 
 
 When Martha had nearly reached the Exchange, she heard 
 some one calling after her. It was John Buchanan ; he came 
 up out of breath. 
 
 •' Will you tell Harry that I think he should come down 
 and see my father, Miss Muir ? " gasped John. " I've been 
 chasing you for ten minutes — you walk so fast. My father's 
 come home, and he's shut up with Dick. I don't think he's 
 pleased. If Harry would come down to-morrow, it might be 
 all right again." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Tis the weak who are overbold ; your strong man can count upon the might he 
 knoweth ; your feeble one, in fancy sets no bound to his bravery, nor thinks it time to 
 fail till there is need of standing." 
 
 " Seventy pounds a-year," repeated Harry Muir, as his sisters 
 and his wife sat round him, all of them now busy with the 
 " opening," while Violet kept the baby ; " and my uncle might 
 be security, ' say for three hundred pounds.' It's a mere mat- 
 ter of form, you know. Perhaps they would take him for 
 three hundred instead of five ; and Rowan and Thomson is a 
 very good house. I think I might go down to-morrow and 
 inquire." 
 
 '• It would not do — you must not think of it," said Martha 
 quickly. 
 
 •• Why must I not think of it? I don't believe John 
 Buchanan is right, Martha, about his father quarrelling with 
 Dick for sending me away. And, besides, how could I return 
 there where they all knew I was dismissed — dis7nissed, Mar-
 
 98 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 tha ; besides Dick's own abuse. I could not do it. I would 
 rather do anything than go back; — and seventy pounds a- 
 year ! " 
 
 " Harry, let us rather labour for you night and day." 
 
 His face grew red and angry. " Why, Martha ? I am 
 not a child surely that I cannot be trusted. What do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " No," said Martha bitterly, " you are not a child ; you are 
 a full-grown man, with all the endowments a man needs to do 
 something in the world. You can constrain the will of these 
 poor girls, who think of you every hour they live ; and you can 
 assert your independence, and be proud, and refuse to bear 
 the reproof you have justly earned. God forgive me if I am 
 too hard ; but you wear me out, Harry. When I say you 
 must not seek for a fatal occupation like this, have I not cause? 
 Do I need to descend to particulars ? Would you have me 
 enter into detail?" 
 
 " Martha ! Martha ! " The trembling hand of Rose was on 
 her arm, anxiously restraining her ; and Agnes looked up into 
 the sullen cloud on Harry's face, whispering, " Do not be an- 
 gry ; she does not mean it, Harry." 
 
 " Is it because I am in your power that you taunt me, 
 Martha ? " he said, fiercely. 
 
 Martha compressed her lips till they grew white ; she did 
 not answer. After the first outburst, not even the cruel in- 
 justice of this received a reply. She had herself to subdue 
 before she could again approach him. 
 
 And the two peacemakers, hovering between them, endeav- 
 oured, with anxious pains, to heal the breach again. The 
 young wife whispered deprecatory words in Harry's ear, while 
 she laid her hand on Martha : but pitiful looks were all the 
 artillery of Rose ; they softened both the belligerents. 
 
 " I don't care what happens to us out of the house, Martha," 
 said Rose at last ; " but surely we may be at peace within. 
 There are not so many of us in the world ; we should be al- 
 ways friends." 
 
 And Martha's anger was shortlived. " I spoke rashly," 
 she said, with strange humility ; " let us say no more of this 
 now." 
 
 And there was little more said that night. 
 
 But Harry would not go to the office again to see Mr. Bu- 
 chanan ; and, poor as they were, none of them desired to sub- 
 ject him to this humiliation. So he went out instead the
 
 HARRY MUIR. 99 
 
 next morning to make bootless inquiries and write bootless 
 letters — exertions in which there was no hope and little spirit ; 
 went out gloomil3^ and in gloom returned, seeking comfort 
 which they had not to bestow. 
 
 But while poor Harry was idle perforce, a spasmodic indus- 
 try had fallen upon the rest. They scarcely paused to take the 
 simple meals of necessary life ; and the pleasant hour of family 
 talk at tea was abridged to-night to ten minutes, sadly grudged 
 by the eager labourers, on whose toil alone depended now the 
 maintenance of the family. Little Violet stood by the table 
 with a clean towel in her hand, preparing, with some impor- 
 tance, to wash the cups and saucers when they had finished. 
 But Harry lingered over the table, leaning his head on his 
 hand, and trifling with something which lay by him. Violet, 
 in housewifery impatience, moved about among the cups, and 
 rung them against each other to rouse his attention, and let 
 him see he retarded her ; but Harry's mind was too much oc- 
 cupied to notice that. 
 
 " Harry," cried Agnes, rather tremulously from the inner 
 room, " I see Mr. Gilchrist on the road. He is coming here. 
 What can it be? " 
 
 Harry started and put away his cup. They all became 
 anxious and nervous ; and Agnes hastily drew her seat close 
 to the door of the room, that she might hear what the visitor 
 said, though her baby, half dressed, lay on her knee, very 
 sleepy and impatient, and she could not make her appearance 
 till she had laid him in his little crib for the night. 
 
 Thus announced, Mr. Gilchrist entered the room. He was a 
 massy large man, with grizzled hair, which had been reddish in 
 his younger days, and kindly grey eyes gleaming out from un- 
 der shaggy eyebrows. His linen was spotless ; but his dress 
 though quite appropriate and respectable, was not very trim 
 little layers of snuff encumbered the folds of his black waistcoat 
 and from a steel chain of many complicated links, attached to 
 the large round silver watch in his fob, hung two massy gold 
 seals, one of them engraven with an emphatic ''J. G." of his own, 
 the other an inheritance from his father. There was no mis- 
 taking the character and standing of this good and honourable 
 man : his father before him had been head clerk in an exten- 
 sive mercantile house in Glasgow ; his sons after him might 
 be that, or greater than that. With his two hundred pounds 
 a-year, he was bringing up such a family as should hereafter 
 do honour and service to their country and community ; and
 
 100 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 for himself, no better citizen did his endeavour for the pros- 
 perity of the town, or prayed with a warmer heart. " Let Glas- 
 gow flourish." 
 
 " Harry, my man," said Mr. Gilchrist, as he held Harry's 
 hand in his own, and shook it slowly, " I am very sorry about 
 this." 
 
 '• Well, it cannot be helped," said Harry with a little as- 
 sumed carelessness, '• we must make the best we can of it now." 
 
 " Ay, no doubt," said the Cashier, as he turned to shake 
 hands with Rose and Martha, •' to sit down and brood over a 
 misfortune, is not the way to mend it ; but it may not be so 
 bad as you think. Angry folk will cool down, Harry, if ye 
 leave them to themselves a little." 
 
 Harry's heart began to beat high with anxiety — and Rose 
 cast furtive glances at Mr. Gilchrist, as she went on nervously 
 with her work, almost resenting Martha's calmness. But Ag- 
 nes had entered just then from the inner room, and the kindly 
 greeting which the visitor gave her, occupied another moment, 
 during which the excitable Harry sat on thorns, and little Vio- 
 let, holding the last cup which she had washed in her hands, 
 polished it round and round with her towel, turning solemn 
 wide open eyes all the time upon this messenger of fate. 
 
 '•I have a letter from Mr. Buchanan," said Mr. Gilchrist, 
 drawing slowly from his pocket a note written on the blue of- 
 fice paper. Harry took it with eager fingers. Agnes came 
 to the back of his chair, and looked over his shoulder. Rose, 
 trying to be very quiet, bent her head over her work with a 
 visible tremor, and Martha suffered the piece of muslin she 
 had been working at, to fall on her knee, and looked with 
 grave anxiety at Harry. 
 
 Round and round went the glancing tea-cup in the snowy 
 folds of the towel which covered Lottie's little hands, for she 
 too forgot what she was doing in curious interest about this ; 
 a slight impatient exclamation concluded the interval of breath- 
 less silence. *' No, I cannot take it — it is very kind, I dare- 
 say, of Mr. Buchanan ; but I cannot accept this," exclaimed 
 Harry as he handed the letter across the table to Martha. 
 
 But the visitor saw, that in spite of Harry's quick decision, 
 he looked at his sister almost as if he wished her opinion to 
 be different. Agnes too changed her position, and came to 
 Martha's side. The letter was very short.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 101 
 
 " Sir : — My son has mformed me of the circumstances under 
 which you have left the office. I regret the loss for your sake, 
 as well as my own, but I cannot feel myself justified in doing 
 what I hear my son threatened to do ; consequently, if you 
 will call at the office in the course of to-morrow, Mr. Gilchrist 
 has instructions to pay you the full amount of your quarter's 
 salary, due on the 1st proximo. 
 
 "I am, Sir, 
 " Your obedient Servant, 
 
 " George Buchanan." 
 
 '• I cannot take it — I do not see how I can take it," said 
 Harry, irresolutely, as he sought Martha's eye. 
 
 '• It's nonsense, that," said Mr. Gilchrist, taking out a 
 large silver snuflF-box and tapping slowly on its lid, with his 
 great forefinger, "you must look at the thing coolly, Harry, 
 my man. It's no fault of yours that you lost the money ; no 
 sensible person. would blame you for that — a thing which has 
 happened to many a one before. I mind very well being once 
 robbed myself. I was a lad then, about your years, and the 
 sum was thirty pounds ; but by good fortune twenty of it was 
 in an English note, and not being very sure whether it was 
 canny or not, I had taken its number — so oflF I set to all the 
 banks and stopped it. It was a July day. and I was new 
 married, and had no superabundance of notes, let alone twenty- 
 pounders — such a race I had," said Mr. Gilchrist with a smile, 
 raising his red and brown handkerchief to his brow in sympa- 
 thetic recollection, " I believe I was a stone lighter that night. 
 I succeeded, and got back my English note very soon ; but 
 Mr. Buchanan would not hear of deducting the other ten from 
 my salary ; and he's better able to stand the loss of a few 
 pounds now than he was then. Think better of it, Harry." 
 
 '•1 think Mr. Gilchrist is right," said Martha, "no one 
 could possibly blame you for such a misfortune, Harry — and 
 Mr. Buchanan is very good — you have no right to reject his 
 kindness ; it is as ungenerous to turn away from a favour 
 frankly oflFered, as it is to withhold more than is meet " 
 
 •• It is very well said, Miss Muir," said Mr. Gilchrist, con- 
 templating the long inscription upon the heavy chased lid of 
 his suufif b<»x, with quiet satisfaction. " I really think it would 
 be ail unkindly thing to throw back this which was meant for 
 a kindness into the hands that offer it. He is not an ill man, 
 George Buchanan : ' for one ye'll get better, there's waur ye'll
 
 102 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 get ten/ as the song says ; and besides, Harry, I was young 
 once myself, and so was my wife. I mind when our James 
 was in his cradle like that youngster there, we had just little 
 enough to come and go on ; and for any pride of your own, 
 you must see and not scrimp your wife. Touts man, you are 
 not going to take ill what I say. Do you think, if I lost a 
 quarter's salary just now, it would not scrimp my wife ? and 
 I think no shame of it." 
 
 " Neither do I think shame — certainly not," said Harry, 
 "we have only what we work for. But I have actually lost 
 Mr. Buchanan's money — I don't see." 
 
 " Harry," interrupted Mr. Grilchrist, " never mind telling 
 me what you don't see — come down to the ofl&ce to-morrow, 
 and hear what Mr. Buchanan says — he has older eyes than 
 you, and knows the world better, and there's no saying what 
 may come of it ; for you see, Mrs. Muir," continued the Cash- 
 ier, casting down his kindly eyes again upon the grandiloquent 
 inscription which testified that his snuff-box had been presented 
 to him by young men trained in the oflfice under his auspices, 
 as a token of esteem and respect, it is wonderful what a kind- 
 ness everybody has for this lad. I myself have been missing 
 his laugh this whole day, and scarcely knowing what ailed me 
 — so may be something better may turn up if he comes down 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " And Martha thinks you should go — and mind all that we 
 have to do, Harry," whispered Agnes. 
 
 A glow of pleasure was on Harry's face — he liked to be 
 praised, and felt in it an innocent kindly satisfaction — but 
 still he hesitated. To go back again among those who knew 
 that he had been dismissed and disgraced — to humiliate him- 
 self so far as again to recognise Dick Buchanan as his superi- 
 or — to present himself humbly before Dick Buchanan's father, 
 and propitiate his favour. It was very unpalatable to Harry, 
 who after his own fashion had no lack of pride. 
 
 " I will see about it. I will think it over," said Harry, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " I think I must send our Tom to you in his red gown," 
 said Mr. Grilchrist ; " where he got it, I cannot say, but they 
 tell me the lad is a metaphysical man — if he ever gets the 
 length to be a preacher, we will have to send him East, I'm 
 thinking, for metaphysics seldom flourish here away ; but now 
 my wife will be redding me up for being so late. Mind, Har- 
 ry, I will expect to see you at the office to-morrow."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 103 
 
 The good man rose to go away. " By-the-bye," he added 
 as he shook hands with Rose — and Rose felt herself look 
 guilty under his smiling glance, " I saw a friend of yours 
 coming oflf the Ayr coach as I came up — the advocate lad, 
 Mr. Buchanan's nephew. You are sure of his good word, 
 Harry, or else I am much mistaken." 
 
 '•Mr. Charteris! — he has come back very soon. Good 
 night, Mr. Gilchrist, I will think about it," said Harry, as he 
 went to the door with his sister. 
 
 Mr. Gilchrist left some excitement behind him. Agnes 
 had risen into tremulous high spirits. Rose was touched with 
 some tremor of anticipation, and Martha, watchful and jealous, 
 looked at her sister now and then with scrutinising looks ; for 
 Mr. Gilchrist's last words had awakened Martha's fears for 
 another of her children ; while in the meantime little Violet 
 had polished all the cups and saucers, and was now putting 
 them with much care away. 
 
 " Harry will go — do you not think he must go, Martha ? " 
 said Agnes. '• Mr. Gilchrist says they miss him in the office. 
 I don't wonder at that. He will go back again, Martha ? " 
 
 '• I think he should — I think he will," said Martha, with 
 a slight sigh. " There might have been something better in a 
 change — one has always fantastic foolish hopes from a change 
 — but I believe this is best." 
 
 Agnes was a little damped ; for she saw nothing but the 
 highest good fortune in this unlooked-for overture of Mr. Bu- 
 chanan. 
 
 Harry lingered at the outer door in a very different mood. 
 He, too, had been indulging in some indefinite hope from 
 change. He could not see that the former evils lay in him- 
 self — poor Harry ! He thought if the circumstances were al- 
 tered, that happier results might follow — and while he was 
 not unwilling to return to his former situation, and had even 
 a certain pleasure in the thought that it was open to him, the 
 submission which it would be necessary to make, galled him 
 beyond measure. He stood there at the door, moody and un- 
 easy ; not weighing his own feelings against the well being of 
 the family, certainly, for Harry was not given to any such 
 process of deliberation — but conscious that the two were an- 
 tagonistic, and moodily letting his own painful share in the 
 matter bulk largest in his mind. 
 
 Just then a hackney coach drew up at a little distance 
 from the door, and Cuthbert Charteris leaped out. He was a
 
 104 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 good deal heated, as Harrj thought, and looked as if he had 
 taken little time to rest, or put his dress in order since he 
 finished his journey — but he carried nothing except a little 
 paper parcel. He came up at once to Harry and shook hands 
 with him cordially — they went up stairs together. 
 
 " I have just come from Ayr," said Cuthbert with some 
 embarrassment, as he took his old place at the window — ''you 
 must pardon my traveller's costume, Mrs. Muir, for it is not 
 half an hour since I arrived." 
 
 " You have had little time to see the town," said Harry. 
 " Did you find my uncle ? Has he sent any message with 
 you, Mr. Charteris ? " 
 
 " I have a message," said Cuthbert, clearing his throat, 
 and becoming flushed, " but before I deliver it, Mr. Muir, you 
 must hear a long preface." 
 
 "Is my uncle ill?" exclaimed Martha. "Has anything 
 happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing has happened. He is quite well," said Cuthbert, 
 " only I have been making some inquiries about your family 
 concerns, for which I need to excuse myself by a long story." 
 
 Harry was still standing. He drew himself up with great 
 hauteur, and coldly said, " Indeed." 
 
 Kose lifted her head for a moment with timid anxiety ; 
 the light was beginning to fail, but Rose still sat in her cor- 
 ner, holding the work which at present made little progress. 
 Martha had laid down hers. Agnes had withdrawn to the 
 sofa with her baby, who. already asleep, would very soon be 
 disposed of in the cradle ; while Harry, with unusual stateli- 
 ness, leaned against the table, looking towards Cuthbert. 
 
 " I think I mentioned before I went away," said Charteris, 
 " that my errand to Ayr was connected with one of those sto- 
 ries of family pride and romance and misfortunes, which some- 
 times lighten our legal labours. This story you must let me 
 tell you, before I can explain how my motives for searching 
 out these, were neither curiosity nor impertinence." 
 
 As Cuthbert spoke, he opened his parcel, placed the old 
 Bible on the table, and handed to Harry a little roll of pa- 
 pers. They were formal extracts from the register of the old 
 church at Ayr, attested by the session clerk, proving the mar- 
 riage of Rose Allenders with John Calder, and of Violet Cal- 
 der with James Muir, together with the register of Harry's 
 own birth. 
 
 Harry was quite bewildered ; he turned over the papers,
 
 HARRY MUIR. 105 
 
 half curious, half angry, and tried to look cool and haughty ; 
 but wonder and interest defeated his pride, and impatiently 
 calling for the candle, which Violet, with much care, was 
 just then bringing into the room, Harry threw himself into 
 the arm-chair, and resting hid elbows on the table, leaned his 
 head upon both his hands, and fixed his eyes, with a half de- 
 fiance in them, full upon Cuthbert. 
 
 The others drew near the light with interest and curiosity 
 as great as his ; but though they held their breath while they 
 listened, they did not restrain their fingers — the necessity 
 of work was too great to be conquered by a passing wonder. 
 
 '• Not much short of a century since," said Cuthbert, be- 
 coming excited in spite of himself, '■ a family in the neighbour- 
 hood of Stirling had their composure disturbed by what 
 seemed to them the very foolish marriage of one of their 
 sons. There were six sons in the family ; this one was the 
 fourth, and at that time had very little visible prospect of 
 ever being heir. They were but small gentry, and I do not 
 very well know why they were so jealous of their gentility ; 
 but however that might be, this marriage was followed by 
 effects as tragic as if the offender had been a prince's son in- 
 stead of a country laird. 
 
 '• His father disinherited and disowned him ; he was cut 
 off from all intercourse with his family ; but in his own affairs 
 he seems to have been prosperous enough until his wife died. 
 That event closed the brighter side of life for this melancholy 
 man. He had two daughters, then children, and with them 
 he left Stirling." 
 
 A slight start moved the somewhat stiff figure of Martha ; 
 Rose unconsciously let her work fall and turned her head to- 
 wards Cuthbert ; Harry remained in the same position, fixed- 
 ly gazing at him ; while Agnes, rocking the cradle gently with 
 her foot, looked on a little amused, a little interested, and not 
 a little curious, wondering what the story could mean. 
 
 '• After this," continued Cuthbert, " my hero, we suppose, 
 went to London (another strange start as if of one half asleep, 
 testified some recognition, on Martha's part, of the story), but 
 there I lose trace of him. It is only for a short time, how- 
 ever, for immediately afterwards I find him at Ayr." 
 
 ■• At Ayr ? " Harry too, started now, and again turned 
 over the papers, which he still held in his hand, as if looking 
 for a clue. 
 
 •• In the meantime," said Cuthbert, " all the other mem- 
 5*
 
 1Q6 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 bers of the family are dead ; there is no one remaining of the 
 blood but this man — the children of this man." 
 
 " And his name ? " said Martha, with a slight hoarseness 
 in her voice, 
 
 " His name," said Cuthbert, drawing a long breath of re- 
 lief, as his story ended, "was John Allenders." 
 
 There was a momentary silence. They looked at each 
 other with bewildered faces. " What does it mean ? " said 
 Harry, becoming very red and hot as the papers fell from his 
 shaking fingers ; " I cannot see — it is so great a surprise — tell 
 us what it means." 
 
 " It means," said Cuthbert, quickly, " that you are the 
 heir of John Allenders of Allenders, and of an estate which 
 has been in the family for centuries, worth more than four 
 hundred pounds a year." 
 
 Harry looked round for a moment almost unmeaningly — 
 he was stupefied ; but Agnes stole, as she always did in 
 every emergency, to the back of his chair, and laid her hand 
 softly on his shoulder. It seemed to awake him as from a 
 dream. With one hand he grasped hers, with the other he 
 snatched the work from Martha's fingers and tossed it to the 
 other end of the room. " Agnes ! Martha ! " 
 
 Poor Harry ! A sob came between the two names, and 
 his eyes were swimming in sudden tears. He did not know 
 what to say in the joyful shock of this unlooked-for fortune ; 
 he could only grasp their hands and repeat their names again. 
 
 Cuthbert rose to withdraw, feeling himself a restraint on 
 their joy, but Martha disengaged herself from the grasp of 
 Harry, and would not suffer him to move. 
 
 " No, no ; share with us the pleasure you bring. You 
 have seen us in trouble, stay with us now." 
 
 '• Is it true, Mr. Charteris, is it true ? " said Agnes, while 
 Harry, still perfectly tremulous and unsteady, threw Rose's 
 work after Martha's, and shaded his eyes with his hands, lest 
 they should see how near weeping he was — " Tell us if it is 
 true." 
 
 Harry started to his feet. '*' True ! do you think he would 
 tell us anything that was not true ? Mr. Charteris, if they 
 were not all better than me, I would think it was a delusion, 
 that neither such an inheritance nor such a friend could come 
 to my lot. But it's for them — it's for them ! and a new be- 
 ginning, a new life. Martha, we shall not be worsted this 
 time — it is God has sent us this other battle-field."
 
 HARRY MUIR. " lOT 
 
 And Harry, with irrestrainable emotion, lifted up his voice 
 and wept. His little wife clung to his shoulder, his stern 
 sister bent over him with such an unspeakable tenderness and 
 yearning hope in her face, that it became glorified with sud- 
 den beauty, and Cuthbert remembered uncle Sandy's thanks- 
 giving, and himself could have wept in sympathy for the 
 solemn trembling of this joy ; for not the sudden wealth and 
 ease, but the prospect of a new life it was which called forth 
 those tears, 
 
 '• And what did my uncle say, Mr. Charteris ?" said Rose, 
 when the tumult had in some degree subsided. No one but 
 Rose remembered that Cuthbert had spoken of a message 
 from uncle Sandy. 
 
 " He bade me repeat to you a homely proverb," said Cuth- 
 bert, who was quite as unsteady as the rest, and had been a 
 good deal at a loss how to get rid of some strange drops which 
 moistened his eyelashes. '' It takes a strong hand to hold a 
 full cup steady ; that is the philosophy I brought from your 
 uncle." 
 
 " No fear," said Harry, looking up once more with the 
 bright clear loveable face, which no one could frown upon. 
 '•No fear, what could I do with my arms bound? What 
 could I do in yon office ? but now. Martha, now ! " 
 
 And Martha once more believed and hoped, ascending out 
 of the depths of her dreary quietness into a very heaven. 
 Few have ever felt, and few could understand this glorious 
 revulsion. With an impatient bound she sprang out of the 
 abyss, and scorned it with her buoyant foot. It might not 
 last, perhaps it could not last, but one hour of such exulting 
 certain hope, was almost worth a lifetime's trial. 
 
 '• And I will get a little room all to myself, and Katie 
 Calder will come and sleep with me," said Violet. 
 
 They all laughed unsteadily. It brought them down to 
 an easier level. 
 
 " I think, Mr. Muir, you should come at once with me to 
 Edinburgh," said Cuthbert, •' and see your lawyer, who has 
 been hunting for you for some time, and get the proof and 
 your claim established. I begin to think it was very fortu- 
 nate he broke his leg, Miss Muir, for otherwise I might never 
 have seen you." 
 
 •' And what made you think of us ? how did you guess ? " 
 said Harry. 
 
 " Rose and Violet," said Cuthbert, with a little shyness. 
 " It was a happy chance which gave these names."
 
 108 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Rose drew back a little. There was something unusual, 
 it seemed, in Cuthbert's pronunciation of her pretty name, 
 for it made her blush ; and by a strange sympathy Mr. Char- 
 teris blushed too. 
 
 '• When shall we start ? for I suppose you will go with me 
 to Edinburgh," continued Charteris. 
 
 Harry hesitated a moment. " I must go down to the 
 office to-morrow," he said, with his joyous face unclouded. 
 " Your cousin Dick and I had something which I thought a 
 quarrel. It was nothing but a few angry words after all. I 
 will go down to-morrow." 
 
 Harry had entirely forgotten how angry he was — entirely 
 forgotten the insulting things Dick Buchanan said, and what 
 a humiliation he had felt it would be, to enter that office 
 again. Poor Harry was humble now. He had such a happy 
 ease of forgetting, that he did not feel it necessary to forgive. 
 Bright, sanguine, overflowing with generous emotions, Harry 
 in his new wealth and happiness that night could not remem- 
 ber that there was any one in the world other than a friend. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 Methinks, Sir, 
 A mother's heart's transparent — 'tis so easy 
 To find tho way into \ 
 
 " Well, Cuthbert, my man, are you back from your gowk's 
 errand ? The month is far on now ; it has taken you long," 
 said Mrs. Charteris. 
 
 " I have first to present my friend to you. mother," said 
 the advocate ; " and as he will be Mr. Harry Muir only a day 
 or two longer, we must make the most of him while he bears 
 his old name." 
 
 " So you were right after all ? " said the old lady, lifting 
 up her hands. " Dear me, Cuthbert, to think of that ! You 
 see, Mr. Muir, T could not believe his story, and prophesied 
 that he was sure to fail — though I am very glad I was wrong. 
 You are welcome to Edinburgh, and I wish you joy of your 
 inheritance." 
 
 With a natural diffidence, which flushed his cheek, and
 
 HARRY MUIR. 109 
 
 slightly restrained his speech, Harry Muir made his acknow- 
 ledgments. His dress had been most carefully overlooked 
 before he left Glasgow that morning, and his eye was shining 
 with animation and high hope. 
 
 Mrs. Charteris felt '■ her heart warm " to the stranger, as 
 he took the great easy-chair in the corner, and bent forward 
 towards Cuthbert as to his guide and counsellor. The atti- 
 tude and expression charmed Cuthbert's mother. She felt 
 that her son had done much for this young man — that he 
 would do more — and Harry Muir became dear to her good 
 heart, because he made her son dearer, and still more worthy 
 of love. 
 
 " We must be off again instantly, mother," said Cuthbert, 
 " to meet Davie Lindsay at my office. Ah, Davie is a slow 
 man ; he has not an eye for a mystery like some other people ; 
 but I suppose I must not boast. To-day we shall do a little 
 business ; to-morrow we propose a trip up the Firth by the 
 Stirling steamer, and a glance at AUenders. Muir, it will 
 take lots of money to put that house in decent order, you may 
 be sure." 
 
 Harry laughed ; twenty pounds would have been lots of 
 money to Harry two days ago. It struck him as being 
 slightly ludicrous, and certainly quite amusing, all this grand- 
 eur of expectation. That he should have a house to repair, 
 and lots of money to repair it — he, Harry Muir ! 
 
 ^ It is a fine country, is it not % " he asked, in some haste, 
 to cover his nervous joy. " I have never seen those Links of 
 Firth, and their very name raises one's expectation. Did you 
 not say this house of enchantment was near the river ? " 
 
 " He knows no more than we do, Mr. Muir," said Mrs. 
 Charteris. " You will take your bed here, of course % No 
 doubt it is a bonnie country, but mind you must look for 
 nothing like the Clyde." 
 
 '• Come along, Muir — I can't pretend to cope with tzvo 
 west country people," said Cuthbert. " Come, Lindsay will 
 be waiting open-mouthed ; and to-morrow we must make our 
 pilgrimage together, and no one shall say I am ignorant of 
 the enchanted palace any more. Come, Muir." 
 
 Next day the little party set out upon their brief voyage. 
 This freedom of enjoyment, without stealth or remorse, was 
 new to Harry. He breathed freely. It seemed to him, as 
 from a listener, he became a partaker in the conversation of 
 Lindsay and Charteris, that this was indeed a new life, a
 
 110 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 bracing atmosphere, sucli as he had not known before. He 
 became quiet at first — somewhat serious even — and looking 
 up upon an April sky, and down upon the great stream 
 chafing and foaming in the little vessel's course, there came 
 upon him the abstraction of a gentle reverie, picturing the 
 times to come ! 
 
 The times to come ! Harry saw honour, wealth, independ- 
 ence, happiness in a bright crowd before him. He did not 
 see, would not see — poor, rash, incautious heart ! — that a grim 
 shadow lowered upon them all, the shadow of his conquering 
 sin — nor that this presence held the keys of the joyous home 
 he dreamed of, and stood defiant on its threshold, blighting 
 the flowers around the door. He never trembled for himself 
 — poor Harry ! there seemed before him nothing but security 
 and peace. 
 
 Overhead the clouds flew to the east like a pilgrimage of 
 birds, sweeping over the breadth of heaven with a speed which 
 made you dizzy ; and the mass of shadow threw a sable gleam 
 on the water, as it dashed up its foaming mane, and shook it 
 in the breeze. There are no clouds down the Firth where 
 Inchkeith yonder burns and expands in the full sunshine ; but 
 here we have only wayward glances of light, darting down 
 upon us as if in play, which vanish in a moment into the pur- 
 suing cloud. 
 
 The little vessel leaps over the buoyant water with some- 
 times a mist of spray over her bows, and the passengers march 
 in quick time along the decks, as if this swell and lengthened 
 bound made music wild and martial, stirring the heart to 
 quicker motion. 
 
 Now comes a sudden gleam, touching the russet outline 
 of Inchcolm, as a painter would have it touched ; and as we 
 pass, the light glides on before us, glittering upon the dewy 
 slopes of Fife, and quivering along the waves, till it seems to 
 sink there, like a golden arrow launched out of the heavens ; 
 and the clouds again fly over us, away to the ungenial east. 
 
 St, Margaret's hope — Ah, Saxon Margaret, Atheling, Exile, 
 Queen, and Saint ! was there hope in this quiet bay when the 
 Scottish land stretched its brown arm of succour, and vowed its 
 rude heart to thy service ? Not very far oflF is grey Dunferm- 
 line, forsaken of kings — and you may see a spire glitter on 
 the further side of those withdrawing braes, pointing where 
 th« palace crumbles, and the wallflower and ivy flourish, over 
 forlorn and solitary places, where queens had their bowers,
 
 HARRY MUIR. Ill 
 
 and kings their council-chamber. Here, too, is the royal 
 ferry, with its narrow gateway, bringing to a point the broad 
 Firth on either side ; and we rustle past the sentinel-rock, 
 which has looked down often in the old times upon the pass- 
 ing boats of queens, and dash with a bound into the free 
 course once more ; past little busy ports, and slumbering 
 Tillages, past the great houses in their nest of trees — till bravo 
 old Demyet bows his stately head to us among the clouds, and 
 the sun breaks out triumphant over the crowned rock of Stir- 
 ling, and we glide into this silvery maze, radiant with flying 
 lights and shadows — the links of Forth. 
 
 Here, by the side of the water, a great saugh tree droops 
 its long locks, and trails thcni on the stream ; behind it are a 
 heavy mass of alders — by its side a hawthorn slowly whiten- 
 ing with its fragrant blossoms — and above the alders you can 
 see a regular line of elm and beech, marshalled in fair suc- 
 cession, which seem to form a mall or avenue on the river's 
 side. Beyond all appear the roof and gables of a hidden 
 house. You cannot tell either size or form in the passing 
 glimpse you gain of it from the river, but the heart of Harry 
 Muir beats high as his eye falls on this home — a home it must 
 be, for smoke curls from the chimneys, and a boat lies softly 
 rocking on the water at the foot of the saugh tree. 
 
 " Neighbours," said Harry to himself, under his breath ; 
 " and I, too, must have a boat for Lettie and Rose." 
 
 '• Mr. Muir," said Lindsay, bending forward with a smile, 
 " that is AUenders." 
 
 The heir started violently. With an eager look he tried 
 to penetrate the network of boughs and opening leaves, and 
 failing that, followed with his eyes the very smoke as it curled 
 away into the clouds. His heart beat so loudly that, for a 
 moment, it made him sick. 
 
 '• AUenders ! — my home, their home ! " murmured Harry ; 
 and he felt his breast swell as if with a rising sob. 
 
 A drive of a few miles from Stirling brought them to the 
 other side of AUenders. There was less wood there, and the 
 view was towards the wide strath in which lies Bannockburn. 
 But Harry had not time to look at the prospect without — 
 there was something, at the moment, greatly more interest- 
 ing to him in the grey gables and dilapidated rooms within. 
 
 The house was not large, but it was tall, with windows 
 specked over it in all corners, without an attempt at regu- 
 larity ; and on the eastern side was a curious little turret,
 
 112 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 obtruding itself abruptly from the wall, and throwing up a 
 spear point, now black and tarnished, over the heads of the 
 high trees. 
 
 The door was opened to them tardily by an old man, who 
 did not seem at all desirous that they should penetrate be- 
 yond the threshold. This custodier of the house of Allenders 
 was thin and shrivelled, and had a face dingy with age and 
 smoke, the small features of which seemed to have shrunk 
 and crept together, under the touch of time. A few thin, 
 white hairs strayed over his head, diverging from the crown in 
 all directions with genuine independence ; and his dress was 
 of homespun blue, with great ribbed stockings and buckled 
 shoes. Those poor, thin, angular limbs seemed to bend any 
 way with the stiff facility of wooden joints ; and as he dan- 
 gled his lean arms by his side, and gazed with light-grey un- 
 meaning eyes into their faces, it seemed as if the chill winter 
 of years and poverty had frozen his very soul. 
 
 " You must let us in to see the house, my man," said 
 Lindsay, briskly. " This is the young laird I have brought 
 with me. Do you think he's like the old Allenders, Dragon ? 
 — you should know them well." 
 
 '• Whilk ane is it, Mr. Lindsay — the muckle ane or the 
 little ane ? " asked the old man. 
 
 Now, Harry was by no means little. He did not at all 
 relish the adjective. 
 
 " This is Mr. Muir — Allenders of Allenders," said Lind- 
 say, hastily. " Come in ; I'll be your guide, and Dragon here 
 will overlook us, and see we take nothing away." 
 
 They entered a small square hall, dimly lighted, at the 
 further end of which was a stone staircase of good proportions : 
 but the walls were black with the dust of years, and the oak 
 banisters of the stairs were broken and dilapidated. It had a 
 dreary, deserted, uninhabitable look ; and Harry, quickly im- 
 pressed for good or evil, was half inclined to think Mrs. Rodg- 
 ers' little parlour a brighter home than this after all. 
 
 Lindsay opened quickly, and with the air of one thoroughly 
 acquainted with the house, which, however, he had only once 
 seen before, one of the dim oak doors which opened into the 
 hall. Within was a wainscoted parlour of good dimensions, 
 with one small window in the great blank of its side wall, and 
 one squeezed into a corner beside the fire-place. The carpet 
 was so worn that pattern and colours were alike indiscernible, 
 and dark curtains of faded purple-crimson hung over the dingy
 
 HARRY MUIR. 113 
 
 windows. A loug diniiig-table, polished and glimmering, 
 caught one ray of the sunshine without, and carried it down 
 the narrow length of the apartment to the old fashioned side- 
 board at the end ; but save for this, the place looked as deso- 
 late as could be imagined. Lindsay turned round at the door 
 with the air of an exhibitor, and something of the feeling ; for 
 though himself, at the first glance, had thought all this very 
 chill and miserable, he looked unconsciously for satisfaction 
 from Harry. Harry did not say a word. Alas ! the house 
 of enchantment — the fairy palace ! The reality was a very 
 different thing from the dream. 
 
 Cuthbert went quickly to the nearest window, and drew 
 away with more energy than was needful the jealous curtain. 
 
 '-' Another window here to keep this one company, and some 
 pictures on these grim panels, and brighter furniture — you will 
 make this room the pleasantest of winter parlours, Muir. 
 One can have no idea of what it will be, from its appearance 
 just now." 
 
 '■ Anither window ! " exclaimed the old man, who had fol- 
 lowed them. " Would ye break the guid wall, ye wasteful 
 prodigal 1 Mr. Lindsay, is't this ane ? " and he pointed his 
 finger wrathfully at Cuthbert. 
 
 '• No, no," said Harry Muir, with restored good-humour; 
 '■ we must take your counsel since you like the walls so well. 
 But what is your* name ? What did you call him, Mr. Lind- 
 say ? " 
 
 '• They ca' me Dragon," said the warden of Allendcrs, 
 vacantly. '' That is, I'm meaning my name's Edoni Comrie ; 
 but I never hear onybody have the civility to ca' me aught 
 but Dragon. Put in anither window ! What would ye do 
 that for, I would like to ken ? Do ye mean to say that what 
 was licht enough for the auld Allenders, is no litch enough for 
 the like of you ? You can wear spectacles if your vision is 
 failing. I do it mysel'; but what for wad ye break the guid 
 bounie wa' that might withstand the French for a nonsense 
 window? And there's a bonnie bush a' fu' o' white roses, in 
 their season, leaning on the house close by there. Would ye 
 tramp down my bonnie lady rose for your mason work ? Mr. 
 Lindsay, is't no again the law ? " 
 
 '• But what if we brought a bonnie Lady Rose to sit at the 
 new window, and look out upon the tiowers !" said Cuthbert 
 with a quick blush. '• When Allenders brings his family home, 
 he'll bring ladies here ; and flowers, you know, never thrive
 
 114 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 without light. You would not show yourself a dragon to the 
 ladies, Adam — the first time they heard of you, too." 
 
 The old man chuckled a strange laugh. 
 
 '• He thinks Fm heeding about ladies — me ! and you'll 
 nane of you be learned, I reckon ; for if ye were, there's a routh 
 o' grand books ben the house — I whiles read in them mysel, 
 and they are a' guid reading and profitable. When I come 
 on an ill ane, I kindle my fire wi't. I laid my hand on ane 
 yestreen, that's nae better than it should be, in my judgment ; 
 but it was uncommon diverting, and I just laid it by again, for 
 my ain carnal pleasure — for I'm no abune the like o' that, 
 though I'm auld. Come away, Allenders — if you are AUen- 
 ders ; I'll let 3'ou see the book, and like a good laddie, ye'U 
 take nae heed of yon birkie and his windows." 
 
 The young men followed their conductor in high good-hu- 
 mour. He had quite neutralized the melancholy appearance 
 of the house. 
 
 Opposite the dining-parlour was a much smaller apartment, 
 heavy and dark with books. Into the sombre twilight of this 
 room no stray sunbeam wandered. High trees closed it round 
 without, and great bookcases, dusty and crowded, oppressed 
 the wall within. A single old print of some obscure Stirling- 
 shire divine, long since forgotten, hung over the mantel-piece, 
 and a much-worn leathern chair stood before a little writing- 
 table in front of the fire-place. A window-seat, cushioned and 
 covered with hard crimson moreen, occupied the recess of the 
 window ; but from this you only looked out upon the damp 
 outline of a neglected flower-bed, covered with rank vegetation, 
 and upon the close screen of trees, which bent round it on 
 every side. 
 
 " Man, I dinna envie ye the land ! " exclaimed the harm- 
 less Dragon of Allenders, " but I div envie ye the books ; and 
 being a callant, ye'll no ken how to make a right use of them. 
 Now isna this a grand room ? I'll warrant ye never were in 
 a muckle house like this afore ? " 
 
 " It is light we want — nothing but light. It is the 
 gloom which makes these rooms look so dreary," said Charte- 
 ris, sympathetically, beholding the chill which again fell over 
 Harry. 
 
 Harry went to the window, and looked out. Why they 
 would be buried here — and the good fortune was a piece of 
 penance after all. 
 
 " You should give me another five hundred a-year for con-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 115 
 
 senting to live in this place, Mr. Lindsay." he said in almost 
 an irritated tone. 
 
 Poor Harry had a weakness of thinking that disagreeable 
 things were somebody's fault. He was quite impatient with 
 Lindsay and Charteris. He felt as if they had deluded him. 
 
 '• Dr. AUenders in Stirling would not think so," said Lind- 
 say, in his turn a little offended. " I dare say you might find 
 a Jacob among them eager enough to bargain for a birth- 
 right " 
 
 " See, my man, here's the book," said the old servant, shuf- 
 fling up to Harry. " Ye needna say onything to the minister 
 about it, if ye should happen to fall in with him ; for, may- 
 be, he mightna think it very richt for a man of my years ; and 
 I'll put it ben the house on the hob to kindle the fire when I'm 
 done reading it ; but it's awfu' entertaining. See, look at it ; 
 but I canna ca' ye AUenders — AUenders was an auld man, 
 and you're only a laddie. What do they ca' ye by your chris- 
 tened name ? " 
 
 * " My name is Harry Muir," was the instant reply ; for 
 Harry had unconsciously a feeling of disgust now at the very 
 sound of AUenders. 
 
 " Hairy ! What garred them ca' ye Hairy ? it's no a canny 
 name for a laird of AUenders ; and there's never ane been 
 called by it since the time the lady was lost ; but I hope ye'U 
 come to nae skaith, for you're no an ill lad, judging by your 
 looks. And ye have leddies coming, have ye ? What right 
 has the like of you to leddies ? 
 
 " My sister and my wife, Adam," said Harry, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " His wife ! hear till him ! Will ye tell me that the like 
 of this bit callant's married ? Sirs, I never was married 
 mysel." 
 
 The poor old feeble Dragon looked round as he spoke with 
 the air of a hero, and lifting up his shrivelled hands, exhibited 
 himself complacently. But as he did this, his book fell, and 
 stooping to pick it up, he presented it to Harry, with an un- 
 meaning smile. 
 
 Poor Dragon ! it was a very rare and fine old edition 
 of Shakspeare, which his rough handling had by no means im- 
 proved. Harry was not suf&ciently learned to know that it 
 was curious and valuable ; but he saw its great age and an- 
 tique appearance, and thought it might be better employed 
 than kindling Adam's fire.
 
 116 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 "When you are done with it, keep it for me, Dragon," said 
 Harry ; " I should like to look at it myself." 
 
 The old man began to shake his head, slowly at first, but 
 with a gradually increasing rapidity of motion. 
 
 " I'm far from clear that it's right to give the like o' this 
 to young folk ; it's only those who by reason of use have their 
 senses exercised to discern both good and evil, the Apostle 
 says ; and you are but a babe to be fed on the sincere milk. 
 How mony sisters have ye. Mr. Hairy ? " 
 
 '• Three, Dragon." 
 
 '• Three sisters and ae wife ! four women intill a house at 
 ance ! Come your ways up the muckle stair," said the old 
 man, hastily, *' and see the bonnie rooms we've gotten to lodge 
 them a' in ; and plenty of light and plenty of windows, for a' 
 yon birkie says." 
 
 The young men followed in silence. 
 
 On the second story there was a multitude of small rooms. 
 One of them, over the library, which they entered first, dis- 
 closed to Harry's half-reluctant eyes the prettiest of little 
 silvery burns, sparkling away into the river, under the shelter 
 of those overgrown trees which made the under rooms so me- 
 lancholy. 
 
 " Here we are," said Lindsa,y, triumphantly. " How you 
 may feel on the matter, I can't tell, Mr. Muir, but this seems 
 very fine to me ; and the windows behind look out on the 
 Forth." 
 
 Harry was half-ashamed of his ill-humour, but for the mo- 
 ment he could not conquer it. 
 
 " We'll give this room to the bonniest ane," said the 
 Dragon, with his feeble smile. " Whilk ane's that. Mr. 'Hairy ? 
 and you'll no be for ony mair windows for your Lady Rose," 
 added the old man. turning sharply round on Cuthbert. 
 
 Cuthbert had been investigating the appartment behind. 
 
 " The very brightest of drawing-rooms," said the advocate, 
 with a warmth which made Harry still more ashamed of him- 
 self. '• You have nothing to do but take down this partition, 
 and throw the two into one room." 
 
 The poor old guardian of these dim walls clenched his 
 hand, and' shook it with feeble vehemence in Cuthbert's face: 
 
 " Would ye put such radical notions into the innocent 
 lad's head ? Would ye daur ? "
 
 HARRY MUIR. 11*7 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 Lord, what a nothing is this little span 
 
 We call a man ! 
 How slight and short are his resolves at longest, 
 
 How weak at strongest ! 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 CuTHBERT Charteris returned to Edinburgh that night, but 
 not until he had first made a rude outline — he was no artist, 
 but he could use his pencil enough for this — of Allenders, 
 with its eccentric turret and shady mall, and the boat — a very 
 crazy, incompetent boat as it turned out — lying under the 
 saugh tree upon the quiet water. He showed it to Harry, as 
 they eagerly consulted about the necessary improvements, and 
 Harry thought it quite a remarkable production ; but Cuth- 
 bert greatly doubted as he enclosed it to Martha Muir. The 
 deed almost lost its original intention of simple kindness, as 
 he pondered over it, and feared that they might think his 
 drawing a very poor affair ; but it was sent at last. 
 
 Harry remained with Lindsay in Stirling. It was neces- 
 sary to see the family of Allenders residing there, who, fail- 
 ing Harry and his household, were next heirs ; and some legal 
 forms had also to be gone through. Harry had recovered his 
 usual spirits : he was excited with his new position, with his 
 proposed improvements, and even with his inn lodgings ; and 
 while Lindsay laboured through some necessary processes for 
 his enfeoffment, Harry strayed out to see the town. He saw 
 the town, it was verj' true. He climbed to the bastions of 
 the lofty castle, and looked round him east and west. To the 
 blue Highland hills in the distance — to Demayet and his 
 brother Ochils, glooming in brown shadows over the country 
 at his feet — to the silvery maze of the Forth, wantoning in 
 and out between those verdant banks as if he were fain of a 
 pretext to linger at every corner, because he loved the way so 
 well — and to the broad strath of Bannockburn, stealing away 
 into those great lines of cloud, which seemed to carry its 
 gently sloping plain into the distant sky. Harry looked upon 
 them all, and mused and lingered, thinking pleasant thoughts. 
 Then he saw the lights begin to gleam, one after another, in 
 the town below, and he sauntered down to walk through the
 
 118 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 streets with their pleasant, quiet, leisurely stir, and then to 
 return to his hotel. 
 
 But it was very late when Harry returned to his hotel — 
 and he was "indisposed," and would not see the wondering 
 Lindsay, who only left his papers for the supper he had 
 ordered, when he heard that Mr. Muir had already gone to 
 his room, and was " indisposed." Lindsay was puzzled and 
 offended. He could not make out what this sudden indispo- 
 sition could mean. 
 
 Poor Harry ! next morning he rose late, with an aching 
 head and a pained heart. He forgot at first when he woke 
 how he had concluded the last evening ; but as the remem- 
 brance dawned upon him, he wrung his hands and groaned 
 aloud. What could he do ? how could he defend himself 
 against this overpowering weakness ? He threw himself 
 upon his face, and prayed in an agony of self-reproach and 
 shame, for strength, for deliverance. Alas ! this great inher- 
 itance, this fair new life — had he put the stain of his infir- 
 mity upon its promise already. 
 
 Lindsay had breakfasted some time before Harry made his 
 appearance in their sitting-room ; and now sat at a window, 
 reading a newspaper, and looking very grave and stately. A 
 ceremonious salutation passed between them; and Harry, 
 sick, despondent, and miserable, sat down at the table. As 
 he loitered over his coffee, and pushed his plate away from 
 him with loathing, there was perfect silence in the room, ex- 
 cept for the rustling of Lindsay's paper, and his own restless 
 motions. 
 
 Poor Harry was utterly cast down, but his humiliation 
 struggled with a fierce irritability ; and Lindsay never moved 
 his paper, but his companion felt the strongest impulse to 
 snatch it from his hand, and trample on it, as if the indiffer- 
 ence which could content itself with a newspaper, while he 
 was suffering thus, was a positive injury to him. 
 
 When he had finished breakfast, he remained still leaning 
 his head upon his hand, and idly brooding over the disordered 
 table. He did not feel any inclination to go out, he had in- 
 deed nothing present before him, but a diseased image of him- 
 self overspread with blank despondency, and clouded with 
 rising ill-humour. He had never felt this so much before ; 
 for always before he had to justify himself, or to melt in sym- 
 pathy with those tears of yearning love and pity which had 
 been wept over him so often. He scarcely had known till
 
 HARRY MUIR. 119 
 
 now how bitterly and harshly the soul can condemn itself, 
 alone. 
 
 " When you are at leisure, Mr. Muir," said Lindsay, 
 coldly, '"I shall be glad if you will accompany me to call on 
 Dr. Allenders. He was here last night, having received a 
 note I wrote him from Edinburgh ; and as he did not see you 
 then—" 
 
 " Of course, I am ready — of course," said Harry, start- 
 ing up hastily. " It was impossible I could know when Dr. 
 Allenders intended to caU. But I am quite at your com- 
 mand, Mr. Lindsay. Does this man mean to dispute my 
 claim 1 " 
 
 " This man is a person of the highest character," said 
 Lindsay, with his stiff gravity. " Having seen the documents, 
 he does not intend to put any obstacle in your way, Mr. Muir. 
 By the bye, I do not know whether you mean to assume the 
 name of the family which you succeed. It is not a condition 
 of the will certainly, but it was implied. Shall I present you 
 to the Doctor as Mr. Allenders?" 
 
 " No, no, not yet," said the conscience-stricken Harry. 
 " Not yet — not to-day. No, no — let it be a better time." 
 
 These words were spoken incoherently, but Lindsay under- 
 stood them, and his heart was softened. 
 
 They went out, and the conversation gradually became 
 less constrained and more familiar ; but Harry painfully re- 
 cognised the places which he had passed during the ramble of 
 the previous night, and vowed in his heart, as the bright day 
 without restored in some degree his failing spirit and courage, 
 that never more, never again, should these inanimate things 
 remind him of temptations yielded to, and resolutions broken. 
 Poor Harry ! a very short time makes him as confident as 
 ever ; and when they have reached the doctor's door, he has 
 again begun to look forward fearlessly into the future, and to 
 bring no self distrust or trembling out of the past. 
 
 The doctor's house is on the outskirts of the town, a square, 
 comfortable habitation, with a radiant glimpse from its win- 
 dows of the mazes of the river and the far-off hills. Upon 
 the door glitters a brass plate, bearing the name of John 
 Allenders, M. D. ; and Dr. John Allenders seems to be in 
 comfortable circumstances, for a spruce boy in buttons opens 
 the door, and they are shown into a handsome library, which 
 a strong, peculiar fragrance, and a suspicious glass door with 
 little red curtains, proclaims to be near the surgery ; but Dr.
 
 120 HARRY MUlU. 
 
 John has a good collection of books, and altogether appears to 
 Harry an exceedingly creditable relation, and one with whom 
 even the heir of AUenders may be sufficiently well pleased to 
 count kin. 
 
 It is some time before Dr. John makes his appearance ; 
 but Lindsay, who stands opposite the glass door catches a 
 glimpse of a dissipated-looking head, in great shirt collars, 
 stealthily peeping through the red curtains at Harry, and 
 making faces with an expression of unmitigated disgust. But 
 he has scarcely time to notice this, when a shadow falls upon 
 the door, and with a solemn step, Dr. AUenders enters the 
 library. 
 
 He is a common-place looking man, with great dark eyes, 
 which project almost their whole round from under the puck- 
 ered eyelid. It is curious to notice how those eyes move, as 
 if they were touched by strings or wires behind ; but the rest 
 of his face is very tolerable, and he looks what he is, a tho- 
 roughly respectable person, driving his gig, and having money 
 in the bank ; and understanding himself to be a responsible 
 man, owing society, in right of his position in it, ever so many 
 observances and proprieties. 
 
 Close behind Dr. AUenders, comes the dissipated head and 
 the shirt collars, which just now made faces at Harry Muir. 
 The owner of the head stumbles up the two steps which con- 
 nect the lower level of the surgery with that of this more dig- 
 nified apartment, and enters the room with a swagger. He has 
 eyes like the doctor's, and a long, sallow face, encircled by the 
 luxuriant brushwood which repeats under his chin the shaggy 
 forest of hair which is the crown and glory on his head. He 
 wears a very short grey coat, a coloured shirt, and an immense 
 neck-cloth ; and there enters with him into the room an at- 
 mosphere of smoke, tinted with many harmonizing odours, 
 which envelopes his whole person like a separate world. 
 
 Harry turned round with slightly nervous haste as the 
 doctor made his appearance. The doctor bowed, and held out 
 his hand with a frankness half real, half assumed ; but Harry's 
 hand fell as it advanced to meet that of Dr. AUenders, while 
 Dr. AUenders' son uttered a coarse exclamation of surprise and 
 recognition. Poor Harry ! his face became purple with very 
 shame and anger — for this coarse prodigal had been one of his 
 boon companions on the previous night. 
 
 " Met before ? " said the doctor, inquiringly, as Harry sti- 
 mulated by the rudo laugh of young AUenders, and the serious
 
 HARKY MUIK. 121 
 
 wonder of Lindsay, made a strong effort to recover himself 
 " Seen my son in some other place, Mr. Muir ? I am glad of 
 that, for blood is thicker than water ; and though we have lost 
 an estate through your means, my young friend, I hope we'll 
 have grace given us not to be envious, but to rejoice in your 
 exaltation as if it were our own ; besides that, it would have 
 been very inconvenient to me — extremely inconvenient for my 
 professional duties — to have lived five miles out of town ; and 
 then the house is such an old tumble-down affair. So I wish 
 you joy, most heartily, Mr. Muir. The income of AUenders' 
 estate would have been small compensation to we, and Gilbert 
 here has not settled to the harness yet ; so we've no reason to 
 complain — not a shadow. Pray sit down — or will you come 
 up-stairs and see my wife and my daughters ? Oh, we'll not 
 disturb them ; and being relations, they have heard of you, 
 Mr. Muir — I told them myself yesterday — and would like to 
 see the new heir." 
 
 " I say Muir, my boy, I'm delighted it's you," said Mr. 
 Gilbert AUenders, thrusting forward a great bony, tanned hand, 
 ornamented with a large ring. " Pleasant night, last night, 
 wasn't it ? Glad to see we've got another good fellow among us. 
 Come along up-stairs and see the girls." 
 
 Mr. Gilbert AUenders had a rough voice, with the coarsest 
 of provincial accents ; and to mend the matter, Mr. Gilbert 
 put himself to quite extraordinary pains to speak English, 
 emitting his r's with painful distinctness, and now and then 
 dropping a necessary h. It had been a matter of considerable 
 study to him, and he was very complacent about his success. 
 
 Harry submitted with a bad grace to shake hands, and un- 
 consciously drew nearer to Lindsay. 
 
 But Lindsay, who only smiled at the vulgar Mr. Gilbert, 
 instinctively drew himself up, and turned his face from Harry. 
 Harry Muir for himself was nothing to the young lawyer ; but 
 Lindsay felt personal offence mingle in the contempt with 
 which he perceived how his client chose his company — leav- 
 ing himself solitary in their inn, to go and seek out a party 
 which could admit this Gilbert AUenders. Henceforth, Mr. 
 Lindsay might be man of business to the new heir — friend 
 he could never be. 
 
 " I must be in Edinburgh this afternoon," said Lindsay 
 coldly. " Do you accompany me, Mr. Muir ? for if you do 
 not, I have accomplished all that is necessary here, I fancy, 
 and may take my leave."
 
 122 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Harry hesitated for a moment, his better feelings struggling 
 with false shame and pride ; but lifting his eyes suddenly, he 
 encountered the derisive smile of Gilbert AUenders, and took 
 in with one rapid glance all the characteristics of his new-found 
 kinsman. These had more effect on his susceptibility than 
 either reason or repentance. He did not decide on return- 
 ing in the lawyer's respectable society, because he feared for 
 his own weakness, if he permitted himself to remain here alone. 
 No, often though Harry's weakness had been demonstrated 
 even to his own conviction, it was not this ; but what a know- 
 ledge of himself could not do, disgust with Gilbert Allenders 
 did. He answered hastily that he too would return at once, 
 and persuading Lindsay to remain and accompany him up- stairs 
 to the drawing-room where Mrs. Allenders and her daughters 
 sat in state expecting their visit, they at length left the house 
 together, declining the proffered escort of Mr. Gilbert. 
 
 But Harry did not escape without a galling punishment 
 for the previous night's folly. Gilbert Allenders, seeing how 
 he winced under it, plied him with allusion after allusion. 
 " Last night, you recollect ?" and with the most malicious per- 
 severance recalled its speeches, its laughter, its jokes and its 
 noise, assuming too an ostentation of familiarity and good-fel- 
 lowship which Harry could scarcely restrain his fury at. The 
 effect was good and bad ; on the one hand, Harry vowed to 
 himself fiercely that he never would put himself in the power 
 of such a man again : on the other, he forgot how he himself 
 had wasted the fair summer night begun with pleasant thoughts 
 and blessings ; how he had desecrated and polluted what should 
 have been its pure and healthful close. He forgot his re- 
 pentance. He felt himself an ill-used man. 
 
 But he left Stirling that night with the half-mollified Lind- 
 say. So much at least was gained. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair I 
 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 
 \s the parlor at Port Dundas the window is open, the little 
 uiuslin blind waves in the soft air, and sounds steal in drowsl 
 ly through the sunshine from without. At the table sits Agnes.
 
 HARRY MUIR. . 123 
 
 in her best gown, writing a letter to Harry. Violet, in a cor- 
 ner, stands erect with her hands behind her, defying Rose, who 
 sits with great dignity^ in tlie arm-chair to puzzle her with that 
 spelling-book. Little Harry, now beginning to walk, creeps 
 about the floor at his own sweet will ; and indeed they are all 
 idling but Martha, who still works at the '• opening," though 
 you perceive she does it slowly, and has not the keen interest 
 in '• getting on" which she had a week ago. 
 
 Agnes writes rather laboriously — she is no penwoman ; and 
 what she writes is just about nothing at all — a domestic letter, 
 full of implied tenderness and exuberant hopes, through which 
 you can scarcely see the sober and solemn solicitude which has 
 made Harry's wife a woman deeper than her nature, and elder 
 than her years. But the heart of the young wife is very light 
 now, and she looks at the sleeve of her best gown with a smile, 
 as she pauses to arrange the next sentence, and beats upon 
 her hand with the feather of her pen. Little Harry seated 
 at her feet, which he makes a half-way house between two cor- 
 ners, tears away with appetite at a great orange, refreshing 
 himself, before, on hands and knees, he starts upon another 
 circumnavigation. 
 
 Looking down upon him lovingly the young mother con- 
 cocts her next sentence with triumphant success ; and you can 
 guess, without looking over her shoulder, what a pretty out- 
 line grows upon her paper, under that inspired pen, which can 
 write so quickly now. It is not a daguerreotype of little 
 Harry which his mother will send to his father ; but indeed 
 one cannot tell what height of excellence and warm expression 
 this very daguerreotype can attain to, when the sunshine 
 which makes the portraiture is not the light of common day, 
 bat of love. 
 
 Nor are you working either, little dark-haired Violet ! 
 Alas, it is no sensible educational purpose which has carried 
 you into the corner, with one defiant foot planted firmly before 
 the other, and those restless hands crossed demurely behind. 
 Not a respectable lesson gravely administered and received, 
 as lessons should be, but a challenge proudly given to Rose to 
 " fickle " you, who are very confident in this particular of spell- 
 ing that you cannot be "fickled." A slight curve upon the 
 brow of Rose, as she hunts up and down through all those 
 pages for hard words, intimates that she is a little '' fickled " 
 herself ; and Violet raises her head more proudly, and Rose 
 laughs with greater mirth as each successive word is achieved,
 
 124 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 thougli now and then the elder trifler discovers that she is 
 idle, and wonders why it is, and remembers the cause which 
 has made their industry less urgent, with new smiles and joy. 
 
 But Martha still works at her " opening." This, the last 
 which they are ever to do, Harry says, is a collar very elabor- 
 ately embroidered, which Martha resolves shall be bestowed 
 on Agnes, as one memorial of those toilsome days when they 
 are past. The sterner lines in Martha's face have 'relaxed, 
 and her eyelids droop softly with a grateful pleasant weariness 
 over her subdued eyes. Sometimes the curves about her 
 mouth move with a momentary quiver, as though a few tears 
 were about to fall ; but the tears never fall. And sometimes 
 she lays down her work on her knee, and droops her head for- 
 ward, and looks up under her eyelashes with a smile at the 
 young mother, or at the two household flowers. These are 
 long, loving, lingering glances, not bright but dim with the 
 unusual gentleness of this unusual rest. 
 
