boy began to whimper, and to appeal to Lady Anne; but Lady Anne, in awe and admiration, looked on and interfered not, fervently believing

that never before had there been such a union of brilliant qualities as now existed in the person of Katie Stewart.

"But what makes Lady Janet greet?" Katie could not answer the question to her own satisfaction.

Poor Lady Janet! A certain Sir Robert had been for a year or two a constant visitor at Kellie; his residence was at no great distance; and he had lost no opportunity of recommending himself to the quiet, intense Janet Erskine. He was a respectable, average man; handsome enough, clever enough, attractive enough, to make his opportunities abundantly sufficient for his purpose; and for a while Lady Janet had been very happy. But then the successful Sir Robert began to be less assiduous, to come seldom, to grow cold; and Janet drooped and grew pale uncomplainingly, refusing, with indignation, to confess that anything had grieved her. The Earl had not noticed the progress of this affair, and now knew no reason for his daughter's depressed spirits and failing health; while Lady Betty, sadly observing it all, thought it best to take no open notice, but rather to encourage her sister to overcome an inevitable sorrow.

But the Lady Erskine, Lordie's widowed mother, thought and decided differently. At present she was rather a supernumerary, unnecessary person in Kellie; for Lady Betty's judicious and firm hand held the reins of government, and left her sister-in-law very little possibility of interference. This disappointment of Janet's was quite a godsend for Lady Erskineshe took steps immediately of the most peremptory kind.

For hints, and even lectures, had no effect on Sir Robert, when she applied them. Less and less frequent became his visits-paler and paler grew the cheeks of Janet, and Lady Erskine thought she was perfectly justified in her coup-de-main.

So she wrote to an honourable military Erskine, who, knowing very little about his younger sister, did perfectly agree with his brother's

VOL. LXXII.-NO. CCCCXLI.

widow, that a good settlement for Janet was exceedingly desirable, and that an opportunity for securing it was by no means to be neglected. She wrote he came, and with him the crisis of Janet Erskine's fate.

For the faithless Sir Robert and the belligerent brother had some privateconversation; and thereafter Sir Robert sought his forsaken lady, and, by his changed manner, revived for a little her drooping heart; but then a strange proposal struck harshly on Lady Janet's ear. Her brother hadinterfered. To escape from his interference, Sir Robert proposed that their long-delayed marriage should be hurried-immediate-secret; and that she should leave Kellie with him that very night, "that there may be no collision between your brother and myself." Fatal words these were, and they sank like so many stonesinto Janet Erskine's heart.

And for this the little loud spoiled Lordie had seen her weeping-for this, Katie had observed those terrible sobs. The poor fated Lady Janet!thus compelled to take the cold and reluctant hand which only under compulsion was offered to her, now feeling more than ever that the heart was lost. To elope too-to mock the wild expedient of passion with these hearts of theirs-the one iced over with indifference, the other paralysed with misery. It was a sad fate.

And if she hesitated-if she re-fused-then, alas! to risk the life of the belligerent brother-the life of the cold Sir Robert-to lose the life of one. So there was no help or rescue for her, wherever she looked; and, with positive anguish throbbing in her heart, she prepared for her flight.

It is late at night, and Katie Stewart is very wakeful, and cannot rest. Through her little window look the stars, severe and pale, for the sky is frosty, clear, and cold. Katie has lain long, turning to meet those unwearying eyes her own wide open

C

wakeful ones, and feeling very eerie, and just a little afraid-for certainly there are steps in that gallery without, though all the house has been hushed and at rest for more than one long hour.

So, in a sudden paroxysm of fear, which takes the character of boldness, Katie springs from her little bed, and softly opens the door. There are indeed steps in the gallery, and Katie, from her dark corner, sees two stealthy figures creeping towards the stair, from the door of Lady Janet's room. But Katie's fright gradually subsides, and melts into wonder, as she perceives that Bauby Rodger, holding a candle in her hand, and walking with such precaution as is dreadful to see, goes first, and that it is quite impossible to prevent these heavy steps of hers from making some faint impression on the silence.

