TH

CHAPTER XII.

WHAT HE SAID TO HIMSELF.

HERE was such a welcome that evening at Fernytofts! Mary Allardyce stood at the yard-gate, her smooth dark hair uncovered, a small red tartan shawl round her shoulders the only piece of bright colour in her otherwise sober dress--looking out, in the frosty afternoon, as the gig with "blue" Pollie came in sight. She had put the baby to bed, and the other children stood at the door, judiciously disposed in the background: under strict orders from their mother to "keep out over, for their uncle wouldna be able to dee wi' din for a long whilie yet." She was a goodly sight to look on as she stepped forward with a smiling welcome : and no less pleasant was it to hear her husband call out to her, as he pulled up : "Here's him safe and soond, at last, Meary! Come awa' and tak' him in, and tak' gweed care o' him, for I doubt he's a bittie tired."

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"He be to be that," said Mrs. Allardyce, giving him the help of her two strong hands to dismount. Well, Eydie, I'm just that happy to see ye, I couldn't tell ye! Eh, ye're real cold-like! Come ben, come ben to the fire."

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Ay, hist ye, and tak' him in. It's gaan to frost the night. Gae in aboot, Eydie, and I'se follow syne. I maun have a look to the mare." And, feeling rather bewildered, and not a little tottering, Edmund obeyed, thankfully accepting the arm of his stately sister-in-law, who was half a head taller than himself. She drew him in to the fire, and gradually unwrapped him, and gave him a prime cup of hot tea, for he was chilly with the long sitting in the frosty air, and his teeth chattered as he stood. And when Fernies came in, he insisted on the cup of tea being supplemented by a "glass of fuskey"- "being the wye that he is and nae awa' fra' doctors' hands, properly speakin'," the good man urged.

Of course they knew better than to keep him up long, talking. He was very tired, there was no doubt; and so they were not long in walking him off to his room-the best spare room which the farm-house afforded, prepared with

all the care and thought which affectionate attention could bring.

"Awat Meary's deen her best to mak' it a' comfortable to ye," said Fernies, as Edmund looked round gratefully"Meary" having retired to superintend the "bedding" of her six children. "She's made yer bed t'ye as weel's the little wifie o' a Sister could dee hersel', I'll wager!"

"There's nae fear o' her," said Edmund. little Sisterie 'll hae a good rest the nicht." "Awat she's muckle need o't.

"Well I hope

She's but a peer thing,

for as clever's she is. Noo, will I stop an' assist ye, lad ?" "Eh no, thanks, Jemmie. I'll do fine. Good night to

ye and mony thanks. There's no place like home!"

Ye're

"Eh? I'm richt glad ye aye feel it home, Eydie. I hope ye'll never look on it ony ither wye, as long 's I live. nae the waur o' the traivel, are ye ?"

"No, no. Just a bit shakey-but I'll sleep sound enough, dinna be afraid," and so, with a hearty squeeze of the hand and a final "clap" on the shoulder, Fernies left him.

Left to himself, Edmund looked round upon the spacious cosy fire-lighted room, the easy chair, the neatly covered writing-table, the clean luxurious well-made bed, with a glow of grateful happiness. He had just reached that stage of convalescence when one pines for a change, even of his cup and saucer and this change to his own dear old home, was the most delightful he could have had. And if anything were wanting to add to its delightfulness, it was found in the cordial affectionate welcome bestowed on him by his brother and his brother's wife.

He sat down in the easy chair, to indulge in a dawdle over the fire-having no nurse to keep him in order. I am afraid that thought was one of infinite relief. It was naturalnothing more. He was grateful for past care, he had borne his state of weakness and dependence good-humouredly and patiently; and now he was able to enjoy and appreciate. independence once more.