 The sounds without do not strike upon your ear harshly, 
 as sounds do in winter, for this April day is warm and genial, 
 like a day in June, and has in it a natural hush and calm, 
 which softens every distant voice. Chief of all passing voices 
 come gaily through the sunshine and the open window, the 
 song of Maggie McGillivray. She is sitting again on her 
 mother's step, with the full sunshine, which she does not at all 
 heed, streaming upon her brown, wholesome, comely face. Her 
 scissors flash in the sun, her yellow hair burns ; but Maggie 
 only throws over her head the finished end of her web, and 
 clips and sings with unfailing cheerfulness. This time it is 
 not the '• Lea Rig," but " Kelvin Grove," to which the shears 
 march and keep time ; but it is impossible to tell what a zest 
 it gives to idleness, when one can look out upon industry so 
 sunshiny and alert as this. 
 
 " Perfunctory — p, e, r, f, u, n, c, t — Eh ! Rose yonder's 
 Postie, with a letter," cried Violet, out of breath. 
 
 '■ It's sure to be from Harry, he's always so thoughtful," 
 said the young wife ; " run and get it, Violet. I wonder if he 
 has seen the house yet — I wonder if he has settled when we're 
 all to go — I wonder — but to think of him writing again to- 
 day ! Poor Harry ! he would think we would be anxious, 
 Martha." 
 
 '• Here's three ; everybody but me gets a letter," cried 
 Violet, entering with her hands full. '' Martha, Postie says 
 this should have come yesterday, but it had no number; and
 
 HARRY MUIR. 125 
 
 here's one from my uncle. May /open Uncle Sandy's letter, 
 Martha ? " 
 
 But Violet's question was not answered. Harry's letter 
 was a large one, a family epistle addressed to Martha, enclosed 
 within the love-letter which Harry's still fresh and delicate 
 affection sent to his wife. But while Agnes ran over hers 
 alone, a flush of delight and expectation making her smile ra- 
 diant, Rose looking over Martha's shoulder, and Violet stand- 
 ing at her knee, possessed themselves of the contents of the 
 larger letter ; so that Agnes, roused at the end of her own to 
 kindred eagerness about this, started up to join them, as Rose 
 exclaimed : '• A boat on the water," and Violet cried " Eh, 
 Agnes, a wee burn," in the same breath. 
 
 And then Martha smilingly commanded the little crowd 
 which pressed around her to sit down quietly, and hear her 
 read ; and Violet added with authority : 
 
 '• Agnes, Rose, you're to go away. Martha will read it 
 out loud ; ". but, notwithstanding, still obtruded her own small 
 head between the letter of Harry and the eyes of her elder 
 sister. 
 
 And Martha did read " out loud," all the others still con- 
 tinuing to bend over her shoulder, and to utter suppressed ex- 
 clamations as their eyes ran, faster than Martha's voice, over 
 the full page. The mall, the boat, the burn, the partitions to 
 be thrown down, the windows to be opened, the painting and 
 gilding and furnishing which filled Harry's mind with occupa- 
 tion, produced the pleasantest excitement in the family. Those 
 two girls, Agnes and Rose — for the wife was little more ma- 
 ture than her young sister — paused at the end of every sen- 
 tence to clap their hands, and exclaim with pleasure ; but 
 Violet's small head remained steady under shadow of Martha's 
 shoulder, and she read on. 
 
 '• I have the accumulated rents of two years — nine hundred 
 pounds — to begin with," wrote Harry ; " you may fancy how 
 much improvement we may get out of such a sum as that ; and 
 I am resolved that the house shall be a pleasant house to us 
 all, and like what a home should be, if anything I can do, will 
 make it so. We must have a new boat, instead of this old 
 crazy one, and will be obliged to have a vehicle of some kind. 
 Violet must go to Stirling to school, so we'll need a pony for 
 iier (Violet laughed aloud), and Agnes and Rose and you, my 
 dear Martha, must have some kind of carriage ; however, you 
 shall decide yourselves about that. But this thousand pounds,
 
 126 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 you see, will enable us to begin in proper style, and that is a 
 great matter. 
 
 " I have just seen a family of Allenders in Stirling, respec- 
 table vulgar people, with a dissipated son, who took upon him 
 to be more intimate with me than I was at all disposed for. I 
 am afraid I shall be rude to this Gilbert Allenders, if he con- 
 tinues to press himself upon me ; however, when you are all 
 yonder, everything will go well." 
 
 Poor Harry ! It was a consolation to him to condemn 
 Gilbert Allenders ; it seemed to take a weight from his own 
 conscience ; disgust for his dissipated kinsman stood Harry in 
 stead as disgust for dissipation itself, and he took the salve to 
 his heart, and was comforted. 
 
 " Martha, will a iwnj carry two folk ? " asked Violet, 
 anxiously. " Yes, I mind — for ladies rode upon a pillion 
 langsyne." 
 
 " And what two folk would you have it carry, Lettie ? " 
 asked Rose. 
 
 " Me and Katie Calder. Martha, will you let Katie come ? 
 — for Auntie Jean's ill to her ; my uncle told Harry that, 
 Martha." 
 
 •' Ask Agnes," said Martha, with a smile ; " I am only 
 Harry's sister and your sister, Lettie ; but Agnes is lady of 
 Allenders now ; you must ask Agnes." 
 
 The little wife grew red and white, and laughed hysteri- 
 cally ; then she sank down on the floor at Martha's feet, and 
 clasped her arms around the elder sister's waist, and wept 
 quietly with her face hidden. It was too much for them all. 
 
 " And it's an enchanted castle, and there's a Dragon in it," 
 cried Violet joyously ; " but, Rosie, Rosie, there should be a 
 knight. Oh ! I ken who it is — I ken who it is ; it's Mr. Char- 
 teris ! " 
 
 " Lettie, what nonsense ! " exclaimed Rose, who at that 
 moment became extremely upright and proper. 
 
 " I ken ; you're the princess, Rosie, and Mr. Charteris is 
 the knight ; and maybe there's fairies about the burn ! Oh ! 
 I wish I was there ! — me and little Katie Calder ! " 
 
 Martha lifted the other letters from the table ; they had 
 been forgotten in the interest of this. One of them was from 
 Uncle Sandy ; the other was a note from Cuthbert, enclosing 
 his sketch — an extremely brief note, saying little — yet Rose 
 examined it over her sister's shoulder stealthily, while the 
 others looked at the drawing. There was nothing peculiar
 
 HARRY MUIK. 12Y 
 
 about the hand ; and Koso did not understand the art of glean- 
 ing traits of character out of hair-strokes — yet her eyes went 
 over it slowly, tracing the form of every letter. Poor Cuth- 
 bert ! he thouglit this same Rose would be very much inter- 
 ested about his drawing ; it seemed for the moment that these 
 plain characters occupied her more. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A pair of friends— though I was young 
 And Matthew seventy-three. 
 
 WORDSWOKTII. 
 
 '• Eh, wee Hairy ! " cried Miss Aggie Rodger, " your faither's 
 a muckle man noo ; do you ken that, my pet 1 and you'll ride 
 in a coach, and get a grand powney o' your ain, and eat gros- 
 sets and pu' flowers a' the simmer through ; do you hear thai, 
 my wee boy ? But ye'll have to gang away, Hairy, and what'll 
 we a' do wanting ye ? " 
 
 •• It's me that's to get the pony," said Violet. '• I'm to 
 ride into Stirling to the school every day, and I want Martha 
 to buy a pillion for Katie Calder, and then, Miss Aggie, I can 
 sit before, and Katie behind, like the lady in Lochinvar ; but 
 it's me that's to get the pony." 
 
 " Preserve me, what a grand lady ! " said Miss Aggie, 
 throwing up little Harry in her arms ; " but the wee boy's the 
 heir for a' that — are ye no, Hairy ? " 
 
 " But I want to ken how we're to get to Stirling," said 
 Violet. " I ken about the Castle and the Ladies' Rock, and 
 all the places where the Douglas played, and where Lufra 
 chased the deer, and King James coming down the High 
 Street, too ; but Mr. John, will you tell me how we're to get 
 to Stirling?" 
 
 '■ I never was there myself, Lettie," said the idle man ; 
 " but there's a map of Scotland in that auld book — see, down 
 yonder in the corner, behind ' Hervey's Meditations' — that's 
 it — and we'll look and see." 
 
 The book was a dingy and tattered one, and beside it lay 
 a very old copy of Young's " Night Thoughts," which Violet 
 brought with her in her hand.
 
 128 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " See, now, this is the road," said the poor, good-natured 
 Johnnie, with whom Lettie was an especial favourite, as he 
 spread out the worn map on his knee, and taking a pin from 
 the lappel of his coat, traced with it the route. " But your 
 brother, you know, Lettie, went to Edinburgh first, and then 
 sailed up here — and this is S tilling." 
 
 " Eh, how the water runs out and in ! " exclaimed Violet ; 
 " and we have a boat all to ourselves. Mr. John, will you tell 
 me what this book is — is it good for reading ? " and Violet 
 contemplated, with a slightly puzzled expression, the dense 
 pages of blank verse in which there appeared no story to catch 
 her eye, or interest. 
 
 " Very good for reading," answered the oracular Mr. 
 John ; " jbut now, Lettie, put the books back, and run down to 
 Mrs. McGrarvie's, like a good girl, and bring me a new pipe — 
 run, Lettie ! " 
 
 There was a strange alliance between the child and the 
 man. Lettie, not always very tolerant of messages, put down 
 the books without a murmur, and obeyed. 
 
 It was now May, and the day was hot and slumbrous. 
 Miss Jeanie Rodger was at the warehouse, carrying back the 
 work ; Miss Aggie making boisterous fun with little Harry at 
 the window ; while proud, pensive, faded Miss Rodger sat very 
 unpresentable in another room, repairing worn finery, which 
 never could have been suitable for her, and was suitable for 
 no one now. 
 
 The mother, worn out by two or three successive encoun- 
 ters with tax-gatherers, whose visits she bitterly resented at 
 all times, and among whom she classed the collectors of those 
 innocent water and gas accounts, which lay upon the "bunker" 
 in the kitchen, was sleeping away her wrath and fatigue ; 
 every thing was still in the house, except the crowing of little 
 Harry. And little Harry's mother and aunts were making a 
 new frock for him in the parlour — a work which, for very joy, 
 made slow progress : they had so many things to think and 
 talk about. 
 
 Looking into this pleasant work-room to see that all was 
 right, before she obeyed the command of Mr. John, Violet 
 went bounding down the stair, and out into the street. 
 
 Mrs. McGarvie's Tiger sat painfully on the very narrow 
 step of the door, where he could be shaded from the sun ; sat 
 very upright and prim, poor fellow, compelled by this circum- 
 scribed space. Mrs. McGrarvie's pretty Helen, with her beautiful
 
 HARRY MUIR. 129 
 
 hair and bare feet, on short time at the mill, lovingly clipped 
 with Maggie McGillivray across the way, but was very lan- 
 guid under the full sunshine, and grew quite ashamed of her- 
 self as she watched with awe and admiration the vigorous 
 shears of her companion ; while Mrs. McGarvie in the easy 
 dishabille of a loose short gown, shook her loose clenched 
 hand at her daughter from the threshold, and called her an 
 idle cuttie at the top of her voice. 
 
 It was a drowsy day, and some one looking very brown 
 and dusty, came toiling down the sunny, unshaded road. 
 
 " Eh, it's Harry ! " cried Violet Muir — and affectionately 
 grasping the pipe in one hand, she ran up the road to secure 
 Harry with the other. 
 
 " Who's to smoke the pipe ? Lettie, you must go no more 
 messages like this, for you're a young lady now," said Harry, 
 drawing himself up. Is it for that idle fellot^, John Rodger ? 
 What a shame, Lettie ! " 
 
 " He's my friend ; I like him best," said Violet, decidedly. 
 
 '' He's a mean fellow ! " said Harry. " See that you don't 
 go any where for him again ! " 
 
 For Harry had just now been a little irritated. Some one 
 had met him, who did not know his dignity, and who in the 
 old days had been the superior of Mr. Buchanan's clerk ; but 
 having extinguished his wrath by this condemnation of poor 
 John Rodger, and highly amused to notice the violent flush of 
 anger which rose upon the face of Lettie, Harry entered the 
 house in great spirits. 
 
 '• He's turning steady, that lad," said Mrs. McGarvie, look- 
 ing after him, with a sigh. '" I'm sure it's a great blessing ; 
 and a' body mends o' their. ill courses but our guidman." 
 
 Harry had come by the coach ; the economic tardiness of 
 the canal was not necessary to Harry now ; and except that he 
 was sunburnt, and hot, and dusty, the quick, inquisitive eye of 
 Rose decided in a moment that there was nothing in his ap- 
 pearance to-day to rouse Martha's suspicions. 
 
 •' Don't let Lettie run about so," said Harry, when their 
 first greetings were over. " It is great presumption of those 
 Rodgers ; don't let her go errands for them. Lettie is clever, 
 Martha ; we must make something of her. And now, when 
 will you all go home ? " 
 
 •' Is that all that remains now, Harry? " exclaimed Agnes, 
 clapping her hands. " May we go at once ? Is it so near as 
 that?"
 
 130 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Well, I don't think you should," said Harry. " Let me 
 get all the alterations made, and the place furnished, and then 
 you can come. But Charteris said he was sure you would like 
 better to be there at once, and have a hand in the improve- 
 ments ; so I promised him to give you your choice." 
 
 " Oh, surely ! Let us go now," said Agnes. 
 
 " Eh, I would like !" echoed little Violet. 
 
 " But I should not like," said Harry. " I want you to go 
 when the place is complete and worthy of you. If you saw it 
 now, you would think it a dingy, melancholy desert ; but just 
 wait for a month or so ! There is a good deal of wood to be 
 cut down, and they tell me the estate may be much improved ; 
 and to have a thousand pounds to begin with, you know, is 
 a great good fortune. There is a new church building close 
 by — I think of giving them a hundred pounds, Martha." 
 
 " A hundred pounds ! " exclaimed Agnes and Rose. 
 
 The eyes of both were wet. It was so great a gladness to 
 be able to give such a gift, and then to propose it was so good 
 of Harry ! They were both overpowered with his liberality. 
 
 " A Syrian ready to perish was my father," said Martha, 
 slowly. '• Yes, it is very fit you should bring the handful of 
 first-fruits ; but bring it justly, Harry. Spare it. Do not 
 give it to the church and spend it too." 
 
 " Martha is thinking of our old fifteen pounds a quarter," 
 said Harry, gaily. " Martha forgets that you don't need to 
 put off an account to pay your seat-rent now, Agnes. Why, 
 only think of a thousand pounds — what a sum it is ! It seems 
 to me as if we could never spend it. Look here, Lettie." 
 
 And Harry triumphantly exhibited a hundred-pound note. 
 No one present had ever seen such a one before ; and simple 
 Harry, with a touch of most innocent pride, had preferred this 
 one piece of paper to the more useful smaller notes, simply to 
 let them see it, and to dazzle their eyes with a whole hundred 
 pounds of their own. 
 
 " Eh, Harry ! " exclaimed Violet, with reverential eyes 
 fixed on Harry's new pocket-book, " is't a' there?" 
 
 Harry laughed, and closed the book ; but they all looked 
 at it a little curiously, and even Agnes felt a momentary doubt 
 as to whether a thousand — ay, or even a hundred — pounds 
 were very safe in Harry's keeping. 
 
 " No, it's not all here," answered the heir ; " it's all in 
 the bank but this. Now, Agnes, am I not to have any tea 7 
 And we must consult about it all. The improvements will
 
 HARRY MUIR. 131 
 
 cost some two hundred pounds ; then we'll say a hundred and 
 fifty to furnish the drawing-room — that's very moderate. Then 
 — there are already some things in the dining-room — say a 
 hundred for that, and another hundred for the rest of the 
 house. How much is that, Lettie 1 " 
 
 Lettie was counting it up on her fingers. 
 
 " Eh, Harry, what a heap of siller !" 
 
 " Five hundred and fifty ; and this," said Harry, compla- 
 cently laying his finger on his pocket-book, " six ; and a 
 hundred to the kirk, seven hundred and fifty ; and say fifty 
 pounds for a good horse and Lottie's pony, and somewhere 
 near a hundred for a carriage, and then — whew ! there's no- 
 thing left. I must begin to calculate again — a thousand 
 pounds — " 
 
 " But, Harry, you said it was only nine hundred," said 
 Rose. 
 
 " Well, so it is — it's all the same. What's a hundred here 
 or there 1 " said Harry the Magnificent. " I must just make 
 my calculation over again — that's all," 
 
 '• But can people encumbered as you are afford to keep a 
 carriage on four hundred and fifty pounds a-year 7 " asked 
 Martha. 
 
 '• Oh, not in the town, of course ; but the country is quite 
 different. Besides, Allenders will improve to any extent ; 
 and I suppose I may double my income very soon. Don't 
 fear, Martha, we'll be very careful — oh, don't be afraid." 
 
 And Harry sincerely believing that no one need be afraid, 
 went on in his joyous calculations — beginning always, not a 
 whit discouraged, when he discovered again and again that he 
 was calculating on a greater sum than he possessed ; but it 
 soon became very apparent, even with Harry's sanguine arith- 
 metic, that it was by no means a difficult thing to spend a 
 thousand pounds, and a slight feeling of discontent that it 
 was not another thousand suddenly crossed the minds of all. 
 
 '^ I see," said Harry, slowly, " it'll have to be fifty to the 
 church, Martha. Fifty is as much as I can afford. It would 
 not be just, to myself and to you all, to give more." 
 
 Poor Harry ! The magnificence of liberality was easier 
 to give up than the other magnificences on which he had set 
 his heart.
 
 132 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 But hark you, Kate, 
 Whither I go, thither shall you go too ; 
 To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. 
 
 Henky IV. 
 
 " What could you do in Allenders ? one never knows how 
 to deal with you capricious women. Stay at home, Agnes, 
 and manage your own department — it is impossible you could 
 assist me, and you would only be a hindrance to work. Stay 
 at home, I say, till the place is ready for you." 
 
 Agnes laid down the child softly upon the sofa where she 
 was sitting, and answered nothing ; but her face wore a look 
 of resignation which Harry thought ostentatious, and which 
 irritated him greatly, as indeed his little wife partly knew. 
 
 He started hastily from his seat with a contracted brow, 
 and began to walk about the room, muttering something to 
 himself about the impossibility of pleasing every body. Poor 
 little Agnes was desperately exerting herself to swallow a 
 sob : she did feel a little fretful and peevish, it was very 
 true, but at the same time she honestly struggled to keep it 
 down. 
 
 " Martha, say something," whispered Rose. " Harry is 
 angry — speak to him, Martha." 
 
 But Martha sat still and said nothing — for Harry's mag- 
 nificent intentions troubled his sister with an uneasy sense of 
 dependence. It is oftentimes a greater exercise of generosity to 
 receive than to bestow. Labouring for Harry would have seem- 
 ed to Martha a thing so natural as never to disturb her every- 
 day life for a moment ; to be supported by Harry, called for 
 a stronger exertion. But Harry's sister was of stouter spirit 
 than Harry's wife. She preferred, even at a risk of great 
 pain, to make trial quietly of this new life, rather than to say 
 how irksome to her was the prospect of burdening her brotheV, 
 and to undergo a scene of indignation, and grief, and recon- 
 cilement. Nevertheless, Martha felt her influence abridged, 
 and was silent — for this fortune did not change her own position 
 or that of her' sisters^ Harry and his wife alone were rightful 
 sharers of this unexpected elevation, and Martha stepped
 
 HARRY MUIR. 133 
 
 down from the elder sister's place, not without a struggle, and 
 endeavoured to turn her eyes, which had so long expressed the 
 distinct decisions of a separate will, towards the young irreso- 
 lute pair beside her as to the heads of the house. 
 
 ''Why don't you speak, Martha?" exclaimed Harry at 
 last, noticing her silence with a renewed burst of impatience. 
 " Why don't you say what you think at once, instead of sitting 
 glooming at us all ? " 
 
 " I do not speak because I begin now to be your depen- 
 dant, Harry," said Martha, with harsh emphasis ; " and 
 especially in a matter where I and these bairns may restrict 
 and hinder you, must now choose to listen to your decision, 
 and not try to influence it. That is why I do not speak. But 
 what I tliink is, that Agnes, since she wishes it, should go 
 with you, and that we can remain to do all that is necessary 
 here. Or I can take them home to Ayr — anywhere — and 
 Agnes will like to be with you in your plannings and altera- 
 tions, Harry. Why should she not go ? " 
 
 " A dependant ! " Harry looked very indignant and in- 
 jured. 
 
 " Stay," said Martha. " Nothing more of this. A woman 
 needs to Idc so. I am willing ; but I prefer that nothing 
 should be said of it, Harry, especially now, when I am scarcely 
 accustomed to the change." 
 
 A long silence followed, and each individual heart there 
 was busy with its own proper thoughts. Martha, ever proud 
 and harsh, repeated to herself the many necessities which 
 compelled her to remain an inmate of Harry's house, and to 
 relinquish the work by which she had hitherto supported her- 
 self — she, who, small as her opportunities were, had always 
 conferred, but never received, the benefits of ordinary life ; 
 and there came vividly upon her memory those old dreams of 
 youth, in which she imagined herself the support, the guardian, 
 the protector of the orphan children wlio were her charge in 
 the world. Now she was Harry's dependant sister, curbing 
 and burdening his hands, and restraining the harmless in- 
 dulgences he longed for. Martha was not content, not will- 
 ing, not ready, like a gentler woman, to take upon herself this 
 gracious yoke of love, and receive with sweet and becoming 
 humility the gifts which she could not refuse ; but she bent 
 her stubborn neck to them, and reminded herself of her new 
 position, with a strong resolve to do all its duties — chiefest of 
 all to cover over in her own heart, so that no one could dis- 
 cern it. the bitterness she felt.
 
 134 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Harry, pleased to find himself not only the most impor- 
 tant person in the household, but the maintainer and the ac- 
 knowledged head of all, and only half angry that Martha 
 should speak of herself as his dependant : Agnes, thinking 
 solely that now she had gained her point, and should go with 
 him to Allenders ; Rose, full of new fears and new hopes, un- 
 willing to realize all that was in her mind ; and little Lettie, 
 last of all, chivalrously determined to win, by some unknown 
 means, a fortune and fame for her sisters, far better than 
 Harry's, surrounded this centre figure of the family group. 
 In all minds there was a vague dissatisfaction. This great 
 inheritance, after all, like every thing else which deeply dis- 
 turbs a life, brought new troubles, no less than new pleasures, 
 in its train. 
 
 But Harry made no further resistance to Agnes's desire. 
 An involuntary consciousness that it would be ungracious and 
 unkind to decide contrary to Martha's opinion, after she had 
 acknowledged his authority, had greater eff'ect upon his im- 
 pulsive mind than the reasonable wish of his wife ; for Harry 
 came to do much of what was really right in his conduct by 
 side motives and impulses, and oftcner made a start in his 
 direct course by an impetus from some diverging way, than 
 kept steadily on, because he knew that his path was the 
 straight one. But Agnes did not pause to consider the motive. 
 It was enough to her that her point was gained. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 How does your garden grow ? 
 With silver bells and cockle shells, 
 And pretty maids all of a row. 
 
 NURSKRY KlIYMES. 
 
 It is a bright May day, and the home-garden at Ayr is as 
 bright as the season. Upon the fresh soft breeze the falling 
 petals of the apple blossoms sweep down, fluttering like snow- 
 flakes to the ground ; and the great pear tree trained against 
 the wall is flushed to the extremity of every bough, and has its 
 leaves smothered in its wealth of bloom. By the door here, 
 in the sunshine, is the chair in which Alexander Muir presides 
 over his little flock of workers, and a book held open by his
 
 HARRY MUIR. 135 
 
 Spectacles, still rests upon it ; but the old man himself is not 
 here. Neither are the girls here, you would say at the first 
 glance ; but look closer into the shady corners, and listen only 
 five minutes — it is all you need to discover your mistake. 
 There are pleasant sounds in the air ; softened young voices, 
 and light-hearted laughter ; and at the foot of Uncle Sandy's 
 chiiir lies a heap of muslin, ballasted with stones, to keep it 
 safe and preserve it from being blown away ; for Beatie and 
 her sisterhood are idle, extremely idle, and idle even, it must 
 be confessed, is Rose, the viceroy, to whom Uncle Sandy has 
 delegated his charge. They are whispering together, little 
 groups of bright heads, which here and there, the sunshine, 
 stretching over the boughs of the great plane tree, finds out 
 and seizes on, tracing a single curl or braid of hair with deli- 
 cate gold, and throwing wavy shadows over brow and face. 
 They are dispersed in all the corners of the garden ; but here, 
 leaning against the trunk of the plane tree, flushed with na- 
 tural gratification, confidential and yet dignified, stands Rose 
 Muir, the centre of the most important group. 
 
 Once these girls were little Rosie's playmates ; now, 
 though Rose is not proud, she feels, no less than they do, that 
 there is a difi"erence, and quite acquiesces when they call her 
 Miss Rose, and are respectful as well as friendly. She is 
 standing, with a little of a patroness air, listening while Mary 
 Burness tells of Maggie Crawford's " lad," and Maggie retali- 
 ates by a rumour that Mary is to be "cried" in the kirk the 
 very next Sabbath day. Rose laughs a little, blushes a little, 
 and looks so happy and light-hearted, that you perceive at 
 once she could not tell you why — but that there is some un- 
 conscious reason of still greater might than the family good 
 fortune which brings back the natural joy so freshly to her 
 heart. 
 
 By this open window you hear the sound of voices graver 
 and less youthful. Within, with her hand wandering among 
 the old man's books, sits Martha Muir. Her other hand holds 
 a piece of her accustomed work, but it lies on her knee list- 
 lessly ; and with the unconsciousness of preoccupation she 
 turns over and over the books upon the window shelf — old 
 familiar books, friends which nurtured and strengthened her 
 own youth — but her hand wanders over them as though they 
 were strangers, and she could not tell you what she looks at 
 with those fixed eyes. 
 
 •• I hope it is all over, uncle." said Martha, slowly ; "' I trust
 
 136 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 it is — I trust it is. He has had hard lessons, many of them 
 and a great and sudden deliverance. The news of it came to 
 me like an angel from heaven — for I felt that it might save 
 Harry ; and so, I hope, I trust it will." 
 
 " You hope, you trust ? we all do that, Martha, my woman," 
 said the old man, anxiously. " I never kent an evil-doing 
 stranger yet that I would not have given all the strength of my 
 good wishes to ; but, Martha, God has given you a clearer 
 judgment than many. What think ye ? what does your ain 
 mind decide as tlie most likely end ? " 
 
 " God knows ! " said Martha, solemnly. " I think nothing, 
 uncle ; I only trust and hope. I see no sin in him now — poor 
 Harry ! poor Harry ! and God send the evil may pass away 
 like the fearful dream, I sometimes believe it is. Do you 
 mind him, uncle — do you mind the pure, grand boy he was ? 
 Oh, my Harry ! my poor Harry ! — but I speak as if I was 
 despairing, when, indeed, I am full of hope," said Martha, look- 
 ing up with a faint smile, through the unusual tears which only 
 moistened her dried eyelids, but did not fall. 
 
 The old man looked at her doubtfully, with serious and 
 earnest anxiety. She did not lift her eyes, neither did she 
 seem inclined to say more ; but her hand went wandering, 
 wandering, over the books she knew so well, opening and clos- 
 ing them with such unconscious fingers, and mind so intently 
 preoccupied, that he shook his head as he turned away, with a 
 prayer, and a pang in his heart. For experience, alas ! spoke 
 to him as it spoke to her — sadly, hopelessly ; and with Martha 
 he turned from the subject, and would not think — would only 
 trust and hope. 
 
 " And the other bairns," said the old man, half questioning 
 her, half consoling himself, " the other bairns ; they at least 
 bring us nothing but comfort." 
 
 " Uncle," said Martha, looking up with quick curiosity, 
 " what brings this Mr. Charteris to Ayr ? what is his business 
 here ? We meet him wherever we go ; what does he want in 
 your house or with us ? " 
 
 " What is it ye say, Martha ? " 
 
 Alexander Muir looked up with an awakened face, and 
 glanced out through the framework of leaves and blossoms 
 round the window to where his niece Rose stood under the 
 great plane tree. 
 
 " Hush ! look at them ! " said Martha, grasping her uncle's 
 arm with her hand, and bending forward eagerly, as if the 
 gesture made her, hear as well as see.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 137 
 
 There is a stranger in the garden, lingering beside the va- 
 cant chair on the threshold, looking wistfully into the shaded 
 corner, with its waving boughs and pursuing sunshine. Just 
 now they are talking rather loud yonder, and laughing with 
 unrestrained glee ; and still it is stories of courtship and mirth- 
 ful wooing which are told to Rose, and still she stands listen- 
 ing, well pleased, with smiles on her face, and in her heart. 
 Hose could not tell you what it is that makes her step so light, 
 her heart so free. It is something which touches duller plea- 
 sures into life, and kindles them all with a touch of its passing 
 wing. But it has passed in the night this angel, when she only 
 felt its plumes, and heard its sweet unrecognised voice ; and 
 as yet she has not seen the face of this new affection, nor 
 blushes as she lifts her own, frankly to all kindly eyes ; yet 
 with the greatest zest she listens to these girlish romances, and 
 smiles, and asks questions — questions which the blushing sub- 
 ject of the story does not always refuse to answer ; but just 
 now the narrator has become rather loud, and there is a burst 
 of laughter which good Uncle Sandy would reprove from his 
 window, if he were not more seriously engaged. 
 
 Suddenly there falls a complete silence on the little group, 
 broken only after the first moment by an indistinct tittering 
 of confusion and bashfulness, as one by one they steal away, 
 leaving Rose alone under the plane tree — and the stranger ad- 
 vances at a singular pace, which seems to be composed of two 
 eager steps and one slow one, towards her, as she stands, half- 
 reluctant, with her head drooped and the light stealing warmly 
 over her cheek, waiting to receive him. 
 
 As he advances the colour rises on his forehead. It may 
 be because he is aware. of some close scrutiny, but however 
 that is, Cuthbert Charteris, who can pass with the utmost cool- 
 ness through every corner of the Parliament House, and make 
 his appearance before the Lords who rule her Majesty's Court 
 of Session without a vestige of shyness, grows very red and 
 lets his glove fall, as he advances to this audience. And the 
 sympathetic Rose blushes too, and hangs down her head, and 
 gives her hand reluctantly, and wishes she were anywhere but 
 here, seeing any other person than Mr. Charteris. Why? 
 For after all, there is nothing formidable about the Edinburgh 
 advocate, and he has been her brother's friend. 
 
 Martha's hand again tightened on the old man's arm ; 
 then it was slowly withdrawn, and she sat still, looking at 
 them earnestly — looking at them in their fair youth, and with
 
 138 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 their fresh hopes round them, like a saint's encircling glory — 
 so great a contrast to herself. 
 
 " Well, Martha, well," said the old man, in a lighter tone, 
 '• well, my woman — no doubt neither you nor me have any- 
 thing to do with the like of this ; but it is good, like every 
 ordinance of God. If E,osie, poor thing, gets a good man, 
 she'll do well ; and we need not be vexed for that, Martha.'' 
 
 " He is a gentleman, uncle, and not a rich one. They'll 
 want him to have a rich wife," said Martha. 
 
 " Be content — be content ; one fear is over much to foster. 
 We'll have no grief with Rosie," said Uncle Sandy, cheerfully. 
 " If he turns out well, she'll do well, Martha ; but if he turns 
 out ill, we must leave her now to God's good care and her ain 
 judgment. And what could we have better for her 1 But we 
 need not leave them their lane, either. I will go and see 
 after the other bairns myself" 
 
 So saying, the old man rose, and Martha lifted her work — 
 but in a few minutes it again dropped on her knee, and open- 
 ing the window she bent out, and suffered the pleasant air to 
 bathe her forehead, and smooth out the wrinkles which care 
 had engraven on it. '' Take care of them, take care of them ! " 
 said Martha, under her breath. . " God help me ! I trust 
 more in my own care than in His." 
 
 " Ye're aye idle — aye idle. Do they never come back to 
 you in your dreams the lees ye tell me, and the broken 
 promises ? " said Uncle Sandy. " And Beatie, I had your 
 faithful word that all that flower was to be done before the 
 morn." 
 
 " Eh, but it was the gentleman," said Beatie, with con- 
 scious guiLt, labouring at her muslin with great demonstration 
 of industry. 
 
 '■ The gentleman ! He came in himsel. He gave you no 
 trouble," said the old man, shaking his head. '' And you've 
 been doing naething either, Jessie Laipg." 
 
 " Eh ! me ! I've weeded a' the strawberry beds, though 
 there's naething on them yet but the blossom," said the 
 accused, in discontent ; " and Mary, and Maggie, and the rest 
 of them, telling Miss Rose about their lads a' the time — and 
 naebody blamed but me ! " 
 
 '• Miss Rose has gotten a lad o' her ain — eh ! look at the 
 gentleman ! " said another of the sisterhood, in an audible 
 whisper. 
 
 For Rose had been playing with a sprig of fragrant lilac,
 
 HARRY MUIR. 139 
 
 which just now, as she started at sight of her uncle, fell upon 
 the path at her foot ; and, with a deferential bend, which 
 every girl who saw it took as a personal reverence to herself, 
 and valued accordingly, Mr. Charteris stooped to pick up the 
 fallen blossom, and by and by quite unobtrusively placed it 
 in his breast. 
 
 Uncle Sandy lifted his book, and seated himself, casting ii 
 glance of good pleasure towards the plane tree, from which 
 iiose was now approaching the door. Not a girl of all those 
 workers who did not observe intently, and with an interest 
 hardly less than her own " lad " received from her, every look 
 and motion of '' the gentleman." Not one of them who would 
 not have intrigued in his behalf with native skill and perse- 
 verance, had any of the stock obstacles of romance stood in 
 Cuthbert's way. It was pleasant to see the shy, smiling, 
 blushing interest with which they regarded the stranger and 
 his Lady Rose ; something resembling the instinctive, half- 
 pathetic tenderness with which women comfort a bride ; but 
 with more glee in it than that. 
 
 By and by, when these young labourers were gone, and 
 the shadows were falling over the garden, where little Lettie 
 and Uncle Sandy's maid scattered pleasant sounds and laugh- 
 ter through the dim walks, as they watered Uncle Sandy's 
 dearest flowers, Cuthbert Charteris unwillingly rose from the 
 dim seat by the window, whence he could just see Violet at 
 her self-chosen task, and said irresolutely that he must be 
 gone. The window was open. They had been sitting for 
 some time silent, and the wind, which blew in playfully, 
 making a little riot now and then as it lighted unexpectedly 
 upon the fluttering pages of an open book, was sweet with the 
 breath of many glimmering hawthorns, and of that great old 
 lilac bush — a garden and inheritance in itself — which filled 
 the eastern corner, and hid the neighbouring house with its 
 delicate leaves and blossoms. Opposite to him, Cuthbert still 
 saw the white hair of the old man, and something of Martha's 
 figure withdrawn by his side ; but out of a pleasant darkness 
 which his imagination filled very sweetly, had come once or 
 twice the voice of Rose. He could not see her, it had grown 
 so dark, nor could he do more than feel a little soft hand glide 
 into his. when he bade her good-night. 
 
 It had a singular charm, this darkness, and Cuthbert 
 grasped the hand firmly and closely before it drew itself away. 
 Then he went out into the soft summer night, with its sweet
 
 140 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 dews and sounds. A smile was on his face, his very heart 
 was wrapped in this same soft fragrant gloom, and he went 
 on unconsciously till he reached the river, and stood there, 
 looking down upon the gentle water, flowing graciously, with 
 a sweet ripple, under the pensive stars. 
 
 His hand upon his breast touched the lilac blossom. He 
 drew it out to look at it, and held it idly in his fingers, for his 
 first thought was to drop the fading flower into those pure cold 
 waters, and let it float away towards that sea which is the great 
 symbol of all depths. But Cuthbert's second thought, more 
 usual, if not more true, was to restore the drooping blossom, 
 and keep it, though it faded ; and then, making an effort to 
 shake off the pleasant mystic darkness which hid him from 
 himself, Cuthbert Charteris roused his dreaming heart, and 
 asked what he did here. 
 
 What brought him here? The same question which 
 Martha had put to her uncle. No one saw Cuthbert blush ; 
 no one was witness to the conscious smile which rose in spite 
 of himself upon his lip. What brought him here ? In fact, 
 the slightest possible piece of business, which at any other 
 time, a letter might have managed ; but, in truth — what was 
 it, Cuthbert ? 
 
 And straightway the thought of Cuthbert Charteris plung- 
 ed into a long, discursive journey, calculating probabilities, 
 prospects, necessities ; but through all wavered this conscious 
 smile, and he felt the warm flush on his face, and looked, as 
 Rose had never looked upon her passing angel, into the very 
 eyes of the fairy guide who had led him thither. The stars 
 were dreaming in the sky, wrapped in soft radiant mist, when 
 he left the river-side. Like them, the young man's heart was 
 charmed. Not fervent enough for passion yet, nor manstrong 
 as it would be — charmed, fascinated, dreaming — a spell of 
 magic over him, was this new power — the earliest spring of 
 a life which should weave itself yet into the very strength of 
 his.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A home to rest, a shelter to defend. 
 
 Pleasuees of Hope. 
 
 The evening sun shines into the drawing-room of AUenders — 
 the drawing-room newly completed and magnificent, through 
 which Harry Muir's little wife goes merrily, laughing aloud as 
 she pauses to admire again and again those luxurious easy- 
 chairs and sofas, which it is almost impossible to believe are 
 her own. It is a long room occupying the whole breadth of 
 the house, for Harry has taken Cuthbert's hint, and thrown 
 down the partition which once made two dim bed-chambers, 
 where now is this pretty drawing-room. 
 
 From the western window you can see the long light steal- 
 ing over Bannockburn, tracing bright lines of softened green 
 and yellow along the wide strath, and laying down upon the 
 swelliug fields as it passes away such a depth of dewy rest 
 and shadow as never lay in any land of dreams. And the 
 hill-tops are dusty and mazed with the rays which stream 
 over them, a flood of golden streaks, falling out of the light 
 like drooping hair ; while nearer, at our very feet, as we stand 
 by this window, the burn below flashes out through the heavy 
 alder boughs, in such sweet triumph over its crowning sun- 
 beam, that you unconsciously smile in answer to its smiling, as 
 3^ou would to any other childish joy. 
 
 From the other window you can look out upon Demeyet. 
 somewhat sullenly receiving the radiance of the sunset. He, 
 stout rebel, loves better the young morning, whose earliest 
 glance is over his head, before her eyelids are fully opened. 
 How she glances up playfully behind him, how she shrinks 
 under his great shoulder, you will see, when you see the sun 
 rise upon the links of Forth. But Demeyet, like many an- 
 other, does not know when fortune is kindest to him, nor ever 
 guesses that he himself, with those royal purple tints upon his 
 robed shoulders, and the flitting shades which cover his brow, 
 like the waving plume, sbows his great form to better advan- 
 tage now, than when the faint morning red, and the rising light 
 behind, darkened him with his own shadow. Wherefore De- 
 meyet receives the sunlight sullenly, and glooms upon merry
 
 142 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Agnes Muir at the window of Allenders' drawing-room, till 
 she can almost fancy that he lifts a shadowy arm, and clenches 
 a visionary hand to shake it at her threateningly with defiance 
 and disdain. 
 
 A silver tea-service, engraven with the Allenders' crest, 
 and china the most delicate that Agnes ever saw, glitter on 
 the table, which is covered besides with every rare species of 
 '' tea-bread " known to the ingenious bakers of Stirling. And 
 now Agnes glides round and round the table, endeavouring to 
 recollect some one thing omitted, but cannot find any excuse 
 for ringing the bell and summoning one of her handmaidens 
 to get another survey of the tout ensemble^ which dazzles the 
 eyes of the little wife. Harry has gone to Stirling to meet 
 and bring home his sisters ; and Uncle Sandy, their escort and 
 guardian, is with them for a visit ; and so is poor little Katie 
 Calder, the oppressed attendant of Miss Jean. It is true that 
 Agnes is very afiectionate and very grateful — that, herself 
 motherless, she clings to Martha, and would immediately suc- 
 cumb in any strait to the stronger mind, and character, and 
 will of the eldest member of their little household ; but withal, 
 Agnes is mortal, and it is impossible to deny that there is 
 quite a new and delightful pleasure to her in feeling herself, 
 and in having others feel, that it is her house to which the 
 sisters are coming — that she is the head of the family, the 
 house-mother, and that all the glories of this grandest of pala- 
 ces are her own. 
 
 Now a faint rumbling of distant carriage-wheels strikes on 
 the excited ear of Agnes, but no carriage is visible from the 
 windows — so she runs impatiently up some flights of narrow 
 winding stairs, and emerges, out of breath, upon the gallery, 
 which conducts to the little turret of Allenders. This gallery 
 is very small — three people standing in it would make quite a 
 little crowd ; but then it commands a far-off view of the Forth, 
 beyond Alloa in one direction, and of Stirling's crowned rock, 
 and the Highland hills, and what is still more important at 
 this moment, of the Stirling road, on the other. 
 
 And yonder, along the white line of the Stirling road, 
 seen at present only in a glimpse through the trees, comes 
 the pretty open carriage, the price of which Harry is afraid 
 to think of, his latest purchase, with its strong bay horse and 
 its smart groom driver, beside whom Harry himself, still wise 
 enough to acknowledge that he cannot drive, sits leaning back, 
 to point out triumphantly to the crowded company behind
 
 HARRY MUIR. 143 
 
 him the first glimpse of their new house. Martha and Uncle 
 Sandy, Rose and the two children, fill t^e coach almost to 
 over-brimming ; and though the}^ are all dusty and hot, there 
 are bright looks on every face of them. But Agnes does not 
 pause to look at their faces, but flies down stairs, nearly trip- 
 ping herself with the wide folds of her muslin gown, to throw 
 the door hospitably open, and stand herself, dignified like a 
 matron and head of a family, on the threshold to receive the 
 strangers. 
 
 At the gate, the innocent Dragon of AUenders twirls his 
 rusty hat feebly on a stick, and laughs to himself with his 
 slow chuckle as he leans upon the open gate ; and half in 
 curiosity, half because the house-maid was once in Sir John 
 Dunlop's, and has very proper notions of what is due to the 
 " family," Agnes finds both her servants standing behind her 
 in the hall. The little wife holds her head high, and overflows 
 with dignity and innocent stateliness, all the while feeling an 
 almost irresistible inclination to relieve herself with a burst 
 of incredulous, wondering laughter ; for how she ever came to 
 be a great lady, Agnes cannot comprehend. 
 
 Now, Lettie, jump ! Be first out of the grand carriage — 
 first upon the bright green lawn of AUenders. See, yonder 
 are soft-voiced doves upon the turret ; and the spear-head, no 
 longer tarnished, throws gleams about it in the sunshine upon 
 those twinkling, tremulous aspen leaves ; and listen here to 
 this child's tongue singing, calling to you though the language 
 is not yours — the burn, Lettie ! and this brown foliage is the 
 fragrant walnut ; and past the grey walls and that dim library 
 window is a broad gleam of silver, all fretted and broken by 
 twining boughs and foliage, for that is the river — the grand 
 Forth — and this is fairy land ! 
 
 •' Oh, Martha, Martha ! — Rose ! — Uncle !" cried Agnes, 
 running forward to the carriage door ; but as Martha alight- 
 ed, and took both her hands, the young house-mother forgot 
 her dignity, and instead of the pretty speech she had been 
 meditating, only exclaimed again : '' Oh ! Martha, Martha ! " 
 and burst into a fit of tears. 
 
 Laughing, sobbing, smiling, Agnes led them up stairs — 
 and hurried them through all the rooms. A pretty apart- 
 ment, looking to the river, had been chosen for Martha and 
 Rose, while a smaller one within it was for the children. 
 They were all perfectly and carefully fitted up — alas ' for 
 Harry's nine hundred pounds.
 
 144 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Bairns, I will ask a blessing," said uncle Sandy, as they 
 gathered round th* tea-table. 
 
 There was an instant hush, and Rose shrouded little 
 Harry's head with her hand, and pressed him closer to her 
 side, to still even the child into reverent silence. She was 
 seated close by the old man, and he, too, raised one hand to 
 shade his reverent forehead, and solemnly lifted the other. 
 
 '• Lord, a blessing on these offered mercies, a blessing or. 
 this roof tree, upon our meeting and our sundering, and upon 
 these Thy bairns, fatherless and motherless, whom Thou hast 
 led hitherto, and brought pitifully unto this day. Grive them 
 out of the ark of Thy covenant, comfort them with strength 
 and succour from all evil, for the Lord's sake. Amen." 
 
 There was a momentary solemn pause, after the voice 
 ceased — and Rose bent down over the child to hide her face : 
 and Agnes, with the tears still in her eyes, looked wistfully at 
 the old man ; and Harry cast down his, and laid his hand 
 softly on Martha's hand. No one said there were fears and 
 hopes — intensest hopes and fears in this new beginning — nor 
 that its brightness trembled with a solemn peradventure : but 
 at this moment all had a consciousness of putting themselves 
 and their fate into the hand of God, and of waiting for what 
 he should bring out of those unknown years. " I cannot tell 
 — God knows what is to come," said Martha's heart, as it 
 yearned within her over them all ; and there came to each a 
 strange humility and trust. God knows ! one can look calmly 
 into a future which, step by step, is known to our pitiful, great 
 Father. Day by day — hour by hour — they must each of them 
 come to us out of the heavens, full and rounded with the daily 
 tribulation, the daily gladness which is appointed to their lot. 
 But God knows now the way which we shall learn by single 
 footsteps — knows and appoints it for us out of His great love 
 — God knows — it is very well. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Now is the May of life. 
 
 EOGERS. 
 
 '' Eh, Violet ! there's twa men-servants, and twa maids !" said 
 little Katie C alder. 
 
 Katie was short and stout, with a plump, good-humoured
 
 HARRY MUIR. 145 
 
 face, and wealth of long fair hair, and a bright-printed frock, 
 bought for her by Uncle Sandy himself, to replace the faded 
 liveries of Miss Jean. Katie had no turn for literature or 
 poetry, like her little kinswoman : but to make up for that, 
 she was stout-hearted and adventurous, redoubtable in winter 
 slides and summer rambles, and with as honest and " aefauld" 
 a child's heart as ever looked through blue eyes. Miss Jean 
 Calder and her penurious oppression had subdued Kate, but 
 they had not crushed her ; for Katie was not given to solitary 
 thoughts or plaintive resignation. So instead of standing 
 shyly by, as Violet might have done, and looking on with a 
 longing wish to join the plays of happier children, Katie made 
 bold dashes amongst them, content rather to pay for her play 
 by a good fit of crying, when summoned in to the invariable 
 scold, than to want altogether the wholesome " fun " which was 
 the child's natural breath. So now being prepared by a few 
 days' freedom in Uncle Sandy's house at Ayr, for the liberty 
 and kindliness, though scarcely for the grandeur of Allenders, 
 Katie's happy spirit had entirely thrown off the fear and bon- 
 dage of Miss Jean. She was sitting on a low stool half- 
 dressed, plaiting the long hair which streamed over her plump 
 shoulders, and looking with great admiration at the new chintz 
 frock carefully spread out upon a chair, which she had worn 
 for the first time yesterday. 
 
 '• Eh, Katie ! if you only saw how the sun's rising behind 
 yon muckle hill ! " answered Violet from the window. 
 
 " And you never saw such a fine kitchen," pursued Katie, 
 " a' the walls glittering with things, and as big as folks could 
 * dance in; and such a room with books down the stair. Did 
 you think there was as mony in the world, Lettie?" 
 
 '• But they're no for reading," said Violet disconsolately, 
 •• for I tried them last night ; and I would rather have Mr. 
 Sim's library in the Cowcaddens." 
 
 '• Were there stories in it ? Eh Violet, do you think there's 
 ony fairy tales down the stair ? for I like them," said Katie 
 . Calder ; " but if I put on my new frock the day, it'll no be 
 clean on Sabbath to gang to the kirk." 
 
 " There's Rose down in the garden — and there's the old 
 man that Harry calls Dragon," cried Violet. " Come, Katie, 
 and see the Forth and our boat." 
 
 '- It's no so bonnie as our ain water at hame, and there's 
 nae brigs," said Katie, as she donned her new frock, and anx- 
 iously examined it. to see whether yesterday's journey had left 
 7
 
 146 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 any trace upon its bright folds ; for Katie was a thrifty little 
 woman, and knew that she had no other dress worthy of Al- 
 lenders. 
 
 It was still very early. Rose had newly left the house, 
 and now stood alone under the great shadow of the walnut 
 tree, looking up at the windows, beyond which the greater part 
 of the household were still asleep. She had left Martha in a 
 deep, quiet, dreamless slumber, which did not begin till the 
 sky was reddening over Demeyet ; and Rose, who had just 
 been congratulating herself on having a free unoccupied horn- 
 to think, stood now endeavouring, with some confusion, to re- 
 collect what it was she wanted to think about. Her mind 
 was in a tumult of sweet morning fancies, and the something 
 on which she resolved to meditate, eluded her, with many a 
 trick and wile, like a playful child. A slight wavering blush 
 came over her face, as now and then she seemed to catch a 
 glimpse of it for a moment ; but immediately it was lost again 
 among the thick-coming fancies of her stirred and wakening 
 mind ; yet strangely enough. Rose did not pass the library 
 window, nor seek the mall by the water-side. Not very long 
 ago, nothing could have interested her more than the river and 
 the hills beyond ; now she only threw herself down on the 
 lawn beneath the walnut tree, and leaning her head on her 
 hand, played with the grass on which her eyes were bent, and 
 mused and pondered with a downcast face. Sometimes in- 
 deed, her eyes were closed, and even when she opened them 
 the dreamer saw nothing of Allenders. No ; for she was 
 secretly making pictures which could not bear the eye of day, 
 much less the inspection of brother or sister; remembering,* 
 with such strange tenacity of recollection, what was done and 
 what was said, on yonder May evening in the garden at Ayr, 
 and in the gloom of the little parlour, and unconsciously creat- 
 ing other scenes like that, in which the same chief actor bore 
 the hero's part. 
 
 Rose ! Rose ! you would blush and start like guilt, did 
 any home voice at this moment call your name ; but the spell 
 of this dreaming clings to you like slumber, and you can no 
 more shake it off, than you could the sweet deep sleep which 
 last night surprised you against your will, and changed those 
 waking musings into the fantastic visions of the night ; and 
 your eyes grow heavy. Rose, while your heart wanders in this 
 maze, and a soft uncertainty steals over your fair pictures, 
 though with a sudden start, half of displeasure, you hear the
 
 HARRY MUIR. 147 
 
 steps of the cliildren hastening to join you, and give up your 
 maiden meditations with a sigh. 
 
 Behind the walnut tree, the poor old Dragon feebly bends 
 over the flower beds, plucking up here and there, witli an ef- 
 fort, a solitary weed, but oftenest looking idly towards Rose, 
 whom he would fain go and speak to, were not her preoccupa- 
 tion so evident. The great walnut waves its large fragrant 
 leaves in the soft morning-air between them, and the sun burns 
 in the gilded spear on the turret, and the broad light clothes 
 the whole country like a garment. Strongly contrasted in this 
 framework of summer life about them, are the two human 
 creatures who complete the picture. The girl lingering on the 
 threshold of a fair life unknown to her, and peopling all its 
 fairy world with scenes which thrill her to a half-conscious 
 joy ; the old man in the torpor of great age, vacantly admir- 
 ing her fresh youth, and with a strange, dim curiosity about 
 her, who she is, and what she would say if he addressed her. 
 To him a long life has passed like a dream, and appears in a 
 mist to his memory, as in a mist it appears to her imagination ; 
 but the time is long past when anything could find out the 
 old faint beating heart of Adam Comrie, to thrill it with emo- 
 tion. His curiosities, his likings, his thoughts, have all be- 
 come vague as a child's : but they lie on the surface, and never 
 move him, as a child's fancies do. 
 
 '• See how the old man looks at Rose," whispered Katie 
 Calder ; " but she doesna see him yet ; and Violet, look at her. 
 She's bonnie." 
 
 '' But what way is she sitting there? " said Violet, wonder- 
 ingly, '■ when she might be at the water-side. She's thinking 
 about Harry; but what needs folk think about Harry now? 
 Harry is in his bed and sleeping, Rose ; but, oh ! I see — you 
 were not thinking about him after all." 
 
 Rose started with a vivid blush. No, indeed, she had not 
 been thinking of Harry ; it sounded like an accusation. 
 
 '• And you'll be yon birkie's Lady Rose ? " said the Dragon, 
 coming forward. " Aweel, I wadna say but he thought ye bon- 
 nier than my white bush ; but they didna howk up the rose 
 either ; that's ae comfort — though nae thanks to him, nor to 
 this lad, Mr. Hairy, that took his counsel. What do they ca' 
 this little bairn ? " 
 
 " My name's Violet," said Lettie, with dignity. 
 
 '• There was a Miss Violet in the last family ; but she 
 would have made six o' that bit creature," said the old ser- 
 vant. '"What wav are ye a' sac woo? "
 
 148 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Eh ! Lettie's a head higher than me ! " exclaimed Katie 
 Calder in amazement. 
 
 " Are you gaun to be married upon yon birkie now, if ane 
 might speer? " asked the feeble Dragon. " I've lived about 
 this house sixty year, but there hasna been a wedding a' that 
 time ; and now how I'm to do wi' young wives and weans I 
 canna tell. The last Allenders had a wife ance, folk say, but 
 I never mind of her. He was ninety year auld when he died, 
 and lived a widow three score years and five. I'm eighty my- 
 sel, and I never was married. It's aye best to get ower the 
 like o' that when folk's young ; but you're just a lassie yet ; 
 you should wait awhile, and be sicker ; and yon birkie has nae 
 reverence for the constitution. I'm an awfu' guid hand for 
 judging a man, and I ken as muckle by what he said about 
 the windows." 
 
 "Eh, Rose, is't Mr. Charteris that's the birkie ?" cried 
 Violet, with extreme interest. 
 
 But Rose had risen from the grass, and now leaned upon 
 the walnut tree, vainly trying to look serious and indifferent. 
 This face which had been eluding her dreams so long, looked 
 in gravely now upon her heart ; and Rose trembled and blush- 
 ed, and could not speak, but had a strong inclination to run 
 away somewhere under cover of the leaves, and weep a few 
 tears out of her dazzled eyes, and soothe her heart into calm- 
 er beating. The old man chuckled once more in childish ex- 
 ultation. 
 
 " I'll no tell — ye may trust me — and if ye'll come in 
 ower, I'll let you see the white rose-bush that garred yon 
 birkie name ye to me. Whaur are ye for, you little anes? 
 is't the boat the bairns want ? I'm saying ! — I'll no hae ony 
 o' you drowning yoursels in the water : and I gie you fair 
 warning, if you should fa' in twenty times in a day, I'm no 
 gaun to risk life and limb getting ye out again — it doesna 
 stand to reason that a wean's life should be as valuable to this 
 witless world as the life of an aged man. And I've had 
 muckle experience in my day — muckle experience, Miss Rose ; 
 and aye glad to communicate, as the Apostle bids, and ready 
 to give counsel, wi' nae mair pride than if I had seen but ae 
 score o' years instead of four. It's a great age." 
 
 " And do they call you Dragon ? " asked Violet, shyly. 
 
 " That's what they ca' me ; for I've lang keepit Allenders, 
 and been a carefu' man of a' in it, from the master himsel to 
 the berry bushes ; but m}' right name is Edom Comrie, if
 
 HARRY MUIR. 149 
 
 onybocly likes to be so civil as ca' me that. I'm saying, wee 
 Missie, do ye think I could carry ye ? but I'm no so strong as 
 I was forty year ago." 
 
 '' You could carry little Harry ; but I can rin, and so can 
 Katie Calder." said Violet. 
 
 "Wha's Katie Calder?" 
 
 "It's me." answered the little stranger; "and I'm Lettic 
 Muir's third cousin ; and I'm to stay at Allenders, and no to 
 go back to Miss Jean any more." 
 
 '• Weel, ye maun baith be guid bairns. I like guid bairns 
 mysel," said the old man ; " and ye can just come to me when 
 ye want a piece scone or a wheen berries, and there's nae fears 
 o' ye ; and I'll aye gie them an advice, Miss Rose, and ^lind 
 them of their duty. Ye needna be feared but I'll do grand 
 with the bairns." 
 
 •• Do you live in the house ? " asSed Rose, a little timidly, 
 for she was somewhat alarmed at the second sight of the poor 
 old Dragon. 
 
 '• That minds me ye havena seen my room," said Dragon, 
 briskly. " Come your ways round — aye, I just live in Al- 
 lenders — and gie me a baud o' your hands, bairns, and Miss 
 Rose will come after us, and ye'll get a sight of my house." 
 
 So the soft warm childish hands, glided into the withered 
 fingers of the old man, and Rose followed, passing by the lux- 
 uriant white rose-bush, now blooming in the full flush of its 
 snowy flowers under the new window of the dining-room, into 
 a little court-yard behind where was the stable and byre, and 
 where Mysie, the Dragon's grand-niece, was just then milking 
 the cow. This great temptation, Violet and Katie withstood 
 womanfully, and passing the milk-pail and the active hands 
 which filled it. with an efi'ort, looked round somewhat impa- 
 tiently for the Dragon's den. 
 
 "Ye maun come up here," said the old man, " ane at a 
 time — ane at a time — and if ye're light-headed, take a grip 
 o' the wa', for folk are whiles dizzy on an outside stair ; and 
 now here you see I have like a wee house all to mysel." 
 
 The " outside stair "was very narrow and much worn ; it 
 was evident it had undergone no repair in all Harry's labours, 
 and Rose was fain to grasp herself at a withered branch of 
 ivy which still clung to the wall, though life and sap had long 
 departed from it, to secure her own safe passage upwards, and 
 to stretch out her arm on the other side in terror for the 
 children. Adam Comrie's room was only the loft over the
 
 150 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 stable, a square low place, with bare rafters and a sky-ligbt in 
 the roof ; but Adam's bed was in one corner, and on a little 
 table, immediately under the window, stood a bowl, ready for 
 Adam's porridge, and the little round pot in which he made 
 it, was beside his little fire. 
 
 " For ye see when it behooved me to live a'thegether at 
 Allenders, the auld maister caused build me a bit grate into the 
 wall. I was a young lad then, and might have taken my 
 meat in the kitchen with Eppie, but I aye was of an independ- 
 ent kind, and [ had mair faith in my ain parritch and kail 
 than in onybody else's ; so I came to be a constant residenter 
 here ; and there's the Lady's Well no a dizzen yards from the 
 stair fit, and the kitchen very near hand. Do ye like stories? 
 Weel, I'll tell ye some day the story o' the Lady's Well." 
 
 "Eh, Dragon, is't a .fairy tale?" asked Katie Calder, 
 with wide-open eyes. 
 
 " Naebody can tell that ; but I have plenty of fairy tales," 
 said the old man. " Ye see, it was in the auld times, maybe 
 twa hundred year ago, or mair siller, that the Laird of Allen- 
 ders had a yeung daughter, and her name was — aye, Miss 
 Rose, that's my meal ark — it doesna baud muckle aboon a 
 peck at a time ; and here's where I keep my bannocks, and I 
 have a wee kettle and a pickle tea and sugar there ; and for 
 the greens I have just to gang down to the garden and cut 
 them, nae leave asked, and my drap milk brought regular to 
 the very door. Ye see I'm weel off, and I'm ready to own it 
 and be thankful, instead of graneing forever like some folk — 
 for I'm real comfortable here." 
 
 " And have you no friends ? " asked Rose. 
 
 " Weel, there's Mysie down there, milking the cow, and 
 there's her father, my sister's son. Eh, to see the ill the warld 
 and a family do to a man ! for there's that lad G-eordie Paxton, 
 no fifty year auld, and he's a mair aged man than me — ' for 
 such shall have sorrow in the flesh,' the Apostle says ; and 
 never being married mysel, ye see, and keeping up nae troke 
 wi' far-off kin, that's a' the friends, except a cousin, here and 
 there, that I hae." 
 
 " And does naebody ever come to see you ? " asked Katie. 
 
 " No a creature — wha should mind me, a silly auld man? " 
 answered the Dragon, with a momentary pathos in his tone. 
 " And I couldna be fashed wi' strangers either, and you see I 
 hae a 'thing within mysel, milk and meal, board and bed, sae 
 that I'm nae ways dependent on either fremd-folk or friends ;
 
 HARRY MUIR. 151 
 
 but ye may speak for me if you like, Miss Rose, to Mr. Hairy 
 for a book whiles. There's grand, solid books yonder of the 
 auld maister's, and there's ane or twa that I found out no lang 
 syne that wadna do for the like of you — I wouldna consent to 
 lead away the young wi' them ; but they do weel enough to 
 divert an auld man that has experience of the world, and kens 
 guid from evil ; and I'll promise faithful to burn every word 
 o' them when I've ta'en the divert mysel. Here's ane, ye see. 
 I wadna let you read it, and you a young lassie ; but ye may 
 look at its name." 
 
