say but what she once liked me-too well for her own good maybe but that was only when a'thing was over atween you and me. And she be to have soon found out her mistake she bore me no ill-will either. It was through her that I got the first news of you; and she let me see Nellie Ogg's letter. She kent a' about us, ye ken: and it was her constant wish and prayer-almost her last, I understand from what the Mother has since told me, that I might be happy. It was near her last word to me, whatever-and she said, maybe she'd be letten know of it some wye. Ay, she was a real unselfish, good creature, as ever lived.”

"Well, it's like enough, poor thing," Christina said. "But I did not care for her when we was neebors. And are ye quite sure, Edie," (with a slight modification of the length of the first syllable,) "that ye never liket her a bittie, eh ?"

"I suppose I may answer ye in some such fashion as yer own. I did like her sairtainly, always. I'd a great respect for her fro' the first; and the more I saw of her, the more I honoured her as an airnest, good-hearted, unselfish young woman. But for liking in ony other kin' o' wye, ye kenhappens the only body ever I liket in sic a fashion 's nae just that far off-and so, as I dinna believe that they fyow pairsons on the brae yonder," (glancing round at a bit of rising ground between them and the sea,) "has got telescopes

How the sentence was ended, it is needless to say. "That's the last to-night," he said. "I'm just to put ye to the turn of yer own street, eynow. I'm nae willin' to shorten our walk by three steps, but I dinna care to go down Marchant's Brae and have all they old wives teeting at me."

And so they parted, most discreetly, at the turning from one of the principal streets : Christina to seek her humble little attic, and to enjoy to the full by herself the recollection of her happy afternoon; and Edmund Allardyce to pursue his road up the wide granite pavement of the broad main street to his own comfortable, well-appointed bachelor lodgings, with steps as brisk and elastic as though he were not a pairson of some weicht in the world.”

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH THE BROTHERS DIFFER.

WHEN Edmund entered his own quarters he was aware

of a portly presence in his neat parlour : the wellknown brown top-coat on a pair of shoulders broader than his own, filling up the window.

"Hallo, Jemmie! Ye're in good time!"

Fernytofts turned round, by no means responding to the genial greeting.

"Have

ye

been waitin' me long ?"

"Just a quarter o' an hoor, maybe. Fat's this that ye're deein', Eydie?"

"Quhat's what ?" inquired Edmund, in Doric almost as pronounced as his brother's own.

"This that ye've wrot me aboot?"

"This-why that I'm just to do what you and a' my friends has been pleadin' wi' me to do the last eicht years. Ye're come to wish me joy, eh?"

66 Na, not I. I'm come just to try and hold ye, if I can, fra' doin' onything imprudent."

"As far's that goes," said Edmund, rather surprised, but still speaking lightly, "any imprudence that I'm to do's done a'ready, so ye best mak' yerself easy on that score." "Gweedsakes! Ye dinna say ye're mairriet !"

"Fy, no, no, no! nae just that. But we've arranged a'thing atween us this afternoon, aboot the when and the how; more than that, if ye're a party consentin', we've something to ask at ye.”

66

Ye can ask onything ye please, but ye'll alloo me ask a fyow questions for my part-and 'deed, I'll require to know a good deal mair aboot it, afore I give my consent and sanction," said Fernies.

"Your consent and sanction, indeed!" exclaimed Edmund. "It's a new thing to me to find mysel' accoontable to ye. Ye're nae my keeper, awat, Jemmie."

"Na, I ken that. But I hae a feel kin' o' a likin' for ye some wye always, ye see, which mak's me that I'm sweer

to let ye mak' a rash step, and such as may be a sorrow to yerself and yer friends, ever after."

"I don't know what ye're meaning by a 'rash step,' James. I should think I was a'ld enough to ken my ain mind—and she also. It's nothing new ava', either.”

"But fowks files cheenges. I'm no sayin' but ye may have had a kin' o' loon's fancy ance upo' a time, for this crater-"

"Silence!" thundered Edmund, with flashing eyes. "Not even frae you will I thole an insulting word of my promised wife."

“Tchut, tchut, man! dinna flee oot upo' me the like o' yon wye. I dinna see ony great insult, myself. I only would hae ye mind, that ye dinna throw yersel' away for an ideea, like on ene that's nae worthy o' ye. Naething ava' ruins a man like a wrong marriage; if a right ene's the greatest blessing, a bad ene's the heaviest curse, and for a' yer life." "Is that all ye've to say? Because ye may as well save yer breith and yer time."

