Isie read and wondered, scarcely able to believe her own eyes. What was the meaning of it? surely it was a mistake or a joke, for who could consider her the "Flower of Rannaside," and so, why was it sent to her? She was far too modest to apply the verses to herself in the first instance; and when she began to unravel the application her feeling was rather that of shame than of gratification. It was so much too good, too beautiful for her! And who could "Aleph" be? Then as she thought it over, she remembered having heard that " Aleph" at the head of the 119th Psalm meant the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet-the letter A, in short. And for Isie the letter A had but one meaning to all intents and purposes.

Who could have sent poor despised Isie a valentine, except Mr. Allardyce? Who else knew about her and her playing? that was what was meant by "sweeping the sounding keys"-a most grand description of poor Isie's humble performances or would be likely to think what her hair and eyes were like? True, the handwriting was not quite like his usual style; but what more natural than that the sender of a valentine should disguise his hand? And there were some little discrepancies in the allusions; but then it was poetry, and in Isie's idea that accounted for everything. It was of course owing to the preoccupied state of her mind that she could see or think of no one in the world but Mr. Allardyce at the same time she knew of no one at all likely to send her a valentine-such a valentine, at any

rate.

She could not make up her mind to show it to her father. He was too fond already of making inuendoes that wounded her sensibility now; and she felt unable to face the rallying he would be sure to bestow upon her. So she locked it up in her little writing-case: but it was read and re-read, in odd moments, until she knew it by heart. She only felt doubly shy of confronting Edmund Allardyce afterwards; and rarely opened her lips to him, if they met out of church. He, on the other hand, was just the same as ever: only most supremely unconscious, apparently, of his wonderful poetical effusion.

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH MR. ADAM'S WATCH STOPS.

EASTER was rather late that year; so that Isie had a

good many weeks before her in which to prepare herself for her approaching Confirmation.

Nothing more of any consequence happened to disturb her mind after the reception of the mysterious verses; until one Sunday in Lent she was surprised, on the choir entering the chancel, at the unexpected apparition amongst their number of Mr. Adam.

The sight of him gave her quite a start, as it flashed upon her how completely she had forgotten him. The events of the past few months seemed to have driven the recollection of last summer entirely out of her mind; and, to say the truth, poor Mr. Adam's assiduous practisings had left very little lasting impression upon her.

She was a little taken aback when, after the morning service, he came after her to shake hands very warmly, and to inquire tenderly after the health of Mr. Donald : then adding, that he should do himself the pleasure of stepping in to call for him in the afternoon. He was only come out for the Sunday, he said, just because he was thinking so long to know how his friends at Inverranna were keeping, and also for a little change to himself; his business was very pressing, kept him very much tied down-he had never been able to get away since he left till then, and—by this time they had reached Isie's home, and Mr. Adam began shaking hands again. Did Miss Donald ever take a walk of a Sunday afternoon?

No, Isie said, she could not leave her father between services, as they kept her so much away on Sundays; whereupon Mr. Adam looked rather disappointed, but said, “Well, I'll just call in aboot by-and-by and see Mester Donald, whatever," and went in at the door of Mr. Allardyce's lodging, where he was staying.

So Mr. Adam "called in aboot" in the afternoon, and sat for a long time in old Donald's parlour, and discoursed in

his mournful, languid tones on many commonplace subjects. Indeed he stayed on till service-time; and, rather to Isie's displeasure, escorted her back to church.

The Sunday over, she hoped she had seen the last of him, as he had said he must return to town next day. She was therefore rather disappointed when on Monday forenoon he calmly walked into the shop.

"How do you do, Miss Donald? Is Mester Donald in ?"

"He's just ben the hoose.

Were ye wantin' him ?"

"Ay, I want him to be as kind's sort my watch. She's stoppit sin' two a'clock this mornin'. And I never knew her do so much before,” added Mr. Adam, quite triumphantly, as if this performance on the part of his watch was something especially praiseworthy.

Isie summoned her father, who was quite ready to begin the job at once. He set to work of course in the front shop, where he had most light; and Isie left them together, glad to slip away "ben" to her sewing. Hardly had she set her wheels in motion, however, before Mr. Adam followed her, and seated himself, uninvited, on a chair beside her.