 And looking, Rose discovered in the charred bundle of 
 leaves which lay on the old man's hob, and lighted his fire, a 
 torn " Vicar of Wakefield." 
 
 "Eh, I've read that ! " said Violet, under her breath ; and 
 Violet looked on with horror as if at a human sacrifice. 
 
 " Every morning, when I take a page for my light, I read 
 it first," said the Dragon, chuckling ; " there's that muckle 
 diversion in't ; but it's no for you — it's no for the like of you." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Neither a borrower nor a lender be. 
 For borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
 Hamlkt. 
 
 " Harry, my man, you must be canny with the siller," said 
 Uncle Sandy. " It's a snare to the feet of many — and mind, 
 this fortune brings such a change in your case, that there is a 
 danger of you thinking it greater than it is." 
 
 " No fear, uncle," said Harry, pausing in his new land-pro- 
 prietor mood to cut down a thistle with a swinging blow of his 
 cane. " No fear, I say. I'll live up to my income, but then 
 that is perfectly legitimate, for the estate does not die with 
 me. Just now. of course, there are a number of expenses 
 which never will be renewed in my time — all this improve- 
 ment and furnishing — and that may straighten me for a year, 
 perhaps — but then I expected that ; and I don't want to hoard 
 and lay up money, uncle." 
 
 '• Nor would I want that, Harry," said the old man ; '' far 
 from it — but mind —
 
 152 ' HARRY MUIR. 
 
 'No for to hide it in a hedge. 
 
 Nor for a train attendant, 
 But for the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent.' 
 
 I am not a man to blaw about independence, Harry ; and even 
 Robert Burns himself, poor man, speaks of his aiu in a way 
 that pleases me little — but it's a grand thing to feel that 
 you're standing on your ain feet, and no leaning on a prop 
 that may be drawn away itself and ruin you. I am not the 
 right person to give you counsel either, Harry, for I ken little 
 about the affairs of the world, how they work, or what's the 
 wisest way — only I'm an auld man, and have had my ain 
 thoughts; be canny, Harry, with the siller." 
 
 " Yes, yes, no fear," repeated Harry, a little impatiently; 
 " there is one thing I thought of speaking to you about, nncle. 
 They tell me that if I took William Hunter's farm into my 
 own hands, and cultivated it in the scientific way — I could 
 employ a man to manage that, you know — I might double its 
 value. Now in the estate of Allenders, there's this Mr. Hun- 
 ter's farm, which he pays two hundred pounds for, and a Mr. 
 Sinclair has a much less one for a hundred and fift}^, and there's 
 a house I'll show you between this and Stirling, with twenty 
 acres attached to it, that pays me fifty pounds — and the rest 
 of the property is made up of some houses in Stirling, and the 
 half of the village down here. So you see there is part of my 
 income dependent on the chance of these houses letting well. 
 They are all right just now, but one can never depend on that, 
 and Mr. Hunter's lease is out. He does not wish to renew 
 it himself, and though I have several offers for the farm, I 
 have a great mind to keep it in my own hands. I think such 
 an occupation as that is the very thing for me ; but then, I've 
 no capital." 
 
 '• Ay Harry, ay Harry," said bis uncle with eager interest, 
 " are you thinking already about occupation for the leisure 
 that God has given you ? I like that — it gives me good heart ; 
 and, Harry, my man, just look at that grand country. I ken 
 no pleasure greater than working on it, and bringing out the 
 wealth that is home-born and in the soil, better than your 
 merchandising, Harry," and the old man heartily shook his 
 nephew's hand. 
 
 " Yes, uncle ; but the capital," said Harry. 
 
 '•I thought there was something to the fore — something 
 in the bank to begin you with? ay, yes — I did not mind, you
 
 HARRY MUIR. 153 
 
 have spent that in the house ; hut, Harry, I have nothing 
 myself, but two hundred pounds, and I wanted, if it were 
 God's will, to leave some bit present to the bairns when I was 
 gone ; besides two hundred pounds could do little for you, 
 Harry." 
 
 '•Nothing at all," said Harry quickly; "but I have a 
 plan you might help me in. How much money will Miss 
 Jean have, uncle ? " 
 
 •' Jean Calder? — na, na, Harry," said the old man, shak- 
 ing his head. " I would not with my will, speak ill or judge 
 unkindly of any mortal, but charity — I am meaning the free 
 heart and kind thought — is not in her. Did you no hear the 
 fight we had to get your papers from her? No, Harry; I'm 
 sorry to damp you. She may have a thousand pounds, may- 
 be. As much as that I warrant ; but you'll make nothing of 
 Miss Jean." 
 
 •' A thousand pounds ! My plan, uncle, is to offer her bet- 
 ter interest than she could get elsewhere," said Harry. " As 
 for her kindness, I should never think of that ; and I would 
 not ask it. because I was her brother's grandson, but because 
 I could offer her so much per cent. ; that's the way. Now a 
 thousand pounds from Miss Jean would make these lands 
 bear other crops than this — look, uncle." 
 
 They were standing at the corner of a field of thin and 
 scanty corn. The long ears bent upon the breeze, like so 
 many tall attenuated striplings ; and their chill green con- 
 trasted unpleasantly with the rich brown tint which began to 
 ripen over a full, rustling, wholesome field on the other side 
 of the way. 
 
 '• It's a poor crop," said Uncle Sandy, meditatingly ; " it's 
 like the well doings of a cauld heart — it wants the good-will to 
 grow. But Jean Calder, Harry — Jean Calder help any man ! 
 Well, Providence may soften her heart ; but it is not in her 
 nature." 
 
 '• She will give the money for her own profit," said Harry ; 
 " no fear. I will consult Mr. Lindsay, and we can offer her 
 good interest. Then you see, uncle, the advantage of it is, 
 that we are her rightful heirs, and she is a very old woman 
 now." 
 
 " Whisht, Harry; let me never hear the like of this again," 
 
 said his uncle, gravely ; " you are a young man now. but God 
 
 may keep you to be an old one. Never you reckon on the 
 
 ending of a life, that it is in God's hand to spare or take away, 
 
 7*
 
 154 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 and never grudge the air of this living world — such as it is, 
 ■we aye desire to breathe it lang ourselves — to one that He 
 keeps in it day by day. nourishing the auld worn-out heart 
 with breath and motion, for good ends of His ain. And, 
 Harry, this money is the woman's life — I could not think of 
 the chance of its perishing without pain and trouble, for it 
 would be a dreadful loss to her — like the loss of a bairn." 
 
 '• Well, well, uncle, no chance of its being lost," said Har- 
 ry, somewhat fretfully ; " but will you speak to her when you 
 go back to Ayr ? will you undertake to negociate this for me ? 
 I know she trusts you." 
 
 '' She trusts me just as other folk do, who have kent me tell 
 few lies all my lifetime," said Uncle Sandy, " but as for more 
 than this. Harry, Jean Calder trusts no man. Well, I'll tell 
 her — I would not choose the office, but since you ask me, I'll 
 tell her, Harry, and put it before her in the best way I can. 
 That you should have occupation, is a good thought ; and it's 
 well too to increase your substance — well, my man, well ; but 
 you'll need to be eident, and keep an eye yourself on every 
 thing — and even, Harry, you'll need to learn." 
 
 '' Oh, yes, I'll learn," said Harry, " but the money, uncle, 
 is the important thing — there will be little difficulty with the 
 rest." 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 " Have more regard to the difficulties, Harry — if you do 
 so, you'll overcome them better ; for mind ye, siller is some- 
 times maister, but he's easier to subdue and put your foot 
 upon, than such things as heart, and mind, and conscience. 
 Harry, be canny; God sometimes appoints us a hard school 
 when we are slow of the uptake in an easy one. But you 
 need not gloom — auld men get license of advising, and ye 
 mind how the cottar ' mixes a' with admonition due.' " 
 
 " Yes," said Harry, laughing, " I am fated to have coun- 
 sellors — for yonder is our old Dragon who has no objection to 
 give me the benefit of his experience too." 
 
 Alexander Muir slightly erected his white head with a 
 single throb of injured feeling ; for with all his natural and 
 gracious humility, he did not choose to come down to the level 
 of the poor old Dragon of AUenders ; but when a considerable 
 silence followed, and Harry walking by his side with a sullen 
 gloom contracting the lines of his face, made violent dashes 
 now and then at groups of frightened poppies, or at the lordly 
 resistant thistle, the old man was the first to speak — for his
 
 HARRY MUIR. 155 
 
 anxious friends could not venture to offend this indulged and 
 wayward Harry. 
 
 " Tlie rough bin* thistle spreading wide 
 Amang the bearded bear — " 
 
 said the old man, quietly ; " aye, Harry, my man, there were 
 fine thoughts in that grand castaway ; and a sore thing it is 
 to see how little great gifts avail, and what shipwrecks folk 
 may make with them — if this were any thing but the avenue 
 and porch of the great lifetime, which we forget so easy ! I've 
 been of little use myself, Harry, in my day and generation — 
 little use but to comfort the hearts of bairns, and give them 
 now and then an hour's sunshine and pleasance — but you're 
 better gifted both in mind and estate than I ever was. I make 
 ye my depute, Harry, to do better service to God and man 
 than me." 
 
 Oh, gentle, righteous heart ! a sudden impulse of humility 
 and tenderness came upon Harry Muir's impressible spirit. 
 Better service ! yet this old man seemed to have lived for no 
 other conscious end, than the service of God and man. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 You follow the young prince up and down like his evi' angel. 
 
 King Henkt IV. 
 
 " Eh, Harry, here's a gentleman coming," said Violet, as she 
 sat on the floor at the western window of the drawing-room 
 with a book on her lap. Katie Calder kneeling beside her, 
 was looking from the window, and making a superb cat's cra- 
 dle on her fingers. It was evening, and lessons and work 
 alike concluded, the children chose each her own manner of 
 amusement, until tea should be over, and leave them free for 
 their out-door ramble. But it was Katie's observation which 
 discovered the gentleman, though Violet was by no means in- 
 curious, when the discovery was communicated to her. 
 
 '• Oh !" said Harry, turning from the window with a slight 
 flush on his face, " it's Gibbie Allenders — I might as well see 
 him alone — but that would hurt his feelings. Mind he's quite 
 a foolish fellow."
 
 156 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 This speech was addressed to no one in particular, but 
 Harry looked annoyed and restless, and they all perceived it. 
 Gilbert Allenders, indeed, was a kind of ghost to Harry ; for 
 already an intimacy which disgusted his finer raindj but which 
 he seemed to have no power to struggle against, had sprung 
 up between them, and Gilbert never failed by jibe or mali- 
 cious allusion, every time they met, to remind his new kinsman 
 under what circumstances they first saw each other. Poor 
 Harry ! his earliest error here haunted him perpetually — he 
 could not shake its consequences off. 
 
 " Has he got his smoking-room fitted up yet, Mrs. Muir 
 Allenders," asked Gilbert, after the ceremonies of his intro- 
 duction — though he had seen Agnes before — were over. " Has 
 Harry not begun to retreat into a den of his own yet? Ah, 
 you don't know how we young fellows do in these respects — and 
 really Allenders has shown so much good taste in the other 
 parts of the house, that I am quite anxious to see the den — 
 I've seen a collection of pipes in a German student's room, 
 that would astonish all Scotland to match — Bursch as they 
 call themselves — horrid language that German — but I never 
 could manage the coarse gutturals." 
 
 " We have plenty in our own tongue." said Uncle Sandy, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Ah, Scotch — gone out of date. Sir, out of date — civilized 
 people forget that there ever was such a jargon. I say, Harry, 
 wasn't that fine, that song Simson gave us the first night I 
 saw you — magnificent — I didn't know Allenders then, Miss 
 Muir. quite a chance meeting, was it not extraordinary ? and 
 I think the first night he was in Stirling too — wasn't it, 
 Harry?" 
 
 Harry cast a guilty angry look round the room ; Martha 
 started in her chair, Agnes glanced up uneasily ; and Uncle 
 Sandy involuntarily shook his head ; but Rose, happy Kose, 
 heard nothing of it all, for with her eyelids drooping in a 
 pleasant heaviness, she was dreaming out her dream — and 
 though it was herself whom Gilbert addressed as Miss Muir, 
 Rose remained peacefully ignorant of all he said. 
 
 " And there's your friend, that lawyer fellow — your busi- 
 ness man, I suppose, Allenders — he wasn't with you ; a couple 
 of slow chaps, that advocate and him," continued the sapient 
 Mr. Gilbert. " I wouldn't give two-pence for such society. 
 If they're not as flat as the canal and as slow as a heavy boat, 
 I'm no judge."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 15*7 
 
 " It happens that we are all iudebted to Mr. Charteris, 
 and that he is a friend of ours." said Martha quickly, " I be- 
 lieve Harry is proud to call him so." 
 
 •• And I am sure I never met a pleasanter man," stole in 
 Agnes. 
 
 And the eyes of Rose gleamed positive lightning upon 
 the redoubtable Gilbert. But Rose, though she ventured upon 
 a little short prefatory cough, said nothing. 
 
 •' By the-bye," said Harry hurriedly, " you have not seen 
 the grounds, Allenders ; come and give me your opinion of 
 them"" 
 
 " Delighted if the ladies will accompany us," said Mr. Gil- 
 bert ; " otherwise, Harry, I am much obliged, but can't be de- 
 tached from such fair company." And Gilbert returned with a 
 glance of very unequivocal admiration, the indignant flash of 
 Rose's eye. 
 
 A pause of general disconcertment followed ; irritated and 
 defiant, Harry tossed about the books upon a little table near 
 him, and moodily evaded the looks which sought his face. 
 Mr. Gilbert Allenders, the only person present at ease, pulled 
 up his high collar, and settled his long chin comfortably upon 
 .his stock, while Agnes, in a little flutter of anxious depreca- 
 tion and peace-making, began to move among her cups and 
 saucers, and to prepare tea. 
 
 " We have never had the pleasure of seeing you in Stir- 
 ling yet, Miss Muir," said Gilbert, turning his back upon Mar- 
 tha, and addressing himself with great demonstration to Rose. 
 '• Haven't you had my sisters out, calling ? I thought so. 
 They're nice girls enough, considering they've been always in 
 the country. Ah, there's nothing like a season or two in 
 London for polishing up a man." 
 
 " Have you been in Loudon, Mr. Allenders ?" asked Ag- 
 nes. 
 
 '• Yes, three or four years ; but I'm not quite a good speci- 
 men," said Mr. Gilbert, modestly, " for I was at work all the 
 time, studying very hard — oh ! very hard ; " and the painful 
 student laughed loudly at his own boast of industry. " I say, 
 Harry, Leith races come on next month — you'll go with us, 
 won't you ? there's Simson and Allan and me ; I said you 
 would be sure to come." 
 
 " I don't care a straw for Leith races," said Harry, rudely; 
 but notwithstanding he raised his head, and looked by no 
 means so indifferent as he spoke.
 
 158 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Care ! who said anybody cared ? " answered Gilbert : 
 " One must go to lots of places one doesn't care a straw for — 
 it becomes a duty to society. I'll undertake to say you'll 
 come, Harry. We needn't be more than a couple of days 
 away, and the ladies won't miss you. Permit me, Miss 
 Muir." 
 
 And Gilbert, politely shutting out Martha and her uncle 
 from sight of the tea-table with his long loose person and his 
 easy chair, elaborately waited upon Rose, and devoted himself 
 to her in a laborious attempt at conversation ; but it is very 
 hard to make a conversation where one of the interlocutors 
 says only "Yes" and '• No," and those with anything but 
 good will ; so Gilbert took in Agnes as a partaker of his at- 
 tentions, and talked so fine, and intimated so many festivities 
 to come when the summer should be over, that the little wife 
 grew interested in spite of herself, and wondered (for Agnes 
 had been very " strictly " brought up) whether it would be 
 proper and decorous for her, a matron and house-mother, 
 twenty years old, to go to a ball. Martha, behind backs, sat 
 quietly at her work, and said nothing ; while Uncle Sandy 
 looked on with a slight expression of displeasure and offence. 
 The old man had a sensitive perception of ill manners, and by 
 no means liked them to be applied to himself But Martha 
 was not offended by the neglect of Gilbert Allenders. 
 
 After tea, Harry — who had remained very moody and ab- 
 stracted, except for a few minutes when he, too, kindled at 
 those descriptions of local party-giving — proposed a walk in 
 the grounds, where Agnes willingly, and Kose with great re- 
 luctance, were persuaded to accompany them. Rose was very 
 innocent of flirtation — circumstances had guarded her, and 
 kept from her both temptation and opportunity — so that, fully 
 freighted with her present dreams, there could have been 
 nothing less pleasant to Rose than to walk slowly along the 
 mall, under the over-arching foliage, leaning upon the arm of 
 Mr. Gilbert Allenders. And Mr. Gilbert Allenders was bur- 
 dened with no delicacy. He kept steadily behind Harry and 
 Agnes, he lingered in quiet places, he spoke tender sentimen- 
 talities, he quizzed the young ladies of Stirling, he insinuated 
 his perfect conviction of the extreme superiority of Miss Rose 
 Muir ; but no amount of proof could have persuaded Gilbert 
 of a tenth part of the disgust and dislike with which Rose 
 Muir listened. She was very near telling him so several 
 times, and begging rather to hear the rude jokes than the
 
 HARRY MUIR. 159 
 
 mawkish sentiment. But Rose was shy, and her safest refuge 
 was in silence. 
 
 '• What has Harr}^ to do with such a man as that? " said 
 Uncle Sandy. •' Martha, I doubt this fortune is to have its 
 dangers, as great as the poverty." 
 
 " Ay, uncle." Martha had seen enough, after a week at 
 Allenders, to convince her of that. 
 
 "And he's taken with Rose." said the old man. "You 
 were feared for Mr. Charteris, Martha ; but there's more rea- 
 son here." 
 
 " No reason, uncle, no reason," was the quiet answer. 
 '• He may harm Harry, but Rose is very safe." 
 
 " So she is, it is true," said the uncle. " Ay, and the man 
 that would do no harm to Harry might harm the free heart 
 that clings by nature to things that are true and of good re- 
 port. God preserve these bairns ! If such a thing were hap- 
 pening as that Rose was to marry, I think, Martha, my wo- 
 man, you should come cannily hame to me." 
 
 A long time after, when both of them had relapsed into 
 thoughtful silence, Martha answered : 
 
 '• May be, uncle — it might be best ; but many things must 
 come and go between this time and that." 
 
 '• Harry has been speaking to me about a project he has," 
 said the old man, '• about farming and borrowing siller. Has 
 he told you, Martha?" 
 
 " Ay, uncle." 
 
 " And you think well of it? " 
 
 " An occupation is always good," said Martha. " I am 
 doubtful and anxious about his plans for getting money, but 
 the work should do him service ; and Harry has begun on a 
 great scale here, uncle. It is impossible he can go on so on 
 his present income, and he will rather increase than diminish 
 — he is always so confident. So I should be glad to think he 
 had a chance of improving the property. I thought it a great 
 fortune a month ago. It does not look so inexhaustible 
 now.'' 
 
 " Well, as the money would come to you at any rate in the 
 ordinary course of nature," said the old man, hesitating; "and 
 as there is aye the land to fall back upon, no to speak of my 
 two hundred pounds, I think I may venture to speak to Miss 
 Jean whenever I get back to Ayr." 
 
 " Miss Jean ! Does Harry mean to ask her for the money ? " 
 asked Martha.
 
 160 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " What think ye of it ? She is far from a likely person, 
 but he means to offer her higher interest, he says, than any- 
 body else. What think ye of it, Martha? for I am only 
 doubtful myself," said the old man, anxiously. 
 
 But Murtha only shook her head. " Do it, if Harry asks 
 you, uncle — do it. I have given up advising now. He must 
 be left alone." 
 
 And Harry, to his great wonder, and with a strange mix- 
 ture of irritation and pleasure, found himself left alone — suf- 
 fered, without remonstrance or check, to follow entirely the 
 counsel of his own will. Good little Agnes had great trust in 
 what Harry said about economy and prudence, and trium- 
 phantly pointed out to Martha those resolutions of sublime virtue ' 
 with which every piece of practical extravagance was prefaced ; 
 and Martha listened with a grave smile, and never suggested 
 doubt to the simple heart, which, for itself, saw the most inex- 
 haustible fortune in those much spoken of '• rents," and never 
 dreaded now the old familiar evils of poverty. 
 
 Martha descended from her mother's place among them. 
 She stood aside, as she felt was meet, and suffered the young 
 husband and the young wife to take their lawful place, free of 
 all interference of hers. She herself now was only guardian to 
 Rose and Violet, domestic helper of Mrs. Agnes — Harry 
 Muir's quiet elder sister,. living in his house, a member of his 
 family ; and Martha's natural pride took a secret unconscious 
 delight in bowing itself to this voluntary humility. She soon 
 began to be neglected, too, for the strangers who visited the 
 young household did not feel that the eldest and least attrac- 
 tive member of it had any such claim on their attention as the 
 pretty, girlish wife, or the graceful sister Rose. So Martha 
 dwelt more and more in her own room, always working, and 
 watching the shadows on Demeyet for her hourly relaxation. 
 These shadows going and coming, and the soft wind rustling 
 in the leaves, and the water continually passing by, and gleam- 
 ing out and in among the shadowing foliage, were delights to her 
 in her solitude. So were the children, when they drew her out 
 to walk between them by the waterside, or when they sat at 
 her feet, and retailed to her the stories of Dragon ; and so 
 were Harry's good spirits, his constant occupation, his very in- 
 frequent lapses, and the sunny tone and atmosphere with which 
 the hopeful house was filled. Yet Martha was anxious for Rose, 
 whose dreams — sweet golden mists — were the first and only 
 thoughts which her young sister had never ventured to whis-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 161 
 
 per in her ear ; for the graver woman knew by true instinct, 
 though they had never visited her own experience, what these 
 youthful dreamings were, and always gave tenderly and quietly 
 the sympathy which the young moved heart came to seek of 
 her. when Rose leaned upon her shoulder in the summer nights, 
 and looked at the star twinkling about Demeyet, and sighed. 
 With her arm round the girl's waist, and both their faces 
 veiled in the gloom, Martha would sigh, too, and tell stories of 
 the old time that was past — gentle remembrances of the father 
 and mother, tales of Uncle Sandy, and of many a familiar name 
 in Ayr. And Rose smiled, and shed gentle tears, and asked 
 questions about those old humble romances, those dead sor- 
 rows, those softened and tranquil histories of common life, till 
 the dreams in her heart no longer oppressed her with their 
 shadowy enchantment, but floated away, leaving her only with 
 a deeper apprehension and sympathy ; and themselves came 
 back, when it was their time, freshened as with the evening 
 dews. Sometimes, while they were thus seated by the open 
 window, Martha leaning on it, and Rose on her, with sweet 
 sounds ascending — rustling of trees and water, far-off child- 
 voices of Violet and Katie, Martha would feel for a moment 
 — and as she felt it, her steady hand shook a little, and her 
 voice trembled — that this ready memory of hers, and the un- 
 conscious link which drew one story after another into her 
 remembrance, and from her lips, was a mark of the age which 
 began gradually to draw near. Age ! the time of repose, of 
 quietness, of peace ; in the day-time, when such a thought 
 struck her, the fiery heart within her chafed and rebelled : but 
 at night she only felt her eyelid moisten, and her heart swell. 
 Martha was wrong — age was not near ; but in spite of forebod- 
 ings and anxiety, this was a time of peace — a reposing time 
 wherein strength for the great conflict was to be gathered.
 
 162 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Three thousand ducats for three months, and 
 Antonio bound. 
 
 Mkrchant of Venice. 
 
 " The land is aye guid security," said Alexander Muir doubt- 
 fully to himself, as he slowly brushed his Sabbath-day's hat, 
 and glanced from the window to where one or two of his 
 younger visitors, carrying their work idly in their hands, 
 strayed with wistful looks past his strawberry beds. " There 
 are hungry e'en among these bairns, and what can we expect, 
 poor things ? I must promise them a lawful feast in the after- 
 noon, if they'll no pick any berries the time I'm away ; and 
 there's my two hundred pounds if it should come to the worst 
 — but two hundred's a far way off a thousand ; and the house 
 and the garden are worth but little siller, and to sell them 
 would break my heart. Well, I can aye see what Miss Jean 
 says ; and if all belonging to ye have done hard things for ye, 
 in their day, Harry, my man, this is no the least," 
 
 " Bairns," continued the old man from the window, " do ye 
 see yon strawberries yonder among the leaves ? I'll be out an 
 hour — you might have time to make an end of them if ye liked 
 — but I ken there is far mair honour among ye than the like 
 of that. Maggie, my dear, never you mind the rasps — they 
 can stand steady of themsels, and need no prop. Beatie, come 
 away from the strawberries like a good bairn." 
 
 " It's just a branch that's lying ower the border — somebo- 
 dy's sure to tramp on't," exclaimed Beatie. 
 
 " Never you mind, my woman, so it's not you that does it," 
 answered the old man. " Enter not into temptation — turn 
 your backs upon them like good bairns ; and if I see there's 
 good work done when I come back, ye shall have a table spread 
 out, and I'll tell Mrs. Tamson to send in some cream, and ye 
 shall gather the berries for yoursels." 
 
 One or two smiling faces looked up and nodded thanks, 
 and there was a very general quickening of needles ; but 
 Mary Burness, who had " cast out" with her " lad" the night 
 before, drooped her head pathetically and sighed. Poor Mary, 
 in her melancholy, had a soul above strawberries !
 
 HARRY MUIR. 163 
 
 Having delivered this his last message, and given to Jessie, 
 his little handmaiden, special directions to prepare for this 
 simple entertainment, Alexander Muir took his staff in his 
 hand, and set out solemnly to call upon Miss Jean. 
 
 He had left AUenders only the previous day, and had left 
 it in good spirits, giving Harry particular charge about the 
 *• schooling" of Violet and Katie, which the old man perceived 
 ran some risk of being neglected, at least by the heads of the 
 house. But Uncle Sandy had great hopes of Harry, and was 
 much interested about the occupation which Harry desired for 
 his leisure. Nevertheless, the old man walked slowly towards 
 the dwelling-place of Jean Calder. He needed to be a brave 
 man who should venture to ask money from her. 
 
 " Ou, ay, she's aye steering," said, discontentedly, the 
 woman who occupied the lower story of Miss Jean's house, 
 " weary tak her ! I have had nae peace o' my life since ye 
 took that little brat Katie away. She> fees my wee lassie wi' 
 ten shillings in the year to kindle her fire, and do a' her needs, 
 and expects me forbye to wash her claes into the bargain, as 
 if I hadna plenty to do wi' a man, and a muckle laddie, and a' 
 thae weans ! I wadna have let Aggie gang, but just I thought 
 five shillings — though it didna come till the end o' the half 
 year — couldna weel come amiss where there's aye sae muckle 
 to do wi't, and Aggie was just to gang up in the morning. 
 Instead of that it's Aggie here, Aggie there, the haill day 
 through ; and she never as muckle as says, have ye a mouth, 
 — except for that drap parritch in the morning, and sour milk." 
 
 " Poor woman ! site gets more ill than you," said the old 
 man, compassionately ; " but Aggie has mother and father to 
 look after her, and see she's no ill used ; whereas little Katie 
 had but a widow woman to look to, who couldna have another 
 mouth brought hame to her ; and that makes a great differ- 
 ence ; so now 111 go up the stair and see Miss Jean." 
 
 But the old man's heart almost failed him, as he paused at 
 the half-opened door. He had no opportunity of escape, how- 
 ever, for the sharp, anxious, miser-ear had heard the approach- 
 ing footstep ; and the shrill, quivering voice of Miss Jean 
 Calder demanded impatiently, " Wha's there ? " 
 
 '• It's me," said Alexander Muir, meekly. " If ye're well 
 enough, and your lane, I'll come in, Miss Jean." 
 
 " Aye, come in, and gie us the news," answered Miss Jean, 
 appearing at the kitchen-door in a thick muslin cap, with great 
 flaunting borders, borrowed from Aggie's indignant mother.
 
 164 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 The poor lean cheeks looked thinner and more gaunt than 
 usual within the wide full muslin wings which flaunted out 
 from them on either side ; and hot as this July day was, Miss 
 Jean had been sitting, with an old faded woollen shawl over 
 her shoulders, close by the fire. " Ye may come in, Sandy, 
 since it's you, and gie us the news — ^just inbye here. It's nae 
 guid standing on ceremony wi' auld friends like you. Come 
 inbye to the fire, Sandy Muir," said Miss Jean, graciously. 
 
 The old man entered the little kitchen with some trepida- 
 tion, though he hailed this singular courtesy as a good omen, 
 and was emboldened for his difiicult errand. 
 
 The kitchen was small, and hot, and stifling, for the July 
 sun, very imperfectly kept out by a torn curtain of checked 
 linen and a broken shutter, accomplished what Miss Jean's 
 penurious handful of fire scarcely could have done. A small 
 round deal table stood before the fire-place ; opposite to it was 
 the door of Miss Jean's -'concealed bed," which she closed in 
 passing : while between the fire-place and the window a wooden 
 "bunker," dirty and wounded, filled up all the wall. Miss 
 Jean herself sat by the fire-side in a high wooden elbow-chair, 
 furnished with one or two loose thin cushions, which scarcely 
 interposed the least degree of softness between the sharp cor- 
 ners of the chair, and the sharper corners of her poor worn, 
 angular frame. A little black teapot stood by the fire — for 
 thrift Miss Jean never emptied this teapot ; it always stood 
 baking there, and always had its scanty spoonful of new tea 
 added to the accumulation of half-boiled leaves, till it would 
 bear no further addition, and compelled a reluctant cleaning 
 out. 
 
 But on the top of Miss Jean's bunker, a strange contrast 
 to the penurious meanness of all her other arrangements, lay 
 a great ham, enveloped in greasy paper, and roasting slowly 
 in an atmosphere to which it was very little accustomed. A 
 certain look of recognition given by Uncle Sandy to this very 
 respectable edible, and an evident importance with which he 
 stood endowed in the eyes of Miss »Jean, explained how it 
 came here — a peace-ofi"ering from Allenders to the wealthy 
 miser. 
 
 '■ It was weel dune of ye, Sandy, to gar them mind the 
 auld wife — very weel dune ; and ane canna say what may 
 come o't. I'm no meaning in siller," added Miss Jean, hur- 
 riedly. " I wadna encourage a mercenary spirit — ye ken that 
 — but in guid will. Sandy — guid will ; and guid will's a grand
 
 HARRY MUIR. 165 
 
 thing amang relations ; and the ham's no ill eating. They 
 would get it cheap yonder away noo — far cheaper than the 
 like of you or me ? " 
 
 " You see." said Uncle Sandy — with elaborate skill, as he 
 thought, good simple heart, " ihey would have nana but the 
 very finest, it being for you, Miss Jean, and so I cannot un- 
 dertake to say it was cheap — when ye get the best of anything, 
 it's seldom to call cheap." 
 
 '• YeVe a grand man to learn me, Sandy Muir," said Miss 
 Jean, with a laugh of derision. " Me, that have been a care- 
 ful woman a' my days, never gieing a penny mair for onything 
 than what it was worth to me. I've heard the like of you, 
 that pretend to be philosophers, arguing against ane, when 
 ane wanted to prig down a thing honestly, that what was ask- 
 ed was naething mair than the thing's absolute worth. But 
 what have I to do wi' absolute worth? What is't worth to 
 mc ? That's my wisdom, Sandy Muir ; and to hear you. that 
 everybody kens has just had as little discernment as a bairn, 
 and been imposed on by the haill town, telling me what's 
 cheap and what's dear ! I reckon if Solomon had been here, 
 he would have found out at last the new thing that he took 
 sic bother about, honest man." 
 
 '• Weel, Miss Jean, I may have been imposed on — I'll no 
 say," said the old man, looking slightly displeased. " Most 
 folk have, one time or another ; but you're no asking what 
 kind of a place they've gotten, nor about the bairns themsels." 
 
 " Ye'll think yoursel up the brae, Sandy," said Miss Jean, 
 " uncle, nae less, to a laird ; but I'm less heeding, I'm thank- 
 ful, of the vanities of this warld. Is't a' guid brown earth the 
 lad's siller comes from, or is't siller in the bank, or what is 
 it ? But you needna tell me about their grand claes and their 
 braw house, for my mind's a different kind of mind from 
 that." 
 
 '• It's a' guid brown earth, as you say, Miss Jean," said 
 the old man, eagerly seizing this opening to begin his attack; 
 " that is, a' but some houses ; and Harry, like a thrifty man, 
 is giving his attention to the land, and says, with good work, 
 it could be made twice as profitable. You will be glad to 
 hear of that. Miss Jean." 
 
 '• I would be glad to hear it, if I didna ken that nae profit 
 in this world would ever make yon wasteful callant thrifty," 
 said the old woman, leaning back in her chair, and pressing 
 the great borders of her cap close to her face with two dingy,
 
 166 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 shrivelled hands. " Do ye think I dinna ken as weel as you 
 that he's gaen and gotten a grand house, and deckit out yon 
 bit doll o' his as fine in ribbons and satins, as if she were a 
 countess ? Na, Sandy, I'll no gie up my discrimination. 
 Harry Muir will come to want yet, or you may ca' me a lee." 
 
 " No fears of Harry Muir," said the old man warmly. " I 
 have myself, as I was just telling him, two hundred pounds 
 of my ain, besides the garden and the house, and I'll come to 
 want mysel', I am well assured of that, before want touches 
 Harry Muir — but that's no the question ; you see he could 
 double his incoming siller in the year, if he could do justice 
 to this farm ; and the auld farmer, a Mr. Hunter, a very decent 
 sponsible man, acknowledged the same thing to me, but said 
 he was too old to learn himsel'." 
 
 " Twa hundred pounds ! do you mean to say that yoiCre 
 twa hundred pounds afore the world, Sandy ?" said Miss Jean. 
 " Man, I didna think you had sae muckle in ye ! — but take 
 you care, Sandy Muir, my man — take you care of the mam- 
 mon of unrighteousness — it's a fickle thing to baud it sicker 
 enough, and no to baud it ower fast." 
 
 And as she spoke, a slight twitch passed over the hard 
 muscles of her face ; yet she spoke unconsciously, and had not 
 the remotest idea that she condemned herself. 
 
 "And what would be your counsel. Miss Jean?" said 
 Uncle Sandy, not without a little tremor. " It would cost 
 siller at first, you see, to work upon this farm ; but no doubt 
 it's sure to answer, being just like sowing seed, which is lost 
 for a time, but in spring is found again in the green ear and 
 blade. The lad is anxious to be well advised, and no begin 
 without good consideration ; so what would you say ? " 
 
 " I'll tell ye what I would say, Sandy Muir," said the 
 miser, spreading back her muslin wings, and leaning forward 
 to him, with them projecting from her face on either side, and 
 her dingy hands supporting her sharp chin ; " I would say 
 that a penny saved was as guid as tippence made ; and that 
 he should begin now, at the beginning of his time, and lay by 
 and spare, and when he's an auld man like you, he'll hae a 
 better fortin than he'll ever get out of the land. That's my 
 counsel, and that's the way I've done mysel ; and if he makes 
 as guid an end o' his life as I've done o' mine, I'll let you ca' 
 him a thrifty man." 
 
 " We'll nane of us be here to call him so." said Uncle 
 Sandy, " we'll baith be in a place where gathered siller is
 
 TTARRY MUm. 16Y 
 
 an unthrifty provision. Wliiles I think upon that, Miss 
 Jean.'' 
 
 " Ou, ay, the like of j'ou are aye thinking upon that," said 
 the old woman with fiery eyes ; '* but I tell ye I'm nane so 
 sure of what may come to pass ; for I've seen mony a hope- 
 fuller lad than Harry Muir — ^^mony a ane that thought in their 
 ain mind they would read the name on my grave-head twenty 
 years after it was printed there, and I've pitten my fit upon 
 their turf for a' that. I'm no wishing the lad ill — I'm wish- 
 ing naebody ill that doesna meddle wi' me ; but I've seen as 
 unlikely things — and you'll see whether I'm no a sooth prophet, 
 Sandy Muir." 
 
 And suddenly withdrawing her hands, and nodding her 
 feeble head in ghastly complacency, the old weird woman 
 leaiied back again in her chair. 
 
 '• God forbid ye should ! God forbid it — and spare, and 
 bless, and multiply the lad, and make him an honour and a 
 strength in the land, long after the moss is on my headstane," 
 said xllexander Muir, with solemn earnestness. " And God 
 bless the young bairns and the hopeful," added the old man, 
 eagerly, after a pause, '• and them from evil eye that grudges 
 at their pleasaunce, or evil foot of triumph on their innocent 
 graves ! And God forgive them that have ill thoughts of the 
 sons of youth that are His heritage — blessings on their bright 
 heads, ane and a' ! " 
 
 And when he paused, trembling with earnest indignant 
 fervour, the old man's eye fell upon Miss Jean. She had 
 risen to take down from the high dusty mantel-piece a coarse 
 blue woollen stocking which she had been knitting. Now she 
 resumed her seat, and began with perfect composure to take 
 up some loops whrch her unsteady fingers had drawn out as 
 she took down the stocking. Either she had not listened to 
 Uncle Sandy's fervent blessing, or was not disposed to except 
 at it — certainly she settled down in her chair with feeble de- 
 liberation, pulling about her thin cushions peevishly, and with no 
 sign or token about her of emotion of any kind. Her very eye 
 had dulled and lost its fire, and you saw only a very old, miser- 
 able, solitary woman, and not an evil spirit incarnate of covet- 
 ousness and malice, as she had looked a few minutes before. 
 
 There was a considerable pause, for the old man did not 
 find it easy to overcome the tremor of indignation and hon-t>r 
 into which her words had thrown him, and he now had ahuost 
 resolved — but for a lingering unwillingness to disappoint
 
 168 HARllY MUIR. 
 
 Harry — to say nothing of his special mission. At last the 
 silence was broken by Miss Jean herself. 
 
 " 111 times, Sandy Muir, awfu' ill times ; for auld folk, 
 such like as me that have just their pickle siller and nae- 
 thing mair, nae land to bear fruit nor strong arm to work for 
 them, Sandy ; the like of such times as thir, are as bad as the 
 dear years." 
 
 Poor, forlorn, worn-out life ! unconsciously to herself, the 
 old man's blessing on the young, whose strength she grudged 
 and envied, had touched a gentle chord in her withered heart. 
 Nothing knew she of what softened her, but for the moment 
 she was softened. 
 
 " Are ye getting little interest for your siller, Miss Jean ? " 
 said Uncle Sandy, immediately roused. 
 
 " Little ! ye might say naething ava, and no be far wradig," 
 answered Miss Jean, briskly. '• A puir dirty three pund, or 
 twa pund ten, for a guid hunder. Ye'll be getting mair for 
 your twa, Sandy Muir, or ye wadna look sae innocent ! Where 
 is't, man ? and ye're an auld sleekit sneckdrawer, after a', and 
 ken how to tak care o' yoursel." 
 
 " I ken ane, Miss Jean, would gie ye five pounds for every 
 hundred, and mony thanks into the bargain," said the old 
 man, his breath coming short and his face flushing all over 
 with anxious haste; "and a decent lad and landed security. 
 I might have told you sooner, if I had kent ; but, you see, I 
 never thought it would answer you." 
 
 " Answer me ! I find guid siller answer me better than 
 maist things that folk put their trust in," said Miss Jean, 
 laying down her stocking, and lifting up the frosty cold blue 
 eyes, which again twinkled and glimmered with eagerness, to 
 the old man's face. " Ye ken ane ; and does he gie you this 
 muckle for your twa hunder pounds?" 
 
 '• Na, my twa hundred is out of my ain power, in the Ayi 
 bank ; besides, its mair siller this lad wants — mine would do 
 him nae service." 
 
 " This lad ! wha does the auld tricky body mean ? " said 
 Miss Jean, fixing her sharp eyes curiously on Uncle Sandy, •' five 
 pounds in the hunder — ye're meaning he'll gi'e me that by the 
 year, and keep a' my siller where I never can lay hand on't 
 again, Sandy Muir?" 
 
 " At no hand," said the old man, with dignity, " the best 
 of landed security, and the siller aye at your call, and the in- 
 terest punctual to a day."
 
 FIARRY MUIR. 169 
 
 Miss Jean's mouth watered and her fingers itched ; it was 
 impossible to think of this treasure without yearning to clutch 
 it. " Ane might put by thretty pounds in the year," she said 
 musingly. " And how do you ca' this lad when ye name him, 
 Sandy' Muir?" 
 
 '• I've -seen his name in the papers," said the old man, with 
 mingled exultation and anxiety, " and there it stands, ' Harry 
 Muir Allenders, Esq., of Allenders,' but at hame here we call 
 him your nephew and mine, Harry Muir." 
 
 Miss Jean uttered a passionate cry, rose from her seat, 
 and flung the stocking with all her feeble might in the face of 
 her visitor. '* Eh, Sandy Muir, ye auld, leein, artful, design- 
 ing villain ! was't no enough that ye came ance already wi' 
 your lang-tongued writer and reived my house of guid papers 
 that were worth siller, but ye would come again, ye smooth- 
 spoken, white-headed hypocrite, to seize my very substance 
 away from me, and take bread out of a lone woman's mouth to 
 make a great man of a graceless prodigal ? Ye auld sinner ! 
 ye hard-hearted thieving spoiler, that I should say so ! how 
 how dare ye come to break a puir auld woman's heart, and 
 tantalize the frail life out of me, wi' your lees and deceits 
 about siller 1 Oh, Sandy Muir ? " 
 
 And Miss Jean threw herself down once more in her hard 
 chair, and began to wipe the corners of her eyes ; for the dis- 
 appointment of her ruined expectations was really as hard 
 upon her miserable soul as the failing of fortune or fame is at 
 any time to its eager pursuer, who has just lifted his hand to 
 grasp what Fate remorselessly snatches away. 
 
 " Ye'U come to yoursel, Miss Jean — ye'll come to your- 
 sel," said Uncle Sandy quietly, as he laid the stocking on 
 the table. 
 
 And after another burst of fierce invective, Miss Jean did 
 come to herself. 
 
 ^' And he had to send you — he couldna get a decent writer 
 to take up such an errand for him ! but I'll see him come 
 to want, as a waster should, and he need nae ask charity from 
 me!" 
 
 " Nor never will," said the much-enduring Uncle Sandy; 
 '■ and Mr. Macer. whom ye ken weel, Misa Jean, for the first 
 writer in this haill town, is instructed on the subject. Maybe 
 that may satisfy ye, if ye dinna believe me ; but it might be 
 best when becomes to see ye, no to throw your wires at himV 
 " Weel, Sandy Muir, ye're no such an ill body after a'," 
 8
 
 lYO HARRY MUIR. 
 
 said Miss Jean, with a shrill laugh ; " and what better did ye 
 deserve, ye auld sinner, after pitting me in such grand hopes? 
 But if there's land to trust to, past yon prodigal himself — and 
 I wouldna gie a strae in the fire for his bond — and your ain 
 undertaking, and your twa hundred pounds, Sandy Muir ; for 
 ane could aye easy take the law of you, being close at hand, 
 and neighbour like — I'll no say but I might hearken, if I was 
 secure of my siller." 
 
 And with this gracious deliverance, to himself quite unex- 
 pected, Alexander Muir gladly left Miss Jean to order the 
 cream for his strawberries, and to write a note to Harry. The 
 old man drew a long breath, and wiped his brow with the most 
 grateful sense of relief when he once more stood at the door 
 of his own garden, and saw the table spread upon the green, 
 and the expectant girls only waiting the permission of his pre- 
 sence to plunge down among the green, cool strawberry leaves, 
 and bring forth the fragrant fruit. Good Uncle Sandy looked 
 round upon the young bright heads with a swelling heart, and 
 said " blessings on them " once more. The evil thoughts of 
 Miss Jean's envious and unlovely age struck the old man as 
 if with a vague presentiment of danger. His heart stretched 
 out strong protecting arms around them. '' Yea, children are 
 God's heritage," he said to himself in encouragement and 
 hope ; and Maggie, and Beenie, and Beatie and Mary, all felt 
 a more delicate tenderness than usual, in the smiles and kind 
 words of their entertainer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 I've seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, 
 And loud tempests roaring before parting day. 
 
 Song. 
 
 " Success to Uncle Sandy — he has done it ! " cried Harry, 
 with exultation, as he threw Uncle Sandy's note, which he 
 himself had just glanced at, across the table to Rose. " Read 
 it aloud for the general edification, Rosie. My uncle has al- 
 ways some good counsel for us." 
 
 And Rose, upon whom this duty generally devolved, put 
 little Harry into Martha's lap, and read the letter.
 
 HARRY MUIR. l7l 
 
 " My dear Harry : — I have just come home from seeing 
 Miss Jean ; and to put you out of pain, I may as well say at 
 once that, to my great astonishment, she has consented like a 
 lamb ; so that I called on Mr. Macer, on my road home, and 
 told him he might go the very same afternoon and conclude 
 the matter ; and I suppose you will get the siller very soon. 
 But Harry, my man, mind what I said to you, and take good 
 thought and competent counsel before you begin to lay it out, 
 for I have heard folk say that ye may sow siller broadcast on 
 land, and if it's no wisely done, you may be left ne'er a hair the 
 better after all. I do not pretend to be learned about farming ; 
 but mind, Harry, and take good advice before you begin to 
 spend this siller. 
 
 " Your propine of the ham was very well taken, and did 
 me good in my errand ; but I will never wish you an errand 
 like it, Harry. Poor old desolate woman, it makes my heart 
 sore to see her strong grip of the world, and worse than that, 
 her grudge at you and the like of you, for the strength and 
 youth which Jean Calder had in her day, but could not hoard 
 like siller. I cannot get this out of my head, for it aye re- 
 joices me myself to see the new life springing, and my heart 
 blesses it ; and Jean Calder, if years are anything, should be 
 nearer the end than me. 
 
 " Ye may tell Violet and Katie that the bairns here are 
 just laying the table in the garden, and that we are all to get 
 our four hours' of strawberries and cream. So being a little 
 wearied after my battle with Miss Jean, and the bairns being 
 clamorous for me outbye, and besides the first part of this let- 
 ter being what will most content you^ Harry, the rest of the 
 bairns will make allowance for me if I say no more at the 
 present writing. " Alexander Muir." 
 
 " Well done, Uncle Sandy ! He is the prince of plenipo- 
 tentiaries ! " said the triumphant Harry, who, in the meantime, 
 had opened another letter. And here's a note from Charteris. 
 He's coming to-day to pay us a visit, Agnes. You must give 
 him the best room, and do him all honour — but for him, we 
 might never have seen Allenders. Does anybody know, by the 
 bye. what first set Charteris to search for the heir ? Do you, 
 Rosie?" 
 
 " Harry, rae I " 
 
 Rose hastily drew little Harry upon her lap again, and 
 looked very much amazed and innocent ; but the colour rose
 
 172 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 over her face, and the small heir of Allenders felt her brow 
 burn as he pulled her hair. His father laughed, and pulled 
 Rose's dark love locks too. 
 
 " Never mind then, we can ask himself; but, Rose, we 
 must take care that no hostile encounter takes place between 
 Charteris and Gibbie Allenders — that would not do, you know." 
 
 A sudden frown contracted the forehead on which little 
 Harry's hand grew hotter and hotter. The very name of Gil- 
 bert Allenders had grown a bugbear to Rose, for he had al- 
 ready paid them repeated visits, and was every time more and 
 more demonstrative of his devotion to herself. 
 
 " Now, little ones, are you ready? " said Harry. " Come, 
 we shall drive you in to school to-day; and who else will go 
 with me ? you, Agnes, or Rose? We will stay in Stirling till 
 Charteris comes, and bring him home." 
 
 " Not me," said Rose, under her breath, " not me." She 
 said it as if she was resisting some urgent solicitations, and 
 very resolute was the heroic Rose, who in ordinary circum- 
 stances thought a drive to Stirling a very pleasant thing. 
 
 '• Nor me either, Harry, for I have something to do," said 
 Agnes ; " and besides, I don't want to be an hour or two in 
 Stirling. Go yourself, and take the children ; and Dragon 
 thinks, Harry, that Violet's pony should be put to the little 
 old gig to take them to school, for they cannot walk always, 
 Dragon says ; and it won't do to have a pillion, as Lettie pro- 
 posed." 
 
 " But, Harry, I think it would, and Katie thinks it would," 
 said Violet, eagerly ; " and I would ride behind the one day, 
 and Katie the other. And what way could we no do as well 
 as the lady in young Lochinvar ? " 
 
 " The lady in young Lochinvar did not run away every 
 day, or I dare say even she might have preferred a gig," said 
 Harry. " And besides, she had no pillion. I think we must 
 have another pony for Katie — that will be the best plan." 
 
 " Eh, Violet ! " Little Katie Calder looked down at her 
 printed chintz frock, and struggled to restrain the laugh of 
 delight which was quite irrestrainable ; for Katie had other 
 frocks now much grander than the chintz one, and the little 
 handmaiden of Miss Jean believed devoutly that she had 
 come to live in fairy-land. 
 
 Their school was about two miles off, on the Stirling road 
 — a famous genteel school for young lady boarders, where only 
 these two little strangers were admitted as day scholars, be-
 
 HAHKV ML IK. 173 
 
 cause " Allenders " was landlord of the house. Violet and 
 Katie dined with the young ladies at Blaelodge, besides 
 having lessons with them ; and they were being practically 
 trained into the ''manners" for which good, stiff, kindly Miss 
 Int;;lis was renowned. On this particular morning the chil- 
 dren ran to their room for their bonnets, and collected their 
 books from the sunny window in the hall, just beside the door, 
 wliich they had chosen for their study, with a considerable 
 flutter of excitement ; for to have " the carriage " stop at 
 Blaelodge. and Harry himself, the most dignified of mortal 
 men in the eyes of both, seen by all the young ladies at all the 
 windows taking care of them, was quite an overwhelming piece 
 of gramleur. 
 
 •' He'll take off his hat to Miss Inglis," said Katie, rever- 
 entially, •• I saw him do that once, Violet, to the Minister's 
 wife." 
 
 '• Eh. I've lost my grammar," said Violet, in dismay. 
 '•Katie, do you mind where we had it last? And there's 
 Harry ready at the door." 
 
 •• When we were sitting on the steps at Dragon's room 
 last night," said the accurate Katie, " yes, I ken, and I'll run, 
 Lettie." 
 
 " I'll run myself," said Violet, stoutly ; and there imme- 
 diately followed a race across the lawn, which Lettie, being 
 most impetuous, threatened at first to win, but which was 
 eventually carried by the steadier speed of Katie Calder. 
 
 The Dragon himself, taking long, feeble, tremulous strides 
 over the dewy turf, met them half way, carrying the lost 
 grammar. 
 
 '• Ay, I kent it was near school time," said old Adam ; 
 " and what should I pit my fit on, the first thing this morning 
 when I steppit out o' my ain door, but this braw new book ? 
 What gars ye be such careless monkeys? And it might just 
 as easy have tumbled down oflf the step to the byre door, and 
 had the brown cow Mailie tramp on't instead o'me — and then 
 ye never could have looked at it again, bairns. I wish you 
 would just mind that a' thing costs siller." 
 
 "Eh. Dragon, Harry is to take us to Blaelodge in the 
 carriage." said Violet ; '• for Harry is going to Stirling to 
 bring home Mr. Charteris to stay a whole week ; and you 
 mind Mr. Charteris. Dragon?" 
 
 '• That's yon birkie,"" said the old man. " Is he coming 
 to be married upon Miss Rose ? "
 
 174 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " As if Rose would marry anybody ! " said Violet, with 
 disdain ; " but, eh, Katie ! I dinna mind my grammar." 
 
 " Because you made him tell us fairy tales last night," 
 said the sensijble Katie ; " but I had my grammar learned 
 first. Come away, Lettie, and learn it on the road." 
 
 " And I'll maybe daunder as far as Maidlin Cross and 
 meet ye, bairns, when ye're coming hame," said Dragon. 
 '• And I wadna care, if Mr. Hairy gave ye the auld gig to 
 drive ye ower every morning mysel, and sae ye may tell 
 him." 
 
 But Harry, just then, had discovered, by a second glance 
 at Cuthbert's note, that he did not expect to arrive in Stir- 
 ling till four or five o'clock. " It does not matter, however," 
 said Harry, ■' I have something to do in Stirling, and an hour 
 or two is not of much importance. Have a good dinner for 
 us, Agnes — perhaps I may bring out somebody else with me. 
 Now, little ones, jump in — and you need not expect us till 
 five." 
 
 Agnes stood on the steps, very gay and blooming, in a 
 morning dress which she would have thought magnificent 
 Sabbath-day's apparel six months ago ; while Rose, behind 
 her, held up little Harry to kiss his hand to his young father. 
 The window of the dining-room, where they had breakfasted, 
 was open, and Martha stood beside it looking out. She was 
 chiding herself, as she found that all those peaceful days had 
 not yet quite obliterated the old suspicious anxiety which 
 trembled to see Harry depart anywhere alone ; and uncon- 
 sciously she pulled the white jasmine flowers which clustered 
 about the window, and felt their fragrance sicken her, and 
 threw them to the ground. Many a time after, there returned 
 to Martha's heart the odour of those jasmine flowers. 
 
 The high trees gleaming in the golden sunshine, the dewy 
 bits of shade, and then the broad flush of tangible light into 
 which their horse dashed at such an exhilarating pace, made 
 the heart of Harry bound as lightly as did those of the chil- 
 dren by his side. In this warm and kindly good-humour 
 Harry even hesitated to set them down at the very shady 
 gate of Blaelodge, which the sunshine never reached, even in 
 midsummer, till its latest hour, and gave five minutes to con- 
 sider the practicability of carrying them with him to Stirling ; 
 but it was not practicable — and Harry only paused to lift 
 them out, and bid them hurry home at night to see the stran- 
 gers, before proceeding himself on his farther way. The in-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 175 
 
 fluence of the bright summer day entered into his very heart ; 
 he looked to his right hand, where lay the silver coils of the 
 Forth, gleaming over fertile fields and through rich foliage ; he 
 looked before him, when his young groom steadily driving on, 
 cut in two the far-off mass of Benledi, and lifted his towering 
 head over the mountain — an unconscious innocent Titan — and 
 Harry's heart ran over like a child's, and he scarcely could 
 keep himself still for a second, but whistled, and sang, and 
 talked to John, till John thought AUenders the merriest and 
 wittiest gentleman in the country side ; and John was not 
 much mistaken. 
 
 The day passed with the children, as days at school always 
 pass. Violet, very quick and very ambitious, resolved not 
 to lose the silver medal inscribed with its glorious " Dux," 
 which she had worn for a whole week, managed to learn her 
 grammar in some mysterious magical way which the steady 
 Katie Calder could not comprehend ; and at last, just as Mar- 
 tha at home began to superintend the toilette which Rose 
 anxiously desired to have plainer than usual to-day, although 
 in spite of her, herself took involuntary pains with it, Katie 
 and Violet gathered up their books, and left Blaelodge. 
 Their road was the highway — a fine one, though not so de- 
 lightful to Lettie as the narrower bye-lanes about AUenders — 
 but the sun was sufficiently low to leave one side of the path, 
 protected by high hedges and a fine line of elm trees, very 
 shady, and cool and pleasant. So they walked along the soft 
 velvet grass, which lined their road, and lingered at the door 
 of the one wayside cottage, and further on gave loving saluta- 
 tion to the cottar's cow, feeding among the sweet deep herb- 
 age, all spangled with wildfiowers, and cool with the elm tree's 
 shadow, which made her milk so rich and fragrant, and her- 
 self a household treasure and estate. The little village of 
 Maidlin lay half way between Blaelodge and AUenders, a 
 hamlet of rude labourers' houses, untouched by the hand of 
 improvement, where shrewish hens and sunburnt children 
 swarmed about the doors continually. There had been once 
 a chapel here dedicated to the pensive Magdalen, and an old 
 stone cross still stood in the centre of the village, which — 
 though there now remained no vestige of the chapel — retained 
 the Scotticised name of the Saint. 
 
 '• There's Dragon at the cross," said Katie Calder, who was 
 skipping on in advance, leaving Violet absorbed in a childish 
 reverie behind, '• and he's telling a story to a' the bairns."
 
 176 HARRY MDIR. 
 
 So saying, Katie, who did 'not choose to lose the story, 
 ran forward ; while Lettie, only half awakened, and walking 
 stright on in an unconscious, abstracted fashion peculiar to 
 herself, had time to be gradually roused before she joined the 
 little group which encircled the Dragon of Allenders. 
 
 He, poor old man, leaned agahist the cross, making a ges- 
 ture now and then with those strange dangling arms of his 
 which called forth a bu.rst of laughter, and scattered the little 
 crowd around him for a moment, only to gather them closer 
 the next. He was, indeed, telling a story — a story out of the 
 Arabian Nights, which Violet herself had left in his room. 
 
 ^' Ay, bairns," ye see I'm just ready," said Dragon, finish- 
 ing Sin bad the Sailor, with a flourish of those long, disjoint- 
 ed arms. " Ony divert does to pass the time when ane's 
 waiting, for ye're aff-puttiug monkeys, and might hae been 
 here half an hour since — no to say there's a grand dinner 
 making at the house, and as many flowers pu'ed as would 
 plenish a poor man's garden, and Miss Rose dressed like a 
 fairy in a white gown, and ilka ane grander than anither. 
 Whisht, wee laddies ! do ye no see the twa missies carrying 
 their ain books hame frae the school, and I maunna stop to 
 tell ony mair stories to you " 
 
 '■ Come back the morn, Dragon. Dinna eat them, Dragon, 
 or chain them up in your den. If ye do, I'll come out and 
 fecht yel " cried the 'laddies' of Maidlin Cross: for those 
 sturdy young sons of the soil, in two distinct factions, gave 
 their fervent admiration to Katie and Violet, and would have 
 been but too happy to do battle for them on any feasible occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " Have they come. Dragon?" asked Lettie. " Has Harry 
 and Mr. Charteris come ? ' 
 
 " Nae word of them, nae word of them," answered the Dra- 
 gon. " They're in at Stirling doing their ain pleasure, ye may 
 tak my word for that. See, bairns, yondcr's Geordie Paxton, 
 my sister's son, coming in frae the field. He's very sune dune 
 the nicht. Just you look at him as he gangs by, and see what 
 an auld failed man he is, aulder like than me." 
 
 Geordie, laden with bis spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 was returning home with those heavy, lengthened, slow strides 
 which almost persuade you that some great clod drags back 
 the heavy-weighted footstep of the rustic labourer. He was a 
 man of fifty, with bent shoulders and a furrowed face ; but 
 though their old attendant advanced to him at a pace which
 
 HARRY MUIR. iTt 
 
 Geordie's slow step could ill have emulated, the children, glanc- 
 ing up at the hale, brown, careworn face of the family father, 
 and contrasting with it their poor old Dragon's ashy cheeks 
 and wandering eyes, were by no means inclined to pronounce 
 Geordie as old as his uncle. 
 
 '• How's a' wi' ye the day, auld man?" said the slow-spo- 
 ken labourer. " Aye daundering about in the auld way, I see. 
 And how are ye liking the new family, uncle ?" 
 
 " No that ill," answered the old man. " I've kent waur, to 
 be such young craturs ; and to tell you the truth, Geordie, I 
 feel just that I might be their faither, and that I'm appointed 
 to take care o' the puir things. Thae's twa o' the bairns, and 
 our Mr. Hairy's wean is weer than them still." 
 
 '• He has a muckle family in his hands, puir lad," said 
 Geordie. " He'll hae mair o' his ain siller than the Allenders 
 lands, it's like, or he ne'er would live in such grandeur. Your 
 auld man never tried the like of yon, uncle." 
 
 " Ay, but Mr. Hairy has a grand spirit," said the Dragon ; 
 " and what for should he no have a' thing fine about him, sic a 
 fine young lad as he is ? See yonder, he's coming this very 
 minute along the road." 
 
 The boys were still grouped in a ring round Maidlin Cross ; 
 and as Dragon spoke a shrill cheer hailed the advent of Har- 
 ry's carriage as it dashed along in a cloud of dust towards 
 Allenders. Harry himself was driving, his face covdited with 
 smiles, but his hands holding tight by the reins, and himself 
 in a state of not very comfortable excitement, at the unusual 
 pace of the respectable horse, which he had chafed into excite- 
 ment too. In the carriage was Charteris, looking grave and 
 anxious, Gilbert Allenders, and another ; but Harry could 
 only nod, and Cuthbert bend over the side, to bow and wave 
 his hand to little Violet as they flew past. There was not 
 really any danger, for Harry's horse understood its business 
 much better than its driver did ; but Harry himself was con- 
 siderably alarmed, though his pride would not permit him 
 to deliver up the reins into the hands of John, who sat on the 
 box by his side. 
 