And behind her, holding up with fingers which tremble sadly the heavy folds of that long riding-skirt, is not that Lady Janet? Very sad, as if her heart were breaking, looks Lady Janet's face; and Katie sees her cast wistful, longing glances towards the closed door of Lady Betty's room. Alas! for there peacefully, with grave sweet thoughts, unfearing for the future, untroubled for the past, reposes the bride who shall go forth with honour on the morrow; while here, with her great grief in her face, feeling herself guilty, forsaken, wishing nothing so much as to close her eyes this night for ever, pauses her innocent unhappy sister-a bride also, and a fugitive.

And so the two figures disappear down the stair. Cold, trembling, and afraid, Katie pauses in her corner. But now the gallery is quite dark, and she steals into her room again, where at least there are always the stars looking in unmoved upon her vigils; but it is a very restless night for Katie.

Very early, when the April morning has not fairly dawned, she is up again. Still interested, still_curious, eager to discover what ails Lady Janet, and where she has gone.

The hall below is quite still; no one is yet up in the castle, important as this day is; and Katie steals down the great staircase, on a vague mis

sion of investigation. Upon a little table in the hall, under those huge antlers which frown so ghost-like in the uncertain morning light, stands the candlestick which Bauby Rodger carried last night; and, as Katie's curiosity examines the only tangible sign that what she saw was real, and not a dream, and sees that the candle in it has burnt down to the socket and wasted away, she hears a step behind her-although Katie recoils with some fear when she beholds again the omnipresent Bauby.

"What gars ye rise sae early?" exclaimed Bauby, with some impatience. "It's no your common way, Katie Stewart. Eh me! eh me! added the faithful servant of Kellie, looking at the candlestick, and wringing her great hands.

แ

What ails ye, Bauby?"

"It's been loot burn down to the socket-and it's a' my wyte! Gude forgie me!-how was I to mind a' thing? The light's burnt out; but ye dinna ken what that means. And what gars ye look at me, bairn, wi' sic reproachfu' een ? ”

"What does't mean, Bauby? asked Katie Stewart.

"It's the dead of the house-this auld house of Kellie," said Bauby mournfully. "When a light's loot waste down to the socket, and die of itsel', it's an emblem of the house. The race maun dwine away like the light, and gang out in darkness. Oh that it hadna been my blame!"

"But Bauby, I couldna sleep last night, and I saw ye. Where were ye taking Lady Janet?"

"The bairn's in a creel," said Bauby, starting. "Me take Lady Janet ony gate! It's no my place."

66

Ay, but ye were, though,' repeated Katie; " and she lookit sweard, sweard to gang."

"Weel, weel, she bid to gang; ye'll hear the haill story some time," said Bauby, lifting her apron to her eyes. "That I should be the ane to do this-me that have eaten their bread this mony a day-that it should be my blame!

And Bauby, with many sighs, lifted away the unfortunate candlestick.

They went up stairs together to the west room, where Bauby began to break up the "gathered" fire for

Katie's benefit, lamenting all the time, under her breath," that it should be me!" At last she sat down on the carpet, close to the hearth, and again wrung her great hands, and wiped a tear from either eye.

"There's naething but trouble in this world," sighed Bauby; and what is to be, maun be; and lamenting does nae good."

"But, Bauby, where's Lady Janet?" asked little Katie.

Bauby did not immediately answer. She looked into the glowing caverns of the newly awakened fire, and sighed again.

"Whisht, Miss Katie," said Bauby Rodger," there's naething but trouble every place, as I was saying. Be thankful ye're only a bairn."

But indeed the little curious palpitating heart could be anything but thankful, and rather beat all the louder with eagerness and impatience to enter these troubles for itself.

That day was a day full of excitement to all in Kellie, household and guests, and anything but a happy one. Many tears in the morning, when they discovered their loss-a cloud and shadow upon the following ceremony, which Katie wonderingly, and with decided secret antagonism, and a feeling of superiority, saw performed by a surpliced Scottish bishop; and a dreary blank at night, when, all the excitement over, those who were left felt the painful void of the two vacant places. But the day passed, and the next morning rose very drearily; so Katie, glad to escape from the dim atmosphere of Kellie, put on the new gown which Lady Betty had given her, with cambric ruffles at the sleeves, and drew her long gloves over her arms, and put her little ruffled hooded black silk mantle above all; and with shoes of blue morocco, silver buckled, on her little feet, went away to Kellie Mill to see her mother.