"Na, faix, it's nae the half. I wad like to ken, when this wonderful findin' cam' aboot, and hoo. Also, in particular, hoo she accoonts for a' this time, that she's been supposed deid. For when a man or woman either's been knockin' aboot at the Anteepodes for a maitter of four year, and deid to a' that kent onything o' them, I dinna think it's ony onreasonable to speer fat they've been deein' wi' theirsel's, before-"

66 Haud yer insolent interferin' tongue, if ye winna hae me put ye doon the stair!" was Edmund's response. He was thoroughly roused now: James Allardyce had never seen his brother in such a passion. He stood his ground, however, unmoved and cool; while Edmund, pale now and really trembling with excitement, after a few moments, apparently trying to collect himself sufficiently to speak, began, grasping the back of a chair with one hand, and enforcing his words by striking the clenched fist of the other on the table :

"Now, ye can just listen to what I've got to say I'll not mak' many word's o't!" he fairly panted with the effort at self-control. "Ye may stand there, and ye may talk if ye will, till this time to-morrow, and I'll no speak back, Heaven helpin' me! But nothin' will mak' ony difference to me.

B B

No one word ye can say will mak' me alter my decision one grain. And if ye're wise ye winna push me. Faith, if it had been ony other but yersel' said the like o' that things, I'd have knocked him down or now!"

"Awat ye winna knock me doon, laddie," said Fernies, coolly—indeed it looked about as easy as knocking down the church tower. "And there's no occasion to raise yersel'. I dinna mean ony disrespec'."

"May be no," said Edmund, with a short contemptuous sniff. "Looks like it. But it winna dee. I'll listen to onything in reason."

"Well, ye'll alloo it's rizzen yer nearest frien's should be anxious to ken aboot the maitter. It's for good that I'm speerin'. Of course if you can satisfee yersel' on these p'ints it's likely ye'll satisfee me."

66

'Satisfy!" repeated Edmund scornfully. "Well I suppose ye're entitled to ask, and if ye do so in a proper manner, I'm willin' enough to answer ye. We've nothin' to hide, whatever! As far's she's consairned, since yon fellow died, she's just been in sairvice as attendant to one lady, whose references she can produce, and whose knowledge of her circumstances agreed with what I know to be facts. With this lady she came home, a fortnight back."

"Only a fortnight ?" said Fernies, half incredulous. "Only a fortnight. Perhaps ye'd like to refair for her character, eh?"

"Well, well. And hoo did ye find her ?"

"I heard her name mentioned—at a shop where she had entered herself for another place-if ye must have it so particularly."

"H'm, exackly. I dinna see onything against that. Or to her former sairvice."

"Ye're unco condescending, sairtainly," said Edmund, who though he had cooled down, was by no means altogether appeased. "Have ye any other thing to say?"

"I suppose I may be alloo'd t' ask if she's onything to depend on-beyond fat she's able to airn."

"She has just her honest savings-that's a'. That husband o' hers left her pretty well penniless, after her passage and his last accounts were settled. But I'm nae carin' a hair-in fac', I'd sooner it was so. I wouldn't have cared

to have touched a farthin' o' that scamp's gains; and for the good honest portion she got fra' a'ld Braeheid, it was a' squandered, I ken fine, long and long ago. ain bonnie self I'd rather want the money. I've plenty for both."

So's I get her Thank Heaven

"And noo, Eydie-dinna rage upon me. Div ye think she lo❜es ye for yersel'—or is't just the 'bonnie banknot's' ?"

"Ye best ask that at her. Ay, ask her what she can possibly see in such a muckle o'ergrown chap, unless his money, that should mak' her willin' to marry him!"

“Well, well,” said Fernies, "ye've somethin' to say to a'thing. And hoo's her health now? for by what ye said, she be to a' been near dyin' ?”

"Her health's as good as it ever was, I'm thankful to say: and she's not any changed in the appearance-just as fresh and bonnie as ony young lass might be."

"Fat's her age, then ?"

"Close upo' thirty. She's five years younger than myself. And now, is the catechism at an end? for I begin to think we've had near enough o't. What will ye take? I've been ower long without offerin' ye bit or sup."

"Nothin'-eh no, thank ye," as Edmund would have rung the bell. "I've detained ye ower long, I doubt, but I was just so anxious. Yon colonies is queer places by a' 'at I've iver haird—sic a lot o' coorse fowk, miners and bushrangers and the like—and she been left a' her lane so long, she mith a' had half a dizzen o' husbands i' the time, for aucht I was to ken!"

"Ye've a right notion o' my wisdom, and morality too, whatever!" said Edmund. "However, I believe ye've meaned it for good, Jemmie. I hope you're satisfeed now."

"Of course, if a's correct aboot the young woman, and ye're pleased wi' her, it's nae for me to say a word. Of course, whether I think her a'thegither worthy o' ye, or no, disna maitter-time will pruv. She's treated ye bad eneuch ance in her life, and a't she can dee winna be ower muckle to mak' up for't, awat."

"And awat she's real anxious to mak' it up," Edmund said. "Deed, Jemmie, she's far frae the giddy thochtless girl she She's seen a heap o' trouble, and been sair left

once was.