 Violet did not think of danger ; but, without saying a 
 word to any one, and indeed with a perfect inability to give a 
 reason, she sat down upon the roadside grass, and cried. Dra- 
 gon, who had added a feeble hurra to the cheer of the boys, 
 bent down his white head anxiously, and Katie sat by her side 
 and whispered, " Dinna greet ! " and Geordie looked on in hard,
 
 1*78 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 observant silence. But when Lettie rose at last, and dried 
 her eyes, and went on, neither her young companion nor her 
 old one could glean from her what ailed her. " Nothing — she 
 did not know." Poor little Lettie ! she did not know indeed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth givel 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 
 
 Shakspeake. 
 
 Sullen Demeyet lies mantled over with the sunshine which 
 steals gradually further and further westward, pencilling out 
 with a daring touch his rugged shoulders, and throwing into 
 deepest shadow, here and there, an abrupt hollow on his side. 
 The trees of Allenders shadow the river just under the win- 
 dows, but on either side the sun flashes off the dazzling water, 
 as if it had a resistant power, and could repel the rays and 
 throw them back with disdain and pride. Just now the little 
 Stirling steamer, bound for Leith, has passed those overhanging 
 trees, wftle up upon their drooping branches, with the mo- 
 mentary force of sea surf, comes a great roll of foaming water 
 displaced by the passing vessel, and rushing along the green 
 river banks after it, like an insulted water-god. There is al- 
 ways some one at the east window of the Allenders' drawing- 
 room when the steamer passes up or down, for it is a pleasant 
 sight, winding hither and thither through the bright links of 
 Forth, with its gay passengers and rapid motion, and gives to 
 the broad landscape the animation which it needs. 
 
 By the east window at this present moment, Rose, and 
 Rose alone, occupies the usual place. She wears a white gown, 
 as Dragon said, and if scarcely self possessed enough for a 
 fairy, looks prettier and more delicate than usual, and has a 
 slight tremor upon her, which she can neither subdue nor 
 hide. Agnes, with little Harry in her arms, stands on the 
 turret, eagerly looking out for the returning carriage, while 
 Martha at a lower window watches the same road. Fain 
 would Rose take her place, too, on the breezy turret ; fain be 
 the first to read in Harry's eye how he has spent these hours
 
 HARRY MUIR. 1*79 
 
 in Stirling ; but no. Harry is not first just now in the thoughts 
 of his sister. She is not thinking about any one, Rose would 
 tell you indignantly ; but, nevertheless, she sits here with the 
 most obstinate industry, at the east window where it is impos- 
 sible to obtain the least glimpse of the road, and trembles a 
 little, and drops her needle, and thinks she can hear every 
 leaf fall, and can tell when a fly alights on the gravel walk, so 
 keen is her ear for every sound. 
 
 And now there comes through the drawn curtains of the 
 west window, which at present is full of sunshine, the sound 
 of a great commotion ; and carriage-wheels dash over the 
 gravel, and Agnes flies down stairs, and Harry calls loudly to 
 John, who has sprung from his perch to catch the excited 
 horse by the head, and calm him down, that the gentlemen 
 may alight in safety. The colour comes and goes upon Rose's 
 cheek, and her fingers shake so, that she scarcely can hold the 
 needle, but she sits still ; and though Harry's laugh immedi- 
 ately after rings strangely on her ear, and she listens with sud- 
 den anxiety for his voice. Rose never leaves her window — for 
 another voice there has spoken too. 
 
 By and bye a sound of footsteps and voices come up the 
 stair, and Rose suddenly commanding herself, raises her head 
 and becomes elaborately calm and self-posessed. Alas, poor 
 Rose ! for the door of the drawing room opens, and the voices 
 pause without, but there only enters — Gilbert Allenders. 
 
 Grilbert Allenders and a stranger like himself — an intimate 
 of his, whom he has persuaded Harry into acquaintance with. 
 No one knows that Rose is here ; no one thinks of her, indeed, 
 but the guest of honour who is being conducted to his own 
 room, and who does not at all admire the loud greeting in 
 which Mr. Gilbert Allenders expresses his delight at finding 
 her : but poor Rose, returning those greetings with intense 
 pride, disappointment and reserve, could almost cry, as she 
 finds herself compelled to be amiable to Harry's friend. And 
 now she has time to grow painfully anxious about Harry him- 
 self, and to think of his excited voice and laughter, and to 
 shiver with sudden fear. 
 
 While Rose sits thus, Martha, with so still a step that you 
 cannot hear her enter, comes gliding into the room like a ghost. 
 With the old feverish solicitude, the younger sister seeks the 
 elder's eye ; but Rose learns nothing from the unusual gaiety 
 of Martha's face. Indeed this smile, so forced and extreme, 
 and the light tone in which her grave sister immediately be-
 
 180 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 gins to speak — speaking too so very much more than her wont 
 — terrifies Rose. The strangers see nothing more than a 
 proper animation, and Gilbert Allenders relaxes and conde- 
 seenvls to notice Martha; but Kose steals out in wonder and 
 terror, fearing she knows not what. 
 
 There is nothing to fear — nothing — say it again, Rose, 
 that your loving anxious heart may be persuaded. Harry 
 stands by the table in his dressing-room, unfolding a great 
 bale of beautiful silk to the wondering eyes of Agnes ; and 
 though Harry is a little more voluble than usual, and has an 
 unsteady glimmer in his eye, and a continual smile, which re- 
 minds her of some sad home-comings of old, there is in reality 
 nothing here to make any one unhappy. Nothing — nothing — 
 but Hose's heart grows sick with its own confused quick throbs 
 as she lingers, looking in at the door. 
 
 '• Come along here, Rosie ; look what I have been getting 
 a lecture for," cried Harry, looking up from the table. " It 
 seems that Agnes needs no more gowns. Come here, and see 
 if there is anything for you." 
 
 And Rose, who was by no means above the usual girlish 
 vanities, but liked to see pretty things, and liked to wear them, 
 went in very quickly — much more anxious than curious it is 
 true, but nevertheless owning to a little curiosity as well. 
 
 *•• Oh. Rose, see what Harry has brought me," said Agnes, 
 breathless with delight, deprecation and fear : •' such a splen- 
 did silk, white and blue ! but it's too grand, Rose — do you not 
 think so ? and this quiet coloured one — it is quite as rich 
 though — is for Martha ; and here is yours — pink, because your 
 hair is dark, Harry says." 
 
 And as Agnes spoke, Harry caught up the radiant pink 
 silk glistening with its rich brocaded flowers, and threw it upon 
 Rose, covering her simple muslin gown. To say that Rose's 
 first impression was not pleasure would be untrue — or that she 
 did not bestow a glance of affectionate admiration upon the 
 three varieties of Harry's choice. But the eyes that sought 
 them for a moment sought again with a lengthened wistful 
 gaze bis own flushed and happy face. And Harry i^as consid- 
 erably excited — that was all — and it was so very easy to ac- 
 count for that. 
 
 '• But just now, you know, we cannot afford it," said Agnes, 
 gathering her own silk into folds, which she arranged scientifi- 
 cally on her arm, and looking at it with her head on one side, 
 as she held it in different lights. " I never saw anything so 
 beautiful — it's just too grand ; but then the price, Harry ! "
 
 HARKY MUIR. 181 
 
 " Don't you trouble yourself about the price," said Harry, 
 gaily. " You've uothiug to do but to be pleased with tlicm ; 
 no. nor Martlia either ; for do you think, after securing that 
 old wife's siller, that I may not indulge m3'sclf with a silk 
 gown or two ? And if my wife and my sisters won't wear 
 them, why I can only wear them myself There, there's some 
 cobweb muslin stuff in the parcel for the two of you, young 
 ladies, and something for Lettie and her friend, and some- 
 thing for our heir ; but away with you now, girls, and let me 
 dress, and say nothing about the money." 
 
 Ah ! hapless Miss Jean Calder ! if but you could have 
 heard and seen the doings of this zealous agricultural im- 
 prover, whose resolute purpose of doubling the value of his 
 newly-acquired lands, drew your beloved " siller " out of its 
 safe concealment, what a wailing banshee shriek had rung 
 then through these sunny rooms of Allenders ! Not on 
 strong cattle and skilful implements — not on the choice seed 
 and the prepared soil — but on the vanities you have scorned 
 through all your envious lifetime — to deck the fair young 
 forms, whose gladsome breath you grudge to them — that 
 your gold, the beloved of your heart, should be squandered 
 thus ! Alas, poor miser ! But Miss Jean even now clutches 
 her mortgage parchment, with the glitter of malicious power 
 in her cold blue eyes. Let them squander who will — she has 
 secured herself. 
 
 And Martha, even in her heart, does not say " Poor 
 Harry ! " No, Martha, for the first time, tries to blind her- 
 self with false hope — tries to dismiss all her old anxious love 
 from her heart, and be careless, and take no thought for the 
 morxow. She has determined to think of Harry's errors as 
 other people think — to call them exuberances, follies of youth, 
 and to smile with gentle indulgence, instead of sorrowing in 
 stern despair. For Harry is a man — head of a household ; 
 and Martha tries to endure placidly — tries to persuade her- 
 self there is nothing to endure — knows that he must be left 
 now to himself, to make his own fate. To-day she sees, as no 
 other eye can see, the beginning of peril, and Harry's excite- 
 ment, excusable though it may be. and constantly as she her- 
 self excuses it, has wrought in Martha a kindred agitation. 
 She will not permit herself to grieve or to fear ; but sad is 
 this assumed light-heartedness which Rose trembles to see. 
 
 Meanwhile Rose and Agnes, who have carried off Harry's 
 gifts between them, are laughing and crying together over
 
 182 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 the store. It may be imprudent — it may be extravagant ; 
 but it is " so kind of Harry ! " He is so anxious to give 
 them pleasure. 
 
 And Mr. Charteris, in the drawing-room, talks to Martha 
 with some abstraction, and coldly withdraws himself from the 
 elegant conversation of Mr. Gilbert Allenders. Cuthbert 
 cannot understand why Rose should avoid him ; and he feels 
 the blood warm at his heart with the pride to which neglect is 
 grievous. But, at the same time, he is troubled and depressed, 
 and looks with a yearning he never knew before at the closed 
 door, and speaks little, lest he should lose the sound of the 
 approaching footstep, which he remembers to be so light. The 
 room is full of roses, though now in July their flush of beauty 
 is nearly over. Roses red and white, the delicate blush and 
 the burning purple ; but Cuthbert would throw them all into 
 the river joyfully for one glimpse of his Lady Rose. 
 
 This love-fit sits strangely on the grave advocate — he does 
 not quite understand how, of all men in the world, it should 
 have found out him — and its effect is singular. It moves 
 him, perhaps by the power of those circumstances which hang 
 over this family like a continual cloud, to a half-sorrowful 
 tenderness for everything young and gentle. It does not 
 occur to Cuthbert to inquire why his constant dream is to 
 comfort, to console, to carry away the Rose of Allenders, and 
 bear her tenderly in his arms out of sorrow and trial. This 
 is the aspect under \\hich he instinctively views the conclusion 
 of his growing affection. Sometimes, indeed, there break 
 upon him fair visions of a bride in the sunshine, a home glad- 
 dened by a joyous, youthful voice, and smiles like the morn- 
 ing ; but the usual current of Cuthbert's fancies presents to 
 him a far-off glimpse of happiness, chastened and calmed by 
 suffering ; and his hope is to deliver her out of some indefinite 
 gloom and evil, to deliver and carry her home into a gentle 
 rest. 
 
 And the shadow of this visionary trouble to come, throws 
 a tender pathos over Rose in the eyes of her true knight. 
 His stout heart melts when he sees her, with an indescribable 
 softening — as if he extended his arms involuntarily, not so 
 much to enclose her for his own content, as to ward off unseen 
 impending dangers, and keep her safe by his care. Never- 
 theless, Cuthbert feels his cheek burn with quick, indignant 
 anger, and starts and frowns in spite of himself, when he per- 
 ceives that Gilbert Allenders gives his arm — again with con- 
 .siderable demonstration — to the shy, reluctant Rose.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 183 
 
 Harry is new to his duties as host, and perhaps his atten- 
 tion to his guests is slightly urgent and old-fashioned ; but 
 Harry is in triumphant spirits, and throws his radiant good- 
 humour and satisfaction over them all like a great light. Not 
 without ^ secret misgiving at the bottom of their hearts, Rose 
 and Agnes make strong efforts to rise to Harry's pitch, if it 
 were but to persuade themselves how innocent and blameless 
 is Harry's exhilaration ; and Martha continues to smile and 
 speak as Rose never heard her speak before. It is quite a gay 
 dinner table. 
 
 The time glides on, the ladies leave the dining-room ; but 
 when they are alone, after some forced efforts to keep it up, 
 their gaiety flags, and one after another glides to her accus- 
 tomed seat, and subsides into unbroken silence. It is true 
 that the rejoicings of Violet and Katie over the new frocks 
 which Harry has not failed to bring for them, make a little 
 episode, and sustain the animation for a short time — but the 
 sure reaction comes ; and now they sit still, one professing to 
 read, and the others working, but all casting anxious looks 
 towards the door. 
 
 By and bye comes laughter and voices and ringing foot- 
 steps up the stair, but only Charteris enters the drawing-room ; 
 for Harry and his other friends are clin:bing further up to the 
 turret, where he has fitted up a little " den," as Gilbert AUen- 
 ders calls it, for himself. And their good friend, Mr. Charte- 
 ris, looks very grave : they think Harry has lowered himself 
 in Cuthbert's eyes — they think this seriousness is the painful 
 regret with which a strong man sees a weak one sink under 
 temptation ; and their hearts flutter within them with restless 
 anxiety, and they listen to Harry's laugh in the distance till its 
 echo makes them sick. While, all the time, Cuthbert is too 
 much interested not to notice how uneasily the young wife 
 moves upon her chair, and the abstraction from which Martha 
 starts with a dismal resolution to be gay again. Poor Harry ! 
 But Cuthbert stands behind the chair of Rose, and feels that 
 he is consoling her — feels that he is occupying . with his pre- 
 sence something of the space which, without him, might have 
 been wholly given to anxiety and fear. 
 
 The children are already out under the windows, playing 
 on the lawn ; and, at Cuthbert's suggestion, Rose and Martha 
 accompany him to the mall on the river-side. He tells them 
 how he admired this when he came first with Harry to see Al- 
 lenders, and that he often fancies how they must enjoy this
 
 184 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 verdant cloister when he is shut up in his office at Edinburgh. 
 The sun slants in through the great oak which rounds the end 
 of the mall, and just touches here and there a heavy alder leaf, 
 and lights up one little branch upon a stately elm, with tender 
 golden rays, cool and dewy ; and there is wind enough to dis- 
 turb the long willow branches and ruffle the fleecy Fining of 
 their leaves. A narrow strip of path, sandy and yellow, 
 breaks the soft green turf which slopes down to the water on 
 one side, and on the other, rich with flower-beds, stretches up 
 in a slight incline to the walls of Allenders ; and Cuthbert, 
 with Martha on his arm, walks slowly, silently, looking after 
 the white figure which has strayed a step or two before. 
 Slightly turning towards them, with a shy, half-conscious look 
 backwards, Rose says something to Martha about the wild 
 flowers in the grass ; and Rose guesses, with a tremor, that 
 Cuthbert has had visions of herself under the shadow of these 
 trees, and feels that his eye just now is dwelling upon her, and 
 that he is saying words to her in his heart. But the charmed 
 silence lasts, and even Martha, looking on, has not the heart 
 to break its spell. 
 
 But look up yonder at the turret. With the sun glancing 
 in his hair, Harry stands in the little battlemented gallery, 
 and holds up a glass of sparkling wine, and bows and smiles, 
 and drinks to them. Immediately both the sisters look at 
 Cuthbert ; and Cuthbert, with a gaiety he does not feel, takes 
 ofi" his hat, and returns the salutation with playful stateliness. 
 His gesture cheers them, and they become again quite tremu- 
 lously glad, when he calls to Harry to come down, and Harry 
 nods in assent, and disappears upon the turret stair. It is 
 true that the momentary smile flits away from Cuthbert's face, 
 and he becomes very serious. But they are looking for Harry 
 — they do not see the deep regret and gravity which clothes the 
 brow of his friend, who, within himself, says " Poor Harry ! " 
 with a heavy sigh. 
 
 And Harry is now more excited than ever, and they are 
 constantly calming and soothing him to keep him within 
 bounds — trying to be gay themselves that his unreal gaiety 
 may be less marked — are carefully avoiding everything which 
 could possibly irritate liis feelings. Poor Harry ! some wist- 
 ful eye is always following him, some solicitous voice con- 
 stantly interposing to bring down to the ordinary quietness 
 and moderation his unconscious extravagance — eyes which are 
 afraid to meet — afraid to confide to each other, even by a
 
 HARRY MUIR. 185 
 
 glance, this new pain wliich Harry has brought upon them ; 
 for hitherto they have seen principally the remorse which fol- 
 lowed his fall, and never before have beheld others conscious, 
 of what so greatly humiliated themselves. Now the sneer and 
 patronizing forbearance of Gilbert Allenders. who has too 
 cool a head to be moved as Harry is, chafes Martha beyond 
 endurance, and excites the gentle little Agnes to such a pitch 
 of anger, that her hand clenches involuntarily, and she could 
 almost strike him in a burst of weeping petulance. But the 
 long, long painful hours pass away, and at last it is night. 
 
 '• It is nothing — it is nothing. Nobody thinks anything 
 of this but us. ^Ve are always so anxious ! " sobs Agnes, as 
 she wakes in the middle of the night, and weeps ; but Martha, 
 who does not need to wake — who has never slept — suffers her 
 heart to say nothing, but only prays, and tries to forget — tries 
 to think of anything rather than Harry ; and cannot ween if 
 she should try for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin, 
 Then the bright kettle sings its matin song, 
 Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
 Blend as they rise. 
 
 EOGEKS. 
 
 "Who is that out there, leading the horse ? " asked Agnes, 
 with some anxiety. 
 
 The snowy linen and bright silver and china of the break- 
 fast-table sparkle in the sunshine. At a corner, Violet and 
 Katie sit before a covered tray, hastily taking their porridge ; 
 for the breakfast is much later than usual this morning, and 
 the children are in great haste, lest they should be too late for 
 school. Rose is working at the corner window — the new win- 
 dow, where the white rose bush nods up to her. and lays a 
 snowy fragrant present of buds upon the window-ledge : but 
 Martha stands silently, as she stood last morning, to watch 
 Harry go away, and again pulls with unconscious fingers the 
 jasmine flowers. 
 
 " Who is that ? " repeated Agnes. 
 
 It is only a groom leading up and down, on the broad gra-
 
 186 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 vel walk at the other side of the lawn, a fine horse, stately and 
 impatient, which scorns its limited space, and paws the gravel 
 disdainfully, and arches its proud neck to the infinite admira- 
 tion of the Dragon and John, who stand by the holly hedge 
 as spectators. Katie and Violet, attracted by the repetition 
 of Agnes's question, rush from the window to the door to as- 
 certain ; and after a brief conversation with Dragon, Violet 
 returns, breathless, with the information, that it is a new rid- 
 ing-horse, sent out this morning from Stirling, where Harry 
 bought it yesterday ; but that Dragon says it is too wild a 
 horse for any but a bold rider, and that it is sure to throw Mr. 
 Hairy. 
 
 " Tell Dragon he's an old fool, and that he had better think 
 what he says," said Harry himself, who suddenly made his ap- 
 pearance as Violet spoke ; " and you Lettie, mind your own 
 business and don't be so ofiicious in reporting what everybody 
 tells you. Why don't you get these children off to school, 
 Agnes 1 Yes, it's my horse. I hope no one has any objec- 
 tion. " 
 
 Poor Harry ! in this morning light, his own conscience has 
 weighty objections, and upbraids him with folly and extrava- 
 gance. But Harry feels miserable, and is not well — angry 
 with himself, and defiant of all around him — and he feels him- 
 self bound in honour to defend his horse. 
 
 But no one attacks it ; poor little Agnes is only anxious 
 and deprecatory, eager to smile away his impatience, and cheer 
 the depression which she very well knows is sure to follow ; 
 while Martha still stands at the open window, without ever 
 turning her head, and vacantly draws the long, pliant branch of 
 jasmine through her fingers, and says not a word. 
 
 " They are just going away," said Agnes, hastily tying on 
 the bonnet which Lettie had brought in her hand ; " they have 
 just breakfasted, you see, Harry. We are rather late this 
 morning ; and Mr. Charteris is not down stairs yet." 
 
 Harry left the room immediately, and went out. The ar- 
 rival of this horse did him good — dispersing the clouds of his 
 depression, and its consequent illJiumour — and before he re- 
 turned to the breakfast-room, Harry had consoled his con- 
 science by a resolution to begin immediately his agricultural 
 labours, and to spend no more of Miss Jean's money, except 
 lawfully, on the object for which he borrowed it. 
 
 When he re-entered the room Cuthbert was there, and 
 Harry had to smooth his brow and welcome his guest. Agnes
 
 HARRY MUIK. 187 
 
 still half trembling, and growing talkative in her anxiety to 
 restore ease to the conversation, found herself, to her great 
 delight and astonishment, seconded by Martha, as they took 
 their places round the table. And the still composure of 
 Martha's manner did more for this end, than the tremulous 
 eagerness of the little wife. They regained the every-day tone, 
 the every-day level of quietness and repose ; and Agnes began 
 to flatter herself that nothing unusual had happened last night 
 after all, and Harry to think that his conscience blamed him 
 unjustly ; only the sickness in Martha's heart lay still, uneased, 
 and undisturbed. She was done with struggling — now she 
 had only to wait for what it pleased God to reveal. 
 
 Charteris was to stay a week, and numerous excursions 
 were discussed at the breakfast-table. It was a relief to them 
 all, to have these things to speak about ; but Cuthbert exerted 
 himself to-day to gain the confidence of Harry, and did in 
 some degree gain it. They spoke together of the projected 
 improvements ; and though Harry said with a little braggado- 
 cio that it was " an old rich aunt " who had given him the ne- 
 cessary capital, he was tolerably frank about his intentions, 
 and very f;lad to receive introductions to some agricultural 
 authorities whom Cuthbert knew. They walked together over 
 the farm which the tenant was to leave at Martinmas, and 
 together commented on the lean and scanty crops, which spare- 
 ly covered the half-cultured soil. It was a fresh, showery day, 
 enlivened by a light breeze, which brought down the chiller 
 breath of the hills over the green lowland country ; and as 
 this wind waved about his hair, and blew the sparkling rain 
 against his cheeks, Harry struggled under the uneasy burden 
 on his heart, and tried to throw it off, and let it vex him no 
 more. " Forgetting the things that are behind," he muttered 
 to himself, as they paused on a little eminence, and saw the 
 sun touch into brilliant light a thousand rain-drops among the 
 waving corn, and on the roadside trees — for still a heavy con- 
 sciousness gnawed at his heart, and compelled him to try some 
 bargain with it for rest — and Harry gladly turned to look away 
 from the past, into the broad life which lay before him, as 
 bright as this sunny strath, though, like it, dewed with tears ; 
 and in the future his sanguine eyes again saw nothing but 
 hope. 
 
 " Forgetting the things that are behind ! " Alas, poor Har- 
 ry ! for it was only too easy to forget. 
 
 But there followed a few days of cheerful activity, the first
 
 188 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 of which dissipated into thin air the last remnant of Harry's 
 remorseful consciousness — for Cuthbert and he rode togesher 
 to call on some of the agricultural authorities before mention- 
 ed, and take counsel with them — not always sweet — concern- 
 ing all the processes of the warfare which should subjugate 
 this stubborn soil' and Harry advertised in the local newspa- 
 pers for a manager to take charge of his farming operations, 
 and heard of one before his advertisement was printed, so suit- 
 able, as it seemed, in every respect, that Harry, fear- 
 ing he might not wait till Martinmas, engaged him out of 
 hand in July, that no one else might seize on such a trea- 
 sure. 
 
 Not only so — but Harry, whose pride had been greatly 
 hurt by Dragon's implied opinion that he was a timid rider, 
 subdued his horse, at no small cost to his own nerves, and 
 rode a dozen miles to a cattle show, partly in self-assertion, 
 partly to acquire some knowledge of " the beasts," which his 
 agricultural instructors discoursed of so learnedly ; but Har- 
 ry was not the man to study beasts, and his long ride exhaust- 
 ed him, though it was a triumph. He had settled matters, 
 however, with his conscience, which now rather applauded than 
 condemned — and Harry was content. 
 
 Poor Harry ! but when Cuthbert's week was out, he said 
 those words with eyes that glistened, and a yearning heart ; 
 for Harry was born to be loved, and amid all his faults, and 
 unconscious selfishness of his indulgences, he never lost this 
 natural portion. 
 
 And Cuthbert, leaving behind him a bright, cheerful, hope- 
 ful household, as ready to be exhilarated as depressed, had 
 said nothing to Rose — for he himself had little yet to share 
 with any one, and he was afraid to risk his affectionate in- 
 terest with the family as friend and counsellor, even for the 
 chance of attaining the nearer and still more affectionate con- 
 nexion for which he hoped. And Cuthbert, in his tenderness 
 of protection and succour, exaggerated the difference between 
 his age and hers ; he only thought himself likely to succeed at 
 all, by the gentle and gradual process of wooing, which might 
 accustom and attach her to him before she was aware. So 
 he went away quietly, leaving, it is true, many tokens which 
 spoke to Rose a strange, unusual language, showing her how 
 much space she occupied in the heart and thoughts of this man 
 who, of all men she had ever seen, held the highest place in hers. 
 And Rose trembled and smiled with indefinite delight as words
 
 HARRY MUIR. 189 
 
 and looks came to her remembrance — looks and words which 
 Cuthbert had feared would alarm and startle her, but which 
 even his self-comujand could not restrain. There is a charm 
 in this guessed and implied aflfection which perhaps no certain- 
 ty has ; and Rose, wbose thouglits had not yet taken shape or 
 form, whose shy, womanly heart shrank even from believing it- 
 self beloved, and who would have denied the belief strenuous- 
 ly, had she asked herself the question in so many words— Kose 
 suffered a bright mist of reverie to float about her, and was 
 thrilled now and then with apprehensions and revelations, 
 starting out half distinct for a moment, and anon disappearing 
 into the sunny maze. It was an idle mood, and sent her 
 straying along the river-side and seated her for hours together 
 under the oak, with vague smiles and blushes flitting over her 
 face, and many a dream in her heart ; but yet her needle flew 
 swiftly too under this mist, and she could be very well con- 
 tent with silence, for the long indefinite musings of her ro- 
 mance were sweet to Rose. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A good old man, Sir ; he will be talking; as they say, when the age is in, the wit is 
 out — MccH Ado about Nothing. 
 
 "And, Dragon, you mind you promised the very first day — 
 but you never told us yet the story of the Lady's Well." 
 
 •• Have you ever been to see it, bairns 1 " asked the old 
 man. 
 
 » The children were seated on the outside stair, which led to 
 Dragon's room. Violet, at least, sat on the upper step, with a 
 book on her lap, and a total disappearance of feet, which sug- 
 gested a suspicion that Lettie patronized the Turkish manner 
 of seating herself rather than the English. Katie, who had a 
 larger share of boldness than her friend, was jumping from the 
 stair to the ground, mounting a step higher for every leap, 
 while Dragon stood on the threshold of his own door, dangling 
 his thin long arms, and talking to them with his usual anima- 
 tion. It was not yet the hour " when the kye come hame," 
 and the two little girls, who constantly attended Mysie during 
 the process of milking, were waiting for her appearance ; be- 
 si(l(;y that, they very generally chose to learn their lessons on
 
 190 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Dragon's steps, having a facility of interruption here which 
 they could attain to in no other place. 
 
 " Eh, no — we've never been there ! " cried Katie ; " and 
 Mysie's no away yet to bring the cow. We've plenty time. 
 Will you come, Dragon, and let us see it now ? " 
 
 " I'm no heeding — if you're sure you would like to gang," 
 said the old man. " But then, how am I to ken that you've 
 got a' your lessons bye, and that it's lawful to take ye ? for, 
 you see, bairns that dinna attend to their learning, have nae 
 claim to diversion ; and, Missie, you're no dune wi' your book 
 yet." 
 
 "But it's just grammar, Dragon," said Lettie, disconsolate- 
 ly ; " and it's no use trying to learn it till I'm to say it, for I 
 aye forget till it's just the time. Eh, Katie, you couldna jump 
 off here." 
 
 " Ye're nane o' ye gaun to jump and break banes at my 
 door. I'll no hae mysel broclit in for a doctor's bill, like the 
 way the auld maister brocht in Eppie for the muckle bowl she 
 broke," said Dragon. " Gang quiet down the steps, bairns, or 
 I'll no let you come here ony mair. And now, you see, we'll 
 take this road, and we'll sune be at the Lady's Well." 
 
 The road was a solitary lane, looking deep and cool under 
 the shadow of high thorn hedges, through which the delicate 
 white convolvulus had darned its fairy leaves and tendrils. 
 Here and there in the hedge-row, an old low oak, long shorn 
 of all its branches, stood alone like some strong ruin, with a 
 growth of pliant twigs, and young foliage waving over the 
 bald trunk as they might have waved over a moss grown wall. 
 The ruddy clouds of the sunset were rapidly fading from the 
 west, and already a meek young moon glanced shyly over the 
 head of Demeyet ; but it was still full daylight, and the 
 children skipped along gaily by Dragon's side, keeping an eye 
 on the field, whence Mailie, the brown cow, began to low her 
 impatient summons to her maid ; but the maid did not make 
 her appearance, and Violet and Katie went merrily on to the 
 Lady's Well. 
 
 The Lady's Well lay under the shadow of an immense old 
 saugh tree, whose whispering, sighing branches were continual- 
 ly bending down with a kind of graceful, melancholy curiosity 
 over the clear spring at its feet. A very narrow strip of path 
 proved that there still came occasional visitors to the little 
 fountain ; but the underwood was thick and tangled round it, 
 and the long bramble branches, on which already early ber- 
 ries began to ripen, formed a dangerous network of defence.
 
 HARHV MUIR. ^ 191 
 
 closing up even the one entrance, which gave admittance to 
 the small circle of green turf surrounding the spring. But 
 there were signs remaining which told of a time when greater 
 honour was paid to the Lady's Well ; for the water bubbled 
 up into a marble basin, and a small carved canopy protected it 
 from the falling leaves. The little girls scrambled through 
 the brambles with eager interest, and Katie bent curiously 
 over the protecting cradle, while Violet sat down upon a stone, 
 which lay beside the basin — a hewn stone, slightly hollowed 
 out in the centre, as if it had been used as a seat for ages. 
 The stillness of the place, shut in on every side by the sur- 
 rounding wood, and the silvery tinkle with which the water 
 escaped from the hollowed edge of the basin, and passed away 
 in a slender thread over the bleached pebbles of its narrow 
 channel — away under the thick concealing brushwood, disap- 
 pearing as completely as though the earth had swallowed it 
 again — affected Lettie with strange awe ; and so it was not 
 her, but her little companion, who broke the dreamy silence 
 by demanding from Dragon the story he had promised. 
 
 " Ye see, bairns," said Dragon, seating himself on the 
 slender trunk of a young willow, cut down and left there for 
 dead, but which was already throwing out its unquenchable 
 life in long shoots of delicate green, " there was ance a Laird 
 of AUenders, and he had ae only daughter, and her name was 
 Violet. But they never ca'd her Lettie, as they do you, 
 Missie — aye, the full name, like as if she had been a flower ; 
 and as bonnie as a flower she was, by a' accounts, and made 
 ballants and sangs out of her ain head. But, bairns, ye'll be 
 getting your death of cauld in this dowie place, and then the 
 blame's sure to come on me." 
 
 '• But the lady. Dragon — the lady," exclaimed Violet, 
 whose interest had been greatly quickened by the lady's name. 
 
 '• Weel, as I was saying, there was not anither woman 
 body about the house but hersel, and some servant women — 
 neither mother, nor sister, nor friend ; and the auld laird liv- 
 ing solitary, and the young ane away in Flanders at the wars; 
 so Leddy Violet ga'ed wandering about the water and the hills, 
 her lane, and had an awfu' wark wi' this bit spring, and caused 
 bring the very stane you're sitting on, Missie," (a thrill of 
 strange interest passed over Lettie.) •' and came ilka day her- 
 sel. and drank the water in a silver cup, and sat upon the seat, 
 with her ain thoughts for company, till the spirits that were 
 in the world then, began to take note of her, and tell ane an- 
 ither of the Lady at the Well. Some say she began to get
 
 192 , HARRY MUIR. 
 
 wit of them hersel, and saw them watching her out of the 
 trees ; but ye maunna believe that, bairns, for it has nae foun- 
 dation — no a hair of proof, to satisfy ony man that inquired 
 into it." 
 
 " But there came a braw gentleman to the countryside that 
 had a grand castle some way in the Lennox, and great friends 
 among the Highland chiefs ; and ae day, when he was gaun 
 wandering by the links of Forth, he heard music in the air, 
 and ga'ed on and on, following after it, till it led him by the 
 very road we came this nicht, and brought him to where Leddy 
 Violet was sitting by the well. And what should this be but 
 a sma' fairy, that had a lad hersel, nae doubt, and likit Leddy 
 Violet, and didna ken what grand company guid thoughts 
 were, but aye lamented ower the bonnie leddy, her lane and 
 solitary in the wood. Ane canna tell now what kind of spirits 
 thae fairies were, but nae doubt they had discrimination ; for 
 it even turned out sae, that the leddy hersel likit the braw 
 lad's company better than her ain thoughts." 
 
 " Eh, Dragon, are you sure there's nae fairies now?" asked 
 Katie Calder. 
 
 " He'll tell us the morn. I want to hear about the Lady, 
 Dragon ? " said the eager Violet. 
 
 " I never saw ony," said the old man, mysteriously, 
 "whiles I've heard folk say — but I'll no tell you that, or 
 you'll be feared." 
 
 " What is it, Dragon ? " exclaimed both the children in a 
 breath. 
 
 " They say in moonlight nights, the fairies have a feast 
 here and get their wine out of the well ; and there's aye some 
 about in the gloaming spreading the tables ; but they'll no 
 meddle wi' ye, if you're guid bairns." 
 
 Violet shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked intently 
 under the brushwood, to one spot of bright reflected light 
 upon the water. She did not speak, but with a shiver of fasci- 
 nation and awe watched the slender current steal away under 
 the leaves, and devoutly believed that she had seen the golden 
 vessels of the fairy feast; but even this did not make her 
 forget the story, and again she repeated, " The lady. Dragon, 
 the lady." 
 
 " Weel, bairns, ye see it was the spring season then," re- 
 sumed Dragon, '• and there was a lang summer time to come 
 — bonnie days — we never have the like of them now — when 
 Leddy Violet was constant at the Well. And the lad— they
 
 HARRY MUIR. 193 
 
 ca'ed him Sir Harry — came and went, and lay on the grass at 
 her feet, and courted her, and sang to her, and made his 
 reverence, till she learned to think, poor lassie, that there 
 wasna a man like liim in a' the world. So he got acquaint at 
 her father's house, and courted the old laird for her, and was 
 about x\llenders night and day ; and at last it came to pass 
 that they were to be married. 
 
 " Now, ye see, having mair to do now, when she was soon 
 to be a married wife, she never got out to her auld wander- 
 ings, but sat with her maids, and saw them make gowns of silk 
 and satin for the grand bridal ; and this very same sma' feiry 
 that first brought the gentleman to see her, had cast out with 
 her ain lad by this time, and was in a sorrowful humour, and 
 could not keep her hand from aye meddling with the leddy's 
 concerns. So what did she do, for an imp of mischief as she 
 maun hae been, but flee away to Sir Harry's ain land, and 
 gather I kenna how mony stories of him ; for he had been but 
 a wild lad in his young days, and was nae better than he 
 should be even then. And I canna tell ye, bairns, what art 
 magic it was dune by, but this I ken, that it a' came to Leddy 
 Violet's ain ears — every word o't. Now ye maun mind, that 
 for her ain sel, she was like a saint ; no a wee new-born bairn, 
 nor ane of the like of you, mair innocent than her, though she 
 was a woman grown. And nae suuer had she heard this, than 
 her maid that was wi' her was aware of a sound like the 
 snapping o' a string. Na, missie, ye couldna guess what that 
 was — it was a sairer thing than you ever heard tell o' a' your 
 days — it was Leddy Violet's heart." 
 
 Violet had fixed her dilating melancholy eyes, in which 
 the tears were fast swelling, upon the old man's face, and sat 
 leaning her head upon her hands, bent forward with the deep- 
 est attention ; while Katie, arrested suddenly in the very act 
 of balancing herself upon the little canopy, turned a look of 
 eager interest upon him, till released by this conclusion she 
 slipped down, and placed herself very quietly on the fallen 
 tree by his side. In his monotonous, half-chaunting voice, 
 the old man proceeded : 
 
 " The wedding was put off, and naebody kent what for, for 
 Leddy Violet had a wise heart, and wouldiia send him away 
 till she was sure. But there came a gray-bearded man to the 
 gate in the night, and asked to see her — what he said nae man 
 kent ; but when the morning broke, Leddy Violet was sitting 
 at her ain window, gripping her Ijands fast, with a face as 
 9
 
 194 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 wan as the dead, and the bonnie gold hair upon her head a' 
 covered wi' flakes of white, like snaw. But she rose up and 
 cried upon her serving-woman, and put on her wedding gown. 
 It was a' white and glistening — the auld brocade that you 
 read about in books, wrought with flowers, and grander than 
 you ever saw. And then she put her bride's veil on her head, 
 and went away with a slow, stately step out of Allenders. 
 The serving-woman in fear and trembling creepit away after 
 her, hiding under the hedges along the whole road, and she 
 mindit often that the leddy didna meet a single living person 
 a' the way — for she came straight here to the Lady's Well." 
 
 With a shiver of excitement and wonder the children look- 
 ed round them, and drew closer to Dragon ; but the old man 
 went steadily on. 
 
 " It was just half-licht, and the woman could see naething 
 but the leddy, with her grand glistening gown and her veil 
 about her head, gaun stately alang the quiet road. When 
 she came to the Well, she sat down upon the stane, and cross- 
 ed her hands upon her breast, and droopit her head ; but there 
 came a noise of folk upon the road at that moment, and Leddy 
 Violet's woman ran to see what it was. She looked east, and 
 she looked west, but there wasna so much as a shadow on the 
 haill way ; and then she was scared and feared, and ran with- 
 out a stop till she wan hame. 
 
 " But never mortal man saw Leddy Violet mair." 
 
 "Eh, Dragon! where did she go?" cried Katie Calder 
 under her breath ; but Violet only cast timid looks round her, 
 and almost thought she could perceive, in the half-light of 
 this other gloaming, glimmerings of the white garments through 
 the close foliage of the trees. 
 
 •' I tell ye, Missie, nae mortal on this earth kens that," 
 said the Dragon of Allenders ; " but, bairns, ye'll be getting 
 cauld — and I'll tell ye the rest at hame." 
 
 " Oh, Dragon, tell us the rest," pleaded Violet ; but she 
 looked behind her and before, and almost believed she felt the 
 cold hand of the weird-lady laid upon her shoulder. 
 
 " They sought her up and down through the whole country, 
 but the wise and auld among them, kent full well that they 
 would never get her ; and from that day to this, nae man has 
 ever seen her, nor kens if she is dead, and away to heaven, or 
 if she's living aye a charmed life in the fairy-land. It's my 
 hope she's in heaven this hundred years — but ane can never 
 tell."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 195 
 
 "And, Dragon, -what about Sir Harry?" asked Katie 
 Calder, timidly. 
 
 " Sir Hairy was like to gang distraught. He came here 
 and sat upon that stane, day after day for a whole year ; and 
 it was him caused bring the stane bowl, and pit the carved 
 wark ower the spring ; and at the end of the year he died. 
 
 '• That's a' the story, bairns ; but, Missie, you that's fond 
 of ballants, there's ane the leddy made, and that her woman 
 heard her rhyming ower the day she ga'ed away. I have been 
 trying to mind it a' this time. It used to have a tune in the 
 country-side. I could ance sing it grand mysel — and if you'll 
 be awfu' quiet, I'll try — 
 
 "The night wind rose amang the hills, 
 
 But the glen was lown and gray, 
 "When she drew her veil about her head 
 
 And went upon her way. 
 And she has gathered the green willow 
 
 To lay on the threshold stane, 
 And the yew and the rue in the chalmer of state, 
 That the house might be kent for desolate 
 
 When she was lost and gane. 
 
 "Oh! father, kindly fare ye well. 
 
 Good may your last days be, 
 And God send your son were hame in peace. 
 
 Since ye'll nay joy in me. 
 And though ye have made a desert, Harry, 
 
 And griefs I mayna tell, 
 Where ance dwelt mony a pleasant thing, 
 
 Yet Harry, fare ye well ! 
 
 " But wae unto the man, Harry, 
 
 Within this house shall dwell, 
 And bears the name that breaks my heart. 
 
 Though I say fare ye well ! 
 Tlie night wind cries among the trees, 
 
 I ken what words they be, 
 And I maun hence to bruik your pain. 
 But wae to him that bears the name 
 
 Which is the dead of me." 
 
 It was nearly dark now, and the cracked and quivering 
 voice of age rung strangely through the night. Violet felt 
 the leaves rustle about her, and shrank from the elfin touch 
 of the long willow shoots which thrust themselves into her 
 hand, and cast furtive, timid glances round, trembling lest she 
 should see the stately white lady, with her drooped head and
 
 196 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 her bridal veil, sitting under the trees. Katie was bolder, and 
 understood the ballad ; but Lettie's attention, constantly drawn 
 to some imaginary stir among the brushwood, or wandering 
 reflection on the water, and arrested by the singular ghostly 
 effect of the old man's shrill voice and ashy face, failed to 
 make anything of the verse which ended his story. The 
 water trickled away unseen under the leaves — the saugh tree 
 turned out its fleecy lining to the night wind, which began to 
 tremble among its branches — mystic flutterings shook the long 
 grass and limber brambles — and Lettie sat on the stone seat 
 where Lady Violet sat before her, and trembled to her very 
 heart. Little Katie Calder, poking about into the dark 
 mysterious underwood, felt only a little pleasant thrill of 
 apprehension, and was not afraid — for Katie could very well 
 trust an imagination which never had played pranks with her ; 
 but an awe of the dark road home possessed Lettie. She was 
 afraid to remain in this weird corner, and afraid to go away. 
 
 " Mailie's milkit half an hour since," said Dragon, getting 
 up with his usual activity, and shaking the long arms which 
 Violet half suspected were fastened on with wires ; " and the 
 haill house will be asteer wondering what's come of us. 
 Bairns, we'll get our licks if we stay langer — and I'm weary- 
 ing for my parritch mysel." 
 
 But Lettie went along the dark lane, under the high 
 hedge, which might have concealed armies of fairies, and 
 looked behind her with furtive side-long looks, wistful and 
 afraid. The road was very solitary and quiet, but now and 
 then a slow footstep advancing out of the darkness, made her 
 heart leap ; and even when she had reached home, Lettie ran, 
 with unnecessary haste, up the dim staircase, and was glad 
 when bed-time came, and she could lay down her head and close 
 her eyes. But after all, it was quite unsatisfactory to close 
 her eyes ; and as the room was very dark, Lettie constantly 
 opened them to cast anxious glances into the corners, and 
 listened with all her might for the rustling of the lady's 
 silken gown ; but Lady Violet made no appearance to her 
 little relative, except in dreams
 
 HARRY MUIR. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " What strong hand can hold his swift foot back ? " 
 
 Shakspeake. 
 
 The window is up in Martha's room, and the sweet morning 
 air comes in upon you, with a fresh and pleasant abruptness, 
 frank and simple as the sudden laughter of a child. The stir 
 of early day is upon all the country without — birds twitter- 
 ing among the wet leaves, which themselves glisten and 
 tremble in the sun, shaking off the rain which fell heavily 
 through the night — and far-off footsteps and voices, echoing 
 over the fields, of rural people at their wholesome toil. Be- 
 side the window, a work-basket stands upon a little table, 
 and you will wonder when you see it full of the embroidered 
 muslin — the delicate " opening " at which Martha and Kose 
 were wont to labour. It is an elaborate collar which Martha 
 holds in her hand, and she is working at it with silent speed, 
 as she used to do. You would fancy, to look at her now, that 
 the family change of fortune had brought little ease to her. 
 
 But upon a sofa, at a little distance. Rose, with a fresh 
 morning face, and pretty muslin gown, is spreading out 
 Harry's present — the rich, grave-coloured silk, which has been 
 made into a dress for Martha. And Martha suffers herself to 
 smile, and says its only fault is that it is too good, and that 
 the bairns will not know her when she has it on. Katie 
 Calder, at Rose's side, draws out the folds reverentially, and 
 says, with awe, under her breath, that it is " awfu' bonnie ; " 
 but Violet sits on the carpet at Martha's feet, and thinks about 
 the lady at the well. 
 
 For this is a holiday, and the children have no dread of 
 school or lessons before their unembarrassed eyes. In the 
 next room sits a Stirling dressmaker, who has condescended 
 to come out to Allenders, to make up into gowns the glitter- 
 ing silks of Harry's present ; and Katie has already spent an 
 hour in the temporary work-room, appearing now and then, to 
 report the shape of a sleeve, or to exhibit a specimen of some 
 superlative •' trimming." It is quite a jubilee to Katie. 
 
 But Violet, in an Oriental attitude, like a small sultana, 
 sits on the carpet, and stoops both head and shoulders over
 
 19d HARRY MUIR. 
 
 the book on her knee ; which book, for lack of a better, hap- 
 pens to be a quaint essay of Sir Thomas Browne's. All the 
 light literature contained in the old Laird of AUenders' book- 
 shelves, has been devoured long ago, and Violet concluded 
 " Hydrotaphia " to be better than sermons — a conclusion 
 which she is now slightly inclined to doubt. But Lettie is a 
 little dreamy and meditative this morning, and is thinking of 
 Dragon's story, and of Lady Violet's ballad ; wondering, too, 
 with secret excitement, whether she could make a ballad her- 
 self, and repeating over and over again a single ecstatic verse 
 about the moon, of her own composition, which Violet thinks, 
 with a thrill, sounds very like poetry. When Martha stops 
 to thread her needle, she lays her hand caressingly upon 
 Lettie's head, and bids her sit erect, and not stoop so much ; 
 and Lettie is almost encouraged to repeat this verse to her, 
 and hear whether Martha thinks it is like poetry — almost — 
 but she is never quite sufficiently bold. 
 
 The door opens with a little commotion, and Agnes, with 
 care on her brow, comes hurriedly in. The room has been so 
 perfectly peaceful that you feel at once the disturbing ele- 
 ment, when the young wife enters, for Agnes is excited, im- 
 patient, perturbed. She has just been having a controversy 
 with Harry, and comes here, half crying, at its close. 
 
 "He says he's going to Edinburgh to-day with Gilbert 
 AUenders ; I hate Gilbert AUenders," said the little wife, in 
 a sudden burst. " He is always leading Harry away. He is 
 going to the races, and yet he says he doesn't care a straw for 
 the races. Oh, will you speak to him, Martha? " 
 
 " It is better not. Agnes : he will take his own way," said 
 Martha. " It is best I should not interfere." 
 
 " He says we all heard Gilbert AUenders ask him, and that 
 I knew well enough he intended to go, and that you knew, 
 Martha. I told Harry I was sure you did not ; and what 
 pleasure will he have at the races? " 
 
 •• I wish Gilbert AUenders were in America, or in China — 
 or in London, if he likes it better," said Rose, quickly. 
 
 " That's because he wants to fall in love with you," said 
 Agnes, with a light laugh, diverted for the moment by the 
 fervour of Rose's good wishes for the fascinating Gilbert ; 
 " but I am sure I would not care where he was, if he was only 
 away from Harry ; and Harry does not like him either. Rose, 
 we're to try to gather a big basket of strawberries for Mrs. 
 Charteris, and I think, maybe, Martha, if Harry goes there^ 
 that he may get no skaith in Edinburgh."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 199 
 
 Rose came shyly to the table. " If it had only been a 
 week sooner ! or if we had not pulled so many berries on Sat- 
 urday ! " 
 
 " We must take what we can get," said Agnes ; " and the 
 basket is standing below the walnut-tree. Will you not say 
 anything to Harry, Martha ? " 
 
 •' I will see him before he goes away," said Martha, laying 
 down her work. 
 
 And Violet sprang up and threw " Hydrotaphia " into the 
 work-basket, and called upon Katie Calder, who just then ran 
 out of the work-room with a little paper pattern in her hand, 
 of a bonnet which she designed manufacturing for a great doll, 
 joint property of herself and Lettie. Lettie, with her books 
 and her reveries, gave but a very inconstant regard to this 
 doll ; it was often thrown for a week together upon the less 
 capricious attention of Katie Calder. 
 
 Harry was standing by the dining-room window, with a 
 sprig of jasmine in his breast, looking slightly ruffled and im- 
 patient, but still very bright and animated; and as Agnes 
 passed him, carrying the basket, he patted her shoulder play- 
 fully, and called her a good girl, after all. Poor little Agnes ! 
 she was not sure whether it was best to laugh or cry. 
 
 " So you are going, Harry ? " Martha paused beside him, 
 and leaned against the jasmine-covered wall. 
 
 " Yes. I am going. Why, Martha, I am not a child ; why 
 do you constantly look so wistful and anxious ? It's enough 
 to make a man stay away altogether," said Harry, angrily. 
 
 " Is it ? A man, I suppose, must have very little induce- 
 ment to stay at home, when that is enough to send him away," 
 said Martha, coldly ; '• but, Harry, your friend Gilbert Allen- 
 ders annoys Rose — could you not restrain him, if you bring 
 him here again ? " 
 
 •' Is that all ? " said Harry, laughing. '• Gibbie's not such 
 a bad fellow, Martha ; and the doctor will give him half of his 
 practice, and he's sure to be steadier in a year or two. Well, 
 I should not like Rose to have anything to do with him, that 
 is true ; but still he may have his chance as well as another. 
 Have you anything to say to Charteris, Martha?" 
 
 '• NothiMg ; but you will go there? " said Martha, eagerly. 
 
 " Oh ! of course — the old lady would not be pleased ; but 
 then I can't take Allenders there — if it was only on account 
 of Rose ; " and Harry laughed again. His impatience was 
 wearing away. He was quite good-humoured and light-hearted
 
 200 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Meanwhile the light glimmers through the trees upon 
 Rose's head, bending over the great basket, and upon the wet 
 leaves, from which she shakes the last remaining rain-drops, 
 as she places them under the fragrant fruit ; and it is singular 
 now, when the basket is full, to observe how careful she is 
 in choosing those leaves, and how she scatters little bits of 
 oak, tender brown and green, and spreads cool twigs of plane 
 tree over the strawberries, and sends Violet away stealthily 
 to gather white jasmine blossoms, and strew them on the fruit. 
 Violet, nothing loth, twists a long bough of jasmine round 
 Rose's dark hair, and Katie suggests cabbage-leaves to cover 
 up the basket ; which suggestion, prosaic as it is, has to be 
 carried out, and so the basket is borne away. 
 
 The day after to-morrow Harry promises to return, and 
 they watch him go away with doubt and pain ; but he himself 
 is very cheerful, and speaks so confidently of what " I " will 
 do, and evidently feels himself so dignified and independent a 
 man, that they are comforted. '• Everybody else in Harry's 
 station does the same thing," says Agnes, a little proudly, and 
 Martha assents with an averted face, and they separate in si- 
 lence — the one to occupy herself pleasantly with little domes- 
 tic cares, the other to take up her work again, and sit at her 
 open window, and pray in her heart. 
 
 But Rose has wandered to the mall, and sits under the oak 
 tree, which rounds its termination. They have made a little 
 seat there under the thick foliage, where there is always shade; 
 and Rose, not without a compunction about the work which 
 she should be doing, either to help Martha or the dressmaker, 
 resigns herself to a dream. The water at her side glides on. 
 She can see it floating past her, through the loving leaves 
 which droop over it, and dip into its dazzling tide ; and at her 
 other hand, the spear head glitters on the turret, and the glis- 
 tening lime-tree throws its wet boughs abroad, and shakes 
 them in the face of the brave sun. Then there are rays of 
 sober daylight stealing with sidelong quietness through the 
 beeches farther down, and Violet and Katie send pleasant 
 articulate voices into the universal rustle, which the soft air 
 waving about every where, calls forth from the water and the 
 trees. 
 
 Behind her is a corn-field, the greatest rustler of all ; and 
 Rose hears a heavy foot wading through the scanty grain, 
 chance sown under the hedge. But just then, the children 
 with their unfailing attendant, Dragon, have come close upon
 
 HARRY M.UIR. 201 
 
 Rose on the other side of the oak, but do not see her, though 
 she hears all they say. 
 
 There is a pause of perfect stillness for a moment, and 
 Violet sighs. 
 
 " Eh. Dragon ! " said Lettie, " I wouldna like to be here in 
 the dark." 
 
 " You dinna ken how bonnie it is in the dark, Missie," said 
 the old man, " 'specially when there's stars shining, that ye can- 
 na tell whether they're in the water or the sky ; and there was 
 ance a fairy ring somegate about the steps yonder, and I've 
 heard mony a ane say they had listened lang syne to sair 
 groans out of that oak. They say ane o' the lairds that planted 
 it came by a violent death, and ye can aye hear't make a moan 
 and complaint, at the season of the year when he was killed ; 
 but I canna answer for that story — and I never heard the tree 
 say a word mair than ony itber tree, a' my days." 
 
 " But listen. Dragon," said Lettie, covering her eyes, " if 
 it was dark. I could think it was the rustling of Lady Violet's 
 gown." 
 
 •' And it's naething but the corn," said Dragon, with a fee- 
 ble laugh ; '' naething but the wind in the corn, and your ain 
 fancy. Ay, but there is anither sound. What would ye say 
 if it was Mailie in among Willie Hunter's corn ? " 
 
 '• I would get a wand, and drive her out again. I would 
 like, Dragon — is it her that's in the corn ? " cried Katie Cal- 
 dcr. 
 
 But Dragon looking over the hedge, already bore testi- 
 mony that it was not the brown cow, by greeting with great 
 surprise his nephew Geordie. 
 
 " I was just coming in bye to say a word to Mysie," said 
 the gruff voice of the labouring man. " Her mother's ill yon- 
 der, and ane o' the weans has a fever and the ither a hoast ; be 
 a decent body for ance, uncle, and cry her out to me — for I 
 want to tell her she's no to come hame at no hand, on account 
 of the bairns at the house." 
 
 '• I'll rin," said the active little Katie Calder. 
 
 And Katie ran away through the trees, without waiting 
 for permission. 
 
 '• I passed Allenders in his carriage the noo," said Geordie. 
 " He'll hae siller o' his ain. I reckon, mair than the lands ? for 
 it would take a grand fortune to keep up a' yon." 
 
 '• Ay, he's a fine lad, Mr. Hairy," said the old man, " and 
 they're a real biddable family, and dinna scorn guid advice 
 9*
 
 202* HARRY MUIR. 
 
 wherever it comes frae ; and then there's the young lady, Miss 
 Rose, ye ken, hasna made up her mind if she's to be married 
 on the doctor lad out of Stirling, or yon birkie in Edinburgh. 
 I think she's maist disposed to him — and I'll warrant he's a 
 grand man, for he has it in his e'e — nae fear o' Mr. Hairy, 
 when he has a writer married on his ae sister, and sic a wise 
 lady for his ither." 
 
 Poor Rose started — but, to do her justice, quite as much 
 because Geordie's remark had opened her eyes to a new dan- 
 ger for Harry, as because Dragon's unhesitating disposal of 
 herself dissipated with a light much too distinct and severe, 
 the indefinite happiness of her dreams. 
 
 •' Is't true he's gaun to take AUender Mains into his ain 
 hands ? " said Geordie. " I hear the land's to bear threple 
 crops when the laird's new manager comes. I'll no say but it 
 might if it was weel lookit after, and I would like to say a 
 word to him mysel about that new harrow and better graith 
 for the beasts. I'm saying, auld man — do ye think Allenders 
 is sure to baud at it, if he begins wi' the farm ? " 
 
 " Man, he delved and dibbled in the garden ae night for a 
 haill hour ! " exclaimed the applauding Dragon. 
 
 Geordie shook his head. " I'm no sae sure that's a good 
 sign. And then, ye see, the farming takes siller. I would 
 like to ken if it's true what they say, uncle, that this lad was 
 naething but a puir lad afore he wan to Allenders ; but if he 
 hasna siller o' his ain, he ne'er can carry on at this rate. Ony 
 way, it's a comfort the land maun aye be tilled, and that ane 
 gets ane's bread whaever's maister. But here's Mysie. Guid 
 day to ye, auld man." 
 
 " And I'll away in, Missie, to see about my kail," said 
 Dragon. " It's eleven in the day by the sun. Ye should 
 gang to Mysie, and get a piece yoursel." 
 
 The old man shuffled away, and Lettie, swinging round the 
 thick trunk of the oak, suddenly came upon Rose. The child's 
 eyes were glistening, dark and wistful, and there was a cloud 
 of the old vague gloom and discouragement upon her face. 
 
 " What way do they ask if Harry has siller, Rose 7 " asked 
 Lettie, anxiously ; " what way do they say he hasna enough ? 
 Was Allenders no a grand fortune when Harry got it ? and 
 what way is it no a grand fortune now ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell, Lettie," said Rose, sadly. " Come away, 
 and we'll go in, and you'll read a book to Martha and me." 
 
 Lettie put her hand into her sister's quietly, and they
 
 HARRY MUIR. 203 
 
 went in together. Martha was still at her window — still work- 
 ing with her old silent assiduity — and Rose drew a chair to 
 the opposite side of the little table, and, greatly subdued and 
 eobered, took up out of Martha's basket, a piece of embroidery, 
 and began to '• open '• it as busily as of yore. This work was 
 still regularly supplied to Martha by Uncle Sandy in Ayr. 
 It was a satisfaction to her to pursue those unknown labours 
 day by day ; and Rose, too, began with a kind of desperate 
 energy — as if such a pittance as she could earn could have any 
 effect upon the fortunes of Harry ; but still it was a satisfaction 
 to do what she could. 
 
 Katie Calder came in from the garden, flushed and merry, 
 and could not comprehend the quietness which had fallen upon 
 Rose and her little playfellow, though Lettie's changing moods 
 ceased to surprise her constant companion ; so Katie resumed 
 her pilgrimages between Martha's room and the dressmaker's, 
 and began her doll's bonnet with great success and eclat ; 
 while Violet again seated on the carpet, solemnly commenced 
 to read '■" Hydrotaphia " to her quite uninterested auditors ; 
 but finding this would not do, suddenly threw it down, and 
 began to tell them Dragon's story. 
 
 The sisters listened with quiet pleasure : they did not al- 
 ways understand Lettie, in her reveries and dreamings, and 
 she was naturally shy of speech ; but Martha had already 
 been startled on more than one occasion by the strange intui- 
 tive perceptions of her youngest " bairn." and she said with an 
 affectionate smile when the story ended, " You will be like 
 Lady Violet, Lettie — you will make ballads too." 
 
 A. burning flush crossed the child's face, and she did not 
 speak for some time. Then she looked up to say : " Dragon 
 says Harry's no a canny name for the Lairds of Allenders, 
 and there never has been one, Martha, from Lady Violet's 
 time till now." 
 
 A cloud passed over Martha's face — a very slight fantastic 
 thing was enough at this time to leave a permanent shadow. 
 
 And it was a week before Harry returned ; and he came 
 back sullen, gloomy, and exhausted, with nothing to tell them, 
 as he said — nor had he seen Charteris except once, and that 
 on the first day he spent in Edinburgh. Poor Harry ! he had 
 not yet expended a farthing on his farming operations, and he 
 dared not think how little remained of Miss Jean's thousand 
 pounds.
 
 204 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 The wind Ijlows east, the wind blows west, 
 And then comes both sun and rain. 
 
 Carltle. 
 