Down the long avenue, out through that coroneted gate; and the road now is a very commonplace country road, leading you by and by through the village of Arncreoch. This village has very little to boast of. The houses are all thatched, and of one story, and stand in long shabby parallel rows, on each side of the little

street. No grass, nor flowers, nor other component of pretty cottages, adorns these habitations. Each has a kailyard at the back, it is true; but the aspect of that is very little more delightful than this rough causeway, with its dubs in front. A very dingy little primitive shop, where is sold everything, graces one side, and at the other is the Kellie Arms. Children tumble about at every open door; and through many of the uncurtained windows you see a loom; for Arncreoch is a village of weavers, on which the fishing towns on the coast, and the rural people about it, look down with equal contempt. Little Katie, in her cambric ruffles and silk mantle, rustles proudly through the plebeian village; and, as she daintily picks her steps with those resplendent shoes of hers, remembers, with a blush of shame, that it had been thought possible that she should marry a weaver!

But no weaver is this young rural magnate who overtakes her on the road. It is Philip Landale, a laird, though his possessions are of no great size, and he himself farms them. He is handsome, young, well-mannered, and a universal favourite; but little Katie's face flushes angrily when he addresses her, for he speaks as if she were a child.

And Katie feels that she is no child; that already she is the best dancer in the parish, and could command partners innumerable; not to speak of having begun to taste, in a slight degree, the delights of flirtation. So Katie scorns, with her whole heart, the good-humoured condescension of young Kilbrachmont.

But he is going to Kellie Mill, and the young coquette has to walk with dignity, and with a certain disdain, which Landale does not notice, being little interested in the same, by his side. Softly yonder rises Kellie Law, softly, rounded by the white clouds which float just over the head of the green gentle hill; and there the long range of his lower brethren steal off to the west, where Balcarras Craig guards them with his bold front, and clothes his breast with foliage, to save him from the winds. There is nothing imposing in the scene; but it is fine, and fresh, and fruitful-vivid with the young verdure of the spring.

But you look at your blue morocco shoes, little Katie, with their silver buckles glancing in the sun, and settle your mantle over the white arm which shines through its black lace glove, and have no eyes for the country; and Philip Landale strikes down the thistles on the roadside, with the

heavy end of the whip he carries, and smiles good-humouredly, and does not know what to say; and now on this rough, almost impassable road, worn into deep ruts by the carts which constantly come and go, bringing gain to the miller, they have come in sight of Kellie Mill.

Isabell Stewart is nineteen now, and one of the beauties of Fife. Her eyes and her hair are darker than Katie's, her graceful figure a little taller, her manner staid and grave, as it used to be when she was a child; and though every one speaks kindly of Isabell, and she is honoured with consideration and respect more than belong to her years, she seems to lack the power, somehow, of grasping and holding fast the affection of any. Isabell has no young friendsno wooers thoughtful, gentle, serious, she goes about alone, and still in her heart there is the old sad consciousness, the old vague yearning for dearer estimation than falls to her lot. She does not envy any one, nor grudge her little sister Katie the universal love which attends her; but Isabell thinks she is incapable of creating this longed-for affection, and sometimes in quiet places, over this thought, sheds solitary tears.

Janet's looks, too, have improved; still heavier, thicker, and less graceful than her sisters, Janet, in her ruddy, boisterous health, is a rural belle-has already, now being seventeen, troops of "joes," and rather triumphs over the serious Isabell. The beauties of the Milton, the three are called; and they deserve the title.

The house door is open. Without any intervention of hall or passage, this straightforward door introduces you to the family apartment, which is no parlour, but a kitchen, tolerably sized, extending the whole length of the house. It is the afternoon, and everything looks well-ordered and "redd up," from the glittering plates and china which you see through the open doors of the oak "aumrie" in the corner, to the white apron and shining face of Merran, the servant at the Mill. The apartment has a window at each

end a small greenish window of thick glass, which sadly distorts the world without when you look through. But it is very seldom that any one looks through, for the door is almost always open, admitting the pure daylight and unshadowed sun.