Mr. Adam's appearance and deportment this morning were not more lively than usual. His hair wanted cutting, but that was nothing new his face, Isie thought, was rather more pale and doleful, and his general appearance more dingy than formerly. He sat for some few minutes silent, his arms resting on his knees, looking before him, while Isie went on with her work at length feeling as if she were treating him very unceremoniously, she said,

"I'm sorry ye're detained so long, Mr. Adam.”

"'Deed, I'm no just that sorry, Miss Donald," said Mr. Adam, intently regarding his finger-nails.

And then he drew himself up and leant down again, and made various little nervous movements. At length apparently summoning up a good deal of resolution, he asked,

"Did ever ye get a valentine, Miss Donald ?"

How Isie started! the colour rushed all over her face with sheer vexation and shame, as she answered low and quietly,

"I did. But I never rightly knew who sent it."
"Ye didna? Ye might have had a guess, may be."
Isie was silent from utter dismay.

"Vera well, Miss Donald, I may's well just tell ye it was mysel'. And I'm just here to say the very same as I said— as I tried, that is, to express in that poor lines-and I do assure ye sin' iver I left Inverranna last summer, I've just been thinkin' of ye steady, day and night, and couldna get rest-for needin' to tell ye, Miss Donald, ye're just mair to me than a' the worruld, an' gin ye would say just ae kind word to me, I'd work night and day for ye, till I could just offer ye a home that I could think was some worthy o' ye, forbye the truest affection of my heart which ye have a'ready-now?"

"O pray, Mr. Adam, dinna speak that wye to me !" "Eh, Miss Donald, ye're nae angry?"

Angry, no, but I'm right sorry. I canna, indeed I canna listen till ye."

"And why for no? Could ye no like me than? 'Deed I think we would agree fine. We've the same tastes, I ken, and the same religion, have-na we? for Allardyce tells me ye've joined the Church noo, a'thegither—and ye ken I'm a Churchman born and bred, and was aye brocht up in Catholic principles, ye ken—and sae I dinna see what wye we shouldna be happy every way."

"Ye're very kind indeed, Mr. Adam, and ye do me too much honour. But pray, pray spare me, and dinna say mair, for I canna listen."

ye

"Canna listen? Naw, but why? Ye're nae promiseddinna tell me?"

"No, I'm nae promised, though I dinna see 't I'm needin' to speak o't. But I canna say ony ither thing to ye, Mr. Adam-'deed it's the truth."

"But it canna be-it mus'na be !" Poor Mr. Adam was very nearly crying now. "Ye're nae pittin' me awa' without one kind word-just one wee wordie of hope and comfort. I winna ask for mair, eynow! Ye'll kill me a'thegither. I'm nae vera strong, and I'll just break my hairt. Isie-it's Isie they ca' ye-dinna pit me awa' without one word of hope. Aw, dinna." And the poor man fell on his knees beside her and seized her hand. "Aw, dinna!"

G

Just at this moment the door opened from the outer shop and old Donald's head looked in.

"She's gya'an reet noo, and set to the correc'-Eh! fat's adee, min, fat's adee? Fat are ye sayin' t' Isie ?"

THE

CHAPTER IV.

A CONFIDENCE IN THE OFFICE.

HERE they were when the old man broke in upon them. Isie had risen to her feet and stood before her sewing-machine, flushed, but stern and dignified: Mr. Adam kneeling before her, holding her hand in silent entreaty.

"Fat's a' this aboot, Isie?"

"I've told Mr. Adam, father, I canna listen till him. I think we'd best pit a stop to this. Perhaps if ye was to tell him, father, he's better to be away," said Isie, in despair. Mr. Adam had now risen, and stood looking most melancholy.

"If Mester Donald would speak ae word-ye dinna objec' to me, sir, I hope? I love your daughter with all my heart, but she winna let me say it, but indeed I think I could make her happy one day."

"Eh! I've nae objections to ye, man, but ye've come ower late, I'm thinkin'."

"Late! but Miss Donald's nae promised."

"Eh na, she's nae promised. But I canna accoont for the lasses. She's just needin' to please hersel', for she winna gae wi' me," the old man wound up with a grunt.

"It's real crool," said Mr. Adam, with something very like a sob. "Hooever, Miss Donald, I'll just bid ye good-bye in the meantime. May be ye'll think it ower—and I'll be back a little efter hin', and see ye again. I've spoke till ye ower sudden, may be."

"I

"Deed, it isna that," said poor Isie, almost crying, for it was very painful to her to send him away like this. should be doing real wrong if I was lettin' ye away with that