 The autumn passed with many ordinary vicissitudes, with 
 times of peacefuhiess, and times of trouble ; and in the house 
 of Allenders another baby son was born. It was just when 
 Harry was beginning the business of his farm, and after a time 
 of great abstraction and excitement, during which he had vis- 
 ited Edinburgh once or twice, and was evidently occupied with 
 some business which he could not confide to any one at home. 
 But Harry's mind had been lightened before his baby came ; 
 the farm-manager had arrived ; Geordie, the nephew of the 
 feeble Dragon, had spoken his mind to Allenders about the 
 new harrow and the plough-graith, and had been graciously 
 heard — so graciously, that Geordie immediately decided on an 
 affirmative answer to the question which agitated the whole 
 population of Maidlin Cross, and ever after maintained that 
 " the laird Imd siller o' his ain, bye the lands, and that he was 
 just living free and openhanded, as a gentleman should live." 
 It was one of Harry's sunshine times ; and many a heart wish- 
 ed kindly wishes for him, as he stood in Maidlin Church, his 
 young wife in her graceful weakness, and his sisters seated by 
 his side, and held up his child to receive the baptismal sprink- 
 ling, and to be named with the name of the Lord. '• He has 
 the kindliest face I ever saw — ane's heart warms to the lad — 
 blessings on him," said an old woman on the pulpit stairs ; and 
 Martha's heart swelled with the echoed blessing. 
 
 And there were blessings on him — blessings which many a 
 desolateheartsighed and pined for in vain — blessings of rare love 
 arid tenderness, of children fair and hopeful, and in his own person 
 of a competent mind, and of the bright health and youth to 
 which everything was possible. So far as his starting point 
 was concerned, a wonderful realization had come to Martha's 
 ambitious hopes for him : and now it almost seemed to lie 
 with Harry himself to decide what the end of them should be. 
 
 In the farm-house of Allender Mains, Harry's farm-mana- 
 ger has already established himself, and from the midst of its
 
 HARRY MUIR. 205 
 
 bare trees you see appearing the half-built chimney of the new 
 threshing-mill, the machinery of which has just arrived under 
 charge of two young engineers from Glasgow ; and the slope of 
 the farm-garden, and all the barnyard behind, is lined with great 
 draiuing-pipes, glancing red through the hoar-frost at a mile 
 or two's distance, upon their slight elevation. And just be- 
 hind the little byre and stable of AUenders' house, a great 
 range of new stables and byres are rising, to receive the cat- ' 
 tie, which Harry has resolved shall be unequalled in the coun- 
 try-side. When the weather is •' fresh," you cannot pass a 
 field without seeing the heavy breath of the plough-horses, 
 rising like a mist over the hedge, and hearing the meditative 
 whistle, or uncouth call of the ploughman behind. An air of 
 sudden activity spreads over the little district — so decided 
 and apparent, indeed, that a retired weaver in Stirling has al- 
 ready two new houses in progress, one of which is a little shop, 
 in the very front of Maidlin Cross. The event excited the 
 hamlet to a positive uproar, for never before had any man 
 dreamed of dignifying Maidlin with such a two-storied slated 
 house as slowly grew upon its astonished vision now. 
 
 Andin the dusk of the winter mornings you see the lanes 
 full of hardy brown children, girded with rough sackcloth 
 aprons — bound for school, you would fancy. No, they are 
 bound for Harry's fields, to "' gather stanes," and have each a 
 little "wage " to carry home on Saturday night to the immense 
 delight of mother and child. The fathers are laying drains 
 and ploughing, the elder sisters tend the fine cows in the byre 
 at Allender Mains, and prosperity to which they are altogeth- 
 er unaccustomed falls suddenly upon the startled inhabitants 
 of Maidlin Cross. 
 
 And landlords and farmers, startled too, are looking more 
 scrupulously to themselves, lest they be outdone by the new- 
 comer ; the blood stirs in the awakened veins of the country 
 side, and something of emulation, keener than the keenest air 
 of December, strikes into the warm fireside corner, where 
 honest men can no longer take in peace their afternoon's glass 
 of toddy, and its accompanying newspaper, for constant reports 
 of what is doing at AUenders, and what AUenders himself is 
 doing — for Harry's active footstep rings along the frost-bound 
 paths, and Harry's frank salutations scatter good-will among 
 his husbandmen every day ; and steady going agricultural 
 people waken up, and look after their own omissions and neg- 
 lects, with a half-grudge at AUenders.
 
 206 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 It seems that Harry has found at last the life suitable for 
 him. Though the snow lies heavy on the sullen brow of De- 
 meyet, and every blade of grass on the lawn is crisped into 
 distinct identity, and the burn is frost-bound under the trees, 
 and an icy hand restrains the tinkling springlet of the Lady's 
 Well. Harry never fails to visit his fields. 
 
 " Tlie best compost for the lands 
 Is the master's feet and hands," 
 
 he says with a laugh, as he wraps his plaid about him, and sets 
 out in the face of the keenest wind that sweeps out of the 
 highlands, and Agnes, with the new baby on her arm, sits by 
 the fireside with radiant smiles, and Martha looks after him 
 from the window, where now the jasmine clings in long brown 
 fibres to the wall, without a single adorning leaf, and in her 
 heart tries to forget all the dread and all the bitter thoughts 
 which mingled in the summer-time with the sickly odour of 
 those jasmine flowers. 
 
 Yet sometimes Harry is abstracted and full of care. They 
 believe that he is thinking then of errors which they believe 
 are now happily past for ever ; for no one in the house but 
 Martha, ever remembers, that all these improvements must 
 cost more than Miss Jean's thousand pounds — and Marth finds 
 all her attempts at inquiry evaded. She never can succeed in 
 learning where Harry gets the means of accomplishing so 
 much, and it is only now and then, when an incautious murmur 
 about interest, or legal charges, reaches her, that she has 
 ground for her conjecture that he has borrowed from others 
 besides Miss Jean. But Martha believes with trembling that 
 Harry's mind is changed — that his purposes are no longer 
 fluctuating and unsteady — that he has reached at last the great 
 strength and motive power of the Christian life ; and she can 
 trust all lesser things to the regulation of that which is above 
 all. 
 
 And they never say poor Harry — never except when they 
 are commenting with full hearts and eyes upon some new proof 
 of Harry's kindness — and then it is said in applauding, grate- 
 ful love, and not in pity. No longer poor Harry — for is he 
 not a great landed proprietor, making such a stir in his district 
 as no Allenders has done before him for a hundred years ? and 
 has not Sir John Dunlop invited Allenders of Allenders to 
 dine with him on Christmas day ?
 
 HARRY MUIR. 207 
 
 They are very glad it is Christmas day and not the new 
 year — the Scottish family holy-tide — and Harry comes home 
 greatly elated from Sir John Dunlop's where they have treated 
 him with the greatest distinction, like a guest of special 
 honour. Lady Dunlop, too, promises to call on Mrs. Allen- 
 ders. and Agnes blushes deep for pleasure, and is fluttered and 
 excited, and sings to the baby such a song of triumph, that 
 instead of being lulled to sleep as she intends, he opens his 
 blue eyes wide, and seizing on the lace about her pretty neck, 
 tears it with exultation and delight. Happy baby ! young 
 enough to do mischief with impunity ! Little Harry, now two 
 full years old, who does not at all admire this supplanting 
 baby, and is still sore about his own dethronement, clenches 
 his fist at him in anger and envy, and is the only person in 
 the fireside circle who has sympathy with Agnes's tribulation 
 about her perished lace. 
 
 Next week Cuthbert Charteris is coming for a single day 
 to pay them a visit, for Cuthbert is very busy now, laying the 
 foundation of a great business ; and in honour of Cuthbert 
 there is to be a party — the first which they have attempted — 
 when the covers are to be taken off the drawing-room chairs, 
 and Agnes and Rose are to appear in full, costume. Youthful 
 and inexperienced as they all are, this is a great event to them, 
 and Agnes innocently reports to Harry various elegancies which 
 she would like to have on her table and her pretty drawing- 
 room, before the notable day ; and Harry lays before them a 
 plan of Miss Dunlop's for a conservatory, which she herself has 
 strongly recommended to him. Harry thinks he will set 
 about it immediately, and it will not cost much, and Agnes 
 and Rose are delighted and cannot sufficiently admire the ar- 
 tistic talent of Miss Dunlop. 
 
 But to-morrow Harry has to pay fifty labourers — to-mor- 
 row a quarter's salary falls due to the farm manager — to-mor- 
 row he has promised to pay for some fine Ayrshire cows, now 
 luxuriating in the byre at Allender Mains — and to-morrow, 
 alas ! there are two separate dividends of interest, which 
 cannot be postponed — Miss Jean's, and a heavier creditor 
 than Miss Jean. 
 
 So Harry retires to his library when they have left him, 
 and chafes himself a little over the trouble of so many com- 
 plicated concerns, and feels a momentary shiver pass over 
 him, as he wonders how he will do when the great sum he 
 lately lodged in his bank at Stirling shall be exhausted — what
 
 208 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 then, Harry? witli more than three hundred of interest to 
 pay, and only four hundred and fifty pounds ? And Harry's 
 brow contracts for a monient, and a shadow steals over his 
 face ; but immediately it brightens. " Why by that time, to 
 be sure, the farm will have doubled its value, and I shall be 
 a rich man," he repeats half aloud, with a short laugh of satis- 
 faction, and going to his writing-table, he puts down in per- 
 manent " black and white," a list of the pretty things in silver- 
 work and upholstery, which he has promised to order before 
 Agnes's party, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, reads 
 a novel for an hour with the lightest heart in the world. 
 
 While Agnes visits little Harry in his crib to kiss him as 
 he sleeps, and folds the new-come brother into her own bosom, 
 and lies down to her happy rest ; and Rose, between sleeping 
 and waking, dreams, with a heart full of sweet anticipations ; 
 and Martha in the darkness looks out upon the falling snow, 
 and on the pallid moon lightening Demeyet, and bids the 
 stern voice of her experience be still, and let her hope — 
 Hope ! she holds it to her heart with a desperate clutch, as a 
 drowning mother holds her child, and is still, waiting for the 
 will of God. 
 
 Not a sound breaks the profound slumber of Maidlin 
 Cross, where Harry's labourers, free of all care for the mor- 
 row, lie silent in the deep sleep which compensates their toil. 
 Not a sound disturbs the quietness of AUenders, except that 
 small voice of Violet asking in the darkness if Katie is asleep. 
 Yes, Katie is asleep : shut your dark eyes, Lettie, and say 
 your prayers, that Lady Violet may not come in her glisten- 
 ing garments to sit yonder in the darkest corner, and hold 
 you with her glittering eye ; but except for this visionary 
 dread, and the one ache of ancient fear in Martha's graver 
 breast — fear which only dwells far down in the depths, like 
 an echo in a well — this hour of rest sheds nothing but peace 
 upon the home of Harry Muir.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 209 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Tlie Count is neither sad nor sick, nor merry, nor -well ; but civil. Count — civil as an 
 orange, and something of that jealous complexion. — Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 On the eve of the important party, Cuthbert Charteris arrived 
 at Allenders. 
 
 Half-frozen with his journey, and shaking from his coat 
 large flakes of the snow, which trembled in the air, they took 
 him into the dining-room, where a blazing fire, a late dinner, 
 and the warm and smiling welcome of Agnes greatly solaced 
 the wayfarer. Harry had met him in Stirling, and driven 
 him out ; but Harry's carriage, though it could be closed, was 
 not so comfortable on a December night as in the bright sun- 
 shine of a July day. Cuthbert made hurried inquiries after 
 Martha and Rose, in answer to which Agnes began a most 
 animated account of an unexpected call from "young Mr. 
 Dunlop " to say that his sister would be very happy to come 
 with him to Agnes's party. Little Mrs. Muir Allenders, had 
 only ventured at the last moment to invite the baronet's 
 daughter : and then with but the faintest expectation that 
 Miss Dunlop would come. Agnes was gi-eatly elated ; and 
 Rose and Martha were with Mr. Dunlop in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 But on the peaceful countenance of Cuthbert Charteris 
 there passed a momentary savageness. At this moment it 
 seemed to him, in unconscious self-estimation, that he, as the 
 newly-arrived guest and tried friend, should 130 the principal 
 person at Allenders — whereas this young Mr. Dunlop, most 
 probably a nobody, as Cuthbert concluded with amiable liber- 
 ality, defrauded him of his welcome from the sisters, and 
 drew away Harry from his side. Tt was true that Harry 
 returned in ten minutes, and that Martha and Agnes changed 
 places ; but still Cuthbert involuntarily frowued. Might not 
 Rose, in common courtesy, have come to greet him 1 Alas, 
 poor Rose ! for Cuthbert could not tell how she trembled at 
 the bright fireside of the drawing-room, nor how the aston- 
 ished Agnes threw shawls round her shoulders, and wondered 
 what could make her so cold.
 
 210 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Mr. Charteris lingered long over his dinner. Cuthbert, to 
 tell the truth, was rather sullen, and made by no means a 
 brilliant appearance to Martha and Harry, who sat with him 
 while he refreshed himself. He had a great inclination, in- 
 deed, to wrap himself up again in his travelling dress, say a 
 surly good-bye at the drawing-room door, and betake himself 
 home without delay ; but Cuthbert disconsolately comforted 
 himself, that it was only for one day, and sat with all his 
 attention concentrated on the sounds from the staircase, dog- 
 gedly assuring himself that no one would come. And no one 
 did come ; and Cuthbert was enraged at the fulfilment of his 
 own prophecy. 
 
 By and bye, he went up-stairs, attended by Harry, who 
 did not quite comprehend this singular mood, to his own room ; 
 and Rose heard his voice on the stair, and trembled still more 
 and more, though young Mr. Dunlop sat by, and did all that 
 in him lay to engage her attention. But poor Rose felt a 
 great inclination to steal away to her own room and cry ; for 
 she in her turn, thought it strange, very strange, that Cuthbert 
 should linger so long, and show so little wish to see her. 
 
 And when Cuthbert, his face still tingling from the cold 
 blast without, entered the warm and cheerful drawing-room, 
 and saw young Mr. Dunlop sitting beside the silent Rose, de- 
 scribing to her with animation some storied continental towns 
 from which he had lately returned, the grave advocate felt 
 himself yield to boyish pique and jealous resentment — " Civil 
 as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion," the 
 tone of his constrained greeting dismayed Rose, and when he 
 had taken her hand in his own somewhat chill one, and let it 
 fall again with scarcely a pressure, he withdrew to the other 
 side of the room, and began to talk to Martha. Rose, who 
 had not been a very good listener before, became worse than 
 ever now — but Mr. Charteris, trying to look very indifferent, 
 occupied himself almost ostentatiously with Martha, and 
 laughed at his own jokes, and became quite exuberant and de- 
 monstrative, though he never spoke to Rose. 
 
 But Rose would not tell her sister, when she unexpectedly 
 brought a light to their dark room that night, why she was 
 crying ; it was for nothing at all, Rose protested — indeed no- 
 thing at all — but faster and faster the tears ran down her 
 cheek, and she had much to do to keep back a rising sob. 
 Martha put her hand over the wet eyes tenderly, and did not 
 ask again — for she could guess without explanation, the cause 
 of Rose's tears.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 211 
 
 Next day Mr. Charteris rode out with Harry to see the 
 improvements. He was much interested in them, he said, and 
 so he was — far iuore interested than he felt yesterday when 
 he came. 
 
 Cuthbert had been having a consulation with himself dur- 
 ing the night — a consultation in which he looked at various 
 circumstances from a point of view exactly opposite to that of 
 Rose. He saw " young Mr. Dunlop," son of the rich Sir John, 
 a wealthier man than he could ever be, devoting himself to 
 her unequivocally, as Cuthbert thought — and Cuthbert in his 
 heart devoutly believed that Rose's gentle excellence needed 
 only to be seen to win all love and honour. So he gravely 
 asked himself whether it would be right for him, even if it 
 were in his power, to stand in the way, and endeavour to se- 
 cure for himself, who must struggle for years in the uphill 
 road to success, one who would do honour to this higher rank 
 which seemed about to be laid at her feet. And Cuthbert, 
 with the self-denial of a man who magnanimously gives up, 
 what he sees no hope of ever attaining, said to himself: No — 
 no — His affection, strong and powerful as it was, should never 
 stand in Rose's way. 
 
 And this was no small trial to Cuthbert. He had come 
 here prepared to say certain things which would have made 
 one heart in Allenders leap. He had even gone so far as to 
 confide his intention to his mother, and it was somewhat hard 
 now to give it up, and go steadily back to his books and his 
 struggles, relinquishing for ever the fairy solace of these disap- 
 pointed hopes. It was hard, was it right ? Cuthbert persuaded 
 himself so, as he rode silently along those wintry lanes, where 
 the snow lay thick under the hedges, and whitened every 
 spray ; but Cuthbert did not know how great a share in it be- 
 longed to the pride which lay at the bottom of his heart. 
 
 When he returned to Allenders, Rose was busy with Agnes 
 in preparation for the party. He did not see her, and this 
 brought confirmation to his previous thoughts. Then came the 
 party itself, an ordinary collection of well-looking, well-dressed 
 people, among whom Cuthbert, with his preoccupied thoughts, 
 found very little to interest him. Miss Dunlop, it is true, a 
 well-bred, trained, mature young lady, acquainted with the 
 world, made herself very polite and agreeable, and evidently 
 regarded Cuthbert as one of the most tolerable persons pre- 
 sent ; but then Mr. Dunlop was at Rose's side again, and Rose 
 looked shy and pale, and embarrassed, shrinking from the glance
 
 212 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 and touch of her new attendant as an indifferent person never 
 could do. Cuthbert turned away with a great sigh when he 
 perceived her face flush and grow pale, her hand tremble, her 
 eyes cast down. He thought it was the stranger beside her 
 whose presence called forth these unwilling evidences of 
 maidenly tremor and confusion ; and he turned away, feeling 
 as if some burning hand had clutched at his heart. 
 
 But Cuthbert could not see the wistful glances, which, 
 when he painfully averted his eyes, dwelt upon him with inquir- 
 ing sadness ; and when he looked again, Rose was sitting silent 
 as before, with sudden flushes on her face, and sudden tremors 
 in her frame, answering, it is true, with few words and a little 
 melancholy smile, when any one addressed her, but entirely 
 failing to make the impression which Harry had predicted for 
 her pink silk gown. And there was Mr. Dunlop paying his 
 devoirs gallantly ; those easy assiduities of word and manner ! 
 — Cuthbert felt the strong love sicken his own heart, as he 
 said to himself that these had charmed-the trustful spirit of his 
 Lady Rose. 
 
 And Mr. Dunlop, observing the changes of her face, at 
 first with a little amusement, very soon came to the same con- 
 clusion too, and was embarrassed and annoyed, gratified and 
 proud. For nothing was further from the thoughts of the 
 baronet's son, for whom the magnanimous Cuthbert was wil- 
 ling to sacrifice himself, than any particular admiration of 
 Rose, or the faintest intention of offering himself to the sister 
 of Harry Muir. But the young man was human, and not in- 
 sensible to ladies' love. He thought, like Cuthbert, that his 
 attractions had overpowered Rose, and his tone insensibly 
 grew tender, and his attentions marked, till Rose, able to bear 
 it no longer, stole away. 
 
 " Poor Rose Allenders," said Miss Dunlop to Cuthbert, as 
 Rose left the room. " She seems to think John is in love 
 with her ; she is a very nice little girl, I think, but some young 
 ladies are so ridiculous, taking every little attention so seri- 
 ously, and I really must speak to John." 
 
 But Cuthbert, if she knew it, could have thrown John out 
 of the window with far greater pleasure than he handed 
 John's sister to the new piano ; and immediately after he sat 
 down for a full hour to watch the door, with so much earnest- 
 ness and solicitude in his face, that Rose, when she stole in 
 again, brightened as a with a sudden sunshine. And Cuth- 
 bert's heart lightened a little too j but still it was full of dis-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 213 
 
 trust and doubt, and lie never drew near her to speak the 
 words, or hear the response, which might have set this doubt 
 at rest. 
 
 The night was over, and nothing but the most ordinary 
 civilities had passed between them ; next morning he was to 
 go away. He stood on the threshold in his rough travelling 
 coat and plaid, saying, " Good bye," with a voice which slight- 
 ly faltered. He had shaken hands with Rose in the dining- 
 room, where they breakfasted, and now he thought he was 
 taking farewell of Allenders. But as he looked back between 
 Martha and Agnes, who had come with him to the door, 
 Cuthbert saw a shy, lingering figure in the doorway of the 
 room he had left. His heart warmed ; he stepped back to 
 take Rose's hand again, and press it kindly in another fare- 
 well. They said nothing except "Good bye;" but Cuthbert 
 caught one timid, upward glance, and Rose saw the full 
 steady look which conveyed to her so much of what the heart 
 meant to say. The cloud rose from her heart and floated 
 away ; in another moment Cuthbert was gone, and she sat 
 down to her work in intense silence, eager to resume her 
 dreams ; but Cuthbert rolled away on the frosty road, and 
 looked back on A.llenders, with a sadness at his heart. 
 
 He had hitherto unconsciously assumed to himself the 
 right of assistance and succour if any emergency should come. 
 Now he felt this gliding away from him — now he could no 
 longer dream of carrying this Rose in his arms to the safe 
 place where rains of adversity might beat upon the gentle 
 heart no more. The future of which he had speculated so 
 much, grew misty and uncertain to Cuthbert. The little cloud 
 of breath before him, hovering in the frosty air, rose up like a 
 white mist upon distant Benledi, and obscured him, though he 
 looked out from among the clouds ; and so over many a 
 great event, and many a weighty hour, this little present mist 
 rose dim and disheartening, and Cuthbert could not look 
 beyond it — could not in his blended pride, and eagerness, and 
 anxiety, distinguish the simple truth under this momentary veil. 
 
 But Harry by his side, spoke of his projects, and Cuthbert 
 seemed to listen, and gave answers not so far astray, though 
 Cuthbert's thoughts were little employed about Harry's im- 
 provements, and it cost him an effort to keep up his attention. 
 They parted very cordially, however, and Harry urged upon 
 his friend repeated invitations to return, which Cuthbert was 
 fain to evade. He remembered Rose's parting glance, and
 
 214 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 could not prevail upon himself to resign the chance of going 
 back ; but again he thought of the previous day, the previous 
 night, and sighed to himself heavily as he turned his face 
 towards home. He thought he had looked his last upon 
 Rose. 
 
 When Harry left Cuthbert, he went to his bankers and 
 drew a very considerable sum from his " capital ;" but Harry 
 felt he had been very economical lately, and could afford a 
 little indulgence now; so he ordered some pretty bits of 
 jewellery which he had fancied Agnes wanted last night, and 
 called on Gilbert Allenders and some other choice spirits, and 
 dined with them at the principal inn, and spent the evening 
 merrily ; nor was it until John had made repeated represen- 
 tations of the darkness of the night, and the necessity for get- 
 ting home, that Harry suffered himself to be persuaded, and 
 bid a reluctant good-night to his friends. 
 
 Charteris was bending over a mass of papers, schooling the 
 heart which still throbbed so loudly, and wearying himself out 
 with indifferent business, that his disappointment might not 
 sit too near the source of his strength, when Harry, wearied 
 by quite a different process, drove past the dark and silent 
 houses at Maidlin Cross. The labourers there were lying 
 down to the untroubled slumber purchased by a toilsome day ; 
 and the children were asleep in Allenders, and Martha was 
 standing by the window of her own room, looking out into a 
 darkness so profound, that it made her blind, and feeling a 
 darkness profounder still within the heart, which she coerced 
 into absolute silence ; when, drowsy and wearied out, dazzled 
 with the lights, and annoyed by the quietness, Harry came 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 He will hang upon him like a disease. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 " I've a great mind to practice out here, Harry," said Gilbert 
 Allenders ; " lots of scarlet-fever, and measles, and hooping- 
 cough to start a man. And I want to be decent and respect- 
 able, and get out of temptation. If you were in an interesting 
 position, like me, I'd get you a couple of rooms at AUender 
 
 1
 
 HARRY MUIR. 215 
 
 Mains, and invite you to dinner every day, till you were set 
 up. Interesting children of Maidlin, you don't know how 
 much you want a doctor ! " 
 
 " And would you actually come out here in winter, Gil- 
 bert ? " said Harry. " You don't know how dull it is some- 
 times." 
 
 Harry drew his hat over his eyes, and returned very 
 gruffly the passing salutation of Geordie Paxton. It was now 
 a week since he had visited his fields, and that was more than 
 time to make Harry sick — as he said — of the whole concern. 
 
 " The duties of my profession, Sir," said Gilbert, sol- 
 emnly : " a medical man is always a martyr to the public and 
 his duty — always. By the way, Harry, what would you say 
 to take a run up to town for a week or two, just before settling 
 down? I think it would do me good." 
 
 And Mr. Gilbert laid his hand on his heart, and sighed, 
 as if he were the most interesting invalid in the world. 
 
 '• To town ? Do you mean to Stirling ? I am there often 
 enough already," said Harry. 
 
 " Stirling ! " Mr. Gilbert put up his hand to arrange the 
 great woollen cravat he wore, and laughed hoarsely. " You 
 don't fancy I call that little hole of a place, town ! How in- 
 nocent you are, after all ! " 
 
 " Am I ? " Harry felt himself growing very angry, and 
 kicking away a stone which happened to lie beside his foot, 
 sent it spinning through a group of Maidlin boys, dispersing 
 themselves and their " bools " in all directions. If it had 
 only broken Gilbert AUenders' shins instead, it would have 
 pleased Harry better ; but even this was a satisfaction. 
 
 '•Very well aimed," said Gilbert, approvingly. " What I 
 mean is, London — town — there is but one ' town ' in the 
 world. Come up with me, Harry, and I'll help you to enjoy 
 yourself Come." 
 
 " Help me to enjoy myself, will you? " said Harry, scorn- 
 fully. Harry was more impatient of his companion to-day, 
 than he had been for a long time. 
 
 " Come, come, we're old companions now," said Gilbert ; 
 " and I know you wouldn't dislike going to London : a man 
 of your years and station, who has never been in London, is 
 something quite unparalleled ! The country should subscribe 
 for a glass-case, and show you in it as a real old country-gen- 
 tleman, who has never been in town all his life, and never 
 means to go ! "
 
 21b HARRY MUIR. 
 
 '' There is such a thing as going too far," said Harry, 
 haughtily. 
 
 '• Who was it said that, the first night I saw you — " said 
 the malicious Gilbert ; " don't you remember ? But I won't 
 aggravate you, Harry ; and you needn't look as if you could 
 eat me. Come, will you go ? " 
 
 '• I don't care for seeing London. What is it to me ? " 
 said Harry, with dignity : "just half-a-dozen big towns com- 
 pounded into one ! What should send everybody to London? 
 At the same time, perhaps I may go : it's just as well going 
 there, as staying at home here, doing nothing. And there is 
 really nothing to be done on the land just now, in such a frost." 
 
 " You have been quite a hero, Harry ! " said Gilbert ; 
 " few men, I can tell you, could have done what you have 
 done. You ought to give yourself a little rest. Such a 
 thing as this, now," said Gilbert, pointing to a line of carts 
 slowly proceeding, with much ringing of horses' hoofs and 
 carters' clogs, along the frosty, whitened road, "just to stand 
 and let those odorous carts pass by might upset a man of your 
 organization : yet you've been among them constantly for 
 some two months, now. I envy you your force of resolution, 
 Harry." 
 
 Poor Harry ! this piece of flattery mollified his irritated 
 temper more easily than anything else could have done. Half 
 conscious that he had already abandoned this last and most 
 costly toy of his, it salved his conscience to have his perse- 
 verance wondered at. He put his arm in Gilbert's, with 
 sudden friendliness. 
 
 " I think I shall go, after all," he said. " Armstrong can 
 manage everything well enough. He has been accustomed to 
 this sort of thing all his life ; and, to tell the truth, it re- 
 quires that, I am afraid, to make a farmer — that is to say, 
 your thorough enthusiastic farmer. But now that January is 
 over, I think a few weeks' change would quite set me up 
 again : besides, spring always reconciles one to the country. 
 So I fancy we may settle upon going, Gilbert. When shall 
 you be ready ? " 
 
 " In a day — any time," said Mr. Gilbert, shaking the thin, 
 powdery snow from the hedge, by a blow of his cane. " I 
 haven't three ladies to look after me, as you have : the girls 
 have their own afi"airs to mind, and so has the mamma. I get 
 my wardrobe to superintend myself — different from you, 
 Harry."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 217 
 
 And not quite sure whether to be pleased, and accept this 
 as a token of his superior importance, or to resent it as a 
 check upon his manliness and independence. Harry began im- 
 mediately to discuss the projected journey — how they should 
 go. and when ; and it was soon decided, very much more to 
 Gilbert's satisfaction, than to the good pleasure of Agnes and 
 Martha, at home. 
 
 For Agnes found out many little objections, and urged 
 them with some pique and displeasure Agnes thought she 
 herself, his wife, would have been a much more suitable com- 
 panion for Harry than Grilbert Allenders ; and she should 
 have greatly liked to go to London, even at risk of leaving 
 the baby. Martha said nothing : her hope was gliding out of 
 her hands again, defying all her eager attempts to hold it ; 
 and steady darkness — darkness as of the Egyptian night, tan- 
 gible and positive, was settling down upon Martha's heart. 
 
 '• So you have had our Edinburgh friend here again. Miss 
 Rose ? " said Mr. Grilbert. " I suppose he will condescend to 
 be civil to you. What is the man, Harry ? Nothing but a 
 Scotch W. S., I suppose?" 
 
 " He is an advocate, and a gentleman," said Rose, under 
 her breath ; and when she had said this, she turned to the 
 window, fearful of disclosing the vivid blush, which covered 
 her whole face. 
 
 " When I called on him with Harry in July — I would not 
 say. in presence of ladies, what my impulse was," said Gilbert, 
 lifting his large bony hand, and displaying his ringed finger in 
 relief against the black brushwood about his chin. " He look- 
 ed at me with a malice which disgusted me. I suppose he 
 thought I was in his way," added Mr. Gilbert, complacently, 
 bestowing upon Rose, who had just turned her head, roused 
 and defiant, a most emphatic look of admiration. 
 
 And Harry laughed : Rose turned her eyes to him slowly, 
 and felt her heart burn — that Harry should think so meanly 
 of her as to fancy Gilbert Allenders could stand in Cuthbert's 
 way ! 
 
 '• But when Mr. Charteris looks at you, Rosie," whispered 
 Violet, " his lip aye moves, and the lid comes over the eye. 
 Last time, he looked as if he could greet : what was that for, 
 Rose?" 
 
 But Rose made no reply. 
 
 There were, as Gilbert prophesied, great preparations in 
 Allenders for Harry's departure, and various purchases made, 
 10
 
 218 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 that Harry's appearance away from home might be worthy the 
 station which his little wife thought so exalted. None of them 
 were quite prepared for the total insignificance which always 
 falls upon a solitary visitor to London ; and when Grilbert. 
 putting up his own little carpet-bag, took occasion to remark, 
 sneeringly, upon the great, new, shining portmanteau which 
 Harry carried, neither himself nor Agnes, who had come to 
 Stirling to see him away, were angry. They said, " Poor Gil- 
 bert ! " in a sympathetic look, and compassionated him, who 
 had neither rank to maintain, nor a little wife to help him to 
 maintain it ; and when Agnes, as she went away, casting wist- 
 ful looks behind her at Harry, caught a glimpse of Gilbert's 
 great, sallow, unwholesome face, surmounted by its little tra- 
 velling-cap, and encircled by its coarse, wiry hair, she could 
 almost have been bold enough to turn back, and follow Harry. 
 She contrasted them in her mind a hundred times, during her 
 melancholy drive home, and had many a dreary thought about 
 temptation, and evil company, and Harry '"led away." 
 
 Poor Harry ! he was always " led away;" for not one of 
 his anxious watchers could prevail with herself to speak of his 
 errors in harder words than these. 
 
 As Agnes returned home, she called at Blaelodge to take 
 up the children ; for their holidays were over, and they had 
 returned to school ; and a little cluster of other children, also 
 returning from school, hung on behind the carriage, and kept 
 up a little quick tramp of feet behind, tempting John now and 
 then to wave his whip good-humouredly over their heads, and 
 warn them that he would "come down the next time." But 
 John, who came from Maidlin Cross himself, never came down; 
 and Violet and Katie, peering out of the window on either 
 side, nodded to the heads of their respective factions, and whis- 
 pered to each other, who was at school, and who was " gather- 
 ing stanes," as they passed band after band — some with books 
 and slates, some girded with their great work-aprons, returning 
 from the field. 
 
 From the open doors at Maidlin Cross, the pleasant fire- 
 light shines out upon the road, reddening its sprinkled snow ; 
 and figures stand in the doorways, dark against the cheery 
 light within ; and voices ring, clear and sharp, through the air. 
 The carriage, now deserted by its band of attendants, begins 
 to grow rather dreary as it advances into the darkness, and 
 Agnes does not speak, and Katie and Violet cannot see each 
 other's faces ; but they are quite cheered and revived, so long
 
 HARRY MUIR. 219 
 
 as they can hear the far-off sound of those voices at Maidlin 
 Cross. 
 
 And by the fireside Martha and Rose sit very silently. A 
 faint sound comes from the river, and the wind whistles shrill 
 among the leafless trees ; hut except these, and now and then 
 an occasional noise from the kitchen, where Dragon has been 
 summoned in to sit with Mysie and her companion, that there 
 may be ''• a man in the house," there is perfect stillness within 
 and without. They are both working — you would think they 
 never do any thing but work — and both are absorbed and lost 
 in their own thoughts. When at rare intervals they speak, it is 
 to wonder how far Harry will be by this time, and what he will 
 see in London, and when he will return ; but they do not say 
 to each other that they tremble for Harry, nor tell what dis- 
 tinct remembrances arise before them both, of the sad scenes 
 of the past ; yet now and then a sudden start, and quick look 
 around this cheerful room, discover to you that they have for- 
 gotten where they are for the moment, and that the dim walls 
 of Mrs. Rodger's parlour, the proper background of many a 
 recalled grief, are more clearly present before them, than this 
 brighter and more prosperous place. 
 
 Yet they are cheered, in spite of themselves, when Agnes 
 and her little companions come in, dazzled, out of the dark- 
 ness ; and Lettie volunteers a confession of some fear as they 
 came along that dark road, close to the Lady's Well. Silence 
 is not congenial to Agnes, and the baby cries loudly in the 
 nursery ; and little Harry, very sleepy, rouses himself up to 
 devour cakes, and swallow as much tea as is permitted. So 
 the night passes away ; but a hundred times they fancy they 
 hear Harry's summons at the outer-door ; and almost believe, 
 with a thrill between hope and fear, that he has come home. 
 
 The days pass, and grow into weeks, and still they sit all 
 the long evening through, and again and again fancy they hear 
 the sound of his return, and hold their breath in eager listen- 
 ing. A few letters, containing long lists of-things he has seen, 
 come to them tardily ; but they never think of Harry, in his 
 extreme occupation, carrying these letters about with him for 
 a day or two, before he recollects to send them away. The 
 farm-manager comes now and then, anxious to see Allenders ; 
 for now the frost has broken up, and a genial dry season has 
 succeeded it, and the cautious Armstrong is slow to do any- 
 thing without his employer's approval. Some fertile, well-cul- 
 tivated land, for a lease of which Harry was bargaining with
 
 220 FTARRT MUIR. 
 
 Sir John Dunlop's factor, as a profitable addition to his own 
 farm, has been secured by another applicant during Harry's 
 absence ; and the mason who contracted for Harry's new byres 
 and stables, after a long delay by the frost, now refuses to go 
 on, till he has received one of the payments to which he is en- 
 titled. But no answer comes to the letters in which these 
 matters are spoken of — his short notes only speak of sights and 
 constant occupation, and he never says when he is to return. 
 
 The cold, mild, early February comes in quietly ; and the 
 nightly rains patter upon the trees, and swell the burn to 
 hoarseness, and plash in the swollen river. In the morning, 
 when the feeble sunshine falls dimly upon the lawn, and its 
 flower borders, Violet and Katie rejoice over, here and there, 
 a golden or purple crocus, and eagerly point out the buds 
 swelling on the trees ; but at night it is always rain, strik- 
 ing on the bare branches, and filling the whole air with a 
 sound of mysterious footsteps passing to and fro around the 
 lonely house. And within the house they all grow very still 
 — they all listen for Harry's step, for Harry's call ; and their 
 hearts tremble, and their frames shiver, as every night they 
 think he will return. 
 
 But February is nearly past, and a March gale, impatient 
 of the slow progress of the year, has sprung up among the hills 
 before his time, and rends the clouds over Demeyet, tossing 
 them scornfully to the east and to the west, when at last they 
 hear Harry come home. And he does not come unexpectedly ; 
 but has written before, stating day and hour, which he reli- 
 giously keeps. His dress is worn, and out of order ; his shining 
 new portmanteau frayed and dim, some articles of its contents 
 lost, and almost all injured ; but he says nothing of excuse or 
 apology for his long delay, and is fretted and irritated only 
 when he hears of its results, liberally blaming everybody con- 
 cerned. However, by and by, everything goes on again — 
 goes on after a fashion, languidly, and without success ; for 
 Harry no longer cares about his fields.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 .... Lot them go, 
 To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, 
 For I have none. 
 
 King Eichard II. 
 
 It is the seed time — the time of hope. The lawn at Allen- 
 ders is traced with au outline of living gold, crocuses cluster- 
 ing up like children out of the fresh awakened soil ; and day 
 by day the brown husks swell upon the trees, and the fields 
 add pile by pile to their velvet mantle. Your heart leaps 
 when you stand in the morning sunshine, and hear the burn 
 call to the river, and the river, with its happy voice pass on 
 to the great sea. And all along this highway through which 
 the children pass to school, the hedges put out timid leaves, 
 venturing upon the chill, which in the morning brightness bid 
 their lingering neighbours courage ; and down among the long 
 dewy grass, you can find here and there an early primrose, 
 half timid, half triumphant, holding up its delicate chalice to 
 receive the dew of heaven. The cows are marching gravely to 
 their sweet pastures, the little " herds " straying after them, 
 with all the winter's " schulin " over, perchance to be dreamt 
 upon through these meditative silent days, perchance to spring 
 up in songs, like the natural voices of the springs that run 
 among the hills, perchance to be merrily forgotten ; but cheer- 
 ful voices ring about the land, and tender sunshine glistens on 
 Demayet. and an odour and fragrance of sweet Hope, makes 
 the wide atmosphere blessed. Sweet Hope ! inheritance and 
 portion of human hearts, which God gives not his very angels, 
 but only unto us. 
 
 Ah, Hope — good Hope — God's tenderest angel ! — coming 
 back with the morning light to hearts which believed in the 
 darkness, that thou wert gone for ever ! — opening all doors, 
 however barred, and when one hides his face from thee, touch- 
 ing him with wonderful touches, earnest and wistful, so that 
 he cannot choose but look in thy sweet face again. Not 
 always bright, not always gently pensive — desperate some- 
 times, and fearful to look upon, seeing nought before thee but 
 a possibility; and sometimes looking down, solemn and grave, 
 upon places which thou hast been constrained to leave, and
 
 222 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 whence faces of agony gaze up to thee, clutching at the skirts 
 of thy garments, hoping against Hope ! 
 
 The year passed on, the flowers blossomed, the early trees 
 began to shake out their leaves about the house of AUenders 
 — the odour of primroses came in at the door, the voices of 
 children made the walls ring, and youth was with them all, to 
 beguile them into careless faith ; but Hope, hooded and 
 veiled as for a journey, and dwelling no longer with them in 
 their chambers, stood on the threshold ready to depart. 
 Again and again the dim face turned, as if to stay, reluctant 
 and loth to loose her garments from their eager hands ; but 
 she never entered freely to dwell with them again. 
 
 The works went on with intermitting energy : now alto- 
 gether neglected, now forced forward with spasmodic exertions. 
 The labourers at Maidlin grew pinched and care-worn, exposed 
 to a capricious authority, which sometimes left them idle for 
 a week or two, and then poured upon their hands arrears of 
 labour, which it was now too late to accomplish well. The 
 wives murmured and recalled the steady " wage " which the 
 old farmer gave ; the men lounged round the Cross, and 
 shook their heads, and prophesied ruin ; the little shop newly 
 opened, languished, and its keeper vainly lamented the folly 
 which brought him to Maidlin. Sober agriculturists looking 
 on, not without a quiet satisfaction in the truth of their own 
 predictions, settled into their old quietness with a word of 
 pity for Harry — poor Harry ! His new farm buildings, built 
 at great cost, stood empty and useless ; his farm-manager, too, 
 cautious to proceed by himself, wandered about whole days to 
 consult AUenders, and when he could not find him, or found 
 him indisposed to enter upon necessary business, went home 
 in irritation and disgust — went home to find Gilbert AUen- 
 ders established in his respectable house, corrupting his young 
 son and offending his daughters : and Armstrong, like the 
 labourers, shook his head, and sighed a heavy sigh for poor 
 Harry. 
 
 Within the house of AUenders they were all very silent. 
 Martha, making no comment upon Harry's life, tried to blind 
 her eyes, and take out of them the vigilant jealous love which 
 would not be deluded. Poor little Agnes, dispirited and pale, 
 went about the house with her baby, forgetting all her girlish 
 songs and laughter. Rose, wearying and sickened of the 
 dreams which had been her sole solace, worked on in silence, 
 and never cared to stir abroad; and merry little Katie Calder,
 
 IIAKIIV MUIK. 223 
 
 the only free heart among them, could not comprehend the 
 vague glooin which so often overpowered Lettie — for Lottie's 
 dreary thoughts had returned to her again. 
 
 '- Lettie. dinnae be sae dull," pleaded Katie Calder ; 
 '• naebod}' ever sings or says a word now — naebody but Allen- 
 ders, and the doctor, when he comes ; but I dinna like the 
 doctor, Violet, and they canna bide him at Maidlin Cross." 
 
 " I think he's a bad man," said Violet, decidedly — and she 
 clenched her hand, and stamped her little foot upon Dragon's 
 stair. 
 
 '• Ay, bairns," said Dragon : '' and I would like to hear 
 somebody explain in a sensible way what gies him such a grip 
 o' Mr. Hairy. You'll no ken, Missie ; you're ower wee ; but 
 if there was the like of Boston, or the young lad Livingstone, 
 that converted sae mony hunder folk on the Monday of the 
 preachings at the kirk of Shotts, or John Welsh, that wore the 
 very stanes with his praying, to the fore now, I wouldna care 
 to take my fit in my hand and gang away to ask their counsel: 
 for, ye see, Mr. Hairy's a different man from yon — a very 
 different kind o' man — and how the like of this chield has 
 gotten such maistry over him is a miracle to me. I kent 
 within mysel it was an ill sign when they ca'd him Hairy. 
 There's ne'er been a Hairy Allenders from Leddy Violet's 
 time till now." 
 
 Lettie would not speak of family concerns even to Dragon. 
 She had already the instinctive pride which hides the wound 
 in its own breast, and dies rather than complain ; so she 
 changed the subject rapidly. 
 
 " Dragon, you never told us the story about the laird that 
 planted the oak ; and I thought myself, when I was at the 
 waterside, that I heard it groan ; but how could it groan, 
 Dragon, at the season the man was killed? How could it ken 
 the seasons, and it only a tree ?" 
 
 " It's just because ye have nae knowledge, Missie," said 
 Dragon. " There's me mysel noo, an auld man. I'm aye 
 cauld, and aye creeping to my bit spunk of fire — ye might 
 say how should I ken the seasons ; but the oak has its fit 
 constant in the earth, and its head to the sky, and hears the 
 water every day, and feels the rain and the sun, and kens when 
 to put forth its first leaves, and when to let them fa', better 
 than the wisest man that ever lived upon this earth. And 
 weel may it groan, the auld oak — it's langer in the service of 
 the family than me; and do you ye think I dinna groaii 
 mony a time, to see a fine lad like Mr. Hairy led away ? "
 
 224 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 " Dragon, he's my Harry ! " cried little Violet, in a sud- 
 den passion, stamping her foot again violently on the stones, 
 while the tears fell down her cheeks, and quivering lip and 
 dilating nostril bore witness to the force of her feelings. 
 '• He's our Harry — he's my Harry, Dragon ! and I wish God 
 would take me — oh, I wish God would put me in a grave, 
 my lane, and kill me, if He would keep Harry well ! " 
 
 And the tears poured down over Violet's cheeks, and she 
 dashed her hand into the air, and cried aloud. 
 
 Poor little Lettie ! many an elder, many a wiser, never a 
 more loving heart has lost itself in such another agony, chafing 
 against that inscrutable providential will, which we call 
 fate. 
 
 Katie Calder looked on with wonder and dismay. Honest 
 little Katie could not comprehend what this strange emotion 
 was ; but with her natural instinct she made instant endea- 
 vours to " divert " her little friend. And Dragon looked at 
 Violet with his wandering light blue eyes, like a man half 
 awakened from a dream ; but as the child's highly-wrought 
 feelings subsided, and she sat down on the steps and wept, he 
 fell back into his old torpor. You could almost have thought 
 that this strange voice of passion in the child had rung back 
 through the waste of years, and lighted upon the man's heart 
 which lay sleeping in Adam Comrie's breast. 
 
 Eh, Lettie, Willie Paterson's broken his leg," said Katie 
 Calder. " It was on the big slide between Mrs. Cogan's and 
 Maidlin, and a' the boys play at his mother's window now, to 
 let him hear them when he's lying in his bed. It was little 
 Johnnie Paxton that told me. Dragon, when he came to the 
 kitchen to see Mysie. 
 
 " Willie Paterson's a fine laddie of himsel," said Dragon, 
 " and has a great notion of you, Missie ; but mind, he's only a 
 puir widow's son, and besides he's gotten in among some muckle 
 ill callants, and they're leading him away." 
 
 " Dragon," said Lettie gravely, " when folks are led away, 
 are they not doing ill themselves ? Is it a' the blame of the one 
 that leads them away, and no their ain, Dragon ? " 
 
 " Weeld, I'll just tell ye a story, Missie," said the old man. 
 " When I was a young lad, I had ance a brother, and he was 
 easy beguiled. So a sodger out of the town got him, and 
 courted at him, and garred him drink, and led him into every 
 kind of evil, till the poor callant lost his employ, and listed, 
 and ga'ed away across the sea to the war. By a' accounts he
 
 HARRY MUIR. 226 
 
 was little steadier when he was away, than he had been at 
 hame, though he had a guid heart for a' that, and was aye 
 kind to his friends ; and at the end of the war he came back 
 just as simple as ever he was, with a sma' pension, and as 
 many wounds as might have served a regiment. He wasna 
 weel hame when up turned this deevil of a sodger again — 
 where the tane was, ye were sure to find the tither — and with- 
 in a year, G-eorge Comrie was dead and buried. Now ye've 
 baith guid judgments to be bairns — wha was't that should 
 bear the blame ? " 
 
 " It was the sodger, Dragon," said Katie Calder, with in- 
 stant determination. 
 
 Violet said nothing. She was pulling away the withered 
 fibres of ivy from Dragon's wall. 
 
 " I think folk shouldna be led away," said Lettie slowly, 
 after a considerable pause : '• and you never say folk are led 
 away when they do good things, Dragon. I think it was his 
 blame too, as well as the other man's." 
 
 •' He's in his grave this forty year," said Dragon, " but I 
 mind him better than I mind his nameson, Geordie Paxton, 
 that I saw only yestreen. Maybe I should have ga'en sooner 
 to my account mysel, and wan beside a' my ain friends ; but 
 for a' I'm sae auld, bairns, I never crave to be away ; and 
 mony a young head I've seen laid in the mools, since my ain 
 was as white as it is this day. No that I am bragging o' that, 
 Missie — but I'm auld, and I never feel ony dinnles noo. I 
 think my heart has slippit down some gate, where trouble can 
 never get a rug at it ; and I'm aye pleased with the light and 
 the guid day, and wi' a book whiles, and a crack, and my 
 meat regular, and naething to fash me ; and I see nae reason 
 I have for deeing, though I am an auld man." 
 
 Strange, broken gleams shone out of Dragon's wandering 
 eyes as he spoke, nodding his head feebly with a half-palsied 
 motion — fitful glances, out of his torpor, of the heart and 
 spirit which long ago made him a man ; but the soul dwelt be- 
 numbed in its wintry habitation, like some forlorn dweller 
 among the hills whose hut the snow has buried — and resign- 
 ed itself to the slumbrous spell without strength to struggle 
 into consciousness of anything higher than the warmth and 
 ease in which it lay. 
 
 10"
 
 226 HARRY MDIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 I have heard when one lay dying, after long 
 And steadfast contemplation of sure death, 
 That sudden there would spring delicious hope, 
 And boastful confidence of health restored. 
 Into the heart that had not threescore throbs 
 Of its worn pulse to spend- 
 There is a madness that besets the verge 
 Of full destruction— madness that hath wild dreams 
 Of victory and triumph. 
 
 " How's the farm getting on, Harry ? Armstrong doesn't seem 
 very jubilant about it. What's to become of the land ? " said 
 Gilbert AUenders. 
 
 They were sitting in the little round turret-room, looking 
 out from the open door upon the lands of AUenders, and many 
 a fair acre besides. A dewy May evening was shedding sweet- 
 ness and peace over it all, and through the whole wide coun- 
 try before them the setting sun found out, here and there, a 
 running water, and made all the hills aware of it with a tri- 
 umphant gleam. Green corn rustling in the breeze, and gar- 
 dens gay with blossoms, with here and there a red field of 
 new ploughed earth, or a rich luxuriant strip of meadow to 
 diversify them, spread round on every side ; and the hum of 
 animate life, the indistinct farmyard voice, the din of playing 
 children, came to them dreamily, upon air which told you in 
 loving whispers, of the hawthorn trees in those deep lanes 
 below. 
 
 In Harry's eye shines an unusual gaiety ; and the confi- 
 dence which sometimes deserts him, leaving him in such mo- 
 rose and sullen melancholy, has returned to-day. Not all 
 natural is this renewal ; for excitement, which makes Martha 
 crush her hands together, and sends Agnes away secretly to 
 weep, animates him with its passing gleam ; but still he has 
 command of himself, and is above Gilbert's sneers. 
 
 " What's to become of the land ? It will do famously, of 
 course ! " said Harry ; •' and it's only Armstrong's caution 
 that makes him quiet about it. If Fairly remains in the mar- 
 ket for a year or two, I think I will buy it, Gilbert. They 
 say it once belonged to the estate of AUenders, and Hoolie 
 too, which is now Sir John's. I should like to bring the land 
 up to what it was in the old times; and I say, Gibbie, man.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 22'il 
 
 you shall have a house, a regular red pill-box, with just such 
 a surgery as will suit you ; and settle down, and have an ap- 
 pointment at once, to doctor all my tenants. I should have 
 quite a band of retainers if Fairly were added to Allenders." 
 
 " It's very well you got the estate, Harry," said Gilbert, 
 with a sneer, which poor Harry could not see. " If it had 
 fallen into our hands, it might have remained as it was, till 
 the end of time, and neither been improved nor increased. 
 Thank you for the pill-box, Harry ; I always knew you were 
 a warm friend. I'll depend on getting it, I promise you." 
 
 " And so you shall, Grilbert," said Harry ; •' but I'm not 
 quite prepared to buy Fairly now. I've ordered home a great 
 stock of fine cattle. I don't know if we'll have room for them 
 all : plough horses — magnificent fellows ! — and the finest cows 
 that ever were seen in the respectable Carse of Stirling ; but 
 they take a lot of money, all these things ; and I should be 
 very glad to have the harvest over." 
 
 •'The harvest? But this first year, I suppose, you don't 
 expect very much from it % " said Gilbert. 
 
 " Don't I ? Well, we'll see," said Harry, laughing ; " but 
 I must be economical this year, Gilbert — going on at this 
 rate won't do. I've spent a small fortune this year ; to be 
 sure, it was on the land," said Harry, musing ; " cattle, sta- 
 bles, byres, Armstrong and all his labourers, not to speak of 
 the plough graith, and the harrows, and the threshing-machine, 
 and all the things they have bothered me about ; but we must 
 be thrifty this year." 
 
 •• I believe you've no memorandum of the money you lent 
 me. I must make out one for you to-night, Harry," said Gil- 
 bert, carelessly. " Do you know how much it is ? " 
 
 •• Not I," said the lofty Harry ; " nor do I care to know. 
 Never mind memorandums — we know each other too well for 
 that." 
 
 And Harry, whose capital had shrunk to the final thou- 
 sand, and whose last expensive purchase remained to be paid 
 for, led the way down stairs in high glee, feeling himself al- 
 ready the second founder of the family, and rich in patriarchal 
 wealth. At the gate, Agnes and Rose were looking out 
 eagerly along the road, from which a tramp of hoofs pene- 
 trated into the very drawing-room of Allenders. Little Katie 
 Calder stood upon the summit of the low wall, with one foot 
 on a tree, and Martha a little behind them, looked out with 
 much gravity and concern.
 
 228 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Great work-horses, with ribbons at their ears, and elaborate 
 decorated tails, were marching with heavy hoofs into Harry's 
 stables ; and the lowing of Harry's kine from the fields sum- 
 moned the new milkmaids to lead them home. You would 
 have thought it the most prosperous of homesteads, with its 
 grey, thin house, and abrupt turret, telling of long descent 
 and elder times ; its superannuated Dragon witnessing to the 
 family kindliness which would not abandon an ancient servant ; 
 its great farm ranges, new and shining, which testified, or seem- 
 ed to testify, to present energy and wealth ; and its youthful 
 family crowded about the gate, from pretty little matron Agnes 
 to the meditative Lettie, standing by Dragon's side in the road 
 without. Prosperous, peaceful, full of natural joys and plea- 
 sant progress ; but Harry's flushed, excited face, and the coarse 
 pretension of Gilbert Allenders came in strangely to break the 
 charm. 
 
 " Come along, Agnes, and see them," said Harry, loudly. 
 •' I told you they were splendid fellows, Gilbert. Come, never 
 mind your bonnet ; and Gilbert will give you his arm, Rosie 
 — come along." 
 
 " Wait till I get a shawl on — for the servants, Harry," 
 said Agnes, freeing herself from his grasp. 
 
 " What about the servants ? it's only at your own door," 
 said Harry, securing her arm in his own ; '• and the light 
 shines in your hair, Agnes, very prettily. Come away, little 
 wife." 
 
 And Harry went on singing — 
 
 " There's gowd in your garters, Marion, 
 And siller on your white hause bane," 
 
 to the secret misery of Lettie, who thought he was humiliating 
 himself, and to the great wonder and astonishment of Katie 
 Calder. 
 
 But Rose drew firmly back, and would not go. Rose was 
 very near hating Gilbert Allenders ; so he went to the other 
 side of Agnes, and they walked to the stables together — poor 
 little Agnes, nearly choking all the way with wounded pride, 
 and shame, and fear, lest Harry might be ofiFended in spite of 
 her compliance. 
 
 " Why has Lady Dunlop never called on you again? and 
 what has become of that pedantic son of hers ? " said Harry, 
 when they had returned, and were taking the tea which Agnes
 
 HARRY MUIR. 229 
 
 hoped would subdue him. " It's three or four months now 
 since you called on them, Agnes — why does not her ladyship 
 return your visit? and I should just like to know what's be- 
 come of young Dunlop." 
 
 '' Hush, Harry ! — I don't know — I can't tell," said Agnes, 
 very humbly. '' Young Mr. Dunlop has never been here since 
 that time — you mind, Martha — after Harry came back from 
 London." 
 
 •• And why doesn't the fellow come again 1 " said Harry. 
 '• A pretty man he is, to think we're to keep on good terms 
 with him, when he never does anything to keep it up himself 
 And what's become of these Nettlehaugh people, and Haigh 
 of Foggo Barns ? I suppose it's your fault, Agnes ; you've 
 been neglecting the proper forms — you've never called on them, 
 I suppose 1 " 
 
 " Yes, Harry," said again the very low, timid voice of 
 Agnes, '• you have forgotten — you went with me once to both 
 Foggo and Nettlehaugh, and Martha and I went another time, 
 and they have never called since." 
 
 '• I should like to know what they mean," said Harry loud- 
 ly, his face flushing to a deep crimson. " I suppose they think 
 we're not so good as them. Never mind, Agnes ; never mind, 
 my little wife — you'll be a richer woman yet, and see your 
 son a greater man than any half-dozen of these little lairdies. 
 I'll have all the work, you know, and I'll take it gladly ; but 
 little Harry shall be heir to better land than young Dunlop 
 will ever see. A set of nobodies setting up for something . I 
 should like to know what they mean." 
 
 '' They were very kind at first," murmured Agnes, scarcely 
 able to restrain the tears with which her eyes were weighed 
 down. 
 
 '• They were very kind at first," repeated Martha distinct- 
 ly, as she rose to leave the room ; " and to-morrow, when you 
 are alone, Harry, I will tell you what they mean." 
 
 Never since she entered Allenders had Martha's voice had 
 this tone before. Her brother started and turned to look after 
 her, with something of the mingled look — defiance, reverence, 
 respect and pain — which they all knew on his face long ago ; 
 but Martha was gone without another word. It had a singu- 
 lar effect on Harry. He sat down at the table, leaned his 
 head upon his hand, and gazed with fixed eyes on the vacant 
 space before him ; but he scarcely spoke again that night.
 
 280 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief, 
 Tho' thou repent ; yet I have still the loss. 
 
 The ofifender's son-ow^ lends but weak relief 
 To him that bears the strong offence's cross. 
 
 As a decrepit father takes delight 
 
 To see his active child do deeds of youth, 
 So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite. 
 
 Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. 
 
 Shakspeaee— (Sonnets). 
 
 The next morning Harry sat in sullen silence at the breakfast - 
 table, scarcely raising his head. Agnes and Rose, 'with falter- 
 ing, timid voices, never ceased addressing him. They pressed 
 upon him the food which he could not taste, they asked his 
 opinion with tearful eyes and a visible tremor on the most 
 trifling matters, they laid caressing hands upon his shoulders 
 when they passed behind his chair ; but these affectionate acts 
 were very visible. They could not conceal the suppressed ex- 
 citement of their great anxiety, nor their consciousness that 
 another crisis had come in Harry's fate. 
 
 And even little Lettie stirred on her chair restlessly, like 
 a startled bird, and felt her heart leaping at her very throat, 
 and scarcely could speak for her parched lips and the strong 
 beating of this same little anxious heart. And no one knew what 
 heavy throbs beat against Martha's breast — no longer flutter- 
 ing and tremulous, but heavy as a death-knell. She said little, 
 it is true, but still she addressed Harry sometimes as usual — 
 as usual — perhaps with a tenderer tone — though Harry made 
 no answer, save in monosyllables, to any of them all ; and 
 Martha very speedily rose from her place, and left the room. 
 
 Another spasmodic attempt at conversation was made by 
 Agnes and Rose, but their own hearts beat so loudly in their 
 ears, that they trembled for Harry hearing them. Poor 
 Harry ! through those long, slow moments which were hours 
 to them, he hung idly over the table, trifling with his baby's 
 coral — and it was not until all endeavours at speech had 
 fiiiled, and a total silence — a silence of the most intense and 
 painful excitement to his companions — had fallen upon them, 
 that rousing himself with an eff"ort, and putting back the hair 
 from his damp forehead, he slowly rose and went away.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 231 
 
 Katie Calder, not understanding all this, and slightly de- 
 pressed by it, had just stolen out of the room to gather up 
 their books for school ; so no one, save the wistful Lettie, was 
 left with the young wife and Rose. They sat still for a short 
 time in silence, eagerly listening to Harry's footsteps as he 
 passed through the hall to his little library, and closed the 
 door ; and then Agnes clasped her hands upon her side, and 
 gasped for breath, and said in a voice between a cry and a 
 whisper : 
 
 " What will she say to him ? Oh, what will Martha say 
 to Harry, Rose ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell — I cannot tell," said Rose, wringing her 
 hands. '• Oh, if it were only over ! I could break my heart 
 when I look at Harry — I could break my heart ! " And 
 Rose put her hands over her face in just such a passion- 
 ate burst of restrained sobbing as had come upon Violet 
 before. 
 
 After some time, they heard the slow footstep of Martha 
 coming down the stairs, and both of them ran to the door to 
 whisper an entreaty to her to "be gentle with Harry. Poor 
 Harry ! " They could scarcely say it for tears. 
 
 When Martha entered the library, Harry, lounging in the 
 window-seat, was languidly turning a paper. He, poor Harry ! 
 was little less excited than they were, and heats and chills 
 came over him, and his eye fell under Martha's mother eye ; 
 but the second nature which had risen like a cloud over that 
 boy's heart which still moved within him, made him stubborn 
 and defiant still. When she came in, he threw down his 
 paper with a slight start, as of impatience ; and turning to 
 her, rapidly a.sked : " Well, Martha, what have you to say 
 tome?" 
 