At the further window Janet stands before a clean deal table, making cakes -oat-cakes, that is; for all manufactured of wheaten flour are scones or bannocks. Janet has a special gift for this craft, and her gown is still tucked up, and so are her sleeves, that the ruddy round arms may be used with more freedom. The girdle is on the bright fire, and Merran superintends the baking, moving almost incessantly between the fireplace and the table. Much talk, not in the lowest tone, is carried on between Merran and Janet. They are decidedly more familiar than Mrs Stewart approves.

At the other window the staid Isabell sits knitting stockings. Now and then you hear her, in her quiet voice, saying something to her mother, who bustles in and out, and keeps up a floating stream of remark, reproof, and criticism on everything that is going on. But Isabell takes little part in Janet's conversation: a slight cloud shades her brow sometimes, indeed, as the long laugh from the other end of the room comes harshly on her ear; for these two sisters are little like each other.

It is again a great woollen stocking which Isabell knits; and fastened to her waist is a little bunch of feathers, which she calls her "sheath," and in which she secures her wire. Her gown is made of dark-striped linen, open in front, with a petticoat of the same material appearing below; and of the same material is the apron, neatly secured about her round slen

der waist. Her soft brown hair is bound with a ribbon just a little darker than itself, and her eyes are cast down upon her work, so that you cannot perceive how dark their blue has grown, until, suddenly startled by a voice without, she lifts them to throw a hurried glance towards the door, where even now appears the little splendid Katie, with Philip Landale and his riding-whip close behind.

Over Isabell's lip there escapes a half-audible sigh. Little Katie, then, is first with Philip Landale too.

"And were ye at the marriage, bairn?" inquired Mrs Stewart; "and was't awfu' grand ?—and how did the prelatic minister do?

"And eh, Katie!" exclaimed Janet, pressing forward with her mealy hands, "what a' had Lady Betty on?"

"She had on a grand gown, a' trimmed wi' point-lace, and a white satin petticoat, and the grandest spangles and gum-flowers on her train; but oh, mother," said little Katie, "Lady Janet's run away!"

"Run away! What are ye meaning, ye monkey?" said Mrs Stewart. "The night before last, when it was dark, and a'body in their beds, I saw Lady Janet gang down through the gallery, out of her ain room; and she had on her riding-skirt, and was looking awfu' white, like as if her heart would break; and no lang after the haill house was up, and she was away."

"Keep me ! — the night before her sister was married! Was she in her right mind, think ye?" said Mrs Stewart.

"Had she cast out with them? Where would she go, Katie?" said Isabell.

"Eh, wha did she rin away with?" asked the experienced Janet.

"It was with Sir Robert. She's married now, mother, as well as Lady Betty," said Katie; "but I dinna think she was glad."

Janet laughed, but no one else ventured to join her.

"Glad! it would ill set her, leaving her faither's house in such a like manner. Gae way to your baking, Janet, ye haverel," said Mrs Stewart. "My certy, Katie, lass, but you're a

laird.

"Eh, Kilbrachmont, haud your peace, and dinna pit havers in their heads. There's plenty pride in the nature o' them, without helping't out wi' flattery. Beauties o' the Milton, said he! I mind twa lassies anceay, just mysel and Maisdry, my sister, if ye will hae't, Katie-that were as weel-favoured as ever stood in your shoon; and didna want folk to tell us that, either, ony mair than our neighbours; but ne'er a body beautied

us."

"No for want o' will," insinuated and if they the young yeoman; ca'ed ye not beauty, it might be because they had a bonnier word."

"Weel, I'll no say," said the little comely house-mother, with a slight elevation of her head. "Sit down to the wheel, Katie, and gie it a ca' the time I'm in the aumrie. What's to come of this lassie, I ken not; for ne'er a decent-like thing is she learned to do. Na, Lady Anne hersel is never held in such idleset; and what will ye do, ye monkey, if ye ever get a man and a house of your ain?"

"I'll gar him keep maids to me, and buy me bonnie things," retorted little Katie, taking her seat at the wheel.

Keep maids to ye? Set ye up! If ye're e'en as weel off as your mother was before ye, I'll say it's mair than ye've ony right to expect; for I'll wad ye a pair of new ruffles, I was worth half-a-dizzen hired women the first day I steppit on my ain hearthstane, baith to my man and mysel; and ye'll ne'er be worthy o' the like o'