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And she sits there by her bright hearth, spinning fine yarn, and singing to herself as those sing whose hearts are at rest. Opposite the fire hangs a little round glass, which reflects the warm light, and the graceful figure prettily, making a miniature picture of them on the wall. A large fine sagacious dog sits on the other side of the hearth, looking up into her face, and listening with evident relish to her song. You can see that its sweet pathetic music even moves him a little, the good fellow, though the warm bright fire makes his eyes wink drowsily now and then, and overcomes him with temptation to stretch himself down before it for his afternoon's sleep.

Spinning and singing—at home, in this sweet warm atmosphere, with no dread or evil near her and so sits Isabell.

A hasty step becomes audible in the kitchen. Bell at the wheel by the hearth cries aloud, "Eh, Miss Katie, is this you?" And Ranger pricks up his ears; while Isabell's hand rests on her wheel for a moment, and she looks towards the door.

The door is hastily flung open-as hastily closed-and little Katie, with the crimson plaid over her bright hair, and traces of tears on her cheek, rushes in, and throwing herself at Isabell's feet, puts her arm round her waist, and buries her head in the lap of her astonished sister.

Katie, what ails ye?" exclaimed Lady Kilbrachmont; and Ranger, alarmed and sympathetic, draws near to lick the little gloved hands, and fingers red with cold, which lie on his mistress's knee.

"Katie, what ails ye? Speak to me, bairn." But Isabell is not so much alarmed as Ranger, for " exceeding peace has made" her "bold."

"Oh, Isabell," sighed little Katie, lifting from her sister's lap a face which does not, after all, look so very sorrowful, and which Ranger would fain salute too-" oh, Isabell! it's a' Willie Morison."

"Weel, weel, Katie, my woman, what needs ye greet about it?" said the matron sister, with kindly comprehension. "I saw it a' a week since. I kent it would be so."

And Leddy Kilbrachmont thought

it no mesalliance-did not feel that the little beauty had disgraced herself. It dried the tears of Katie Stewart.

But Ranger did not yet quite understand what was the matter, and became very solicitous and affectionate; helping by his over-anxiety, good fellow, to remove the embarrassment of his young favourite.

So Katie rose, with a dawning smile upon her face, and stooping over Ranger, caressed and explained to him, while Isabell with kindly hands disembarrassed her of the crimson plaid which still hung over her shoulders. The well-preserved, precious crimson plaid—if Mrs Stewart had only seen that faint print of Ranger's paw upon it! But it makes a sheen in the little glass, to which Katie turns to arrange the bright curls which the wind has cast into such disorder. The tears are all dried now, and as her little fingers, still red with cold, though now they are glowing hot, twist about the golden hair on her cheek, her face resumes its brightness; but it is not now the sunny fearless light of the morning. Not any longer do these blue eyes of hers meet you bravely, frankly, with open unembarrassed looks;-drooping, glimmering under the downcast eyelashes, darting up now and then a shy, softened, almost deprecating glance, while themselves shine so, that you cannot but fancy there is always the bright medium of a tear to see them through.

"And where is he, then, Katie? Did ye get it a' owre coming up the road? Where is Willie now?" said Isabell.

"We met Kilbrachmont at the Doocot Park," said Katie, seating herself by the fireside, and casting down her eyes as she twisted the long ears of Ranger through her fingers; "and I ran away, Isabell, for Kilbrachmont saw that something was wrang."

"There's naething wrang, Katie. He's a wiselike lad, and a weel-doing lad-if you werena such a proud thing yoursel. But, woman, do you think you could ever have been so happy as ye will be, if Willie Morison was some grand lord or ither, instead of what he is ?"

Ranger had laid his head in Katie's lap, and was fixing a serious look upon her face; only he could see the happy liquid light in her eyes, which testified her growing content with Willie Morison; but Isabell saw the pout with which Katie indulged the lingering remnants of her pride.

"Woman, Katie! suppose it had been a young lord now, or the like of Sir Robert-ye would never have daured to speak to ane of your kin."

"And wha would have hindered me?" said Katie, with a glance of defiance.

"Wha would have hindered ye? Just your ain man, nae doubt, that had the best right. Ye ken yoursel it bid to have ended that way, Katie. Suppose it had been e'en sae, as the bit proud heart of ye would have had it, would ye have come in your coach to the Milton, Katie Stewart ?— would ye have ta'en my mother away in her red plaid, and set her down in your grand withdrawing-room, like my lady's mother? Ye needna lift up your e'en that way. I ken ye have spirit enough to do a' that; but what would my lord have said ?-and what would his friends? Na, na; my mother's grey hairs have honour on them in the Milton of Anster, and so have they here in Kilbrachmont, and so will they have in Willie Morison's house, when it comes to pass; but, Katie, they would have nane in Kellie Castle."