 " Am I to have liberty to say it, Harry 1 " 
 
 " What folly to ask me such a question," said Harry, 
 angrily. '' Does my sister need to make a formal affair of it, 
 like this, when she has anything to say to me ? Sit down, 
 Martha, and don't look as if you came to school me ; I may 
 not be able to bear that, very patiently, and I should be very 
 sorry to hurt you. Sit down, and tell me what it is? " 
 
 Martha sat down with gathering coldness upon her face — 
 coldness of the face alone, a mask to hide very different 
 emotions. 
 
 •• I come to-day while you are full master of yourself, and 
 are alone." she said, with slow and deliberate emphasis —
 
 232 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Harry did not know that she compelled herself to speak so 
 lest the burning tide of other words should pour forth against 
 her will — " to answer a question you asked yesterday. You 
 desired to know what your neighbours meant by ceasing to 
 seek you ; Harry, I wish to tell you what they mean." 
 
 Harry looked at her for a moment, as if about to speak, 
 but rapidly turning away eyes which could not meet the steady 
 gravity of hers, he took up his paper, and without looking at 
 it, played with it in his hand. 
 
 ^ They mean," proceeded Martha, slowly, " that they do not 
 choose to extend the courtesies of ordinary life to one who 
 scorns and never seeks, the ordinary respect which is every 
 man's right who lives without outward oflFence against God 
 or man ; they mean that they cannot pretend to honour what 
 you have set yourself to disgrace ; they mean that the name, 
 the house, the family, which you can resign for the meanest 
 of earthly pleasures, have no claim of special regard upon 
 them. Your life is known in every peasant's house ; they 
 talk of you at the firesides of your labourers : they say, poor 
 Allenders, and tell each other how you are led away — Harry ! 
 I ask you what right you have to be led away ? You tell me 
 you are not a child, and will not bear to be schooled by me. 
 What right have you, a man — a man, Harry — to suffer any 
 other man to lead you into evil? And this is what your 
 neighbours mean." 
 
 Harry dashed the paper from him in sudden passion. 
 "And what right have you — what right have you? Martha, 
 T have borne much : what right have you to speak to me in 
 such words as these ? " 
 
 " God help me ! the dearest right that ever mother had," 
 exclaimed Martha, no longer slowly ; " because my soul has 
 travailed and agonized ; because I put my hopes upon you, 
 Harry — my hopes that were once shipwrecked, to be cast away 
 again ! Look at me, mind me all your life, boy, before you 
 defy me ! Night and day, sleeping and waking, I have carried 
 you on my heart. When I was in my first youth, I cried with 
 strong crying, and pangs such as you never knew, for power 
 and wealth, and to win it with my hands. Who was it for, 
 but you ? Then I came to a dearer hope. I thought you 
 wold win it, Harry ; and I would eat bread out of your hands, 
 and exult in you, and call upon the heavens and the earth to 
 see that you were mine. What of my hopes ? They are ill to 
 slay, but God has touched them, and they have died out of my
 
 HARRY MUIR. 238 
 
 heart. / have failed, and you have failed, and there is no 
 more expectation under the sun. But I call you to witness 
 you are mine — bought with the blood of my tears and my 
 travail — my son, Harry — my son ! " 
 
 He did not answer, he did not look at her, but only covered 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 " We are worsted, but we need not be destroyed," continued 
 Martha. " I accept the failure that is past, and acquiesce in 
 it, because it has been God's will — but God never wills that 
 we should fail in the future, Harry. God be thanked that it 
 lies continually before us, free of stain. And hope is hard to 
 me — maybe it is because my tribulations have not wrought 
 patience, that experience does not bring me hope. But I will 
 hope again — I will make another venture ; and look for an- 
 other harvest, Harry, if you will bid me ! Not like the last — 
 God forbid that it should be like the last ! I will turn my 
 face towards the needful conquest we have to make — you and 
 me — and hope for that, though it is greater than taking a city. 
 But Harry, Harry, I cannot bear to see you sinking — harder 
 than it is to them, who are weeping for you yonder, it is to me 
 who cannot shed a tear. Harry, am I to hope again ? " 
 
 But sad and terrible was the gleam in Martha's dry strained 
 eyes ; not like sunshine but like lightning, was the feverish 
 hope for which she pleaded. 
 
 And Harry rose and took her hand, himself trembling with 
 strong emotion. " From this day henceforth," he vowed, with 
 a choking voice, •' never more, Martha, never more, can I for- 
 get myself, and them, and you." 
 
 And there fell upon Martha a sudden relief of weeping, 
 such as her eyes had not known for months. " You were once 
 my boy, my bairn, Harry," she said, with a strange hysteric 
 smile, '•! cannot forget that you were my bairn, my little 
 brother — Harry — my hope ! " 
 
 And Harry covered his face once more, and was not ashamed 
 to weep. 
 
 Poor Harry ! for ever under the evil which had crusted 
 his nature over, under all the pride, the jealousy, the self- 
 assertion of conscious, remorseful, unrepentant sin, the boy's 
 heart, tender, fresh and hopeful, still dwelt in his breast. Only 
 God can reconcile these strange contradictions ; but when you 
 reached to it — and many a time had this added a pang to 
 Martha's sufferings — you could not choose but deem it an in- 
 7wccnt heart.
 
 234 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 By and by Martha left the room — left him there to medi- 
 tate upon this and on the past. Poor Harry's heart lightened ; 
 in spite of himself, his attention wandered from these things 
 of solemn weight and interest to little Harry playing under 
 the walnut tree. Now and then, it is true, he put his hand , 
 over his eyes, and made his face grave, and mused, and even 
 prayed ; but anon his mind wandered again. The great ex- 
 citement of the last hour sank into repose, and Harry had 
 seldom been so easily amused with the little stumbles and 
 misadventures of his child. At the other window, Agnes and 
 Rose, unable to see anything, with their sick hearts and tear- 
 ful eyes, sat in absorbed silence, looking out indeed, but with- 
 out noticing even the favourite boy. Above, Martha was 
 kneeling before Grod, in prayer which wrung not her heart only, 
 but every fibre of her strained frame. IJpon the sunny road 
 without, little Lettie went silently to school, wiping a tear now 
 and then from her cheek — all for Harry ; while Harry sat in 
 the window of his library, the cloud gone from his brow, and a 
 smile upon his lip, watching his child at play — with simple 
 pleasure and interest, as if he himself were a child. 
 
 And then he opened the window, and called to little Har- 
 ry. With a sudden start, Agnes rose, and went out upon the 
 lawn to read his face. His face was cloudless, smiling, full of 
 quiet satisfaction and repose ; and he had already begun to 
 play with the child at the window. Agnes had only time to 
 telegraph that all was well to Rose, when Harry called to her 
 to get her bonnet and go out with him. With joy and relief 
 she ran into the house to obey, and Harry met her at the 
 library door, and said he wanted a little rest and relaxation 
 to-day, and that she must persuade Martha and Rose to let 
 him row them down the river in the neglected boat ; and Ag- 
 nes went up-stairs singing, and half weeping for joy.
 
 HARRY MUIK. 236 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Fair, through the lattice of yon cloud, the sun 
 Throws to us, half in stealth, his parting smile. 
 Night comes anon. 
 
 It was June weather now — warm and full, and a deep peace 
 had fallen over Allenders. Harry, who was not naturally 
 temperate in anything, was almost intemperate in his reforma- 
 tion now. He applied himself to business with devotion, had 
 long consultations with Armstrong every morning, and repulsed 
 coldly the usual familiarities of Grilbert Allenders. In his 
 library, they always found the table covered with estimates 
 and calculations, with expensive schemes for thrift, and ela- 
 borate economics of farming ; while out of doors, Harry went 
 blythely about his fields again, conciliating once more the 
 half-alienated favour of his workmen, and regaining for him- 
 self the elastic vigour and health, which had begun to be 
 shaken. Agnes sang to her baby all day long, till the very 
 air within the house grew rich with ballad fragments. Rose, 
 still a little weary in her heart, and longing secretly for a new 
 beginning to her old dreams, began to interest herself in the 
 pleasant pursuits of free young womanhood, and forgot the 
 family care, as well as her own individual one. Martha sank 
 back quietly into a temporary repose — was ill for a few days, 
 and afterwards very quiet — for her frame had been shaken by 
 severe exhaustion ; very different from the natural good hope 
 of common life, was the desperate stake for which she played ; 
 and when the moment, with all its pent-up and restrained ex- 
 citement, was past, experience lifted its cold, prophetic voice 
 again, and she could not choose but hear. 
 
 But the gossips at Maidlin Cross, glad to return to their 
 kindlier opinion — for Harry's good looks, and naturally gra- 
 cious manners, gave them a strong prepossession in his favour 
 — congratulated each other that Allenders was steady now, 
 and quite another man, and that " it bid to be" a great com- 
 fort to his sister and his wife — for they unconsciously put 
 Martha before Agnes, doing reverence to the more absorbing 
 love. And young Mr. Dunlop, seeing Harry's frank face 
 brightened by renewed hope and wholesome pleasure, and 
 hearing how sedulously he had begun to attend to all his con-
 
 236 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 cerns, was smitten with remorse for his rudeness, and brought 
 his mother in state to call on Mrs. Allenders, which her good- 
 humoured ladyship would have done months ago but for his 
 restraining. Prosperity and peace returned again, as it seem- 
 ed ; and Harry's last thousand was still very little diminished. 
 
 But it chanced that Cutlibert Charteris suddenly looked 
 in upon the astonished household, on the very day of Lady 
 Dunlop's call. Cuthbert did not know that this call had a 
 value quite separate from their pleasure in itself, to the family 
 at Allenders ; and he thought the tremulous agitation of both 
 Agnes and Rose originated in a cause very different from its 
 real one. So Cuthbert was cold, constrained and unhappy ; 
 scarcely able to conceal his contempt of Mr. Dunlop, and re- 
 solutely declining to remain, even for a single night. They, 
 in their turn, misunderstood him ; they thought he had heard 
 something unfavourable of Harry, and while they redoubled 
 their attentions to himself, they overwhelmed him with refer- 
 ences to Harry's goodness, and stories of the kindness with 
 which all his labourers, and the little group of cottar wives at 
 Maidlin, regarded Allenders. If Cuthbert had been sufficient- 
 I3' disengaged from his own engrossing concerns, these con- 
 tinual defences would have made him fear : as it was, he could 
 think of nothing but the Rose, which had never seemed so 
 fair in his eyes as now, when he convinced himself that another 
 was about to bear it away. 
 
 Rose did not know what to think of Cuthbert. Had he 
 been indifferent to her all along ? But Rose, with a natural 
 pride in many things, conjoined the most perfect and uncon- 
 scious humility in her estimate of herself; that he should be 
 jealous, never entered into her mind — it was far easier to 
 believe that he had never '• cared ; " and Rose blushed even to 
 acknowledge to herself that she once thought he " cared," by 
 doubting it now. Yet there was something in Cuthbert's 
 eyes — something in the full, grave look she sometimes met, 
 which filled Rose with a vague thrill of emotion ; and when he 
 was gone she remembered this, and ceased to comment upon 
 the rest. 
 
 About a week after Cuthbert's call, Harry went to Stirling, 
 taking Agnes with him. They were going on business — to 
 draw money, of which Agnes claimed a considerable portion 
 for her household expenses ; and Harry himself, to the great 
 content of all, had invited her to accompany him. They were 
 quite at ease and quite at home, and with the children, who
 
 HARRY MUIR. 23*7 
 
 rejoiced in a holiday, had taken a long ramble through woods 
 and lanes in the afternoon, coming home laden with wild 
 flowers. Even Martha, amused with Katie's radiant pleasure, 
 and Violet's mingled reverie and mirth, had brightened quite 
 insensibly, and Rose was as gay as the little girls themselves. 
 They were all seated under the walnut tree on the lawn when 
 Harry and Agnes returned, and not a shadow crossed any of 
 them, except the ill-favoured one of Gilbert Allenders, as he 
 came in at the gate, resolved to stay to dinner whether he was 
 asked or no. 
 
 But the dinner past, and still Harry kept Gilbert steadily 
 at a distance. They could not sufficiently admire his strength 
 and resolution, and how bravely he resisted the tempter. 
 Gilbert himself seemed slightly surprised and baffled ; and not 
 a single disconcerted glance was lost on the rejoicing Agnes, 
 with whom there was only a single step between the greatest 
 alarm for Harry's stability, and the greatest pride and con- 
 fidence in it. 
 
 But when the evening was considerably advanced, and 
 they had all assembled in the drawing-room, Harry began to 
 talk of what they had seen and heard in Stirling. 
 
 '• Who do you think I met, Martha ? " said the unthinking 
 Harry, '• Dick Buchanan, my old plague in Glasgow ; and 
 what do you think he told me? — I scarcely can believe it — 
 that our friend Charteris was actually going to be married to 
 his sister Clemie, a good-natured clumsy girl, whom I used to 
 see going to school. I could not have expected such a thing 
 of Charteris." 
 
 And as Harry's eye rested on Rose, he stopped suddenly, 
 his face flushing all over with the deepest colour ; yet Rose 
 displayed no motion. A slight start, a momentary paleness, 
 and then she put out her hand as if to grasp at something, 
 drawing it back by and bye with an unconscious motion of 
 imagination, as if her prop had pained her — though she did 
 not say a word. 
 
 But her head grew giddy, and the light swam in her dark- 
 ening eyes ; and constantly in her mind was this impulse to take 
 hold of something to keep herself from falling. When Gilbert 
 took reluctant leave, and she rose to bid him good-night, her 
 hand clutched at the back of an empty chair ; and when she 
 went to rest, with a ringing in her ears and a dimness before 
 here eyes, Rose held by the wall on her way to her own cham- 
 ber — not to support herself, though even her form tottered, but 
 to support her heart which tottered more.
 
 238 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 She did not think, nor ask nor question anything ; she was 
 too much occupied in this immediate necessity of holding her- 
 self up, and propping her stricken strength. 
 
 " I believe I am a fool," said Harry, suddenly, when Rose 
 withdrew ; " I never thought — Charteris was here so short a 
 time the other day, and it is so long since he came before — I 
 never thought of Rose ; but she took it very quietly, Martha. 
 Is she interested, do you think 1 Will she feel it ? I am sure, 
 for my own part, I always believed that Charteris liked Rose, 
 and I cannot tell what made me so foolish to-night." 
 
 " Perhaps it was very well," said Martha ; " it must have 
 been told, and the manner of telling it is a small matter ; but 
 Rose, as you say, took it very quietly. I dare say she will not 
 care about it, Harry." 
 
 Martha knew better — but she thought it well to pass over 
 the new grief lightly, since it was a grief which could not bear 
 either sympathy or consolation. 
 
 But when Lettie next morning, prompted by a sudden 
 caprice, ran " all the way" to the Lady's Well, to gather some 
 wild roses and the fragrant meadow-queen for Martha, she saw 
 some one sitting on the stone where Lady Violet sat, and was 
 only fortified by the bright daylight to approach. But it was 
 Rose's muslin gown, and not the silvery garments of the fairy 
 lady, which lay upon the turf ; and Rose was leaning with both 
 her hands heavily upon the canopy of the well, and looking 
 into the deep brushwood, as Lettie many a time had looked — 
 though this was a deeper abstraction than even the long silent 
 reveries of the poetic child. With a sudden consciousness that 
 there lay some unknown sorrow here, the little girl came for- 
 ward shyly, looking up with her wistful eyes in her sister's face. 
 It did not seem that she interrupted Rose's thoughts, and 
 Violet began silently to gather her flowers. There were some 
 wild roses, half-opened buds, which could be carried even by a 
 school girl, without risk of perishing, for one of the " young 
 ladies " at Blaelodge, whom Lettie liked greatly, and who 
 much desired some tangible memorial of the place whence the 
 Lady Violet of Lettie's oft-repeated story passed away ; and 
 a sweet fairy posie of the graceful queen of the meadow for 
 Martha's especial gratification, and some drooping powdery 
 flowers of grass, from which the seed was falling, for Lettie 
 herself. When they were all gathered, Lettie sat down softly 
 on the grass at Rose's feet, and laid the flowers in her lap, and 
 was very quiet, venturing now and then a wistful glance up to 
 the absorbing face above her.
 
 HAURY MUIR. 239 
 
 And by and bye, the heavy leaning of Kose's arms relaxed, 
 and she leaned upon her knee instead, and looked down on 
 Violet. " Lettie, I think my heart will break," said Rose, 
 with a low sigh ; and again she put out her hand. 
 
 She could not say so much to Martha : she could not tell it 
 to another in all the wide world, for the shy heart would ren- 
 der no reason for its sudden grief; but she could say it to her 
 little sister, who asked no reason — who did not speak at all in 
 vain consolation, but who only looked up, with such a world 
 of innocent sympathy and wonder in her dark, wistful eyes. 
 
 Poor Rose ! a hero and martyr to her own pride of woman- 
 liness, will never tell what this blight is — never, if it should 
 kill her — and she thinks it will kill her, poor, simple heart ! 
 Since she heard '• it " — and she never describes to herself more 
 definitely what it was she heard — she has been in a maze, and 
 never reasoned on it. She cannot reason on it — we so seldom 
 think ^ after all, either in our joys or troubles — she only is 
 aware of long trains of musings sweeping through her mind, 
 like dreams, which place her in the strangest connection with 
 Cuthbert and Cuthbert's bride, and bring them continually in 
 her way : and she always assumes a sad dignity in her fancies, 
 and will do anything rather than have them believe that this 
 moves her ; and then she tries to think of Harry and of the 
 family cares and expectations, to rouse her from this stupor 
 of her own ; and getting sick with the struggle — sick alike in 
 body and in heart — lays down her head upon her hands, and 
 faintly weeps. 
 
 " Now, Lettie, come ; they will wonder where we are," said 
 Rose ; and she dipped her hand in the little marble basin of 
 the Lady's Well, and bathed her aching eyes. Lettie, with a 
 visionary awe, bathed hers too, as if it were an act of worship ; 
 and was very sad, in the depths of her heart. 
 
 Rose was a bad dissembler. It was quite impossible to 
 hide from any one of them that she was very melancholy ; but 
 Harry saw less of the truth than the rest, for Rose struggled 
 valiantly to smile before Harry, and to keep all her gloom 
 concealed. He was a man, even though he was her dearest 
 brother. She would suffer anything before she would disclose 
 her heart to him. 
 
 Agnes, troubled and perplexed, not knowing whether to 
 take notice of Rose's sorrow or not, paid her all manner of 
 little tender attentions, as if she had been ill. Martha, asking 
 nothing — for Martha knew very well that Cuthbert had broken
 
 240 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 no word, nor had ever definitely said to Rose anything which 
 could give grounds for this sadness — talked to her sometimes 
 of the common trials which common people bear and overcome ; 
 sometimes awoke her out of a reverie, with a kind hand upon 
 her shoulder, and a quick word in her ear; employed her all. 
 day long at something ; watched her perpetually with a moth- 
 er's unwavering care ; but little Lettie, looking wistfully up, 
 with her dark, melancholy eyes — Lettie, who knew that Rose's 
 heart was " like to break," and who deserted all her play to 
 sit beside her on the carpet, and press close to her feet, and 
 caress them softly with her hand — Lettie was perhaps the 
 best comforter of all. 
 
 But meanwhile the unconscious Cuthbert wearied himself 
 with continual business, and thought murderous thoughts of 
 the innocent young Mr. Dunlop ; till his mother, alarmed about 
 his health, prevailed upon him, with many solicitations, to go 
 away for a month, and travel, and rest. And Clemie Buchan- 
 an, more unconscious still, romped, to the full heart's content 
 of a strong joyous girl of sixteen, among the Argyleshire hills, 
 and reverencing greatly the lofty attainments of her cousin 
 Cuthbert, would quite as soon have thought of marrying old 
 Dr. Black, who christened her, and whose sermons she had 
 laboriously listened to almost every Sabbath-day in all these 
 sixteen years. Clemie had a sweetheart of her own — a young 
 merchant like her brothers ; and Cuthbert, as he travelled 
 southwards, cast longing looks towards Stirling, and scarcely 
 could deny himself another glance at Allenders ; but looks do 
 not travel over straths and rivers, and Rose never knew the 
 affectionate longings, which could not prevail with themselves 
 to relinquish her remembrance and her name. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 What man is he that boasts of fleshly might, • 
 
 And vaine assurance of mortality, 
 Which, all so soone as it cloth come to fight 
 
 Against spirituall foes, yields by and by ? 
 
 Faery Qiteen-. 
 
 That day, beginning with deep sadness to one member of the 
 family, and with anxious sympathetic concern to the rest, was 
 the last day of hope and peace in Allenders.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 241 
 
 For on the very next — another June day, rich with the 
 most glorious mockery of joy and sunshine — Martha's last 
 desperate hope died in her heart. Et had struggled long in 
 its strange, feverish lifetime ; now it fell at a blow. 
 
 A gracious invitation to Sir John Dunlop's had come that 
 evening to Harry ; and Harry spent the day with Gilbert Al- 
 lenders in a ride to Stirling, from which he did not return, 
 until the full time when Sir John would enter his stately din- 
 ing-room. Agnes, dressed for a full hour, stood at the window 
 trembling and miserable, looking for Harry ; and Martha was 
 on the turret ; and Rose, roused out of her own trouble, wan- 
 dered along the road with the children to meet him. But 
 when Harry came, he came with glittering eye and ghastly 
 smiles, as they used to see him, long ago, in Glasgow ; and 
 bidding Gilbert good-bye, with loud demonstrations of friend- 
 ship, at the gate, came in in great haste, and ran up-stairs, 
 taking three steps at a time, to get to his dressing-room, and 
 make ready for Lady Dunlop's party. Agnes went after him 
 timidly, to say it was too late, and to beg him not to go ; but 
 Harry laughed first, and then frowned, and then commanded — 
 he was resolved to go, whatever was the hour. 
 
 '• He is not fit to go, he will disgrace himself for ever, they 
 will never speak to him again," sobbed the little wife. " Oh ! 
 Martha, speak to him, tell him it is too late." 
 
 Poor little Agnes ! she could not believe that Martha's 
 " speaking to him " would have no effect. 
 
 In half an hour, he came down stairs, dressed, and consid- 
 erably subdued, though still with an excitement only too easily 
 perceptible. 
 
 " Where's John with the carriage ? " exclaimed Harry. 
 " Why does that fellow always keep us waiting ? why is he 
 not at the door ? " and he rang the bell violently. 
 
 " You are much too late, and they are punctilious people ; 
 I beg you will not go to-night. It is easy to send an apology," 
 said Martha, who was calmer now than she had been through 
 all her time of hope. 
 
 '' It is this night and no other, that I intend to go," said 
 Harry, " and I am not inclined to suffer any more dictation. 
 What's the matter, Agnes ? why do you make her cry, Martha ? 
 Must I take her away with red eyes, all for your pleasure? 
 Tell John to bring round the carriage instantly — instantly, 
 do you hear ? he has kept his mistress waiting long enough 
 already." 
 
 11
 
 242 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 And as the maid withdrew, startled and astonished, Harry 
 himself went to the door, and stood upon the threshold, wait- 
 ing for John. 
 
 " You're not angry, Martha," pleaded poor little Agnes ; 
 " he does not know what he is saying. And never mind sit- 
 ting up, it would only grieve you ; I must try to take care of 
 poor Harry myself to-night." 
 
 Martha made few demonstrations, but she put her arm 
 round the little wife now, and kissed the cheek upon which 
 the tears were still wet. This caress nearly overcame Agnes, 
 but with a strong effort, she wiped her eyes, and went away. 
 
 Drearily passed that evening. A heavy shower came on 
 as it darkened, and all the night through beat upon the leaves, 
 so that Lettie, holding her breath as she learned her lessons, 
 fancied that footsteps were travelling round and round the 
 house — continually, without pause or intermission, round and 
 round. And the wind whistled with a little, desolate, shrill 
 cry, about the silent walls, and the burn ran fast and full into 
 the river. Every sound without became distinctly audible in 
 the extreme quietness, and other sounds which did not exist at 
 all, stole in, imagined, upon their strained ears. Sounds of 
 earriage-wheels, which never advanced, but always rumbled on 
 at a distance, shrill cries of voices hovering in the air, foot- 
 steps upon the stair, footsteps without — it was a dreary night ! 
 
 And when it became late, and it was full time for Harry's 
 return, Martha stole down stairs to the lower room, and open- 
 ed the window, and stood by it in the dark, watching for their 
 carriage-wheels. The jasmine rustled on the walls, with an 
 early star of white specking its dark luxuriance — alas ! those 
 jasmine flowers ! Martha plucked this half-opened one hastily, 
 and threw it away — she could not bear its fragrance. 
 
 And Rose crept after her, and sat upon a chair at the 
 window, leaning her throbbing brow on Martha's arm . " Hush ! 
 I hear them," said Martha ; it was nothing but this imagined 
 sound which had rung through all the night. 
 
 At last they came, and though the sisters heard Harry's 
 voice while yet the carriage was hidden in the darkness, he 
 handed his wife out very quietly, when they came to the door. 
 On their way up-stairs, Agnes felt her hand caught in Martha's, 
 and answered the implied question, in a tremulous whisper : 
 " No doubt they saw — no doubt they saw — and pity me, 
 Martha, for such a night ; but maybe, maybe, it was not so 
 bad as we might have feared."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 243 
 
 That night nothing more was either asked or told, and it 
 was not till the forenoon of the next day, when Harry had 
 gone out, that Agnes, leaning on Martha's arm, and with Rose 
 bending eagerly over her on the other side, walked slowly 
 along the mall, and told her story. They had been received 
 with much stiffness and ceremony by Sir John, his son, and 
 his daughter, who evidently thought their late arrival a quite 
 unwarrantable assumption of familiarity. Kindly good-humour- 
 ed, Lady Dunlop had soothed and comforted Agnes ; but the 
 hauteur of their reception plunged Harry into a fit of sullen 
 silence, which was even more painful to see than his excite- 
 ment. Then, Agnes said, some stranger present began to 
 comment severely on the rude cothouses at Maidlin Cross, and 
 to wonder why none of the neighbouring landlords interfered 
 to provide better accommodation for their workmen. That 
 Harry fired at this, and challenging Sir John to do his part, 
 pledged himself that on his property it should be immediately 
 looked to, was only what the listeners expected to hear ; but 
 he did it with such vehemence and energy, Agnes reported, 
 that some smiled, some looked grave and pitiful, all turned 
 away, and for half an hour before they left, no one spoke to 
 Harry or herself, save good Lady Dunlop, who called her my 
 dear, and patted her shoulder, and did all she could to soothe 
 the shame and bitter feelings, which the neglect of the others 
 wounded beyond soothing. 
 
 But Harry was gone this morning to the builder who 
 erected his barns, to see about model cottages ; and Agnes al- 
 most for the first time began to be alarmed about the means. 
 Could Harry afi'ord to build model houses after all the outlay 
 of his expensive life ? He who had pulled down houses and 
 barns to build greater, and who had nothing to put into them, 
 could he afford to go out of his way and spend money thus % 
 But they had all been kept totally in the dark as to Harry's 
 money matters. They had no idea how much he had wasted 
 — how much had gone to Gilbert Allenders, and to the plea- 
 sures shared by him ; but a momentary review of the past 
 year startled them all. They looked in each other's scared 
 faces, and shook their heads in sudden clear-sightedness as 
 Agnes asked the question, and the truth dawned upon them all. 
 
 " Na, na, lad ; Allenders has plenty o' siller bye the land, 
 ye may take my word for it," said the slow voice of Geordie 
 Paxton, speaking out of the hay- field at the end of the mall, 
 opposite to Rose's favourite oak. " I spoke to him mysel about
 
 244 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 that grand new harrow, and an improvement o' my ain in the 
 plough-graith, when he started farming, and he never boggled 
 at it a minute, though they baith cost siller. Then he has a 
 free hand himsel, and keeps a plentiful house ; and you'll no 
 tell me that a man like Allenders — a fine lad, but apt to gang 
 ajee whiles like ither folk — doesna take a good purse to keep 
 himsel gaun, let alane the house and a' thae braw leddies. 
 And so I have reason in my ain mind, as guid as positive 
 knowledge — which I could only have, if he telled me himsel, 
 Rob — to say that Allenders has a guid income coming to him, 
 forbye the land ; ten hunder a year — ay, twelve ye may ca' it 
 — would not do more than keep up that house." 
 
 Agnes started in dismay, and instinctively put her hand 
 in her pocket for her little book ; but, unfortunately, Agnes 
 always forgot to put down her housekeeping in this little book, 
 though she had bought it herself expressly for the purpose ; 
 and it was not Agnes's housekeeping that was called in ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Sir John's man telled me," said Geordie's companion, 
 with the deliberation of certainty, " that Allenders was nae- 
 thing but a writing clerk in an office afore he got the estate, 
 and that he hasna a penny o' his ain ; the story is no mine, 
 but I would like to hear who should ken if it wasna Sir John's 
 man?" 
 
 " I dinna believe a word o' it," said Geordie, hastily. 
 " Would Sir John keep that auld body of an uncle of mine 
 useless about the house, do you think, and gie him a' his ain 
 gait, and deed him, and feed him, for the auld family's sake, 
 and because he's been a faithful servant ? I trow no : and 
 folk that live in glass houses shouldna throw stanes. I reckon 
 Sir John's no fashed wi' ower muckle siller himsel." 
 
 " That's naething to the question," returned his dogmati- 
 cal opponent, after one or two sweeps of the scythe among the 
 fragrant grass bore witness that they had resumed their work. 
 " What I say is, that Allenders has naething but the estate, 
 and there'll be a great smash some of thir days ; ye can be- 
 lieve me or no, just as you like." 
 
 " He has his faults, puir lad, but he's young and he'll 
 mend," said Geordie ; " and you wadna ask nie to believe that 
 Allenders is clean mad, and out of his wits, which is just the 
 same as saying that he lives at this rate, and has nae siller o' 
 his ain." 
 
 The listeners withdrew in dismay and alarm. To Martha
 
 HARRY MUIR. 245 
 
 this gossip only confirmed many previous fears, but to the 
 others it came like a revelation. 
 
 '• If we were ruined, Martha, what would Harry do? " said 
 Agnes, " Wc could work for ourselves, and I am sure I 
 would never mind the change ; but Harry — poor Harry ! it 
 would break his heart. I thought there could be nothing 
 harder to bear than last night, but, Martha, I think if there 
 is no good change, it will kill me." 
 
 •' It must not kill you, Agnes," said Martha, speaking very 
 low. '• Bairns, hear me ; you must let nothing kill you, nothing 
 crush you, even in your inmost hearts, till Grod sends the mes- 
 senger that will not be gainsaid ; and God grant that he may 
 be far off from you both. Now it is coming — maybe ruin, 
 maybe destruction, certain distress and anguish. If I could 
 bear it all, you should never hear when it drew near ; but it 
 must come upon you both — upon you both, tender, delicate 
 things, that should be blessed with the dews of your youth. 
 But the end is coming which Grod knows ; you must not pine, 
 you must not weep, you must not waste your strength with 
 mourning. Bairns, we have to wait, and be ready and strong, 
 to meet it when it comes. This is what we have to do." 
 
 As Martha spoke, she held in her grasp the soft, warm 
 hands of Agnes and Rose. They looked up to her, one on 
 either side, like children to a mother, with lifted eyes, wistful 
 and eager. It was not necessary to answer, but they went 
 back again to the house together, with a strange strain in their 
 hearts, something like the bodily strain which their eager 
 bend towards Martha and anxious look up to her had pro- 
 duced. They were warned, prepared, ready for the evil ; and 
 they thought they had reached to the sublime sadness of 
 patience, and would not fret or chafe over the daily griefs 
 again, but rather would be strong for the end. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 Life will not flow as rivers flow, or seas ; 
 It is a flood, but made of raindrops ; days, 
 And hours, moments — several, pitiless. 
 
 But still the days, each with its daily burden, wore out the 
 faltering strength, which tried to endure them calmly, and
 
 246 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 look towards the end — the end great and solemn, which 
 would demand all their might when it came, was obscured 
 with smaller miseries coming hour by hour, which called for 
 less preparation, and were less easily endured. 
 
 Secretly within herself, Agnes said again that this would 
 kill her — secretly Rose murmured that her heart was like to 
 break ; and from the solemn calm of patience they descended 
 into the burning fever of constant anxiety, of hourly jealous 
 fear and watching ; but Martha's warning and the constant 
 desire to see with their own eyes, and hear with their own 
 ears, what Harry did and said, preserved them from the 
 bodily maladies which might have attended this feverish 
 strain of heart and mind. They were one in their anxieties, 
 their thoughts, their fears ; yet none could trust the other to 
 report for her what was every day's state — none could afford 
 to be ill, or take shelter in bed or chamber. Day by day they 
 watched, and night by night kept vigils, taking only such 
 sleep as nature compelled. 
 
 And Harry, poor Harry ! went on sinking, neglecting the 
 love which in his real heart was dearer to him a hundred times 
 than all the objects he pursued in his infatuation. Like a 
 man on the smooth incline of some frightful downright slope, 
 he seemed to lose all power after the first impetus was given, 
 and went sheer down without a pause or stay. Poor Harry ! 
 if he was sullen sometimes, at other some there came to him 
 bursts of exceeding tenderness, remorseful and pathetic, as if 
 his better angel was weeping within him, over his ruin ; but 
 still he went down — clutching at the flowers which waved over 
 the edge of the precipice, and darting down its rapid incline 
 with their torn blossoms in his hand ; but the downward pro- 
 gress was never stayed. 
 
 The next day after Sir John Dunlop's unfortunate party, 
 Harry, heated and defiant, took his builder with him to visit 
 the cottages at Maidlin. Harry desired to see the finest 
 plans, the best models, and to plant such an exotic English 
 village as great lords make for playthings, on that part of 
 Maidlin which bordered on his estate. 
 
 " Don't mind uniformity — don't take any pains to make it 
 correspond with the other half," said Harry, in excitement 
 and anger. " Let Sir John Dunlop have pigsties if he likes 
 for his men. All I care about is my share, and you must 
 spare no pains on that." 
 
 •' But the expense, Allenders ? " said the builder, with
 
 HARRY MUIR. 24*7 
 
 perplexity and disconcertment, " it's sure to take a heap of 
 money." 
 
 " Never mind the mOney," said Harry, loftily, " that is my 
 concern — yours is to make a handsome village on this side of 
 the Cross, and the other houses can be pulled down after- 
 wards ; let me have plans and estimates as soon as they can 
 be prepared, and see that you are not content with inferior 
 models. Let Sir John look to his own ; I have nothing to 
 do with that." 
 
 " Very well, Allenders," said the man doubtfully, " very 
 well ; I'll see about the plans, and if ye're pleased, and no 
 scared wi' the expense, we may soon win to — but it'll take a 
 lot of siller." 
 
 Young Mr. Dunlop passed on horseback along the high- 
 way as the man spoke. The stiffest and most formal saluta- 
 tions passed between him and Harry. Henceforth it was 
 evident that there was no more friendship to be looked for 
 there. The builder went home much perplexed, and had his 
 plans prepared only very deliberately. He could not believe 
 that so small an estate as Allenders could afford such an 
 expensive whim as this. 
 
 And Armstrong shook his head over the fields, bearing 
 still a scanty insufficient crop, and honestly deplored and 
 lamented the daily visits which Harry paid to his lodger, 
 Gilbert Allenders. Gilbert had scarcely the shadow of an 
 excuse, in the way of medical practice, for his residence here ; 
 and the universal prejudice which accused him of " leading 
 away " the unfortunate young man of whom everybody was 
 inclined to think well, was not without its foundation. But 
 Harry — poor Harry ! he was always " led away " — and it was 
 so easy to find a tempter. 
 
 A life of coarse dissipation had become, by long practice, 
 the natural breath of Gilbert Allenders ; he could not live 
 soberly and quietly as other men did ; he felt it necessary to 
 fill every day as it came with its proportion of excitements 
 and pleasures, as he called them ; and in a sense very widely 
 apart from the commanded one, he took no thought for the 
 morrow. It pleased him, in some degree, to " lead " Harry 
 '• away ; " he felt a certain gratification in possessing the 
 power : but though there might lurk at the bottom of his 
 heart a secret grudge against the stranger who had dis- 
 possessed him of the inheritance he once reckoned upon, and 
 a secret pleasure in thus avenging himself, it lay far down in
 
 248 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 the depths, and Gilbert was totally unconscious of its exist- 
 ence. He rather liked Harry on the contrary — liked his 
 society, his wit, and felt his participation in them impart a 
 keener zest to his own recreations. For Gilbert was not a 
 villain, nor ever pursued revenge with purpose or malice ; he 
 was only a man of evil habits and impure mind, who felt the 
 burden of his own faults lightened when he could make others 
 partakers in them. And only so far was it true that he led 
 Harry away. 
 
 The harvest came with its sudden increase of labourers, 
 and flocks of shearers crowded into Harry's field ; but the 
 poor Highland wanderers and far-travelled Irish lingered 
 about the farm-steading of Allender Mains, and lost days that 
 might have been profitable to them, waiting for the wages 
 which Harry did not know were due. 
 
 The joyous autumn began to wane, and Harry's thrashing- 
 mill began to work, throwing out its banner of blue smoke 
 above the trees. But Harry's hopes came to no harvest — the 
 long-neglected land still bore scantily — the slender crops did 
 not pay, nor nearly pay for their culture. Not even William 
 Hunter's rent came in now to give the embarrassed laird an 
 income, and his second half-yearly payment of interest was due 
 at Martinmas, with only enough remaining to pay it of his last 
 thousand pounds ; and no provision made for the whole lo^ng 
 year which must intervene between this and another harvest 
 — nothing to continue the cultivation which should make ano- 
 ther harvest profitable — nothing to maintain the expensive 
 household, which now in Allenders waited for its fate ; and 
 Harry looked before him, and around, and muttered curses on 
 his own folly, and saw no way of deliverance. 
 
 He could not spring out of his ruin, he could do nothing 
 to make himself free ; but he could forget and drown it, and 
 he did so. 
 
 No kindly neighbours now entered the house of Allenders. 
 Good Lady Dunlop took stolen opportunities of alighting from 
 her carriage on the road, when her daughter was not with her, 
 to comfort the poor little wife, over whom her motherly heart 
 yearned ; and the ladies of Nettlehaugh and Foggo Barns, 
 made their salutations at church, and eased their consciences. 
 Agnes herself began to grow nervous, to start at sudden 
 sounds, and be shaken by passing voices. Her hand trembled 
 more than Harry's did, sometimes, and when he put away from 
 him with loathing the simple, wholesome food he could no
 
 HARRY MUIR. 249 
 
 longer take, Agnes grew so sick that she could not keep her 
 seat. Her baby did not thrive — he scarcely could in a house 
 where the one great absorbing interest engaged every thought ; 
 no one sang to him now, except Mysie — scarcely any one had 
 the heart to play with him — and the poor infant 
 
 " — caught the trick of grief, 
 And sighed among it playthings." 
 
 Rose, with no resource of dreaming left to her, tried to 
 dull her heart with constant labour, and wandered out in the 
 early morning, while the dew was still on the grass, to sit by 
 the Lady's Well, where Lettie, wistful and anxious, found her 
 out often, and sat at her feet in silence, touching her softly 
 with little caressing hands, and wondering with pensive 
 thoughts over the mystery which made Rose " like to break 
 her heart ;" for Lettie knew that other griefs than the family 
 fear for Harry, bore down upon the gentle spirit of her sister 
 Rose. 
 
 And when Harry was out, they drew together instinctively, 
 and sat working in Martha's room. And 5lartha roused her- 
 self, and with the ready associations and strange flow of simple 
 words, which she thought were signs and tokens of approaching 
 age, told them stories of actual life, homely, real histories, in 
 which there was always interest, and often consolation. She 
 wondered herself at the clear memory which recalled to her 
 those numberless tales of the neighbour families in Ayr — 
 stories of household ajffliction, sometimes only too like their 
 own — but still one continued to lead to another ; and Rose and 
 Agnes worked beside her, and listened, and the tedium of the 
 long, sad hours was beguiled. Yet, though she did all this to 
 give some partial and temporary lightening to them, heavy as 
 death within her was Martha's own strained heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 Two peaceful days. And what should hap in these, 
 But things of common life ? He will return 
 As safe as he went hence. 
 
 Late in the end of October, when Katie Calder began to speak 
 of Hallowe'en, and to consult with Jeanie Armstrong at AUen- 
 11*
 
 250 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 der Mains, on the best place to pull the " kailstocks," and prac- 
 tise the other spells proper to the occasion, Harry told his 
 anxious household that he was going to Edinburgh. They had 
 observed that he was gloomy and depressed for some days be- 
 fore, though he had been less than usual from home. Now he 
 told them vaguely about money which was wanted, and ex- 
 penses which had been incurred, and that his errand to Edin- 
 burgh was on business very important to him. When Martha 
 and Agnes pressed for more definite information, Harry fell 
 back upon his morose and gloomy silence. It was useless to 
 be making inquiries, for many a thing must have been told, if 
 Harry had begun to satisfy them, which he would never suffer 
 to reach their ears. 
 
 And no one went with him to Stirling this time to see him 
 off. When even Gilbert AUenders proposed to go, Harry an- 
 swered him with an instant and not very courteous negative, 
 and Agnes's wistful looks passed quite unnoticed. He rode 
 away, silently, too much abstracted, as it seemed, to turn back 
 and wave his hand to his wife and his sisters at their window, 
 as he was wont to do ; but when he was past the gate and al- 
 most out of sight upon the road — out of sight entirely to eyes 
 less eager — they saw him start and turn round, and wave back 
 to them the usual gesture of farewell. Agnes thrust herself 
 half out of the window of the drawing-room to return it, with 
 tears in her eyes ; and then she saw his head droop again upon 
 his breast, and he rode away. 
 
 On the third night after, he had instructed them to send 
 John with his horse to meet him in Stirling. He expected to 
 arrive there at four or five in the afternoon, and to be home 
 immediately after. With the most zealous care, Agnes re- 
 corded all Harry's directions, and impressed them on the mind 
 of John when he returned. He had seen his master safely off 
 upon the coach, and so far all was well. 
 
 The third night following was Hallowe'en, and even Let- 
 tie, absorbed with the expectation of entertaining her little 
 sentimental friend from Blaelodge, and one or two other chil- 
 dren, with the appropriate pastimes of the night, forgot that 
 Harry was coming home. But punctually to the hour, John 
 and the horse trotted out from the gate of AUenders, followed 
 by the wistful eyes of Agnes. Agnes longed to send the car- 
 riage ; but such was not Harry's will, and in his present mood 
 she could not contradict him. 
 
 Great fires blazed in the two family sitting-rooms, for the
 
 HARRY MUIR. 251 
 
 night was damp and cold, and needed this cheerful gleam to 
 brighten it for the traveller. Some special delicacies for 
 Harry's dinner were being superintended in the kitchen by 
 Agnes herself, and the glittering tea-service sparkled already 
 before the drawing-room fire, while Rose saw that Harry's own 
 room grew bright and warm with firelight, and that everything 
 he needed lay ready for his comfort. The early night fell 
 when they were thus employed ; but when everything was done 
 that could be thought of, and preparations made as great as 
 if he had been a year away, they sat down in the twilight, 
 crowding about the window, and looking out from the warm 
 flush of light within upon the uncertain grey which lay upon 
 the sky and hills. 
 
 But the grey tints vanished, and the full gloom of night 
 blotted out the landscape — blotted out even the gate and its 
 trees — the rery walnut on the lawn — and palpable blackness 
 pressed upon the window, and upon the eyes which still looked 
 steadily out on this comprest, uncreviced gloom — and Harry 
 did not come. 
 
 They would not light candles to remind them that he was 
 late — they would not hear the clock strike hour by hour. Some- 
 times with faint smiles they spoke to each other of the 
 childish mirth whose sounds they could hear ascending from 
 below, but oftenest they were entirely silent, except for a whis- 
 pered " Listen ! I hear the horse on the road," or " This is 
 Harry now ;" but it never was Harry. And the sound of 
 horses' hoofs seemed to echo perpetually through the starless 
 solemn night. And midnight came, and still they watched — 
 now in a very agony. 
 
 At last they heard the sound of the opened gate, and a single 
 horseman became slowly perceptible approaching through the 
 gloom. Throwing down the chair she had been seated on, 
 in haste and excitement, Agnes ran down stairs, and Martha 
 and Rose, putting restraint upon themselves, followed a little 
 more slowly. But they had not reached the hall when they 
 heard the voice of John, reporting how AUenders had sent 
 him on before to tell them that the coach had been detained 
 much beyond its time, and that he himself was on the road, 
 and would be immediately at home. 
 
 Poor little Agnes turned from the door, and hiding her face 
 in Martha's breast, wept quietly tears of deferred hope. And 
 Rose went forward to the door in the darkness, anxious, if pos- 
 sible, to hear something of Harry's looks from John.
 
 252 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 "Was my brother much wearied?" said Rose timidly. 
 " The road is very dark. I am sorry you left him, John — he 
 does not know the way so well as you.'' 
 
 '• Allenders was very thoughtful-like," said John, with a 
 quick apprehension of what she meant ; " and I ken the coach 
 was lang after its time ; but I dinna think Allenders was 
 wearied, to speak o'. And he guides the horse better than ony 
 ither body now, and he was very anxious to be hame."' 
 
 She could not ask, nor be told more, and they went back to 
 their window to watch again ; while Ptose, begging to be told 
 whenever they heard Harry, had the fires hastily renewed, her- 
 self assisting sleepy Mysie, who, though she nodded by the 
 kitchen fire would not go to bed, and leave them watching alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 There's a dark spirit walking in our bouse. 
 And swiftly will the destiny close on us. 
 
 SCHILLEK. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock when the Edinburgh coach reached 
 Stirling, carrying Harry, much subdued and cast down, but 
 in reality this time detained by obstacles over which he had 
 no control. During all this journey he had been contemplating 
 the grim strength of ruin face to face — feeling himself now 
 utterly beyond help or hope, able to do nothing but sit down 
 and wait for the final blow. The place at which he had ap- 
 pointed his servant to meet him was some distance from the 
 eoach-office ; and taking his little valise in his hand, Harry 
 walked with a heavy, weary step, much unlike his usual elastic 
 one, to find John. 
 
 The streets were still and deserted, the shops shtit, the 
 lights extinguished in almost every house he passed. The 
 very public houses, inns, and lower places of the same kind had 
 put out all but one solitary lamp, which, just enough to light 
 those who were within, looked dreary and melan.choly to every- 
 body without. Harry went along the street feeling himself 
 an utter stranger here. This was partly true ; for the friends 
 he had made were of a very unpromising kind, and, themselves 
 broken men for the most part, could render little comfort to a
 
 HARRY MUIR. 253 
 
 man at the point of ruin ; but partly it was the mere desola- 
 tion of the silent street, echoing to his footstep, which impress- 
 ed the sensitive mind of Harry. He went along with his 
 valise under his arm, and his pale face drooping — a face 
 marked with lines of altogether new rigidity, and full of a si- 
 lent forlorn despair, which it was touching to see in one so 
 young, and naturally so hopeful. He could! not tell what chill 
 it was that overpowered his heart — ruin ! — a descent from his 
 rank and his inheritance — a return characterless, and with 
 many a new habit of evil, to the occupation in which once be- 
 fore he had failed — worse than all, the remembrance of his 
 sins, which returned to look him in the face like upbraiding 
 spirits. Yet even this was not all : a vague dread, a shivering, 
 mysterious presentiment of some unknown evil to come, hover- 
 ed over these real griefs, and gave them shape and form, in a 
 torpor of despair. 
 
 He set out upon the road with his servant at a rapid pace ; 
 but in spite of himself, the tramp of John's horse, continually 
 taking the course of his own behind, irritated him almost be- 
 yond endurance. He suffered it as long as he could, feeling 
 his irritation a weakness ; but at last yielded to the overpow- 
 ering sense of annoyance which this trifling matter occasioned 
 him, and sent his man on, following himself more slowly. 
 
 The night was very dark — dark as it is only in a perfectly 
 rural country ; and as the ringing silence closed about him, 
 and he heard nothing but an occasional sigh from the river, or 
 a faint flutter among the falling leaves, or the sound of his 
 own progress upon the solitary road, Harry's thoughts strayed 
 away from his great miseries. Once or twice, a leaf in its de- 
 scent blew across his face, and made his horse wince, and his 
 heart beat — and then, there returned upon Harry his vague 
 and inexpressible fear ; but shut out from every sight^ as he 
 was, by his utter darkness, there rose up scenes of cheerful 
 light before his imagination, beautiful to see : Uncle Sandy's 
 house at Ayr — the little parlour in Grlasgow — the home in Al- 
 lenders to which he was returning. A strange, dreamy pleasure 
 stole over him — he forgot his sins, his misfortunes, his near 
 and inevitable ruin — he thought of the home enjoyments which 
 no man had known more largely — he thought of his little 
 loving wife — of the passionate affection of Martha — of Rose's 
 gentler tenderness, and strange little poetic Lettie, with her 
 wistful eyes. Poor Harry ! his heart swelled with sudden re- 
 lief .as these came to his imagination : little domestic remem-
 
 254 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 brances, looks, words, innocent mistakes and blunders, things 
 which long ago brought pleasant, kindly laughter, or tender 
 tears to the faces of them all. The reins fell loosely on his 
 horse's neck as he resigned himself to this repose ; and the 
 cottage firesides at Maidlin, and the boyish companions of 
 Ayr, looked in, and interwove themselves with those fancies of 
 home. Sometimes' he tried to rouse himself, and a sharp pain 
 shot through his heart as for a moment he remembered his 
 real state and prospects ; but still this singular dream return- 
 ed upon him, and in his heart he thanked God ! 
 
 Meanwhile, in Allenders they sit and watch, looking out 
 with dread and sickening pain into the darkness, praying till 
 their hearts are again " like to break." Sometimes Agnes 
 kneels down by a chair, and hides her face, and utters a low 
 unconscious cry ; sometimes Martha walks heavily up or down 
 the room, pausing in the midst, to think she hears in reality 
 the sound which has mocked them in the imagination all the 
 night. " I am going to my own room — do not come to me," 
 said Martha, at last, in a half whisper, and she left them with- 
 out another word. 
 
 But not to her own chamber to weep or pray, as they 
 thought ; Mysie nodding by the kitchen fire was suddenly 
 startled by Martha's appearance, with a rigid white face like 
 death, and cloak enveloping her whole person. With a slight 
 scream, the drowsy girl started to her feet, scarcely knowing 
 if she saw a human being or a spirit. 
 
 " Mysie, you are bold," said Martha, with such distinct 
 rapidity that her words seemed to occupy no time. " I want 
 the carriage instantly. I am going to seek my brother. Come, 
 and show me what has to be done." 
 
 " I'll waken John," said the terrified Mysie. 
 
 " I do not require John. What is to be done I can do 
 myself. Grive me a light." 
 
 But Mysie, who was in reality a brave girl, and could 
 manage horses as easily as she managed the brown cow, and 
 who besides doted on little Harry and the baby, and would 
 not have hesitated at even a greater thing for their father, 
 answered by lifting John's lantern ; and catching down a plaid 
 which hung on the wall as they passed, she led the way to the 
 stables without another word. 
 
 It was a strange scene : Mysie excited, and still half 
 dreaming, forced the unwilling horse between the shafts ; and 
 Martha, like a marble statue, with hands which never trem-
 
 • HARRY MUIR. 255 
 
 bled nor hesitated, secured the fastening in perfect silence. 
 John could not have done this daily business of his in half 
 the time which it took these women to lead the carriage soft- 
 ly out of the stables round by a lane behind the house into 
 the highway. They had no time to seek for the lamps to 
 light them, so Martha carried the lantern in her hand, and 
 held it up into the darkness as they advanced, while Mysie 
 drove on steadily toward Stirling. 
 
 They had not gone a mile, Martha continually lifting her 
 lantern and gazing into the gloom, when they heard that some 
 one on a galloping horse approached them. Martha rose to 
 her feet, and held up the light. It seemed to scare the ani- 
 mal, who suddenly paused, with reins dangling on his neck, 
 and foam upon his breast ; but he was riderless. " It's Allen- 
 ders' ain horse," said Mysie, in a strong hissing whisper through 
 her closed teeth, as she touched the bay in the carriage with 
 her whip, and with a leap they proceeded. But Martha des- 
 perately caught at the reins of the other horse, and grasped 
 them — she could not, even in her agony for Harry, bear to 
 think that her other children should receive such a dreadful 
 shock as this while she was not with them to strengthen them. 
 And the exhausted animal went on quietly for a little time — 
 then he began to plunge and rear, and turn towards home. 
 " Let him go — let him go," again whispered Mysie, now des- 
 perate with anxiety and fright. " You canna get lookit at the 
 roadside for handing him — let him go." 
 
 And Martha did let him go. 
 
 Not twenty yards farther on, their horse suddenly came to 
 a dead pause — and there, lying across the highway, was a dark 
 figure, with a battered hat by its side, and the face gleaming 
 ghastly in the light of Martha's lantern. She was bending 
 over him before Mysie's first gasp of terror gave her breath ; 
 and Martha's white lips were calling upon God, upon God — 
 but no sound came from them upon the heavy darkness. 
 
 And the heart beats faintly still in Harry's breast, and the 
 blood oozes slowly from the cut upon his brow. She feels it 
 warm upon her hands — this is how she knows it to be blood — 
 as she lifts his death-like face upon her knee ; and still as her 
 hand presses upon his heart, and she bends her cheek to his 
 lips to feel if he still breathes, Martha calls upon the name 
 of the Lord. The name — she can say nothing but the name 
 — but in it is all prayer. 
 
 And now she lifts him up into her own arms, up to *the
 
 256 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 fierce heart which has throbbed with passionate love for him all 
 his life. Mysie, humbly and with terror, asked to help her ; 
 but Martha, rising from her knee with all her burden in her 
 arms, thrusts away unconsciously the trembling aid, and 
 places him — her boy, her son, poor Harry ! — in the carriage 
 like a child. Then through the gloom, which no longer needs 
 a light, through the horror of darkness, which lies over them 
 like a cloak of iron, pressing down upon their very hearts, and 
 hiding the face upon which Martha's eyes are fixed continually, 
 though • she can only feel it where it lies upon her knee — 
 through this night of solemn gloom and terror, which is the 
 end — home ! 
 
 And now, Harry's horse neighs and craves admittance at 
 his stable-door ; and John, roused out of the sleep from which 
 Mysie had promised to wake him on his master's return, starts 
 up terrified, and cannot find his lantern nor the key, which 
 Martha's trembling helper has left in the stable-door ; and 
 Rose and Agnes rushed together, in terror which has no voice, 
 to seek Martha in her room, and finding her gone, flee out 
 into the impenetrable darkness and call to John for the 
 lamps he cannot find, and carry uncovered candles — which, iu 
 the damp air will not burn — to the gate, with a terrible appre- 
 hension of stumbling over Harry in their path ; but, still, acci- 
 dent — any but the slightest — does not cross their distracted 
 minds and they never once think of death. 
 
 Yet anguish and terrible dread come upon them as they 
 struggle on along the dark way, groping for they know not 
 what, while the darkness blinds their eyes, and chokes their 
 very breath. But far on — far along the road, where there is 
 a little eminence, half a mile away, appears a faint, slowly 
 moving light. Instinctively drawing closer together, they 
 stand, and listen, and watch this speck in the intense gloom. 
 And Agnes does not know that her incoherent prayers are 
 said aloud ; nor does Rose, though she remembers words of 
 them after, like the broken words of a dream. 
 
 But the light comes nearer ; and John, who has turned 
 his master's horse into the stable, and given him water, comes 
 back, to grope his way to his young mistress on the road, and 
 stand beside her, watching the slow motion of this distant 
 light. Defenceless and open stands the house of Allenders, 
 where children lie asleep, serene and peaceful, worn out with 
 pleasure ; and not even the watchers at the gate, amid all 
 their terror and apprehension, have any idea what it is, which 
 comes towards them through the night.
 
 HAKRY MUIR. 257 
 
 What is it? Mysie, hearing some far-off whisper of 
 voices, holds up her h\nteru, unwitting that the chief light it 
 throws is upon those two behind. Martha, sitting rigid in 
 the carriage, with a face of deadly whiteness on her knee, and 
 her hand pressing upon the heart of the passive insensible form 
 — pressing against it, as if the frail life needed to be held 
 fast, lest it should glide away. A shrill cry startles the dark- 
 ness at their side, and Martha only knows they have reached 
 the gate of AUenders, when she hears Harry's little gentle 
 wife fall heavily upon the ground, and is startled by the cry 
 of Rose. 
 
 Mysie, frightened and exhausted, stopped the carriage. 
 " Drive on ! " said Martha, and her lips spoke the words half- 
 a-dozen times before they broke, shrill and loud, upon Mysie's 
 terrified ear. '" Rose, be calm. John, carry Agnes in. I, 
 myself, will care for Harry ; he is alive." 
 
 Alive ! — but that was all ! 
 
 Candles stood wasting on the hall table, and the cold 
 black air stole in heavily, damp and chill. Upon the stairs, a 
 little white figure called on Martha and Rose, and shivered, 
 and cast looks of terror on the open door. For Violet had 
 been dreaming of Harry — dreaming terrible dreams — and she 
 could not rest. 
 
 ^- Let me carry him. I'm stronger than you, and I'll be 
 as tender as a woman," pleaded the awe-stricken John. 
 
 But Martha pushed him aside. " A doctor — a doctor ! 
 instantly ! " 
 
 It was all she could say, as she lifted up her burden. 
 
 It was well for Martha that her frame was strong, 
 and hardly strung ; for Mysie, who silently assisted, and sup- 
 ported poor Harry's feet, left still the great weight of his in- 
 sensible form in Martha's arms ; and Martha felt the strain 
 when it was over — she knew nothing of it now. 
 
 Alas, poor Harry ! — they laid him on his bed ; they clus- 
 tered round him, the faces which he had seen in his imag- 
 ination two little hours ago, so fresh and bright. In this 
 room, where the fire was faintly dying, were arranged many 
 little things which Rose had fancied he might want when he 
 came home ; but there he lay, with the blood upon his brow, 
 unconscious, silent, with nothing but his heavy breathing to 
 tell them that he was alive. 
 
 And immediately they heard the desperate gallop at which 
 John set off, to bring the doctor. The doctor — not Gilbert 
 AUenders. but a respectable surgeon in the neighbourhood —
 
 258 HARKY MUIR. 
 
 returned with him without delay; and John took especial 
 pains to inform him on the road, that Alleuders was " as 
 muckle himsel as I am," when they parted. 
 
 Poor Harry's leg was broken again; he had sustained 
 some severe internal injuries, and was terribly bruised over 
 his whole frame. The surgeon remained all the night, and 
 did every thing it was possible for him to do, dispatching 
 John to Stirling for assistance before the dawn. But when 
 the grey still morning began to steal into the room, and 
 Harry, faintly conscious, lay moaning on his bed, Agnes clasp- 
 ing her hands in sorrowful entreaty ; and lifting up her pa- 
 thetic eyes to the doctor's face, asked if there was any hope. 
 
 When she asked, she had scarcely any doubt there was. 
 Danger, suffering, even positive agonies of endurance were 
 before him, she saw ; but Harry's wife did not think he could 
 die. 
 
 " We have always hope so long as there is life," said the 
 doctor, turning his head away. 
 
 And Agnes gasped and fell again. It was the warrant of 
 death. 
 
 " Will he die ? " said Martha, crushing her hands together 
 as she too looked, but with eyes that demanded an answer, in 
 the doctor's face. 
 
 He waved his hand, and again turned away. The good 
 man saw the mighty love which would detain and hold this 
 parting soul, and he could not meet its despair. 
 
 " Harry will die ! " — no one said it ; no one spoke those 
 terrible words of doom ; but it seemed to them all that the air 
 was heavy with the sentence ; and from Martha, who never 
 wearied and never closed her eyes, ministering by his bedside 
 within, to little Lettie crouching close to his door, and pray- 
 ing that God would take her — only take her, and save " my 
 Harry ;" there was not one among them who did not carry in 
 their very face this great and terrible doom. 
 
 Wiping the deadly dews from his brow, administering to 
 him the almost hourly opiates, which no hand in the house, ex- 
 cept her own, not even the surgeon's, was steady enough to 
 prepare, Martha watched by him night and day. Harry was 
 seldom conscious, seldom able to recognize, or address his 
 nurse ; but in his broken ravings were things that touched her 
 to the heart ; things of the pure youth — the household life ; 
 nothing — they all thanked God for the especial mercy — 
 nothing mingling with these innocent remembrances, of his 
 times of secret sin.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Fond dreaming hearts — an old man and a child ! 
 
 " Miss Lettie, the auld man's ta'en an ill turn. He cries for 
 you to gang and tell him how the maister is — will ye gang to 
 the loft and speak to the auld man, Miss Lettie ? " 
 
 Violet left her place at Harry's door, and went. 
 