"I would just like to hear either lord or lady lightlie my mother," exclaimed Katie, with such a sudden burst of energy, that Ranger lifted his head and shook his ears in astonishment; 66 and I dinna ken what reason ye have, Isabell, to say that I ever wanted a lord. I never wanted onybody in this world that didna want me first."

"It may be sae, it may be sae," said the Leddy of Kilbrachmont, kindly, shedding back the hair from Katie's flushed face as she rose; "but whiles I get a glint into folk's hearts, for I mind mysel langsyne; and now be quiet, like a guid bairn, for there's the guidman and Willie, and I must see about their four-hours."

into the corner, with a sudden jerk, dislodging the head of the good astonished Ranger. The "four-hours" was the afternoon refreshment, corresponding with our tea, just as the "eleven-hours" was the luncheon.

Philip Landale was not so forbearing as his wife. He could not refrain from jokes and innuendoes, which made Katie's face burn more and more painfully, and elicited many a trembling whispered remonstrance"Whisht, whisht, Kilbrachmont,”from Willie Morison; but the whole evening was rather an uneasy one, for neither Isabell nor Katie was quite sure about their mother's reception of this somewhat startling intelligence.

Katie was shy of going homeshrank from being the first to tell the events of the day; and the good elder sister arranged for her that Willie should take farewell of his betrothed now, and leave her at Kilbrachmont, himself hurrying down to be at the Milton before the hour of domestic worship should finally close the house against visitors, there to address his suit to the miller and the miller's wife.

"Ye'll see us gaun down the Firth the morn, Katie," said Willie Morison, as she stood with him at the door, to bid him farewell. "I'll gar them hoist a flag at the mainmast, to let you ken it's me; and dinna let down your heart, for we'll only be six mouths away. We'll come in with the summer, Katie."

"And suppose ye didna come in with the summer, what for should I let down my heart?" asked the saucy Katie, sufficiently recovered to show some gleam of her ancient temper.

"If ane was to believe ye," murmured the departing mate. "Weel, it's your way; but ye'll mind us sometimes, Katie, when ye look at the Firth ?"

In that pale sky, wading among its black masses of clouds, the moon had risen, and faintly now was glimmering far away in the distant water, which the accustomed eyes could just see, and no more.

"Maybe," answered Katie Stewart, as she turned back to the threshold

Little Katie thrust her chair back of Kilbrachmont.

CHAPTER XVI.

It is early morning-a fresh bright day, full of bracing, healthful sunshine, as unlike yesterday as so near a relative could be, and the sky is blue over Kellie Law, and the clouds now, no longer black and drifting, lie motionless, entranced and still, upon their boundless sea. Over night there has been rain, and the roadside grass and the remaining leaves glitter and twinkle in the sun. As you go down this quiet road, you hear the tinkling of unseen waters-a burn somewhere, running with filled and freshened current, shining under the sun; and there is scarcely wind enough to impel the glistening leaves, as they fall, a yard from their parent tree.

With the crimson plaid upon her arm, and the lace of her black silk mantle softly fluttering over the renewed glory of the cambric ruffles, Katie Stewart goes lightly down the road on her way home. The sun has dried this sandy path, so that it does no injury to the little handsome silver-buckled shoes, which twinkle over it, though their meditative mistress, looking down upon them, is all unaware of the course they take. Ranger, from whom she has just parted, stands at the corner of the Doocot Park, looking after her with friendly admiring eyes, and only prevented by an urgent sense of duty from accompanying her through all the dangers of her homeward road; but little Katie, who never looks back-whose thoughts all travel before her, good Ranger, and who has not one glance to spare for what is behind-thinks of neither danger nor fatigue in the sunny four miles of way which lie between her and the Milton of Anster. Very soon three of those miles-through long sweeping quiet roads, disturbed only by an occasional sluggish cart, with its driver seated on its front, or errant fisherwoman with a laden creel penetrating on a commercial voyage into the interior-glide away under the little glancing feet, and Katie has come in sight of the brief steeple of Pittenweem, and the broad Firth beyond.

Stray down past the fisher-houses,

Katie Stewart-past the invalided boats the cauldrons of bark-the fisher girls at those open doors weaving nets-down to the shore of this calm sea. Now you are on "the braes," treading the thin-bladed sea-side grass; and when you see no schooner, lifting up snow-white sails in the west, your musing eyes glance downward-down those high steep cliffs to the beautiful transparent water, with its manifold tints, through which you see the shelves of rock underneath, brilliant, softened, as yesterday your own eyes were, through tears unshed and sweet.

At your feet, but far below them, the water comes in with a continual ripple, which speaks to you like a voice; and for the first time-the first time, Katie Stewart, in all these eighteen years-there comes into your mind the reality of that great protecting care which fills the world. Between you and the Bass, the great Firth lies at rest; not calm enough to be insensible to that brisk breath of wind which flutters before you your black laced apron, but only sufficiently moved to show that it lives, and is no dead inland lake. But yonder, gleaming out of the universal blue, is the May, with the iron cradle almost visible on the top of its steep tower; the May-the lighthouse islandtelling of dangers hidden under those beautiful waves, of storms which shall stir this merry wind into frenzy, and out of its smiling schoolboy pranks bring the tragic feats of a revengeful giant. Ah, Katie Stewart! look again with awe and gravity on this treacherous, glorious sea. To watch one's dearest go forth upon it; to trust one's heart and hope to the tender mercies of this slumbering Titan ;— there comes a shudder over the slight figure as it stoops forward, and one solitary child's sob relieves the labouring breast; and then little Katie lifts her head, and looks to the sky.

The sky, which continually girdles in this grand tumultuous element, and binds it, Titan as it is, as easily as a mother binds the garments of her child. Forth into God's care, Katie! into the great waters which lie en

closed within the hollow of His hand. Away under His sky-away upon this sea, His mighty vassal, than whom your own fluttering fearful heart is less dutiful, less subordinate — fear not for your wanderer. Intermediate protection, secondary help, shall leave him, it is true; but safest of all is the Help over all, and he goes forth into the hand of God.

But still there is no sail visible up the Firth, except here and there a fishing-boat, or passing smack, and Katie wanders on-on, till she has reached the Billy Ness, a low green headland slightly projecting into the Firth, and sees before her the black rocks, jutting far out into the clear water, and beyond them Anster harbour, with its one sloop loading at the pier.

Now look up, Katie Stewart! yonder it glides, newly emerged from the deep shadow of Largo Bay, bearing close onward by the coast, that the captain's wife in Elie, and here, on the Billy Ness, little Katie Stewart, may see it gliding by-gliding with all its sails full to the wind, and the flag floating from the mast. And yonder, on the end of the pier-but you do not see them-Alick Morison and a band of his comrades are waiting, ready to wave their caps, and hail her with a cheer as she goes by. There is some one on the yard; bend over by this brown rock, Katie Stewart, that he may see your crimson plaid, and, seeing it, may uncover that broad manly brow of his, and cheer you with his waving hand: but it will only feebly flutter that handkerchief in yours, and away and away glides the departing ship. Farewell.

It is out of sight, already touching the stronger currents of the German sea; and Alick Morison long ago is home, and the sun tells that it is full noon. But Katie's roused heart has spoken to the great Father; out of her sorrowful musings, and the tears of her first farewell, she has risen up to speak-not the vague forms of usual prayer-but some real words in the merciful ear which hears continually; -real words-a true supplication and so she turns her face homeward, and goes calmly on her way.

And she is still only a girl; her beart is comforted. In these seafaring

places such partings are everyday matters; and as she leaves the shore, and crosses the high-road, Katie fancies she sees him home again, and is almost glad. But it is full noonday, Katie-look up to the skies, and tremble; for who can tell how angry the house-mother will be when you have reached home?

Yonder is the Milton already visible; ten brief minutes and the bridge will be crossed: hastily down upon this great stone Katie throws the crimson plaid — the precious Sabbath-day's plaid, never deposited in receptacle less dignified than the oak-press-and solemnly, with nervous fingers, pauses on the burnside to "turn her apron."

A grave and potent spell, sovereign for disarming the anger of mothers, when, at town-house ball, winter evening party, or summer evening tryst, the trembling daughter has stayed too long; but quite ineffectual the spell would be, Katie, if only Mrs Stewart knew or could see how you have thrown down the crimson plaid.