 Old Adam lay upon his bed in his ordinary dress, with his 
 long, brown, lean fingers lying crossed upon the homely cover, 
 as if they were clutching it — but in reality they grasped 
 nothing. A feeble tremble was in his frame as he lay vacantly 
 looking up to the rafters above him ; and his ashy face, though 
 indeed it was scarcely paler than usual, struck Violet with 
 terror, as if it had been the very face of death, 
 
 " Oh Dragon, my Harry ! " cried poor little Lettie. 
 
 " They tell me the horse had thrown him, and dragged him 
 alang the road wi' ae fit aye the stirrup — was that true, Missie ? 
 and I aye kent mysel it was a thrawart beast, and no to be 
 depended on," said Dragon. " I've been lying here thinking 
 on the puir lad, this haill morning ; and I was just putting it 
 ower in my mind if it wadna be best to crave the Lord to take 
 me, and spare the young life ; but I never can win that length 
 though I try — for I aye mind I'm a harmless auld body, doing 
 ill to nae man, and what for should I ask to die? " 
 
 " Would G-od do that. Dragon ? Would God take some- 
 body else, and leave Harry ? Oh ! will ye ask Him to take 
 me ? " cried Harry's little sister, " for he's very ill, and Martha 
 thinks he will die. Dragon, if God would take you and me, 
 and save Harry, would you no come ? and God would aye let 
 us see the sun shining on the water, and a' body blythe in Al- 
 lenders — Dragon, if we were in heaven ! " 
 
 And Violet's passionate cry, and voice choked with sobbing, 
 again awoke the old man's torpid heart. He raised himself 
 from his bed feebly, and leaning on his elbow, looked at the 
 little figure kneeling by his bedside, with its clasped hands, 
 and gleaming eyes. — and Adam Comrie slowly shook his head. 
 
 " Missie, I'm auld — I whiles forget things I ken weel, and 
 speak as if I was a bairn mysel ; but ae life canna redeem
 
 260 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 anither, little bairn. Na, na, I wad gang wi' ye bljthe, puir 
 wee innocent heart, to take care of ye — if God didna send an 
 angel to take care of us baith — " said the old man, with a momen- 
 tary wandering, '• but there never was but Ane. that could redeem 
 lives out of God's hand with His ain. We're a' forfeit our- 
 selves, bairnie ; if my life was mine, and yours your ain, we 
 might offer them for Mr. Hairy ; but God has your bit heartie 
 in His hand, as well as mine, and will lay them quiet when it 
 is His pleasure, and no a day before. There ivas Ane that 
 had His life free to lay down, and free to take up — and there 
 was but Ane. I've had glimmerings o' Him mysel," con- 
 tinued Dragon, fixing his unsteady eyes on the roof, and wan- 
 dering from the first subject into the more immediate personal 
 interest which his own words recalled to him, " glimmerings 
 like blinks of the sun out of clouds ; but if I whiles lose mind 
 of the Lord — for I'm auld and feeble, and sae lang in this 
 world, that it's ill to believe I have to gang away — if /whiles 
 lose mind, that am but a puir useless creature, is that to say 
 that He loses mind o' me ? — as if He didna ken what was the 
 guid reason, wherefore, I wasna taken hence in my strength, 
 but left to wear out my days like a sleep, and to forget ! Ane 
 might think the like o' me, sae aged and frail, had been forgot- 
 ten out of the course of nature ; and left because He didna 
 mind — but never you trow that, bairnie — I ken He minds, and 
 when it's my time, He'll send for me, as thoughtful as if I was 
 the grandest man on this earth. What's about my memory, 
 though it whiles can carry naething but bairnly things? Is 
 that to rule His, think ye, that grows not auld forever? And 
 I ken He never forgets." 
 
 Absorbed and full of awe, Violet followed unconsciously 
 the half-palsied wave of the old man's head and figure as he 
 spoke, and watched the unusual gleam which shot from the 
 eyes, which he in vain tried to fix on the rafter. Poor, dim 
 unsteady eyes ! they glanced about in every direction, as if 
 they possessed some distinct energy and will of their own. 
 
 But when Adam sank back on his pillow, Lettie shivered 
 and thought she had forgotten Harry — poor Harry ! She 
 could still hear his moan in her ears. 
 
 " Oh, my Harry, my Harry ! Dragon, do ye think God will 
 take him up — up — yonder beside Him ? " and Lettie turned 
 her eyes full of dark wistful reverence and fear upon the old 
 man's face. 
 
 " Wad God take you, and me, think ye, to save him?" said
 
 HARRY MUIR. 261 
 
 Dragon, now wandering back into a mild half-delirious waking 
 sleep, •• but then we're forfeit — forfeit — and there was but Ane. 
 I'm content to gang, bairnie, content to gang — where's your 
 hand ? and I dinna ken how we maun travel, but the angel 
 will tell us when he comes ; and I'll take care o' ye a' the 
 way, for we're no to expect the angel, that's a stranger, to 
 take heed to a' a little bairn's wants like the like of me. Ye 
 can say we\e ready. Ye can say I've got the better o' mysel, 
 and I'm willing to gang," 
 
 But Lettie, excited and terrified, dared not say aloud the 
 strange prayer, '•' Take Dragon and me, and save Harry," 
 which was in her heart. 
 
 And Dragon's feeble hand tightened on hers, till Lettie 
 looking up in a fright and sudden fear, saw that his head had 
 fallen back, and that an ashy paleness like that of his face was 
 creeping over the rigid fingers which grasped her own. But 
 Dragon's loud and heavy breathing showed her that this was 
 not death, Lettie withdrew her hand with pain and difficulty 
 from his grasp, and ran to call assistance. She pressed her 
 finger on her own pulse, as she followed* Mysie and the doctor 
 back again to the old man's bedside, and a strange cold thrill 
 of fear and expectation shot through her frame. Poor little 
 visionary Lettie ! She thought her prayer was heard — she 
 thought the angel had called Dragon, and it became her to be 
 ready now. 
 
 But Lettie's shivering hope was vain. A slight almost 
 momentary " shock" had come upon the old man, but it pass- 
 ed away. It passed away — nature began to warm again in the 
 withered worn-out frame, and Lettie's pulse beat true and steady, 
 with a young life whose delicate strength should yet bear many 
 things — while hour by hour the tide of strong manhood ebbed, 
 and Harry, poor Harry ! drew nearer to his grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 And Love himself, as he were armed in steel, 
 Steps forth, and girds him for the strife with death. 
 
 PiCCOLOMINI. 
 
 The doctors were in almost constant attendance — the min- 
 ister of the parish came to pray by the bedside of the half-
 
 262 HARRY MUIK. 
 
 conscious patient, wliose heavy moans broke in upon his sup- 
 lication. The children of Maidlin, awe-stricken and full of 
 wonder and curiosity, hung about the gate of Allenders, tell- 
 ing each other how Harry fell, and how the trail was found on 
 the road, where his horse had dragged him along the damp . 
 loose soil. And their mothers came in bands in the early af- 
 ternoon to speak of it with kindred awe and mystery, and 
 stealing round by the back of the house, beckonea Mysie out 
 to learn from her how the sufferer was. More dignified peo- 
 ple, and even Sir John Dunlop himself, sent messengers to in- 
 quire for poor Harry ; and Gilbert Allenders, like an ill-omen- 
 ed shadow, continually hovered about the door. 
 
 Poor Harry ! they never spoke to each other, these women 
 who watched him ; but Agnes and Rose perceived when they 
 approached the bed that it was only a strong self-restraint 
 which prevented Martha from thrusting them away. She was 
 jealous now, even of them — she could not bear to see him 
 touched by any hand but her own — as if it was her hand alone 
 which could touch him without inflicting pain ; and they saw 
 her shiver when the surgeon drew near him, as if with bodily 
 fear. And sometimes, when Martha laid Agnes down upon 
 the sofa in this sad sick room, and covered her tenderly as if 
 she were a child, an hour of feverish sleep would fall upon the 
 little wife ; and Rose, when sent to her own room for the 
 night, after lingering at the door, and wandering up and down 
 to see if anything could possibly be wanted which was not 
 ready, would weep herself into a trance of slumber, from which 
 the awakening was bitter — but Martha never slept. 
 
 And Harry lay upon his bed, unconscious, and never said 
 a word which testified that he knew them there. Conscious of 
 pain — conscious of the agony of being touched or moved, which 
 drew from him those shrill cries and heavy moanings — and 
 with dim, dreamy eyes, which seemed to recognize sometimes 
 where it was he lay, as they wandered over the well-known 
 furniture ; but though he spoke of them all in his time of 
 greater ease, and addressed them by loving names, which 
 brought a swooning deadly sickness over Agnes, and convul- 
 sed Martha with a terrible tenderness, he never spoke to them 
 as present beside him ; wandering broken lines of thought, 
 strange visible associations which connected one distant thing 
 with another, came from him in an interrupted flow — and 
 sometimes strange half dreaming prayers, exclaimed vehement- 
 ly at one time, at another repeated with a placid smile like a
 
 HARRY MUIR. 26S 
 
 child's — " Lead us not into temptation — deliver us from evil," 
 made up the prolonged and audible reverie of Harry's stricken 
 soul. 
 
 On the morning of the third day, while Martha sat be- 
 side him on one side, and Agnes, with her face buried in the 
 coverlet, knelt by the bed, silently praying and weeping, on 
 the other, a gradual awakening came to Harry's face. Mar- 
 tha, whose look never left it, saw the dreamy eyes light up, at 
 first faintly, but gradually rising into life. Then he saw 
 Agnes, and stealing his feeble hand along the bed, laid it on 
 her head. She started up with a faint cry, and Harry's trance 
 was broken. 
 
 " Am I to die ? " he said, in a whisper, when for some 
 moments they had held his hands in silence — his hands, one 
 of which was bathed in the tears of Agnes, while on the other 
 had fallen a single great burning drop, falling from Martha's 
 heavy eyelid, like a drop of living fire. 
 
 But no answer came to him, except the convulsive sobs of 
 Agnes, and a tightened and clinging pressure of the hand 
 which lay in Martha's grasp. 
 
 " Then let me see them, Martha," said Harry, faintly ; 
 " let me see them all once again. You will be better without 
 me, and I will be better away. Oh God ! my God ! I have 
 lost a life." 
 
 " But not a soul, Harry — not a soul," cried Martha, bend- 
 ing down her head, to kiss with burning vehemence the hand 
 on which her tears fell now like hail-drops. " First look up, 
 Harry, my son ! my son ! — and there is another life ! " 
 
 And the dim eyes turned upward to the roof — to the 
 human mortal screen built between him and the sky ; and 
 saw, not the heavens opened, and Jesus standing at the right 
 hand of God, but only a household of weeping women, half 
 frantic with love and eagerness, crying aloud for him before 
 the everlasting throne, where mercy sits and judgment ; and 
 a blank numbness was on Harry's soul. He could not throw 
 himself before this footstool, and ask with his last breath for 
 that deliverance which comes from Him who never thrust one 
 empty away. Sleep was upon him, and he craved repose ; he 
 trusted to them who interceded — he leaned with faint con- 
 sciousness upon their supplications ; but for himself he could 
 ask nothing — his heart was voiceless, apathetic, asleep. 
 
 " Pray for me, Martha," said Harry, faintly. 
 
 For this was all his hope.
 
 264 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Pray for him ! When was it, working or resting, that 
 Martha forgot thus to pray ? 
 
 '• And gather them all," said Harry — " gather them all in 
 here, that I may see them before I die." 
 
 He said the words with a faint, mournful pathos. He was. 
 not rebellious to his doom — poor Harry ! but it seemed to 
 him that he was sinking into some pensive, gentle rest. This 
 was how the visible death, drawing near, disclosed itself, in 
 the midst of his great pain, to his heart. 
 
 And Martha called them in, one by one — Rose, Lettie, 
 Katie Calder, little Harry, and the infant boy. You would 
 have thought, to hear him speak, that this dying man was 
 passing away into the heaven which he already knew for home, 
 and that there interposed no obscuring cloud between him and 
 the sky ; or that this suffering of death consciously made up 
 for all the evil that had gone before — for neither remorse 
 nor terror overshadowed Harry, nor did he speak of faith. 
 Poor Harry ! this benumbed and quiet peace seemed all he 
 desired. 
 
 And when he had bidden them farewell, gently, faintly, 
 without any violence of emotion — with a perfect calm and 
 submission, and what people call resignation to the will of 
 Grod — Harry laid himself down again to die. 
 
 But his head.had scarcely fallen back again upon the pil- 
 low, when he started violentlj^ — a start which wrung from 
 him a half scream of pain. 
 
 " Send for Lindsay, Martha ! — send for Robertson, in 
 Stirling ! Any one — any one you can get most easily ! — at 
 once, before I die ! " 
 
 Without hesitation, Martha went to obey his order ; and 
 John, who was swift and ready, was in the saddle in a very 
 few minutes, galloping to Stirling for a lawyer. 
 
 But when Martha returned to the sick chamber, Harry 
 had relapsed into unconsciousness, and she sat down, watching 
 by him silently, as she had done before. Within a few hours 
 the lawyer came. The whole country rang with the news of 
 the accident, and people forgot how they had condemned poor 
 Allenders, in pity for him, and for the family, whose singular 
 devotion to him it needed little discernment to discover. So 
 Mr. Robertson had left his house at once, to his own incon- 
 venience, to come to the dying man. But Harry lay upon 
 his bed, communing aloud with his own heart ; and the very 
 lawyer turned aside and wept, as he heard this heart laid
 
 HARRY MUIR. 265 
 
 open. A sinful man had Harry been ! — shipwrecked and lost ! 
 Yet it was a child's heart ! 
 
 And Martha's words, or an influence more wonderful than 
 them, was breathing on the chaos of this disturbed and wan- 
 dering soul. Poor Harry ! And his lips spoke loud the texts 
 and psalms which he had learned a child, at Martha's knee. 
 In the room there was a hush like death, through which now 
 and then the restrained sob of Agnes struggled faintly. She 
 was still lying in the same position, her face hidden, in pros- 
 trate, powerless grief; and Rose knelt beside her, pale as 
 death, fixing the eyes, from which her tears fell down continu- 
 ally, upon Harry's face, while her throat quivered now and 
 then with a convulsive gasp. Martha, at his other side, with 
 her head bent upon her folded arms, shook with great trem- 
 blings, like successive waves — but no sound came from her ; 
 and the lawyer, afraid to move, and full of awe, stood silent at 
 the foot of the bed. Through this scene ascended Harry's voice, 
 low and faint, but distinctly audible ; and now he reads from 
 his child's memory, what has been read by his bedside only 
 recently, in hope to catch some passing gleam of consciousness 
 — the last words of the Lord ! 
 
 ! wonderful, benign and tender words ! — spoken under 
 the very death-shadow, by that One who alone was free to re- 
 deem — who can tell what was their influence upon the rapt 
 soul, which, past all human intercourse, was still open to the 
 dealings of the Lord ? Mysterious awe and wonder hushed 
 even their very prayers. No human speech could move him 
 now, or reach his veiled and hidden soul : but the way was all 
 open to God. 
 
 All through the night Harry continued thus — with broken 
 prayers, and words of Holy Writ, mingling with the common 
 things to which he sometimes returned — and towards the dawn 
 he fell into a broken sleep. 
 
 The lawyer, meanwhile, waited. It was a singular kind- 
 ness ; but Harry might awake out of his trance at any mo- 
 ment, and this man, who had a kindly heart, was concerned for 
 the family, and sufficiently interested to give his time without 
 much grudging. And they had all a vague expectation that 
 Harry would awake from this sleep, in possession of his facul- 
 ties. 
 
 They were right, he did so ; and after a few minutes of 
 repose and contemplation, and of tender words to those around 
 him. he started again, and asked for the lawyer. Mr. Robert- 
 12
 
 266 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 son came from the library, where he had been sitting, and 
 Harry sent his sisters and his wife away. 
 
 They were not long shut out from the sick room. The 
 lawyer left the chamber and the house, with a farewell of deep 
 and melancholy sympathy ; and for about an hour after, Harry 
 continued conscious of their presence. But this consciousness 
 was broken and disturbed : and afterwards he sank back into 
 a slumberous, interupted reverie, from which he never woke 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 'Tis over — over : here is no present noAv ; 
 All life lies in the past 
 
 Old Plat. 
 
 There is a deep hush upon Allenders, the silence of death ; 
 and quiet footsteps glide about another sick room, passing by 
 the door, where lies one who shall want human tendance never 
 again. Poor little Agnes, worn out and broken, lies there 
 very ill ; and they are watching her night and day, as a week 
 ago they watched Harry — but with better hope. 
 
 And now all the dreary business of this time falls upon 
 Martha. She thinks they will craze her — those necessary di- 
 rections which she is compelled to give ; and Martha cannot 
 afford to risk either her mind or her health for the family's 
 sake, which now hangs on her hands to be provided for. So 
 the second day after Harry's death she wrote to Charteris, the 
 only friend, near at hand, to whom she could apply. 
 
 Martha's letter was abrupt and short ; she could not inti- 
 mate what had come upon them in many words. 
 
 ^' My brother Harry is dead " — this was her letter — " Ag- 
 nes is ill ; and I alone am left to do what this trial requires 
 to be done. You were his friend, and wished him well. Will 
 you come to my aid in this extremity for his sake ? " 
 
 It might have been the letter of a cold heart. Cuthbert 
 knew better than to think it was. 
 
 And from the window of Agnes's sick room, Martha, grave 
 and tearless, watched them carry away the dead. There was 
 a long funeral train, for now that he was dead, every one was 
 ready to pay respect to poor Harry. Little Lettie weeping as
 
 HARRY MUIR. 267 
 
 if her heart would break, had seen the hearse stand at the 
 door ; now she grew suddenly still, chill, and full of mysteri- 
 ous terror ; and when Mysie lifted her from the window, and 
 softly opened the shutters, letting in the hitherto excluded 
 sunshine, Lettie sat down on the carpet in the light, and shi- 
 vered and sobbed, but could not weep. They had carried him 
 away — poor Harry ! where never mortal ear should hear, or 
 mortal eye look on him again ; and Lottie's little, trembling 
 heart was overpowered with irresistible longing to see his face ; 
 and she could not remember it — could not recall, except in a 
 mist, the features she knew so well. 
 
 A few of the most considerable followers of the funeral, 
 Sir John Dunlop and his son, Mr. Haig of Foggo, and Cuth- 
 bert Charteris, who had arrived two days before, and arranged 
 everything, returned with the minister, Mr. Robertson the 
 Stirling writer, and Uncle Sandy, to the house. It was a con- 
 siderable surprise to all, to find, that there was a will, and 
 they returned to be present while it was read. 
 
 The party assembled in the dining-room, where the blinds 
 were still closed, and the funeral bread and wine remained on 
 the table. When they had waited for some time, Martha and 
 Rose and little Lettie came in. They were all already dress- 
 ed in the deepest mourning, and Rose, trembling and half-hys- 
 teric, was deadly pale ; her eyes wandered from side to side, 
 and she held up her head with a mechanical motion, as if only 
 half conscious where she was. Lettie, wistful and full of mys- 
 terious trembling, was still keenly alive to everything that 
 passed, and attended, with her eyes fixed on every speaker 
 with an intense regard, which riveted every word upon her 
 mind. On Martha's usual appearance there was little change. 
 Her eyes were more hollow, perhaps, and the wrinkles deeper 
 in her brow ; but that was all. Uncle Sandy, passive and 
 absorbed, sat by them, in perfect silence The old man was 
 greatly shaken with this unexpected grief 
 
 •' Before we begin this business," said the minister, " let 
 us pray again with and for this afflicted family. I am sure 
 they have all our deepest sympathy and good wishes. Let us 
 commend them to the God of consolatioDS." 
 
 They were all standing before he concluded ; but Cuth- 
 bert saw the little gasp and totter with which Rose left her 
 chair, closing her eyes with the blindness of a worn-out heart. 
 He had not time to think if his impulse was prudent ; it was 
 enough that he could not stand by, and see her unsupported,
 
 268 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 while he was there to give her help. He stepped forward 
 hastily, and taking both her hands into his own, drew one of 
 them through his arm^ and held up her weakness with his 
 strength. A little audible sob came from the overcharged 
 breast of Rose. She did not think of Cuthbert, nor was he 
 sufficiently callous to believe she could. She was thinking of 
 poor Harry in his new grave, and longing, like Lettie, to see 
 his face once more ; but she leaned upon the strong arm 
 which supported her, and a vague, unconscious comfort came 
 to Rose's heart. 
 
 But Martha, whose fate it was to stand alone — to whom 
 no one came to offer support — whose heart knew its own bit- 
 terness, and whose cares there was none to share or to lighten, 
 held with both hands the back of a chair, and bent over it 
 heavily with a stoop like the stoop of age. Lettie, standing 
 near her, drew close to Martha with the same impulse which 
 drew Cuthbert to Rose, and Lettie laid her head softly against 
 her elder sister's arm. It moved the silent mourner into sud- 
 den irrestrainable tears, and she put out the arm which long 
 exhaustion and straining had made almost rigid, and drew the 
 child into her heart, pressing her there with a convulsive 
 grasp. So were the sisters helped through this painful hour, 
 each as suited her best. 
 
 When they were again seated, Martha spoke : 
 
 " My sister is ill — Mrs. Allenders — she cannot receive 
 you,, gentlemen, nor thank you. I thank you in her stead. I 
 thank you for paying this respect — for doing all the honour 
 that can be done now — I thank you — I thank you. Have I 
 to do anything more 7 " 
 
 And Martha looked round for a moment vacantly ; she was 
 forgetting herself like one in a dream. 
 
 Then the lawyer rose and read the will. It bequeathed 
 all the lands — everything to which Harry died possessed — to 
 Martha Muir Allenders. There was nothing in it but the 
 barest words, which made it a lawful document, and Harry's 
 signature at the end. 
 
 A violent start came over Martha — a strange surprise upon 
 the strangers present. "Poor little Mrs. Allenders!" they 
 whispered to themselves, and wondered whether she would 
 contest this will or no, or if it was worth her while, as they 
 heard the land was greatly burdened. The only persons pre- 
 sent who evinced no wonder, were Rose and little Lettie, to 
 whom it seemed the most natural arrangement that Martha
 
 HARRY MUIR. 269 
 
 should be their family head ; but Sir John Dunlop rose coldly 
 to shake hands with Miss Allenders of Allenders. He had 
 no sympathy with her now. 
 
 " Stay," said Martha, " stay, I beg ; there is something 
 more to be said. Was he — he — able to execute this when he 
 did it. Was his mind clear ? Tell me — let me not say his 
 name more than I must." 
 
 " Of sound mind," said the writer gravely, " with perfect 
 knowledge of what he was doing — cooler than I am now ; he 
 said he had broken your heart and lost your hopes — that he 
 had nothing remaining but the land, and he would give it to 
 you, to make a better use of it than he had done." 
 
 " He had remaining that was dearer than the land, and he 
 bequeathed them to me," said Martha with difficulty. " If 
 this land is mine now, bear me witness that it is only for the 
 boy — only for little Harry, his heir, for Agnes and her other 
 child. I take the trust since he gave it — but nothing is mine 
 — I tell you nothing is mine. Mr. Charteris, I trust it to you, 
 to see a deed made equal to this will securing the land to his 
 lawful heir. Now, may we go away? I am faint and ex- 
 hausted — I cannot speak ; but thank you — thank you. Our 
 best thanks to you all — to all who have been here to-day — 
 for the respect — for the honour." 
 
 And, as they came in, the three sisters left the room. 
 
 But the lawyer shook his head when Guthbert asked him 
 what he knew of Harry's affairs. 
 
 " Heavy debts, heavy debts," said Mr. Robertson — " I 
 hear as much as five thousand pounds — and how can they ever 
 pay that, off four hundred and fifty pounds a-year, which is all 
 the estate yields. My opinion is, as a private friend, that they 
 should sell the land. I cannot tell just now how much, but 
 certainly it will require a heavy sum for a year or two to keep 
 up the cultivation the way it has been begun. No doubt it 
 will be very hard to give it up after such a capital is sunk in 
 these fields ; but then, unless they have good friends to back 
 them, how can they ever try to carry on with such a load 1 
 And I hear there's one thousand of the debt, at least, at ex- 
 travagant interest. My opinion is, they should sell the land." 
 
 " I don't think they will ever consent to that," said Cuth- 
 bcrt. 
 
 " It's easy to see," said the writer earnestly ; " deduct two 
 hundred and fifty for interest, it leaves them two hundred to 
 live on — plenty, I confess, for a family of women, especially
 
 270 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 when there is a person of resolution among them like Miss 
 Allenders ; but if she should live a hundred years, she'll never 
 be able pay a penny of the principal off that. You are a 
 friend, Mr. Charteris — I think you should advise Miss Allen- 
 ders to sell the land." 
 
 " She herself knows best. I will speak to her." said Cuth- 
 bert ; '' it depends entirely on what she means to do." 
 
 A week after, they were able to lift Agnes from her bed 
 to a fireside sofa. Her fever was gone ; but the sweet conva- 
 lescence of an invalid surrounded by loves and cares, was sad 
 and heavy to the young widow — for everything reminded her 
 of Harry. She listened unawares to passing sounds without, 
 and started and thought he was coming — fancied she heard 
 his step on the stair, and the little cheerful stir with which 
 he was wont to enter the outer room into which her own 
 opened ; and then she wept — poor youthful broken heart ! — 
 but there was relief in those floods of tears. 
 
 They were all sitting round her — Martha close by her on 
 the sofa, supporting and gently moving, when she wished it, 
 her delicate feeble frame. And Rose held the baby up to her, 
 while little Harry, wondering, and solemnly silent, stood by 
 her, with his arm resting on her knee. Uncle Sandy, much 
 shaken, and looking ten years older, stood behind at the win- 
 dow, trying, with much exertion, to compose himself, and speak 
 to Agnes of the duty and necessity of resignation : but the 
 good old man needed the exhortation as- much as she did. 
 Lettie, last of all, sat on a stool by the fire very silent, prac- 
 tising a stitch of " opening " which she had importuned Rose 
 to teach her ; and Katie Calder, behind Lettie, looked over 
 her shoulder, and learned the stitch too. 
 
 " What are we to do, Martha ? " said Agnes feebly. Tell 
 me, I will soon be well now — are we to go away? " 
 
 Martha laid her hand on little Harry's head, and drew him 
 into the midst. The child stood gravely silent, looking up 
 under her hand, with wondering eyes, and ruddy lips apart. 
 Poor little Harry had cried a great deal through these seven 
 days, for he could not understand why they led him after the 
 coffin, and made him stand beside the grave. He cried then 
 with dread and terror, but since then, many a time had Harry 
 asked Mysie what had become of papa. 
 
 " This bairn must have the land, free as when we came," 
 said Martha, calmly ; " and when the land is clear and re-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 2*71 
 
 deemed, Agues, he must have fair fame, aud family credit, and 
 good report, to add to his inheritance. I am left in trust to 
 clear the land for its heir: we must stay in AUenders." 
 
 Agnes did not speak for a moment. She glanced round 
 the room, first with a sick, despairing look, as if in fear of 
 all its associations, then with tears and melting tenderness. 
 The young mother put one feeble arm around her boy, and 
 leaned her head upon Martha's shoulder, " I am very glad," 
 she said, " very glad — we will have no other home." 
 
 This was all that was said to her in her weakness about the 
 will, which might have added a concealed pang to Agnes's 
 lawful grief — for now she too was jealous of Harry's love, and 
 could not bear to think that any one had shared it with her, in 
 anything near the same degree. Poor Harry ! it was true 
 that Martha and Uncle Sandy perceived the rash, unconsider- 
 ing generosity, which set natural justice aside, to make this 
 hasty will ; but they said this to no one, ngr to each other 
 even ; and in the hearts of all, Harry's sins were forgotten. 
 He was already a saint canonized by sorrow and love. 
 
 '• And Katie and me would like to do the opening," said 
 Lettie in a half- whisper ; " and Martha, Katie wants you to 
 tell her that, she's no to go back to Miss Jean." 
 
 " Oh, will you let me stay 1 " said little Katie, pathetically, 
 " I'll never be ony trouble, and I could do the opening fine." 
 
 '• The bairn's bread will never be missed," said Uncle 
 Sandy, leaning upon the back of the sofa where Martha sat. 
 " Ye must come with me, bairns, for a change, and stay a 
 while in Ayr to rest your minds, poor things ! — and Martha, 
 my woman, you have mony a hard thing to do — you'll have to 
 see Miss Jean." 
 
 " Ay, uncle," said Martha, '• and I hear there is somebody 
 in Edinburgh besides ; it's only about money, Agnes : nothing 
 to vex you, my poor bairn ; and you must trust me with all. 
 Will you go with my uncle, Agnes ? " 
 
 " If you will, Martha," said the poor little invalid, hplding 
 by her indulgent nurse. 
 
 " I will come for a day," said Martha ; " but now I must 
 learn about business," she added, with a faltering smile, " and 
 take order for many things. I cannot be long away from Al- 
 lenders. Rose will go with you and the bairns. You have 
 the bairns, Agnes, God be thanked ! to comfort you." 
 
 And Rose, who had not spoken, again held up the baby, 
 who stretched out his hand to pull his young mother's cap, and
 
 2*72 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 crowed and laughed in her face, struggling to reach her arms 
 with baby glee. 
 
 Poor little unconscious fatherless boy ! Very strange 
 looked this impulse of infant joy among all these sorrowful 
 faces ; and with a burst, which none could restrain, they all 
 bowed down their heads and wept. 
 
 All of them, from the old man sobbing aloud behind the 
 little couch, and Martha, no longer able to preserve her self- 
 control, to little Harry, struggling stoutly as he looks upon 
 them all, and breaking out in a loud shivering sob before the 
 tears come ; and it is some time before they can recover them- 
 selves — before the invalid is carried to her bed, and watched 
 till she falls asleep, and they all disperse to do what they can. 
 and conquer themselves. Martha and Uncle Sandy wait in 
 the library for Charteris, who is to return to-day, bringing 
 with him an account of poor Harry's debts — and their consul- 
 tations are very grave ; and you can fancy that on Martha's 
 brow, care takes the place of sorrow — for no one knows the 
 deep life grief, undisturbable and still, which lies at the bot- 
 tom of her heart. Martha treats Agnes as if she were the 
 principal sufferer ; comforts Rose ; soothes and consoles the 
 very children, but does not say what she feels — that to all of 
 them lie other interests, other hopes, and gladnesses within 
 the world which they still are only entering — whereas herself 
 sees nothing in the future but a monument of good fame, hon- 
 our, and charity to be raised over Harry's grave. This is the 
 end which, proud of him, and jealous for him still, she proposes 
 to herself, caring little what obstacles lie in the way ; and 
 Uncle Sandy understands the wish, but doubts in his heart, in 
 spite of all his faith in Martha, and cannot see how she is to 
 accomplish it. 
 
 Meanwhile Agnes sleeps — forgets her griefs, and strength- 
 ens the feeble health which has worn to so delicate a thread ; 
 and Rose, sitting beside her, overcome by much watching, 
 constant fatigue, and a sorrow no less present and engrossing 
 than the young widow's, falls into quiet slumber too, and has 
 a faint pensive smile under the tears, which still fall in her 
 dream ; and Violet and Katie sit on the carpet at the draw- 
 ing-room window, with their heads close together, learning 
 other stitches. Sometimes, indeed, Lettie pauses to cry bit- 
 terly, and Katie wipes eyes which stream in sympathy ; but 
 they are both much absorbed with this delicate craft, and are 
 calculating how many " holes " they could do in a day, and
 
 HARRY MUIR. 273 
 
 how they will be able to help Martha ; so the children are 
 comforted. 
 
 And deep exhaustion and quietness is upon Allenders. 
 Idly in the faint sunshine, Dragon sits on his stair-head, and 
 thinks with a faint wonder of his own recovery and Mr. Harry's 
 death, and cannot apprehend that it is true, but listens still 
 for his quick ringing footstep, and calls to John to inquire 
 why Harry's horse is left continually grazing in the meadow 
 park ; and John in the kitchen speculates in a subdued and 
 sober tone, upon the changes which may happen, and thinks 
 he will speak to the minister about a new place in case 
 of the worst. In Maidlin Cross there is much speculation 
 too, and they wonder if the family will stay at Allenders, and 
 whether they will sell the land : but nothing is known ; and 
 many an honest sigh for poor Allenders heaves from the 
 broad breasts of his labouring men, and many a cottage moth- 
 er lifts her apron mechanically to her eye, when she speaks of 
 the " weel- spoken," kindly dead. Poor Harry ! his whole 
 world, gently and tenderly, let the veil of death fall over his 
 evil deeds ; remember only what he did well ; and peace is 
 upon his grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 For mine inheritance I take this grave ; 
 
 Myself shall be its constant monument 
 
 I have spent all my tears. In otlier fashion 
 
 Than with faint weepings must my dead be mourned 
 
 For on this little sod I have beside 
 
 A battle-gi'ound. Think you the caitiff shame 
 
 Shall share this consecrated spot with me ? 
 
 Old Plat. 
 
 '' They must not bid me ; I cannot sell the land," said Martha, 
 firmly. 
 
 Young Mr. Dunlop, deputed by his father to offer any 
 " reasonable " assistance in arranging her affairs, or any quan- 
 tity of advice reasonable or otherwise, sat opposite her in the 
 library : Cuthbert Charteris waited rather impatiently. They 
 had been engaged in an important consultation when Mr. Dun- 
 lob entered, and Cuthbert was turning over some papers rest- 
 lessly, and looking round now and then, as if about to speak : 
 12*
 
 2*74 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 but young Mr. Dunlop still roused anything but peaceable 
 feelings in Cutlibert's mind, and he remained silent. 
 
 " Of course, Miss Allenders, my father would never dream 
 of forcing his advice upon you. All I have to say is, that in 
 case you are disposed to sell the land, as we heard you were, 
 Sir John would be glad to make you an oflFer for part of it — 
 that is all." 
 
 " I am much obliged to Sir John Dunlop," said Martha, 
 " but we have no intention — I cannot see we have any right — 
 to dispose of any part of Allenders. Thanks, many thanks ; 
 but we must try to increase, not to alienate." 
 
 After some time, Mr. Dunlop went away. He did not un- 
 derstand the quiet gravity with which he was received, and 
 carried home such an account of Martha's callousness, that 
 his sister laughed scornfully, and said Miss Allenders had 
 provided for herself, and would soon recover of her grief. 
 Good Lady Dunlop only shook her head, and secretly resolved 
 to call at Allenders, and see about this for herself; she could 
 not believe that Harry's trusted sister was callous to his loss, 
 when she herself, Lady Dunlop, who never had known death, 
 except twenty years ago, when she lost a very little lisping 
 child — a meeting with the adversary which she never could 
 forget — always lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, and gave 
 a sigh to poor Allenders when his name was mentioned. She 
 could not believe in Martha's hardness of heart. 
 
 " It must be attended with very considerable expense," 
 said Charteris. " You must either part with Allenders, or 
 double its value — there is no alternative. And I do not see 
 at present where this necessary seed of capital is to be procur- 
 ed. But we must try. You will come to Edinburgh then, on 
 Monday, and see the creditor ? " 
 
 " That is four thousand pounds, and Miss Jean one, and 
 I have heard there were other bills," said Martha. " Yes, I 
 will go on Monday. Can we pay all this, do you think, in one 
 lifetime ? And then there is the present money to be thought 
 of ; another thousand they say would do. We could manage 
 to pay the interest of all that." 
 
 " But not to live besides," said Cuthbert, hastily. 
 
 Martha's head rose with a slight proud motion. " I have 
 provided for that," she said, with haughtiness ; but immediate- 
 ly softening, added so frankly that Cuthbert was touched al- 
 most to tears : '• I mean we are all ready to work, and very 
 willing. We are now as we were before we came to Allenders ;
 
 HARRY MUIR. 2*75 
 
 one is not — but what remains to do is for him ; and we, all of 
 us, sisters, and dearest to each other, are as we were." 
 
 As she concluded, her tears fell silently upon the desk be- 
 fore her. '• God is visiting my heart with the dews of youth," 
 said Martha, looking up with a sad smile of surprise. " I can 
 cry now, whenever I would, like a bairn." 
 
 And Cuthbert, who was a man, and a strong one, felt his 
 heart swell ; and with a strong impulse of help, bethought him- 
 self what he could do for those sisters, to aid them in their work. 
 
 " The houses at Maidlin must stand for a time," said Mar- 
 tha. " You will think me weak, Mr. Charteris, but I cannot 
 abandon even them ; and we must try to find a place for John, 
 and to sell the carriage and the horses. We will keep the gig 
 which the old Laird of Allenders left, and Mysie — " 
 
 Martha stopped, with white lips and a strong shiver. She 
 was about to say, that Mysie, like many other country girls, 
 could drive ; but just then there occurred to her the time when 
 Mysie made trial of her skill, through the darkness of that 
 Hallowe'en night, and for a moment she was silent. 
 
 •' It will do for Agnes ; all the rest of us are strong," re- 
 sumed Martha, with a voice that sounded harshly. " I think I 
 can undertake that the house itself will cost the land nothing; 
 and Armstrong is good and honest, and only wants some one 
 to bid him do what he knows is necessary to be done ; I can 
 undertake that, too, I think. He was here yesterday. See 
 what our calculations were, Mr. Charteris." 
 
 Charteris took the paper and read. Though not in the 
 ordinary business form, it was a statement of expenses for a 
 year, including the interest to Miss Jean, and Harry's other 
 creditor. He asked to keep it, and she permitted him. Cuth- 
 bert began to be very sanguine ; he thought he saw now 
 where to find the money to complete poor Harry's experiment 
 with the land. 
 
 Then he rose to take his leave. 
 
 '• Can you not stay to-night? They will be disappointed," 
 said Martha. " We have seen very little of you, Mr. Char- 
 teris, since — since we came here ; but pray stay to-night, and 
 cheer these poor girls. I am perhaps too much occupied for 
 them, poor things ! and they are going with my uncle to Ayr. 
 Stay and see them to-night, or you will disappoint them." 
 
 '• Disappoint them ? should I ? " said Cuthbert, smiling 
 faintly. " I stayed away because I thought myself very mag- 
 nanimous and self-denying — perhaps it was only because my
 
 276 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 pride was wounded ; but to disappoint them, or think I did, 
 would be too great a pleasure — I must see them, to convince 
 myself that I have not so much cause for pride." 
 
 And Cuthbert, in a little flush of growing hope and glad- 
 ness, looked up into Martha's face — Martha's face, calm and 
 unchangeable, full of the great still sorrow, for which half an 
 hour ago he had himself wept, struck him like an accusation. 
 He cast down his eyes in silence, and stood before her almost 
 like a culprit ; for the warm hopes and joys of the future 
 looked selfish and small in the presence of this absorbed and 
 quiet grief. 
 
 Just then Mysie entered, and gave Martha a letter. As 
 she opened it, a piece of paper fell to the ground. Cuthbert 
 lifted it up ; it was a note for fifty pounds. 
 
 Martha ran over the note quickly, yet with perfectly col- 
 lected attention ; then, after a moment's hesitation, she handed 
 it to Cuthbert, and sat down at her desk to write. The letter 
 was from Gilbert Allenders. 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " I borrowed at various times, little sums from your bro- 
 ther, the late Allenders — I cannot undertake to say what they 
 came to exactly, but not above this I enclose. I am leaving Al- 
 lender Mains next week, and would be glad to call, if there is 
 no objection ; and would be glad to know whether I have your 
 permission, as I believe I had the permission of your brother, 
 to pay my addresses to your sister. Miss Rose. This is not a 
 suitable time to ask, but I am anxious to know, and intenjj to 
 settle down in Stirling ; and will be profited, I trust, by the 
 late solemn warning, which, I assure you, has caused me the 
 deepest regret. 
 
 " With much sympathy, and compliments to all the family, 
 " I remain, dear Madam, yours faithfully, 
 
 " Gilbert Allenders." 
 
 Cuthbert unconsciously crushed the letter in his hand. 
 Inconsiderable as his rival was, he was a rival still. 
 Martha's answer was very brief. 
 
 " I return you, with thanks, the money you have sent me. 
 We who remain have nothing to do with what passed between 
 the dead and you. Let this be past, like everything else 
 which put your names together. We are little disposed to
 
 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 211 
 
 receive callers. Without any discourtesy, I think it is better 
 that you should not come. 
 
 " Martha Muir Allenders." 
 
 It was the first time she had signed her name so ; and 
 Martha placed the fifty-pound note within her letter, when she 
 had shown it to Cuthbert, who looked on with some astonish- 
 ment. Collected and self-possessed as she was, Martha could 
 not, without strong emotion, either write or speak poor Harry's 
 name, and her whole frame quivered with nervous excitement 
 as she closed her letter. Cuthbert was much surprised ; he 
 thought this a piece of quite unnecessary generosity. 
 
 " Is it foolish? " said Martha, answering his look. " Well, 
 be it so ; but no one shall say that he gave this to a careless 
 companion, and that it was exacted back again. I tell you, 
 the meanest gift he ever gave, were it for his own destruction, 
 is sacred to me — never to be reclaimed. It was his own. I 
 will not hear a word of blame." 
 
 And this irritation and defiance was the weakness of Mar- 
 tha's grief. 
 
 To subdue it, she rose abruptly, and went up-stairs to the 
 drawing-room, where Agnes now sat by the fire, watching the 
 wintry sunshine steal in at the window. Over the bright hair, 
 which never before had been covered with a matron's hood, 
 Agnes wore the close, sombre cap of a widow. They had 
 tried to persuade her that this was unnecessary ; but poor lit- 
 tle invalid, heart-broken Agnes had a little petulance too, and 
 insisted. Wrapped in a heavy black shawl, and with every- 
 thing about her of the deepest mourning, her face, closely sur- 
 rounded by those folds of muslin, looked very thin and pale ; 
 but the faint colour of reviving health began to rise in her 
 cheek, and Agnes sometimes, in the impatience of early sor- 
 row, wept that she could not die. 
 
 Uncle Sandy sat beside her, and a faint attempt at conver- 
 sation had been going on ; but it failed often, and had long 
 breaks of listless silence; and Cuthbert fancied the patient, 
 uncomplaining sorrow of the old man — the weakness which 
 seemed to have fallen over him, the trembling hand, and 
 husky voice, were almost the most moving of all. 
 
 Rose sat by the table, working ; Lettie and Katie Calder 
 were at the window ; but you scarcely needed to look at their 
 black dresses, to know that those strange words, " It is all 
 over," with their solemn mystery of significance, had been
 
 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 lately spoken here. All was over — everything — life, death, 
 anxiety, excitement. Their heads were dizzy, and their minds 
 reeled under the recent blow ; yet nothing was visible but 
 languor, and a dim, exhausted calm. 
 
 And this evening passed, as every other evening seemed to 
 pass, like some strange, vacant space, blank and still ; yet 
 Rose, when Cuthbert sat beside her, felt a grateful ease at her 
 heart. It seemed as if some one had lifted from her, for a 
 moment, her individual burden ; and sad though the family 
 was, and languid and melancholy the afflicted house, Ciithbert 
 remembered this evening with a thrill of subdued and half- 
 guilty delight, and again his heart longed, and his arms 
 expanded, to carry away into the sunshine his drooping 
 Rose. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIIL 
 
 Albeit I neither lend nor borrow ; 
 Yet, to supply the ripe wants of a friend, 
 I'll break a custom. 
 « Merchant of Venice. 
 
 " Another day — I must give another day," said Cuthbert, as 
 he hesitated between the Edinburgh and the Glasgow coach. 
 '' Nobody but I can do this business, and the business must 
 be done, let my own do what it will — so now for Grlasgow and 
 my uncle." 
 
 And Cuthbert climbed to the top of the coach, and dis- 
 covered that the winds between Stirling and Glasgow are very 
 keen in November. He buttoned his coat tightly, and drew 
 his plaid around him, with care and repeated exertions ; but 
 neither coat nor plaid, nor both together, made such an excel- 
 lent defence against cold, as the glow at his heart. 
 
 The office of the Messrs. Buchanan is unchanged. It is 
 true, one clerk has gone to Australia, and another to the 
 West Indies — that one is in business for himself, and two are 
 dead ; but still Mr. Gilchrist's massive silver snuff-box glit- 
 ters upon his desk, and still he contemplates its long inscrip- 
 tion, and taps it lovingly, as he takes another pinch. Again, 
 there is one clerk in the office who is a wit, and sings a good
 
 HARRY MUIK. 279 
 
 song, and is "led away," and still Dick and Alick, and John 
 Buchanan, are cool and business-like in the counting-house, 
 and enjoy themselves boisterously out of it ; though there 
 are rumours that Dick is to be married, and " settle down." 
 
 The young Buchanans stare at Cuthbert's mourning — the 
 crape on his hat, and his grave face — and wonder what far- 
 away cousin must be dead, whom they have never heard of, 
 and feel an involuntary guiltiness when they look upon their 
 own~ coloured dress. Very far off and very poor must this 
 cousin have been ; they are all immediately prepared to de- 
 fend themselves, and to exclaim that they got no inti- 
 mation. 
 
 " What is this for, Cuthbert ? " said Mr. Buchanan 
 hastily, pointing to the hat in Cuthbert's hand. 
 
 " Do you remember Harry Muir, uncle 1 " said Cuthbert. 
 " Poor Harry ! those bits of crape are all that remain to him, 
 of this world's friendship and honour." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan started, and was greatly shocked. " Poor 
 fellow ! I thought he was prospering now, and doing well — 
 poor fellow ! poor fellow ! When did it happen. Cuth- 
 bert ? " 
 
 " I heard the other day he had turned out very wild," 
 said Alick Buchanan. 
 
 " He always was ; there was no making anything of him 
 in the office," added Dick, hastily. 
 
 Poor Harry ! his old tempter and opponent felt a little 
 twinge when he saw Cuthbert's mourning, and remembered 
 him, without any particular satisfaction, of his own "joke," as 
 he called it, about his cousin and his sister Clemie. 
 
 '• Poor Harry ! some of the best men in the county fol- 
 lowed him to the grave," said Cuthbert, who understood 
 very well the material he had to work upon, " and a universal 
 regret went with him. Uncle, I have a little business to talk 
 over with you, if you will permit me. Are you at leisure 
 now?" 
 
 " What's going to happen, Cuthbert? " said Mr. Buchanan, 
 smiling : " a bride coming home, eh ? and what will your 
 mother say to that? But come along, PU go down with you 
 — you shall have the benefit of my experience." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan's plain, unpretending, one-horse carriage 
 waited for him in the street below. The young men, very 
 independent and uncontrolled, came home in such manner as 
 pleased them ; but Cuthbert had to wait till the streets,
 
 280 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 shining with lights, and loud with many voices, had faded into 
 darkness behind them, and they were steadily proceeding over 
 a quiet country road, before he could bring his business before 
 his attentive uncle. 
 
 " I have very lately returned from the funeral of Harry 
 Muir," said Guthbert, whose face had been gradually becoming 
 grave, and who had begun to grow anxiously impatient of their 
 lighter conversation ; " and just now, uncle, I come direct 
 from his house, where his sister has been consulting me about 
 her future arrangements. One cannot but be interested in 
 this family — they clung to him with such devotion ; and all 
 they care for now, seems to be to maintain his good name, 
 and clear his son's inheritance. Poor Harry ! few men are 
 loved so, uncle." 
 
 " He was a very unsteady lad, Guthbert," said the mer- 
 chant, shaking his head. 
 
 " It might be so," said Guthbert. " I do not dispute that ; 
 but now he is dead ; and I have set my heart on having help 
 to Martha — I mean to his elder sister, who has charge of every- 
 thing. She needs immediate assistance, uncle. I state my 
 business, you see, very briefly ; and now refuse if you will. I 
 am not to be discouraged by any number of Nays." 
 
 " Assistance ! " exclaimed Mr. Buchanan, hastily, fumbling 
 in his breast-pocket for his purse, " do you mean to say 
 they're so far reduced as that? No, no — no refusal, Guth- 
 bert ; I don't often shut my heart when there is real charity 
 in the case." 
 
 " I know you don't, uncle, and this would be a great 
 charity," said Guthbert quick, feeling his face flush in the 
 darkness ; " but no alms — no alms. I will tell you the true 
 state of the case now. The estate has had very little cultiva- 
 tion, and produces very indifi'erent crops. Poor Harry during 
 the last year had begun to improve it, and expended a great 
 deal of money on the land ; but now he is dead, and the money 
 spent, and a heavy debt upon the estate. They could pay the 
 interest off" their income, but could not touch the principal. 
 Now, what are they to do, uncle ? " 
 
 " Why, Guthbert, a man of your sense ! only one thing is 
 possible — of course, sell the land." 
 
 " But Martha will never sell the land. Martha will labour 
 at it with her own hands before she alienates the child's in- 
 heritance," said Guthbert, getting excited. " I want money 
 for her to carry on the works with ; and this money she will
 
 HARRY MUIR. 281 
 
 have, one way or the other, I know. My own scheme, uncle," 
 added Cuthbert, with a short laugh, under which a great deal 
 of anxiety was hidden, '• is that you should give her a thou- 
 sand pounds, and charge no interest for a year or two, till she 
 gets everything in progress. I think this is the best possible 
 solution of the problem, kindly and Christian-like — " 
 
 While Cuthbert spoke, Mr. Buchanan employed himself 
 loliberately in buttoning his coat over the comfortable breast 
 pocket, where his purse trembled with a presentiment. 
 
 " Thank you, Cuthbert," said the merchant drily, " I have 
 no thousand pounds to throw away." 
 
 There was a pause ; for Cuthbert, though not at all dis- 
 couraged, needed to recover himself a little before he resumed 
 the attack. 
 
 " The land could be sold to-morrow for ten thousand 
 pounds, or more than that — I speak hastily," said Cuthbert. 
 " It is Wrdened to the amount of five thousand, but after pay- 
 ing that, there remains abundance to satisfy your claim, and 
 I can answer for the strictest honour in your debtor's dealing. 
 Poor Harry ! This Martha — this sister of his — clings to his 
 every project. You could not see it without being deeply 
 moved, uncle. She has a strong, ambitious, passionate mind, 
 and his was a weak and yielding one ; yet she clutches at 
 every one of the rapidly-changing projects which he took up 
 and threw down as toys of a day, and confers upon them a 
 sort of everlastingness through the might of will and resolution 
 with which she adopts them. Uncle, you must help Martha." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan sat by him in silence, and listened, hastily 
 fastening and unfastening the one particular button which ad- 
 mitted his hand to his warm breast-pocket, competent and com- 
 fortable. The good man was naturally benevolent to a high 
 degree — a propensity which Cuthbert, who was his uncle's 
 favourite and chosen counsellor, encouraged by all means in his 
 power ; but the rules of business were at Mr. Buchanan's fin- 
 ger ends, and their restraint came upon him like a natural 
 impulse, so that he actually did not know, good simple man, 
 that his natural will was always towards the charity, and that 
 this restraint was something artificial which interposed between 
 him and his natural will. 
 
 '' Perfectly unbusiness-like, Cuthbert," said the merchant. 
 " I wonder greatly why you should speak of such a thing to 
 me. A man accustomed to regular business transactions has 
 no tolerance for such affairs as this — they are out of his way.
 
 282 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Your landed gentry or rich people, who don't know anything 
 about where their money comes from, or how it is made — 
 they are the people to carry such a story to." 
 
 Very true in the abstract, good Mr. Buchanan — neverthe- 
 less, your nephew Cuthbert knows, as well as if you had told 
 him, that your purse begins to burn your breast-pocket, and 
 leaps and struggles there, desiring to get the worst over, and 
 be peacefully at rest again. Cuthbert knows it ; and Cuth- 
 bert takes advantage of his knowledge. 
 
 '• Martha is trustee, and has charge of all," said Cuthbert ; 
 " and there is little Mrs. AUenders herself, and her two babies. 
 Little Harry, the heir, is a fine, bold, intelligent boy, young as 
 he is, and will want no care they can give him — that is very sure. 
 Then there are two other children quite dependent on Martha 
 — her own little sister, and another, a distant relation, poor 
 and fatherless, whom they have kept with them ever since they 
 went to AUenders. Now there can be no doubt it would be 
 easier for them to go away to some little, quiet, country house, 
 and live on what they can earn themselves, and on the residue 
 of what the land will bring ; but Martha would break her 
 heart. It is a generous devotion, uncle. She proposes to 
 take the management of the farm herself, and has actually 
 begun to make herself mistress of this knowledge, so strange 
 for a woman ; while the exertions of the others, and of her 
 own spare hours, are to provide the household expenses, she 
 calculates. All this is for Harry, and Harry's heir ; and it is 
 no burst of enthusiasm, but a steady, quiet, undemonstrative 
 determination. Come, uncle, you will help Martha ? " 
 
 " Is that the old sister — the passionate one 1 " asked Mr. 
 Buchanan. 
 
 " The passionate one — yes." 
 
 " And there was surely one more that you have not men- 
 tioned ; by the bye, Cuthbert," said Mr. Buchanan, hastily, 
 " the boys used to say you went there often. There's nothing 
 between you and any of them, I hope ? " 
 
 " No, uncle ! " — the humility of the answer struck Mr. 
 Buchanan strangely. He almost thought for a moment that 
 he had the little boy beside him, who used to spend holiday 
 weeks in Glasgow, when Dick was a baby with streaming 
 skirts, and '• there was no word'' of any of the others. It 
 made the merchant's heart tender, even when he turned to 
 look upon the strong man by his side. 
 
 But Cuthbert, for his part, thought himself guilty of dis-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 283 
 
 ingenuousness, and by and bye, he added, " Don't let me de- 
 ceive you, uncle. When I say no, I don't mean to imply that 
 there will never be, nor that even if there never is anything 
 between us, it will be any fault of mine." 
 
 But Mr. Buchanan only shook his head — how it came 
 about, he could not tell, but the good man's eyelids were 
 moistened, and there came back to him momentary glimpses 
 of many an early scene; he was pleased, too, however impru- 
 dent Cuthbert's intentions might be, with the confidence he 
 gave him — for that his nephew was more than his equal, the 
 good merchant very well knew. 
 
 So Mr. Buchanan shook his head, and satisfied his con- 
 science with the mute protest ; " he could not find it in his 
 heart," as he said to himself afterwards in self-justification, to 
 condemn his nephew's true love. 
 
 " But this is not to the purpose," continued Cuthbert. 
 '' A thousand pounds, uncle, with the estate of Allenders, and 
 myself for your securities. I am getting on myself — I shall 
 soon have a tolerable business, I assure you, though this ab- 
 sence may put some of it in jeopardy. Grive me my boon now, 
 and let me hurry back to my office — a thousand pounds — and 
 of course you will not accept any interest for a few years." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan sighed. " It is a very unbusiness-like trans- 
 action, Cuthbert," said the merchant. 
 
 " But not the first unbusiness-like transaction you have 
 carried to a good end," said Cuthbert, warmly. " Take com- 
 fort, uncle ; the Christian charity and the natural love, will 
 hold out longer than business. And now you have given me 
 your promise, I must say three words to my aunt and Clemie, 
 and ask you to let Robert drive me back again. I must be 
 home to-morrow morning at my work." 
 
 And travelling by night, in the disconsolate stage-coach 
 was nothing like so satisfactory as an express-train — yet Cuth- 
 bert went home, very comfortably ; and very comfortably did 
 the slumber of an unencumbered mind, and a charitable heart, 
 fall over Mr. Buchanan, though still he shook his head at his 
 own weakness, and was slightly ashamed to make a memoran- 
 dum of so unbusiness-like a concern.
 
 284 HARRY MUIR 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 " A banki-upt, a prodigal who dare scarce show his head on the Eialto ; a beggar, that 
 was used to come so smug on the mart. Let him look to his bond. He was wont to 
 call me usurer : let him look to his bond. He was wont to lend money for a Christian 
 charity ; let him look to his bond." Merchant of Venice. 
 
 A FEW days after this, Martha came to Edinburgh according 
 to her appointment, to meet Harry's principal creditor, accom- 
 panied by Uncle Sandy, who, " with all the bairns," as he said, 
 was to return home to Ayr whenever he was freed from his at- 
 tendance on Martha. 
 
 The meeting was arranged to take place in Lindsay's office, 
 and Martha carried with her the half-year's interest payable 
 to this creditor. It was the last of his own four thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 The man was a retired shop-keeper, eloquent on " the value 
 of money," and thinking the five or six thousands which were 
 the much-boasted result of his life, a great fortune, justly en- 
 titling its possessor to " a proper pride." Like most people, 
 whose increase has been an accumulation of morsels, Mr. Ma- 
 calister was terribly afraid of risk, and shrank from specula- 
 tion with the most orthodox horror. Persuaded at first to in- 
 vest his money in Harry's mortgage, because land was the most 
 secure of banks, his ears had been keenly alive, ever since, to 
 every morsel of news he could glean about Harry ; and when 
 Mr. Macalister heard he was luilcl^ he trembled for his four 
 thousand pounds. Then came Harry's death, and hearing 
 that the property was left only in the hands of women, Mr. 
 Macalister had a vague notion that he had power to sell the 
 lands of AUenders, and pay himself, very probably making a 
 profit of the transaction ; or that he might, if he would, take 
 .possession, and become Laird of AUenders in his own person ; 
 but he had never mentioned this grand imagination to any one, 
 though it invested him with a visionary importance, which sur- 
 prised his very wife. Yet Macalister was by no means a 
 dishonest man, nor one who would deliberately set about 
 benefiting himself by cheating his neighbours — by no means ; 
 but his exaggerated idea of the money which he had labori- 
 ously earned, made him believe that all this was in his power.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 285 
 
 So he came to Lindsay's office very spruce and shining, 
 with an elaborate shirt-frill, and a new cane, determined to de- 
 mand instant re-payment of the money, or failing that, to in- 
 timate his intention of entering upon possession of AUenders. 
 
 Lindsay, somewhat puzzled, was endeavouring to under- 
 stand the solemn hints, and important allusions of Macalister, 
 when Martha and her uncle entered his office. The creditor 
 was somewhat taken by surprise ; and when he saw the defer- 
 ence with which the lawyer received this grave-looking woman 
 in her deep mourning, Macalister faltered ; for he had never 
 thought of " the other party " — never, except as natural oppo- 
 nents and adversaries of whom he, in this connexion of debtor 
 and creditor, had greatly the advantage. 
 
 " I have been thinking — I'll likely want my money. Miss Al- 
 lenders," said Macalister after a few general words had passed, 
 followed by an embarrassed silence. 
 
 " Mr. Lindsay will pay you the interest which is due," said 
 Martha ; " and it would be a convenience to us if you did not 
 — at least, immediately — claim your money. The works for 
 which it was borrowed have not had time yet to be profitable ; 
 but a few years more, I trust — " 
 
 '• Ay, Miss AUenders ; but it's not so easy for me to wait 
 a few years more," said Macalister, briskly, restored to his 
 natural self-importance by Martha's request ; " for ye see, I 
 can show you plainly — " 
 
 But what Mr. Macalister could have shown plainly, re- 
 mained for ever unknown to Martha ; for at that moment a 
 great commotion arose in the outer office, and the door of this 
 room thrown violently open, disclosed the ghost-like face in- 
 flamed with fury, of Miss Jean Calder, who, holding Lindsay's 
 clerk at arm's length, with her long fingers clutched upon his 
 shoulder, had thrown the door open with her disengaged hand, 
 and was about to enter the room. 
 
 Involuntarily, Alexander Muir drew back his chair, and 
 Martha started. Like a visitant from the dead, the old 
 woman, with a great stride, entered among them. Her tall, 
 angular frame tottered, and her head shook, half with rage 
 and excitement, half with the natural palsied motion of her ex- 
 treme age. She was dressed in a large woollen shawl, once 
 bright tartan, now as dim in its complexion as it was thin in 
 its texture, and a large bonnet, standing out stiffly like a fan 
 round her ghost face, which was encircled under it by a stiff 
 ruff of yellow lace. Miss Jean made one great step forward,
 
 286 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 and seizing upon Alexander Muir, shook him till herself was 
 so thoroughly shaken that she scarcely could stand. 
 
 " Did I no tell ye — did I no warn ye. Sandy Muir, that I 
 would pit my fit yet on his turf, that thought I was auld, and 
 wished me dead, and had his covetous e'e on my siller? I'm 
 saying did I no tell ye? And I'll tell ye what, strange 
 folk," said Miss Jean, turning round with a glittering smile 
 of malice, " I'm glad the reprobate's dead — that am I ! — for 
 now he'll keep nae honest body out of their ain." 
 
 Martha started from her seat with a violent passion — 
 mingled of burning grief and fury — in her face. Her hand 
 clenched, her form dilated — you would have thought her about 
 to strike down at her feet the incarnate demon, whose laugh 
 of shrill malicious triumph rang over Harry's grave ; and, for 
 an instant, a perfect tempest — an overwhelming storm, to 
 whose rage everything would have been possible — possessed 
 Martha, like another kindred demon. Then she suddenly sat 
 down, and clasping her hands together, leaned them on her 
 knee, drawing up her person, and stretching out her arms to 
 their full length as if the pain were some relief to her ; for 
 years of endurance had not quenched the passionate, fiery na- 
 ture out of Martha's soul. 
 