Over the fire, hanging by the crook, the pot boils merrily, while Janet covers the table for dinner, and Merran, at the end of the room, half invisible, is scrubbing chairs and tables with enthusiasm and zeal. All this work must be over before the gudeman comes in from the mill, and Merran's cheeks glow as red as the sturdy arm, enveloped in wreaths of steam from her pail, with which she polishes the substantial deal chairs.

Mrs Stewart herself sits by the fire in the easy-chair, knitting. There is some angry colour on the little housemother's face; and Katie, with penitent, humble steps, crossing the bridge, can hear the loud indignant sound of her wires as she labours. Drooping her head, carrying the crimson plaid reverently over her arm, as if she never could have used it disrespectfully, and casting shy, deprecating, appealing glances upward to her mother's face, Katie, downcast and humble, stands on the threshold of the Milton.

A single sympathetic glance from Janet tells her that she has at least one friend; but no one speaks a word to welcome her. Another stealthy timid step, and she is fairly in; but still neither mother nor sister ex

press themselves conscious of her pre

sence.

Poor little Katie ! her breast begins to heave with a sob, and thick tears gather to her eyes, as nervously her fingers play with the lace of her turned apron-the artless, innocent, ineffectual spell! She could have borne, as she thinks, any amount of "flyting;" but this cruel silence kills her.

Another apprehensive trembling step, and now Katie stands between her mother and the window, stationary, in this same downcast drooping attitude, like a pretty statue, the crimson plaid draped over her arm, her fingers busy with the lace, and nothing else moving about her but her eyelids, which now and then are hastily lifted in appeal.

Very well was Mrs Stewart aware of Katie's entrance before, but now the shadow falls across her busy hands, and she can no longer restrain -not even by biting her lips-the eager flood of words which burn to discharge themselves upon the head of the culprit.

So Mrs Stewart laid down her work in her lap, and crossing her hands, looked sternly and steadily in the face of the offender. Tremblingly Katie's long eyelashes drooped under this gaze, and her lip began to quiver, and the tears to steal down on her cheek; while up again, up through the heaving breast, climbed the child's sob.

"Wha's this braw lady, Janet? I'm sure it's an honour to our puir house I never lookit for. Get a fine napkin out of the napery press, and dight a chair-maybe my lady will sit doun."

"Oh mother, mother!" sobbed little Katie.

"So this is you, ye little cuttie !—— and how daur ye look me in the face?" Katie had not been looking in her mother's face, but now she lifted her eyes bravely, tearful though they were, and returned without flinching the gaze fixed upon her. "Mother! I've done naething wrong."

"Ye've done naething wrong!baud me in patience, that I may not paik her wi' my twa hands! Do ye ca' staying out a' night, out o' my will and knowledge, nae wrang? Do ye say it was nae wrang to spend this precious morning on the Billy Ness,

watching the ship out wi' that ne'erdoweel in't? and sending him himsel, a puir penniless sailor chield, wi'no a creditable friend between this and him-"

"Willie Morison's a very decent lad, mother, and his friends are as gude as ours ony day," said Janet indignantly.

"Haud your peace, ye gipsy! let me hear ye say anither word, and ye shall never see the face of ane of them mair;-to send the like o' him, I say, here on such an errand, after a' the siller that's been spent upon ye, and a' the care-I say how daur ye look me in the face?"

Katie tried another honest look of protest, but again her head drooped under the glowing eyes of her indignant mother.

"And what's she standing there for, to daur me, wi' a' her braws," exclaimed Mrs Stewart, after a considerable interval of silent endurance on Katie's part-" and my guid plaid on her arm, as if it were her ain? My certy, my woman, ye'll need to come in o' your bravery: its few silks or ruffles ye'll get off the wages of a common man. It's like to put me daft when I think o't!"

"He's no a comman man; he's mate this voyage, and he's to be captain the next," interposed Janet, who had a personal interest in the reputation of Willie Morison.

"I order ye, Janet Stewart, to haud your peace: it's a' very weel for the like o' you; but look at her there, and tell me if it's no enough to pit a body daft?"

What is't, mother?" asked the astonished Janet?

And Mrs Stewart dared not telldared not betray her proud hope of seeing Katie "a grand lady" one day -perhaps a countess-so with hasty skill she changed her tone.

"To see her standing there before me, braving me wi' her braws, the cuttie-the undutiful gipsy !—that I should ever say such a word to a bairn o' mine!

Thus admonished, Katie stole away to bathe her eyes with fresh water, and take off her mantle. Out of her mother's presence, a spark of defiance entered her mind. She would not be unjustly treated; she would return to Lady Anne.

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