 " He's in the hands of God — he's entered the life where 
 no man makes shipwreck ! " said Uncle Sandy, rising up. 
 " Bairns, have pity upon this miserable woman, who kens not 
 the day that her soul may be required of her. Curse her not, 
 Martha; curse her not. And woman, I say, blessed are the 
 dead — blessed are the young graves — blessed is the very pes- 
 tilence and sword, that preserves innocent bairns from living 
 to be evened with the like of you !" 
 
 And, with a visible tremble of indignation shaking his 
 whole frame, the old man sat down, unwitting that the curse 
 he had forbidden Martha to speak, was implied in his own 
 denunciation. 
 
 " Let them laugh that win," said Miss Jean ; and the play's 
 no played out yet, Sandy Muir. Where's my guid siller ? — 
 and where's a' the books and papers I furnished to yon lawyer 
 chield, to make out your prodigal's claim ? Weel, he's dead — 
 he has nae claim noo — and I crave to ken wha's the heir? " 
 
 " His son," said Martha, distinctly. 
 
 '■ His son ! — wha's his son ? He was naething but a bit 
 callant himself. Ay, Sandy, my man, ye thought little of my 
 skill in folk's lives ; ye thoct Jean Calder would have thrissels
 
 HARRY MUIR. 287 
 
 growing ower her ain head, or ever there came a grey hair in 
 Harry Muir's ! What are ye saying till't noo, Sandy *? No 
 uncle to a laird noo — uncle to naething, but six feet of grass 
 and a headstane ! I saw him ance wi' his hair fleeing in 
 the wind, and his laugh that ye could have heard it half a mile 
 off, and me hirpling on my staff, wi' never ane looking over 
 their shouther at me. I kent then in my heart, that auld as 
 I was I would see him dead ! — and it's true this day. Lad, 
 may I sit down ? I've come for my siller." 
 
 Lindsay put a chair towards her silently, and she half fell 
 into it, half voluntarily seated herself. Poor respectable 
 Macalister stood aghast, afraid of her wrinkled face, and the 
 wild gleam in her frosty eyes. Martha, pressing her foot upon 
 the ground, as if she crushed something under it, and clench- 
 ing her hands together, till the pain of them mingled with the 
 burning in her heart, bent down her head and kept silence ; 
 while Uncle Sandy, elevating himself with a simple indignant 
 dignity, seemed about to speak several times, but for a sob 
 which choked him, and which he would not have Miss Jean hear. 
 
 '• I've come for my siller ! " repeated Miss Jean, stamping 
 her foot on the ground, to give her words emphasis. " What 
 do ye ca' this woman ? It's Martha, is't 1 Weel, there's little 
 about her for onybody to envie, if it binna her bombazine. 
 Ye would gie a hantle for the yard o' that now 1 I wonder ye 
 had the heart — a' off the prodigal callant's estate, and cheating 
 folk that he's awn lawful siller to. And it's no as if ye 
 were a young lassie either, or ane to be set off wi' the like o' 
 thae vanities. I wonder a woman come to your years doesna 
 think shame 1 " 
 
 '• Listen, Auntie Jean," said Martha, suddenly raising her- 
 self and speaking quick, as if to keep the resolution she had 
 brought to this pitch : " There is nothing to be envied in me. 
 I have neither youth, nor good looks, nor happiness — and 
 never had ! You may deal with me on equal terms : I am 
 able to give you as much as you have hitherto got for this 
 money of yours. I want it, and you want the income from it 
 — give it to me if you choose : if you do not choose, withdraw 
 it at once without another word. This is all I have to say to 
 you. I will be glad if you take it away, and make me free of 
 the connexion of your name ; but I will change no arrange- 
 ment willingly. Now, take your choice ; and you, Sir, do the 
 same. This is all I have to say." 
 
 And Martha turning her eyes from them, looked to Uncle
 
 288 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Sandy, who kept his fixed upon Miss Jean, and was still 
 painfull^i composing himself to answer her. 
 
 " No." said the old woman with a malignant, feeble laugh, 
 " there's naething to envie in you. I was a different looking 
 woman to you in my young days, Martha Muir ; but there was 
 never a well-far'd bit about you a' your life, and a temper like 
 the auld enemy. I wish you nae ill. I wadna gang out of 
 my gate to do either gude or ill to the like of you. for I dinnu 
 think ye're worth my pains ; but mony's the bonnie lad, and 
 mony's the bonnie lass I've seen hame to the mools, that took 
 their divert off me — and mony a ane I'll see yet, for a' that 
 sneck-drawing hypocrite says." 
 
 " Ay," said Martha, " the comely, and the blythe, and the 
 hopeful die away. The like of us that it would be a charity 
 to take out of this world, live all our days, and come to grey 
 hairs. Ay, auntie, the bairns are dying night and morning — 
 the like of us lives on ! " 
 
 " But bless the bairns, Martha — bless them whom the 
 Master was at pains to bless," cried Uncle Sandy, his eyes 
 shining through tears. " I am old, too, and have seen sorrow ; 
 but Grod preserve and bless the gladness of the bairns ! " 
 
 " Ye're but a bairn yourself, Sandy Muir," said Miss Jean, 
 casting upon him a half-angry, half-imbecile glance out of her 
 wandering eyes ; " and I've gien Mr. Macer a missive about 
 your twa hunder pounds. What does the like o' you want wi' 
 siller? and your grand house and garden, my bonnie man, and 
 a' the young, light headed gilpies ye train up to vanity? We'll 
 just see how muckle the wives and weans will mind about you 
 in Ayr, when ye're gaun frae door to door wi' a mealpock and 
 a staff; but ye need never seek frae me." 
 
 The old man rose with some dignity : '•' Martha, my woman, 
 this does not become you and me," said Uncle Sandy, " we 
 that have grief and the hand of Grod upon us, are no more to 
 suffer railing than to return it. These folk have heard what 
 ye had to say, and you're no a person of two minds, or many 
 words. Let us go back to our sorrowful house, and our be- 
 reaved bairns, with neither malice nor curse in our hearts, 
 leaving the ill-will with them that it comes from. Ye can 
 hear their answer, Martha, from the gentleman. Ye have 
 said what ye had to say." 
 
 Almost mechanically Martha rose to obey him, and took 
 the old man's arm. But after she had left her seat and taken 
 a few steps towards the door, whither Uncle Sandy hastened
 
 HARRY MU.1K. 289 
 
 her with tremulous speed, she turned round — perhaps only to 
 speak to Lindsay who followed them, perhaps to look again at 
 the miserable old woman, who still was of her own blood, and 
 had scarcely a nearer relative than herself in the whole world. 
 
 " I've come from Ayr on the tap o' the coach, my lane," 
 said Miss Jean, suddenly relapsing, as she did sometimes, into 
 the natural passive state of age, which forgot in an instant 
 the emotions which had animated the poor exhausted skeleton 
 frame. " If it hadua been a decent lad that paid the odds of 
 the charge, and put me in the inside atween this and Falkirk, 
 I'm sure I wad have been perished wi' the cauld, and never ane 
 of you offering a puir auld woman a morsel to keep her heart. 
 I heard from Mr. Macer, in Stirling, there was to be a meet- 
 ing here the day, and I thought my canniest plan was to take 
 my fit in hand, and trust nane of thae sliddry writers. But, 
 man, micht ye no be mending the fire the time ye're glowering 
 at me ? the tane's as easy as the thither, and there's as mony 
 coals yonder standing in the scoop as would fill my bunker, 
 and baud me gaun half the year. Coals maun be cheap here 
 away, and I wadua scruple to make a bleeze, if you're sure the 
 lum's clean ; but I aye keep a frugal fire at hame : I'm a very 
 careful woman. Sandy, do ye ken ony place hereawa where an 
 auld body could get a sma' cheap meal ? I'm very moderate 
 in my eating mysel, but travel appetizes even a frail person 
 like me ; and what was yon ye was saying about the siller ? " 
 
 Lindsay repeated what Martha had said in a few words. 
 Mr. Lindsay did not by any means admire this occupation of 
 his office. But Miss Jean's eyes wandered to Martha, who 
 still stood silently looking on, and holding her uncle's arm. 
 
 '■ She's no muckle to look at," said the old woman, bend- 
 ing her shrivelled face forward, " but Iv'e heard the voice she 
 speaks wi' afore, and it's no like a fremd voice. Canna ye 
 tell me what ye said about the siller yoursel, instead of stand- 
 ing there like a stane figure ? and sit down and be quiet, hon- 
 est man, now ye have gotten on the coals." 
 
 This was addressed to Macalister, who very humbly, and 
 with a look of fright at Lindsay, had replenished the fire at 
 Miss Jean's command. He now obeyed her again, with in- 
 stant submission, feeling himself a very small person, and al- 
 together forgetful of his imaginary grandeur. 
 
 Martha repeated her former words, where she stood, hold- 
 ing the arm of Uncle Sandy — and Uncle Sandy, still percep- 
 tibly trembling, averted his head with a simple pride and dig- 
 13
 
 290 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 nity, and held Martha's arm closely in his own, as if with an 
 impulse of protection. 
 
 " As lang as ye gie me fifty pounds by the year, ye can 
 keep the siller till I hear of mair for it," said Miss Jean, at 
 last ; " but where ane favours ye, and does ye charity, ye 
 might show a decent respect. Woman, there's the like o' you 
 that never was weel-favoured nor yet young, nor had as guid 
 a wit in your haill bulk as I hae in my little finger ; but ane 
 bows to ye, and anither gies ye a baud o' their arm, and a' 
 body civil, as if ye were something — when ye're naething but 
 a single woman, without a penny in your purse, and needing 
 to work for your bread day by day. But never ane, if it 
 binna whiles a stranger, like him that put me in the inside of 
 the coach, says a guid-e'en or a guid-day to me ; and when 
 I'm useless wi' my journey, it's no apples and flagons to keep 
 my hea,rt, but fechting and contentions that I never could 
 bide — for a' body turns on me." 
 
 And the poor old woman mumbled and sobbed, and put 
 up a great dingy handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 Uncle Sandy's ofi'ence was gone — he could not see a sem- 
 blance of distress without an effort to relieve it. 
 
 " I'll take ye in a coach to a decent place, Miss Jean," 
 said Alexander Muir, " and bid them take care of ye, and see 
 ye safe hame, and be at all the charges, if you'll just think 
 upon your evil ways, and take tent to your ain life, and harm 
 the young and the heedless nae mair." 
 
 " He thinks I'm a witch, the auld haverel," said Miss 
 Jean, looking up with a harsh laugh ; " but never you heed, 
 Sandy, we'll gree ; and ye can tell the folk to take me an in- 
 side place in the coach, and I'll take care mysel to see they 
 settle for a' thing, and I'll gang away the morn ; so ye can gie 
 them the siller — or I'll take charge of it and pay them mysel 
 — its a' the same to me."
 
 HARRY MUIR. 291 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 All men make fkults, and even I in this ; 
 Authorizing thy trespass with compare, 
 Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss. 
 Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are. 
 
 SUAKSPEAKE. 
 
 And Martha bad to meet lesser creditors to wliom Harry 
 owed smaller amounts for trifles of his own wardrobe, of fur- 
 niture, and other inconsiderable things. But the sum they 
 came to altogether was far from inconsiderable. Uncle Sandy, 
 who steadily attended and supported her, was grieved some- 
 times by the bitter and harsh passion with which she received 
 the faintest word which implied blame of Harry. In every 
 other particular Martha appeared a chastened and sober 
 woman ; in this the fire and pride of her nature blazed with 
 an unchecked fierceness which grieved the gentler spirit. 
 Within himself there was something also which sprang up with 
 instinctive haste to defend the memory of Harry ; but Martha's 
 nervous impatience of the most remote implied blame, and the 
 headlong fiery passion with which she threw herself upon any 
 one who attempted this, made the old man uneasy. And 
 people who encountered Martha's anger did not know its 
 strange inconsistency, nor could have believed how well she 
 was aware of Harry's faults, or how in her heart she con- 
 demned them ; but Martha had devoted her life to restore to 
 Harry's memory the honour he had lost in his person, and 
 whoso struck at him, struck at her very life. 
 
 They were walking home on their return — for the carriage 
 was already sold — and John, who had not yet got another 
 place, carried their little travelling-bags behind them. It was 
 a bright November day, not very cold, but clear and beautiful, 
 and the sunshine lay calmly like a glory on the head of De- 
 meyet, crowning him against his will, though even he bore the 
 honour more meekly than in the dazzling days of sum- 
 mer. The air was so clear, that you could see the white 
 ► houses clustering at his feet, and hear the voices of distant 
 farm-yards on every side, miles away, making a continual sound 
 over the country, which seemed to lie in a silent trance of 
 listening ; and from this little height which the road descends.
 
 292 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 you can see the blue smoke of Allenders curling over the 
 bare trees, and make out that the sunshine glances upon some 
 bright childish heads under the stripped walnut on the lawn. 
 Uncle Sandy, looking towards it, prays gentle prayers in his 
 heart — prays to the God of the fatherless, the widow the dis- 
 tressed — to Him who blessed the children in His arms, and 
 wept with the sisters of the dead ; and has his good heart light- 
 ened and comforted, knowing who it is to whom he has in faith 
 committed the charge of these helpless ones ; and the old 
 man has a smile upon his face, and many a word of tender 
 kindness in his heart, to comfort the " bairns " at home — for 
 they are all bairns to him. 
 
 But other thoughts burn at the heart of Martha, as she 
 walks onward by his side. Unawares and unconsciously her 
 soul shudders at the sunshine — hates with fierce impatience 
 the voices and cheerful hum of ordinary life, which grow 
 audible as they approach Maidlin, and shrinks from returning 
 home — home, where that one vacant place and absent voice, 
 makes her heart desolate for ever. Through her bitter re- 
 pinings. Miss Jean's exultation passes with a ghastly terror, 
 and Martha shivers to think that this unholy age may come 
 upon her, and has her heart full of questionings almost im- 
 pious. That this old woman, envious, degraded and miserable, 
 should be spared in the earth to see many a hopeful head laid 
 low ; that poor old Dragon, basking in the sunshine, should 
 live on from day to day, and see the children die ; that she 
 herself should remain, and Harry be taken away. Martha 
 said, "Why? why?" and groaned within herself, and was 
 burdened, hating the very light, and shrinking with burning 
 impatience from the respectful looks and half-spoken sym- 
 pathies of these cottar women at Maidlin Cross. She could 
 not accept sympathy ; she turned away with loathing from all 
 except those who immediately shared her sorrow ; and even 
 them she bore with sometimes painfully — for who could un- 
 derstand her grief ? 
 
 A blasting fiery unblessed grief burning her heart like a 
 tempest — and a sullen gloom came over Martha's face as she 
 averted her head, and walked on steadily, closing her ears to 
 the pleasant natural sounds which seemed to crowd upon her 
 with so much greater distinctness than usual, that they chafed, 
 her disturbed mind into very fury. " The Spirit of the Lord 
 left Saul, and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him." It 
 was so with Martha now.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 293 
 
 Little Mary Paxton has been learning to-day to make a 
 curtsey — for she is to go to school for the first time to-mor- 
 row ; and her big sister, Mysie, says the young ladies curtsey 
 when they enter the school-room at Blaelodge. Mary has blue 
 eyes, little ruddy lips, always parted by two small white teeth 
 which appear between them : and cheeks, which the sun has 
 ripened, according to his pleasure, all the summer through. 
 In her little woollen frock and clean blue pinafore, Mary has 
 been practising her new acquirement at the Cross. She is 
 only four years old, and has a license which the elder children 
 have not : so little Mary rises up from the step of the Cross 
 on which she has just seated herself for a rest, and coming 
 forward with her small steps, pauses suddenly on the road be- 
 fore Martha, folds her little bare hands on her breast, and 
 looking up with the sweet frank childish face, and the two 
 small teeth fully revealed by her smile of innocent satisfac- 
 tion, makes her little curtsey to the lady, and stands still to 
 be approved with the confidence of her guileless years. 
 
 Upon Martha's oppressed heart this falls like a blow under 
 which she staggers, scarcely knowing for the moment from 
 whence the shock comes. Suddenly standing still, and grasp- 
 ing at the old man's arm to support herself, she looks at the 
 child — the child who lifts up her sweet little simple face, with 
 its smiling parted lips and sunny eyes, and look of perfect trust 
 and innocence. Little Mary wits not that there are in the 
 world such despairs and bitternesses as blind the very heart 
 in Martha's breast ; and Martha's breast heaves with a great 
 sob as this sudden stroke falls upon her. The old woman's 
 haggard face, with its ghostly triumph, disappears from her 
 mind — herself, heavy with the grief, which is greater than every 
 other, passes away from her relieved sight. Standing still in 
 perfect silence, a sudden burst of natural emotion which sweeps 
 away all evil things before it, falls upon her as from the skies 
 — a strong revulsion, like the witched mariner • 
 
 *' happy living things ! no tongue 
 Their beauty might declare. 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 And I blessed them unaware : 
 Sure ray kind saint took pity on me, 
 And I blessed them unaware." 
 
 The tears came in floods irrestrainable to Martha's eyes, 
 and with another long sob, she snatched up the child in her
 
 294 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 arms, kissed its little innocent, surprised face, and covering 
 her own with her veil, hurried away. But she had blessed 
 them unaware — blessed all God's creatures out of a full heart, 
 acquiescing in that mysterious love which apportions all things ; 
 and the natural sounds and sights were gall to her no longer, 
 and the burden fell from her neck. All the way home she hid 
 her tears, and restrained the sound of her weeping so far as 
 possible ; but Uncle Sandy saw and wondered, that Martha 
 was indeed weeping like a child. 
 
 Two days after, Uncle Sandy with his family went to Ayr. 
 They were to stay a month, Martha said, and Agnes and Rose 
 acquiesced very quietly. What did it matter where these 
 pensive, sorrowful days were spent 1 But Agnes went away, 
 occupied with many little necessary cares for her own delicate 
 health, and for the children, who now had no maid to attend 
 them ; and Bose, charged with the care of all the little party, 
 had countless small solicitudes and responsibilities to interest 
 her, and could even sometimes escape with a sigh into her own 
 dream-country, and be charmed into a grateful repose ; while 
 Lettie and Katie Calder, could scarcely repress a certain 
 childish excitement in prospect of the journey, and were in 
 their full enthusiasm about new stitches, and the work they 
 were to do in Ayr to help Martha. All had some such new- 
 awakened interest to relieve the strain of constant grief, as 
 human creatures mercifully find when God lays upon them 
 the heaviest of His chastisements. But they went away, and 
 left Martha with her one maid Mysie, and the poor old Dragon, 
 in a house peopled with continual reminders of Harry^ — 
 alone. 
 
 And as she lay upon her bed awake, through these gloomy, 
 solitary nights, and dreamed of footsteps on the stair, and 
 mysterious sighings through her silent room, the strong heart 
 of Martha trembled. What if the spirit hovering by her, 
 struggled in those inarticulate breathings to communicate 
 something to the dull human sense, whicii cannot hear the 
 delicate voices out of the unseen country ? What if Harry — 
 the true Harry — not him they laid under the sod in the church- 
 yard of Maidlin — was straining his grander spiritual faculties 
 by her side, to attain to the old mortal voice which only she 
 could hear, and tell her what mercy God had communicated 
 to his soul, and where its dwelling was ? And Martha held 
 her breath and listened, and with a throb of deeper grief was 
 sensible of this thrill of fear which reminded her how great a
 
 HARRY MUIR. 295 
 
 gulf and separation lay now between her and the dead — a gulf 
 before which the human spirit fainted, refusing to front the 
 forbidden mystery which yet its restless, curious thoughts 
 assail on every side. But in the broad daylight many a time 
 there seemed to Martha an eye upon her which benumbed her 
 like a spell — a conscious presence going with her as she went 
 and came, sitting silent by her side, fixing upon her constantly 
 this fascinating eye. 
 
 Meanwhile everything extraneous was cleared away from 
 their now simple and plain establishment. John was gone — 
 and Mr. Buchanan's money. lodged in the Stirling Bank re- 
 stored credit and respectability to the steady and continuous 
 care which began to rule over Harry's fields. At Martha's 
 years there is difficulty in learning an altogether new occupa- 
 tion, and this was of itself distasteful and outre to a woman ; 
 but sometimes, though every one respected her presence, it 
 happened that she heard indifferent people speak of " poor 
 Allenders," of the "warning" of his death as Grilbert called it, 
 or of the shipwreck of his life. And this, which brought the 
 burning blood to Martha's face, inspired her with power to 
 overcome every obstacle. Harry — who in her heart needed 
 no name — he had been too long the acknowledged centre there 
 — it was to Martha the bitterest pain to speak of him to the 
 uninterested and careless, who, presuming on her mention of 
 him, plied her with allusions to her brother, till her impatient 
 sorrow could have turned upon them, and struck them down 
 even with a blow. But even this Martha schooled herself to 
 bear — schooled herself to tell the men with whom her neces- 
 sary business brought her into contact, that this was Harry's 
 will and that his intention ; that he had proposed this work, 
 and that charity, which she was bound to carry out, and would. 
 Gradually these people came to look upon him with a visionary 
 reverence — this spirit of the dead whose intentions lived in a 
 will so strong and unvarying ; and his own weakness passed 
 away, and was forgotten, in the strength which placed itself, 
 like a monument, upon his grave.
 
 296 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 Here is no change but such as comes in me. 
 
 OiJ3 Play. 
 
 Maggie McGtJLlivray clips no longer in the wintry sunshine 
 at her mother's door. Poor little foolish girl, she has married 
 a cotton-spinner, and at eighteen has a baby, and many cares 
 upon the head which used to stoop under the light as she sang 
 the " Lea Rig," and clipped at her web. And Bessie McG-illi- 
 vray, who has succeeded Maggie, has no such heart for either 
 the work or the song, but drawls out the one dismally, and 
 idles about the other, and thinks it would be a great relief to 
 marry a cotton-spinner too, and have no more webs to clip — a 
 fate which she will accomplish one of these days. And Bessie 
 is " cauldrife," as her mother says, and prefers sitting at the 
 fireside to-day, though the sunshine conies down mellow and 
 warm through the November fog ; so that the scene from Mrs. 
 Rodger's parlour window loses one of its most pleasant features, 
 when there is nothing to look to opposite, but the idle light 
 lying on the stones at Peter McGillivray's door. 
 
 Mrs. McGarvie's Tiger, still tawny and truculent, winks in 
 the sun, as he sits upon the pavement, confronting it with his 
 fierce red eyes. But Mrs. McG-arvie's red-haired Rob has 
 gone to Port Philip to make his fortune in the bush, and 
 pretty little Helen has undergone the universal destiny, and 
 is married. There is change everywhere without — new names 
 on the Port Dundas Road — new houses springing up about its 
 adjacent streets ; but Mrs. Rodger's parlour, where Agnes 
 and Rose, and Uncle Sandy, with the children, are now as- 
 sembled, though a long succession of tenants have passed 
 through it since they left it, remains still the same. 
 
 And still the same is gaunt Mrs. Rodger in her widow's 
 cap — genteel and grim, terrible to tax-gatherers, and innocent 
 men of gas and water ; and Miss Rodger, care-worn, faded 
 and proud ; and the prim Miss Jeanie. But " Johnnie," in 
 his chimney corner, has begun to be moved to better things 
 than this perpetual idleness ; and though he has not reached 
 so far as to overcome himself, and his false and unwholesome 
 shame, he is approaching to this better state ; and a great
 
 HARRY. MUIR. 297 
 
 clumsy good-natured lodger pays persevering court to Miss 
 Aggie. The hoyden is decidedly reluctant, and resists and 
 rejects him stoutly — but it is no use, for this is her fate. 
 
 And Agues with the bright hair all hidden under her 
 widow's cap, sits down by the window with her baby in her 
 lap, and bending over it, attending to its wants, lets her tears 
 fall silently upon its frock, and on the little round arms which 
 stretch up to her, till a violent paroxysm comes upon her, and 
 she has to leave the infant to Rose, and steal away into the 
 inner room " to compose herself," as she says — in reality to 
 sob and weep her strength away, and be exhausted into com- 
 posure. Poor little unconscious child, upon whom this heavy 
 baptism falls ! for now, one by one, over the little hands with 
 which he strokes her cheek, steal the tears of Kose. It 
 was unwise of them to come here ; the place is too full of 
 memories. 
 
 By a way which Violet has often clambered up in the 
 summer nights long ago, it is possible to reach the high field 
 which, closely bordering upon Mrs. Rodger's house, is level 
 with the bed-room windows. Here in the dusk, when the 
 night cold has scarcely set in, and one star trembles in the 
 misty sky, strays Lottie's friend, Mr. John, pondering over 
 many things ; and here comes little thoughtful Lettie, -to 
 search the old corners, where she used to find them, for one 
 remaining gowan. and keep it as a memorial of this place 
 which is like home. From the edge of the field you can look 
 sheer down upon the road with its din and constant popula- 
 tion, and upon the lights gleaming scantily in those little 
 nooks of streets about the Cowcaddens, where Violet knows 
 every shop. From the other end of the field, close upon the 
 dangerous brink where it makes abrupt and precipitous 
 descent into a great quarry, comes the sound of those distinct 
 measured strokes, broken by continual exclamations and laugh- 
 ter, with which two stout servants beat a carpet. The dust is 
 out of it long ago, but still their rods resound in quick time 
 on either side, and their voices chime in unison ; and now 
 they trail it over the dark fragrant grass, and stealing to the 
 edge call to the passengers below, who start and look around 
 in amazement, and would not discover whence the voice comes, 
 but for the following laugh, which reveals the secret. And 
 by and by a " lad " or two, and some passing mill girls, scram- 
 ble up the broken ascent which communicates with the road ; 
 and often will the mistress look from her door in dismay, and 
 13*
 
 298 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 the master call from the window, before Janet and Betsy lift 
 their carpet from the grass, and recollect that it is " a' the 
 hours of the nicht," and that there are a hundred things to do 
 when they return. 
 
 But Lettie puts her hand softly into Mr. John's hand, and 
 begins to answer, with many tears, his questions about Harry; 
 and tells him how Martha is to do everything that Harry 
 wanted to be done, and that they are all to work at the 
 " opening," and Katie Calder is to stay at AUenders ; but 
 neither of them are to go to school at Blaelodge any more. 
 Violet does not quite know what makes her so confidential, 
 and has a compunction even while she speaks, and thinks 
 Martha would not be pleased — but yet she speaks on. 
 
 " And we're all to be busy and work at the opening ; for 
 Martha says we need not think shame," said Lettie ; " and 
 Katie and me will be able to help to keep the house, Mr. 
 John ; and Rose says it's better to work than be idle, and it 
 keeps away ill thoughts ; but I like best to think it's lane, 
 without working, or to read books — only I've read all the 
 books in AUenders, and I'm no to be idle any more." 
 
 " You see I'm aye idle yet, Lettie," said John. 
 
 " Oh yes ; but then you never need — and you've aye 
 been," said Lettie, hastily ; for to Lettie Mr. John was an 
 institution, and his idleness was part of himself — a thing quite 
 beyond discussion, and unchangeable. 
 
 But a burning flush came over John Rodger's face, in the 
 darkness, and Lettie saw instinctively that his feelings were 
 wounded. This brought upon her a strange embarrassment ; 
 and while anxiously casting about for something to say, which 
 should change this painful subject, she fell into a shy silence — 
 which was only broken at last by Mr. John himself 
 
 " No, Lettie, I have not been always idle, and I have 
 need," said the roused man ; '" and when I hear a little thing 
 like you speaking about work, and helping to keep a house, it 
 makes me think shame of myself, Lettie. You and your 
 sisters, that might be so different, working for your bread — 
 and me this way ! " 
 
 " Ay, but Miss Jeanie and Miss Aggie work more than 
 we do," said Lettie, simply. 
 
 For always it is the angel from heaven, miraculous and 
 strange, and not the daily revelations of Moses and the pro- 
 phets, which these bewitched natures think will rouse them. 
 Miss Jeanie and Miss Aggie, with all their little vanities, had
 
 HARRY MUIR. 299 
 
 hearts sincere on this point, and full of gracious, unconscious 
 humility. They never reminded the idler that they worked 
 for him ; never thought that they were pinched and restrain- 
 ed, in the ostentations they held so dear, because " Johnnie" 
 hung a burden on their hands ; never speculated, indeed, on 
 the question at all, nor dreamed of giving reasons to them- 
 selves for the spontaneous natural impulse, which made this 
 self-sacrifice unawares. And he himself never realized it 
 either ; but he was struck with the devotion of Martha and 
 her household. This, unusual, strange — a thing he did not 
 see every day — moved him ; the other had scarcely occurred 
 to him when Lettie spoke. 
 
 They left Glasgow the next day ; for neither Agnes nor 
 Rose could bear to remain in the house, so familiar to them 
 of old ; and they did not return to Mrs. Rodger's on their way 
 home ; but when Miss Aggie married the lumbering lodger, 
 and came to be settled on the other side of the Firth, at 
 Alloa, and received her sister as a visitor, Miss Jeanie made 
 a pilgrimage to Allenders, and told them, with tears in her 
 eyes, that Johnnie, now a clerk with a Port Dundas merchant, 
 had said to her, that she should never want while he had any- 
 thing, and had given her money to buy the expensive unsuit- 
 able upper garment she wore. Poor Miss Jeanie, with her 
 vanities and simplicities, never discovered that he owed her 
 gratitude ; but for these words of kindness she was tearfully 
 grateful to him. 
 
 The month at Ayr passed very quietly. In this winter 
 weather Uncle Sandy's little company of workers could no 
 longer visit the leafless garden ; and though there was some- 
 times a great fire made in the kitchen, and a special lamp 
 lighted for them, yet their own fireside, the old man thought, 
 was the most suitable place for them now. So the family were 
 almost perfectly alone ; left to compose themselves into those 
 quiet days which were but the beginning of a subdued and 
 chastened life. And Uncle Sandy did for them now what 
 Martha was wont to do through the terrible time which preced- 
 ed Harry's death. He read to them sometimes ; — sometimes 
 he was himself their book and reader ; and from his long ex- 
 perience, the young hearts, fainting under this great sorrow, 
 learned how many trials life can live through, and were un- 
 willingly persuaded that the present affliction would not kill 
 them, as they sometimes hoped it might: but must lighten, 
 perhaps must pass away. But they clung the closer to their
 
 300 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 sorrow, and defied the very chance of returning gladness ; and 
 Agnes cut away the curls of her bright hair, and said she 
 would wear this widow's cap her whole life through ; and Rose 
 grew sick at sounds of laughter, and believed she would never 
 smile again. 
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 A gloomy piece this morning with it brings ; 
 The sun for sorrow will not show his head. 
 
 EoMEo AND Juliet. 
 
 It was December, cold and dreary, when the family returned 
 to AUenders. Their very return was a renewal of the first 
 sorrow to both themselves and Martha. They came, and 
 Harry was not there to welcome them ; they had never before 
 felt so bitterly his absent place ] they came, but Harry came 
 not with them — and Martha's very voice of welcome was 
 choked with her anguish for the dead. 
 
 There had been much discussion with Uncle Sandy, whom 
 they were all anxious to induce to return to AUenders, and 
 remain with them there. The old man did not consent. Re- 
 luctant as he was to be separated from them now, his own 
 old house and neighbourhood were parts of his gentle natilre. 
 He could not leave them — could not relinquish his universal 
 charge of the " bairns," nor deprive his young embroiderers of 
 the air and sunshine, to which no one else might think of ad- 
 mitting them. So Uncle Sandy brought his charge to Glas- 
 gow, and bade them an affectionate farewell, promising a yearly 
 visit to AUenders ; but he could not give up his little soli- 
 tary home. 
 
 They settled immediately into the monotonous and still 
 order of their future life. Martha's room, where there were 
 few things to suggest painful remembrances, they made a 
 little work-room ; and here Agnes and Rose sat by the win • 
 dow at their work, and Lettie and her little companion learn- 
 ed their lessons, and laboured with varying industry — now en- 
 thusiastic — now slack and languid, at the '• opening," in which 
 they were soon skilled. And Martha, returning wearied 
 from business out of doors, or in the library, came up here 
 to take off her outer wrappings, and begin the other labour
 
 HARRY MUIR. 301 
 
 which called for her. And Lettie on the carpet, and Katie 
 on her little stool, kept up a running conversation, which 
 sometimes gave a passing moment of amusement to the sadder 
 elder hearts ; and little Harry played joyously, beguiling his sad 
 young mother into momentary smiles ; and the baby began to 
 totter on his little feet, and make daring journeys from the 
 arms of Martha into his mother's ; and gradually there grew 
 to be a certain pensive pleasure in their evening walk, and 
 they roused themselves to open the window, when the little 
 Leith steamer shot past under the trees ; and every day filled 
 itself with its own world of duty, and passed on — slowly it is 
 true — but less drearily than at the first. 
 
 No one grudged now, nor mixed ill-feeling in the emulation 
 with which neighbouring agriculturists watched the fields of 
 Allenders. Something of fear and solemn awe startled the 
 very labourers in these fields when Martha passed them, assi- 
 duous and diligent in all the work she set herself to do. They 
 were not afraid of her — she did not impress them with more 
 than the respect which they gave willingly as her right ; but 
 there was something solemn in a representative of the dead — 
 a person living, as it seemed, but to carry out the thoughts and 
 wishes of another who had passed away. The stir and thrill 
 of renewed and increased industry came again upon Maidlin 
 Cross. It was true they had no model cottages yet, but the 
 land lay marked out on the other side of the cross, where 
 Harry's new houses were to be : and Armstrong thought Miss 
 Allenders had answered him almost fiercely, when he proposed 
 to plough this land, and enclose it in a neighbouring field. No, 
 — it was Harry's will those houses should be built, and built 
 they must be, when justice and right permitted ; and it soon 
 came to be known in Maidlin, where Harry in his careless 
 good-humour had promised anything without bestowing it, that 
 it needed but a hint of this to Martha to secure the favour. 
 And the work went on steadily and prosperously, and with a 
 wise boldness Martha drew upon Mr. Buchanan's thousand 
 pounds. Armstrong, no longer driven to the sad alternative 
 of doing nothing, or acting upon his own responsibility, be- 
 came emboldened, and w^s no longer afraid to be now and 
 then responsible ; and Allender Mains became a great farm- 
 steading, and began to send off droves to Stirling market, and 
 Falkirk tryste, and was managed as the cautious Armstrong 
 never could have managed it, had all this gainful risk and ex- 
 penditure been incurred for himself.
 
 302 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 And on the Sabbath days when they leave the church — 
 Agnes in her widow's weeds leaning on Martha's arm, and 
 Rose leading the children — they turn aside to a little space 
 railed off from the wall, where moulders the mossed gravestone 
 of the old Laird of Allenders, and where the gowans and for- 
 get-me-nots grow sweetly under the spring sunshine upon Har- 
 ry's breast. His name is on a tablet of white marble on the 
 wall — his name and age — nothing more. They go there si- 
 lently — almost as it seems involuntarily — towards their grave, 
 and stand in silence by the railing, visiting the dead, but say- 
 ing nothing to each other ; and after a little while, as silently 
 as they came, the family go away. Nor do they ever allude 
 to this visit, though the custom is never broken through — it is 
 something sacred, a family solemnity, a thing to be done in 
 silence. 
 
 And the ladies of Nettlehaugh and Foggo do not disdain 
 now to call on Mrs. and Miss Allenders, nor even Miss Dun- 
 lop, though she stands upon her dignity, and has heard a secret 
 whisper that these hands she condescends to shake, work at 
 her collars and handkerchiefs, and earn bread by their labour. 
 But at the end of the dining-room beside Cuthbert's window, 
 some preparations were begun long ago for the erection of that 
 conservatory which Miss Dunlop recommended to Harry — and 
 to her mother's consternation, Miss Dunlop makes the cool 
 inquiries about it, and presumes they do not intend to carry it 
 out now. Martha answers with a blank gravity which she has 
 learned to assume, to cover the pang with which she mentions 
 his name, that other more important wishes of Harry's have 
 to be carried out before she can come to this ; but that what 
 he intended shall be done without fail, and that it only waits 
 a suitable time. " They say that Heaven loves those that die 
 young," says Martha, with a grave simplicity, " yet the dead 
 who die in their youth leave many a hope and project unful- 
 filled — and few have been so full of projects, and had so little 
 time to work them out." 
 
 This is all — but Miss Dunlop, bewildered and conscience- 
 stricken, dares scarcely speak again of the fickle weakness of 
 poor Allenders, and all his vain, magnificent aspirations, and 
 efforts to be great. She has a vague impression that she has 
 blundered in her hasty estimate of poor Harry, and that it 
 was indeed because his sun went down at noon, that none of 
 his great intentions ripened into success — for no one ventures 
 to prophesy failure to Harry's purposes now.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 303 
 
 And Cuthbert comes when he can spare a da}' — comes to 
 bring them news of the tar-away world whose vexed and trou- 
 bled murmurs they never hear, and to receive with affectionate 
 sympathy, all they tell him of their own plans and exertions. 
 Cuthbert is admitted to the work-room, and takes out Agnes 
 and Rose to their nightly walk, upon which Martha, who, her- 
 self actively employed, has no need of this, insists ; and Agnes 
 leans upon him as on a good and gentle brother, and there 
 comes a strange ease and repose to Rose's heart as she walks 
 shyly by his side in the twilight, saying little, but preserving 
 with a singular tenacity of recollection everything the others 
 say. And Rose, waking sometimes now to her old personal 
 grief — a thing which seems dead, distant and selfish, under the 
 shadow of this present sorrow — recollects that Martha's " ca- 
 pital " is from Mr. Buchanan — that Cuthbert is his favourite 
 nephew, and that there may be truth yet in the story which 
 fell like a stone upon her heart. But Rose only speculates 
 unawares upon these individual anxieties — they seem to her 
 guilty, and she is ashamed to harbour them — yet still uncon- 
 sciously she looks for Cuthbert's coming, and when he comes 
 grows abstracted and silent, and looks like a shy, incompetent 
 girl, instead of the fair, sweet-hearted woman into whose fuller 
 form and maturity her youth developes day by day. Yet 
 Cuthbert's eyes are witched and charmed, and he has strangely 
 correct understanding of every shy, half-broken word she says ; 
 and Rose would start, and wonder, and scarcely believe, in her 
 timid unconscious humility, could she see how these broken 
 words remain in Cuthbert's heart. 
 
 CHAPTER LIIT. 
 
 I am a very foolish, fond old mao, 
 Fourscore and upward. 
 
 King Leak. 
 
 " I WAS born this day fourscore and five years ago," said Dra- 
 gon. '• It's a great age, bairns, and what few folk live to see ; 
 and for every appearance that's visible to me, I may live ither 
 ten, Missie, and never ane be a priu the waur. I would like 
 grand mysel to make out the hunder years, and it would be
 
 304 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 a credit to the place, and to a' belonging till't ; and naebody 
 wishes ill to me nor envies me for my lang life. Just you 
 look at that arm. Missie ; it's a strong arm for a man o' eighty- 
 five." 
 
 And Dragon stretched out his long thin arm, and snapt 
 the curved brown fingers — poor old Dragon ! Not a child in 
 Maidlin Cross but could have overcome the decayed power 
 which once had knit those loose joints, and made them a strong 
 man's arm ; but Dragon waved it in the air exultingly, and 
 was proud of his age and strength, and repeated again with 
 earnestness : " But I would like grand to make out the hun- 
 der year." 
 
 Lettie, now a tall girl of fifteen, stood by Dragon's stair, 
 arranging flowers, a great number of which lay before her on 
 one of the steps. They were all wild flowers, of faint soft 
 colour and sweet odours, and Lettie was blending hawthorn 
 and primroses, violets and cowslips, with green sprigs of the 
 sweetbriar, and here and there an early half-opened wild rose 
 — blending them with the greatest care and devotion ; while 
 Katie Calder, developed into a stout little comely woman-like 
 figure, stood by, looking on with half-contempt ; for Katie al- 
 ready had made a superb bouquet of garden flowers, and was 
 carrying it reverentially in her apron. 
 
 " It's five years this day since Mr. Hairy came first to 
 Allenders," continued the old man, " and it's mair than three 
 since they laid him in his grave. The like o' him — a young 
 lad ! and just to look at the like o' me !" 
 
 '' But it was God's pleasure. Dragon," said Lettie, pausing 
 in her occupation, while the shadow which stole over her face 
 bore witness that Harry's memory had not passed away even 
 from her girl's heart. 
 
 " Ay, Missie," said the old man, vacantly ; " do ye think 
 the spirit gaed willingly away ? I've thought upon that mony 
 a time when I was able to daunder up bye to the road, and 
 see the farm ; and it's my belief that Mr. Hairy will never 
 get right rest till a's done of the guid he wanted to do, and 
 a's undone o' the ill he did — that's my belief. I think myself 
 he canna get lying quiet in his grave for minding of the work 
 he left to do ; and if there was ane here skilled to discern 
 spirits, he might be kent in the fields. What makes the lady 
 sae constant at it, think ye, night and morning, putting to her 
 ain hand to make the issue speedier, if it's no that she kens 
 about him that's aye waiting, waiting, and never can enter into 
 his rest ? "
 
 HARRY MUIR. 305 
 
 Lettie let her flowers fall, and looked away with a myste- 
 rious glance into the dark shade of the trees ; and the vague 
 awe of poetic superstition was strong upon Lettie still. 
 
 " Dragon," she said, in a very low voice, " I used to think 
 I heard Harry speak, crying on me, and his footstep in his 
 own room, and on the stair ; and all the rest thought that too, 
 for I have seen them start and listen many a time, thinking it 
 was Harry. Do ye think it could be true ? Do ye think, 
 Dragon, it could be Harry ? for I came to think it was just 
 because he was aye in our mind that we fancied every sound 
 was him.-' 
 
 " Ane can never answer for the dead," said the poor old 
 Dragon. " Ane kens when a living person speaks, for ye can 
 aye pit out your hand and touch them, and see that they're 
 by your side ; but I pit out my hand here, Missie — it's a' clear 
 air to me — but for aught I ken, an angel in white raiment 
 may be standing on my stair-head, and anither within my 
 door, laying a mark in the Book, yonder, that I may open it 
 the night at ae special verse, and read that and nae ither. How 
 is the like o' me to ken ? And you'll no tell me that Mr. 
 Hairy winna stand by the bride the morn, and be the first to 
 wish her joy, though we may ne'er hear what he says." 
 
 With a slight tremble, Violet, putting away her flowers, 
 leaned upon the step, and looked again into the darkening 
 shadow of the trees ; and Lettie tried to think, and to pray 
 in her simplicity that her eyes might be opened to discern the 
 spirits, and that she might see Harry, if he were here. But 
 again the mortal shrank from the visible immortality, and 
 Lettie covered her eyes with a thrill of visionary fear. 
 
 '• Dragon, look at Lettie's flowers," said Katie Calder ; 
 " she wants to put them on the table, where the minister's to 
 stand, instead of all the grand ones out of Lady Dunlop's ; 
 and I never saw such grand flowers as Lady Dunlop's, Dra- 
 gon." 
 
 " The dew never falls on them^'' said Lettie, starting to re- 
 turn to her occupation ; '- and if you were in the room in the 
 dark, you would never know they were there ; but I gathered 
 this by the Lady's Well, and this was growing at the foot of 
 the stone where Lady Violet sat, and the brier and the haw- 
 thorn out of that grand hedge. Dragon, where cC the flowers 
 are ; and if I put them on the table in the dark, the wee fairy 
 that Dragon kens, will tell the whole house they're there ; but 
 Lady Dunlop's have no breath — and mine are far liker Rose."
 
 306 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 As Lettie speaks, some one puts a hand over her shoulder, 
 and lifting her flowers, raises them up very close to a glowing 
 radiant face ; and Dragon, hastily getting up from the easy- 
 chair on his stair-head, jerks his dangling right arm upward 
 towards the brim of the low rusty old hat, which he wears 
 always. It is only persons of great distinction whom Dragon 
 so far honours, and Dragon has forgotten " yon birkie," in his 
 excited glee about the approaching wedding, and his respect 
 for the "groom." 
 
 " Very right, Lettie," said the bridegroom, with a little 
 laugh which has a tremble in it ; '• they are far liker Rose. 
 And will you be able to come to the gate to-morrow. Dragon, 
 and see me carry the flower of Allenders away ? " 
 
 " But ye see, my man," said Dragon, eagerly, shuffling 
 about his little platform, as he looked down on Cuthbert, " I 
 never had her about me or among my hands, when she was a 
 little bairn ; and if it was either Missie there, or the ither ane, 
 I would have a greater miss ; for I've gotten into a way o' 
 telling them stories, and gieing a word of advice to the bit 
 things, and training them the way they should go ; so they're 
 turned just like bairns o' my ain. But I wish Miss Rose and 
 you muckle joy, and increase and prosperity, and that ye may 
 learn godly behaviour, and be douce heads of a family ; and 
 that's the warst wish that's in my head, though you are taking 
 ane of the family away, and I never was married mysel." 
 
 And Cuthbert, responding with another joyous laugh, shook 
 hands with Dragon, after a manner somewhat exhausting to 
 the loose arm, of whose strength the old man had boasted, and 
 immediately went away to the waterside, to take a meditative 
 walk along its banks, and smile at himself for his own exuber- 
 ant boyish joy. Serious and solemn had been many of the 
 past occasions on which he had visited Allenders ; and now, 
 as the fulfilment of all his old anticipations approached so cer- 
 tainly, so close at hand, Cuthbert's moved heart turned to 
 Harry — poor Harry ! whose very name had a charm in it of 
 mournful devotion and love ! 
 
 The sun shone in next morning gaily to the rooms of Al- 
 lenders, now suddenly awakened as out of a three years' sleep ; 
 and Agnes curls her bright hair, and lets the sunshine glow 
 upon it as she winds it round her fingers, and with a sigh, lays 
 away the widow's cap, which would not be suitable, she thinks, 
 on Rose's wedding-day ; but the sigh is a long-drawn breath 
 of relief — and with an innocent satisfaction, Agnes, blooming
 
 HARRY MUIR. 307 
 
 and youthful still, sees her pretty curls fall again upon her 
 cheek, and puts on her new white gown. It is a pleasant 
 sensation, and her heart rises uuwares, though this other sigh 
 parts her lips. Poor Harry ! his little wife will think of him 
 to-day. 
 
 Think and weep, but only with a serene and gentle melan- 
 choly ; for the young joyous nature has long been rising ; and 
 Agnes, though she never can forget, laments no longer with the 
 reality of present grief It is no longer present — it is past, 
 and only exists in remembrance ; and Agnes is involuntarily 
 glad, and will wear her widow's cap no more. 
 
 And Martha is dressing little Harry, who will not be quiet 
 in her hands for two minutes at a time, but dances about with a 
 perpetual elasticity, which much retards his toilet. There are 
 smiles on Martha's face — grave, quiet smiles — for she too has 
 been thinking, with a few tears this morning, that Harry will 
 be at the bride's side, to join in the blessing with which she 
 sends her other child away. 
 
 And Rose, in her own chamber, in a misty and bewildered 
 confusion, seeing nothing distinctly either before or behind her, 
 turns back at last to that one solemn fact which never changes, 
 and remembers Harry — remembers Harry, and weeps, out of 
 a free heart which carries no burden into the unknown future, 
 some sweet pensive tears for him and for the home she is to 
 leave to- day; and so sits down in her bewilderment to wait 
 for Martha's summons, calling her to meet the great hour 
 whose shadow lies between her and the skies. 
 
 And Lettie's flowers are on the table, breathing sweet, 
 hopeful odours over the bridegroom and the bride. And Let- 
 tie, absorbed and silent, listens with a beating heart for some 
 sign that Harry is here, and starts with a thrill of recognition 
 when her heart imagines a passing sigh. Poor Harry ! if he 
 is not permitted to stand unseen among them, and witness this 
 solemnity, he is present in their hearts.
 
 308 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 " Behold I see the haven now at hand 
 
 To which I mean my wearie course to bend. 
 Yere the maine shete, and bear up with the land, 
 The which afar is fairly to be kend, 
 And seemeth safe from storms that may oflPend. 
 
 Faeey Queen. 
 
 Agnes, witli her relieved and lightened spirits, goes cheerfully 
 about her domestic business now, and has learned to drive the 
 little old gig, and sometimes ventures as far as Stirling to 
 make a purchase, and begins to grow a little less afraid of 
 spending money. For some time now, Agnes has given up 
 the '' opening " — given it up at Martha's special desire, and 
 with very little reluctance, and no one does " opening " now 
 at Allenders, except sometimes Martha herself, in her own 
 room, when she is alone. These three years have paid Miss 
 Jean's thousand pounds, and one of Macalister's four, and 
 Mr. Macalister is very happy to leave the rest with Miss 
 Allenders, who, when her fourth harvest comes, has promised 
 to herself to pay Mr. Buchanan. For assiduous work, and 
 Martha's almost stern economy, have done wonders in these 
 years ; and the bold Armstrong boasts of his crops, and his 
 cattle now, and is sometimes almost inclined to weep with 
 Alexander, that there is no more unfruitful land to subjugate 
 and reclaim. 
 
 But before her fourth harvest time, Martha has intimated 
 to Sir John Dunlop's factor that it was her brother's intention 
 to make an offer for the little farm of Oatlands, now again 
 tenantless, and Armstrong does not long weep over his fully 
 attained success ; though Oatlands has little reformation to 
 do, compared with Allender Mains. And Harry's model 
 houses are rising at Maidlin Cross ; sagacious people shake 
 their heads, and say Miss Allenders is going too far, and is 
 not prudent. She is not prudent, it is very true — she ven- 
 tures to the very edge and utmost extent of lawful limits — 
 but she has never ventured beyond that yet, nor ever failed. 
 
 And Harry's name and remembrance lives — strangely 
 exists and acts in the country in which Harry himself was 
 little more than a subject for gossip. To hear him spoken of 
 now, you would rather think of some mysterious unseen per-
 
 HARRY MUIR. 309 
 
 son, carrying on a great work by means of agents, that his 
 chosen privacy and retirement may be kept sacred, than of 
 one dead to all the business and labour of this world ; and 
 there is a certain mystery and awe about the very house 
 where Harry's intentions reign supreme, to be considered 
 before everything else. So strong is this feeling, that some- 
 times an ignorant mind conceives the idea that he lives there 
 yet in perpetual secrecy, and by-and-bye will re-appear to reap 
 the fruit of all these labours ; and Geordie Paxton shakes his 
 head solemnly, and tells his neighbours what the " auld man " 
 says — that Allenders cannot rest in his grave till this work 
 he began be accomplished : and people speak of Harry as an 
 active, existing spirit — never as the dead. 
 
 It is more than a year now since Rose's marriage, and not 
 far from five since Harry's death, and there is a full family 
 circle round the drawing-room fireside, where Mrs. Charteris 
 has been administering a lively little sermon to Lettie about 
 the extravagance of destroying certain strips of French cam- 
 bric (•' It would have cost five-and-twenty shillings a yard in 
 my young days," says the old lady), with which Lettie has 
 been devising some piece of ornamental work for the adorn- 
 ment of Agues. But Lettie's execution never comes up to 
 her ideal, and the cambric is destroyed for ever ; though 
 Katie Calder, looking on, has made one or two suggestions 
 which might have saved it. 
 
 " For you see, my dear, this is waste^'' said Mrs. Charteris ; 
 "and ye should have tried it on paper first, before you touched 
 the cambric." 
 
 " So I did," said Lettie, nervously ; " but it went all 
 wrong." 
 
 And Rose smiles at the childish answer ; and Mrs. 
 Charteris bids Violet sit erect, and keep up her head. Agnes 
 is preparing tea at the table. Martha, with little Sandy 
 kneeling on the rug before her, playing with a box of toys 
 which he places in her lap, sits quietly without her work, 
 in honour of the family party; and Uncle Sandy is telling 
 Katie Calder all kinds of news about her companions in 
 Ayr. 
 
 Why is Lettie nervous? Cuthbert at the table is looking 
 over a new magazine, which has just been brought in from 
 Stirling with a supply of other books ordered by their good 
 brother ; and constant longing glances to this magazine have 
 had some share in the destruction of I^ettie's cambric. But
 
 310 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 Lettie is sixteen now, and Agnes thinks she should not be 
 such a child. 
 
 ^' Here is something for you," says Cuthbert, suddenly. 
 " Listen, we have got a poet among us. I will read you the 
 ballad of the ' Lady's Well.' " 
 
 " She sat in her window hke a dreara, 
 
 She moved not eye nor hand ; 
 Her heart was blind to the white moonbeam, 
 And she saw not the early morning gleam 
 
 Over the dewy land ; 
 iSTor wist she of aught but a tale of wrong, 
 That rang in her ears the dim day long, 
 
 "Her hair was like gold upon her head, 
 
 But the snow has fallen there ; 
 And the blush of life from her face has fled, 
 And her heart is dumb, and tranced, and dead, 
 
 Yet wanders everywhere — 
 Like a ghost through the restless night, 
 Wanders on in its own despight. 
 
 "But hither there comes a long-drawn sigh — 
 A thrill to her form, a light to her eye : 
 Only a sigh on the wind, I wiss ; 
 Keep us and guard us from sounds like this! 
 For she knew in the breath, for a mystic token. 
 The words of the rede, by that graybeard spoken. 
 
 "The bridal robes are glistening fair 
 In the gray eventide. 
 Her veil upon her golden hair. 
 And so goes forth the bride — 
 Who went before to guide astray 
 All wayfarers from this way ; 
 Whose the voice that led her hence, 
 How that graybeard came, and whence ; 
 Known were these to her alone. 
 And she told the tale to none. 
 
 " Tlie fountain springs out of the earth, 
 
 Nor tells what there it sees ; 
 And the wind with a cry, 'twixt grief and mirth, 
 
 Alights among the trees. 
 She sat her down upon the stone, 
 
 Her white robes trailed o'er the cold green turf, 
 
 Her foot pressed on the dreary earth, 
 Alone, alone, alone. 
 'Not an ear to hear, not a voice to tell. 
 How the lady passed from the Lady's Well.
 
 HARRY MUIR. 311 
 
 "Tlie lady sat by the Lady's Well, 
 
 \\Tien the night fell dark and gray; 
 But the morning sun shone in the dell, 
 
 And she had passed away. 
 And no man knew on the coming morrow 
 Aught but the tale of an imknown sorrow ; 
 And nought but the fountain's silver sound, 
 And the green leaves closing in around. 
 And a gi-eat silence night and day, 
 Mourned for her vanishing away. 
 
 'But peace to thee, Ladie, lost and gone! 
 
 And calm be thy mystic rest. 
 Whether thou dwellest here unknown, 
 Or liest with many a kindred one, 
 
 In the great mother's breast ; 
 The woe of thy curse has come and fled. 
 Peace and sweet honour to our dead ! " 
 
 But Lettie, growing red and pale, dropping the paper 
 pattern which Mrs, Charteris has cut for her, and casting 
 sidelong, furtive glances round upon them all from under her 
 drooped eyelids, trembles nervously, and can scarcely keep 
 her seat. When Cuthbert comes to the end there is a 
 momentary silence, and Martha looks with wonder on her 
 little sister ; and Agnes exclaims in praise of the ballad, and 
 wonders who can possibly know the story so well. Then fol- 
 lows a very free discussion on the subject, and some criticism 
 from Cuthbert : and then Martha suddenly asks : " It is your 
 story, Lettie. and you don't often show so little interest. 
 How do you like it ? Tell us ? " 
 
 " I — I canna tell," said Lettie, letting all her bits of cam- 
 bric fall, and drooping her face, and returning unconsciously 
 to her childish tongue ; " for — it was me that wrote it, Mar- 
 tha." 
 
 And Lettie slid down off her chair to the carpet, and con- 
 cealed the coming tears, and the agitated troubled pleasure, 
 which did not quite realize yet whether this was pain or joy, 
 on Martha's knee. 
 
 Poor Lettie ! many an hour has she dreamed by the 
 Lady's Well — dreamed out grand histories for " us all," or 
 grander still 
 
 " Resolved 
 
 To frame she knows not what excelling thing 
 And win she knows not what sublime reward 
 Of praise and honour "
 
 312 HARRY MUIR. 
 
 But just now the sudden exultation bewilders Lettie ; and 
 there is nothing she is so much inclined to do as to run away 
 to her room in the dark, and cry. It would be a great relief. 
 
 But the confession falls like lightning upon all the rest. 
 Cuthbert, with a burning face, thinks his own criticism the 
 most stupid in the world. Rose laughs aloud, with a pleasure 
 which finds no other expression so suitable. Agnes, quite 
 startled and astonished, can do nothing but look at the bowed 
 head, which just now she too had reproved for stooping. And 
 Mrs. Charteris holds up her hands in astonishment, and Katie 
 clasps hers, and says that she kent all the time. But Martha, 
 with a great flush upon her face, holds Lottie's wet cheeks in 
 her hands, and bends down over her, but never says a word. 
 Children's unpremeditated acts, simple words and things have 
 startled Martha more than once of late, as if a deeper insight 
 had come to her ; and now there is a great motion in the heart 
 which has passed through tempests innumerable, and Martha 
 cannot speak for the thick-coming thoughts which crowd upon 
 her mind. 
 
 That night, standing on the turret, Martha looks out upon the 
 lands of AUenders — the lands which her own labour has cleared 
 of every overpowering burden, and which the same vigorous and 
 unwearied faculties shall clear yet of every encumbrance, if it 
 please God. The moonlight glimmers over the slumbering vil- 
 lage of Maidlin — over the pretty houses of poor Harry's impa- 
 tient fancy, where Harry's labourers now dwell peacefully, and 
 know that their improved condition was the will and purpose of 
 the kindly-remembered dead. And the little spire of Maidlin 
 Church shoots up into the sky, guarding the rest of him, whose 
 memory no man dares malign — whose name has come to 
 honour and sweet fame, since it shone upon that tablet in the 
 wall — and not one wish or passing project of whose mind, 
 which ever gained expression in words, remains without fulfil- 
 ment, or without endeavour and settled purpose to fulfil. 
 And Martha's thoughts turn back — back to her own ambitious 
 youth and its bitter disappointment — back to the beautiful 
 dawn of Harry's life — to its blight and to its end. And this 
 grand resurrection of her buried hopes brings tears to Mar- 
 tha's eyes, and humility to her full and swelling heart. God, 
 whose good pleasure it once was to put the bar of utter power- 
 lessness upon her ambition, has at last given her to look upon 
 the work of her hands — God, who did not hear, according to 
 her dimmed apprehension, those terrible prayers for Harry
 
 HARRY MUIR. 313 
 
 which once wrung her very heart, gave her to see him pass 
 away with peace and hope at the end, and has permitted her — 
 her, so greedy of good fame and honour — to clear and redress 
 his sullied name. And now has been bestowed on Martha 
 this child — this child, before whom lies a gentle glory, sweet 
 to win — a gracious, womanly, beautiful triumph, almost worthy 
 of an angel — and the angels know the dumb, unspeakable hu- 
 mility of thanksgiving which swells in Martha's heart. 
 
 So to all despairs, agonies, bitternesses, of the strong heart 
 which once stormed through them all, but which God has 
 chastened, exercised, at length blessed, comes this end. Har- 
 vest and 'seedtime in one combination — hopes realized, and 
 hopes to come ; and all her children under this quiet roof, 
 sleeping the sleep of calm, untroubled rest — all giving thanks 
 evening and morning for fair days sent to them out of the 
 heavens, and sorrow charmed into sweet repose, and danger 
 kept away. But though Martha's eyes are blind with tears, 
 and her heart calls upon Harry, Harry — safe in the strong 
 hand of the Father, where temptation and sorrow can reach 
 him no more — the same heart rises up in the great strength of 
 joy and faith, and blesses God, who knoweth the beginning 
 from the end — who maketh His highway through the flood 
 and the flame — His highway still, terrible though it be — who 
 conducts into the pleasant places, and refreshes the failing 
 heart with hope ; and the sleep which He gives to His be- 
 loved, fell sweet and deep that night upon the wearied heart 
 of Martha Muir. 
 
 THE END.
 
 -. .^ 
 
 ^Rl|Hi^ 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 '0 ^ ^ 
 
 • X 
 
 vy^^ 
 
 
 wi: 
 
 r^ • 
 
 Wy 
 
 
 r*^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 :,JH 
 
 
 
 4LLJ 
 
 ■,- • 
 
 ■^^ 
 
 Hj?;,-^ 
 
 */
 
 ^.\" 
 
 r^^^si^#^ 
 
 j:^m 
 
 v-t 
 
 Ml