After leaning back and gazing into the fire for some minutes, luxuriating in the restful quiet and warmth, he suddenly put his hand into that inner pocket and drew out the parcel he had put in so hastily before leaving his lodgings, and laid it upon his knee. It was a sealed paper packet,

with a letter outside it secured by an elastic band. He turned it once or twice, half irresolutely. For four years he had often longed, oh! how sorely, to open the packet, to take one look inside-and for four years he had resisted the temptation, with the same resolute self-command with which, every day of his ordinary life, hot or cold, wet or dry, ill or well, he proffered to his customers the conventional " dram," without tasting of it himself. Had he less self-command tonight, or

With nervous tremulous fingers he broke the seal of the packet and opened it. Two or three pink-tinted faintly scented notes, another unmarked packet, and a photograph. He took up the latter first. It was a half-length-one of those clear, well-defined, if tastelessly executed country productions, which often have a stronger stamp of likeness to nature about them than the efforts of more artistic operators. "Ah! little bonnie facie! it's nae sin to me to look t'ye now."

:

Yes, it was a bonnie face, that face which had taken his heart captive once and for ever in spite of his wisdom! And there was every sunny golden curl faithfully reproduced, in their elaborate abundance and the arch bright eyes, the roguish mouth curled for some saucy speech, the rounded dimpled chin: the pose and expression half defiant, half deprecating, which she so often assumed towards him in former days. He did not take note that the style and dress were too flashy to be in strict good taste. He knew well enough that she had always been "a bit fond o' brawlies " and what wonder, when she was so "awfully bonnie that everything would set her?" And he did not remember then as he gazed at the old sun-picture, the very shadow of those merry eyes, how ill she had really treated him. Those few moments when he had met her, and heard her tearful pleading for forgiveness-still more the simple words recounted by Nellie Ogg, which spoke volumes to him—seemed to have cancelled the past completely, and he thought of her only as his first and sole love.

Then he opened the inner packet, more sacred still. It contained one of those very curls, sunny and golden, cut off -ah! how well he remembered the day and the hour! He leant back for a moment with closed eyes, while the scene

seemed to come before him: the broad expanse of smooth running water, the golden sunshine, the autumn glories of the woods: the merry face, the playful teasing, the gleam of the golden curl, when she held it out for him to cut off the end! It seemed to recall her to him more than anything else, as he turned it quietly round his finger and caressed it, the tears coming freely now. "O for just one sight o' her as she used to be. Let her be as thrawn as she liked-she was a good honest little girl as ever lived before that rascal got round her!"

"I dinna believe she's dead," he said to himself as he sat and gazed. "I winna believe it. Gin she werena in the land of the livin' some way, I wouldn't aye feel like this. Maybe I'll never see her again, but an' she were really dead I think I'd know it some wye. Eh me, if I did but know she was happy!

"I wonder if there would be any use in me going out there. I've a good mind to aşk old Jemmie about it tomorrow. He'd think I was clean daft, that's one thing; but he'd give me his opinion. I'd lose the appointment, like enough-and maybe not get another so soon. I wouldna care to break with the old firm after all these years sairtainly, unless I were goin' into another line a'thegither, and that's dependin'-but if I thought I would find her, even if it was just to lose her again-so's I could do her ony good-I wad let everything else go-that would I! Eh, this weary unsairtainty! What wye will I bear it?"

He folded up the packet mournfully, replaced it in his pocket with a sigh, and then tried to collect himself. "She's in the LORD's Hand whatever-ay, I must mind upon poor little Sister Isie's words, poor thing. She was real feeling for me, I ken. Strange, to be sure, that I was right after all, about poor little Isie! maybe she'd have been happy enough wi' me, yon time, when Mrs. Ross was aye priggin' at me to make it up wi' her. Well she's happiest as she is, not a doubt of it-and onywye it canna have gone far wi' her. Maybe it wasna very kind o' me to speak till her as I did yon day—I dinna ken what possessed me-but I'm glad too I did. She's returned good for evil sairtainly! tho' if there's been any evil it was quite unconscious. To be sure I ken she'd have done the same for any poor wretch in the lowest wynd, but I dinna

think but what she's some kind o' a sisterly likin' for me ey-yet. I winna say but the creaturie was sorry when she bid me good-bye the day! Well, well! women have wonderful hearts! I dinna envy that man's conscience that would trifle wi' any!"

SIST

CHAPTER XIII.

SISTER ISOBEL'S SECRET.

ISTER Isobel found plenty of occupation, when she returned to S. Magnus' Home.

With the exception of district visiting during the day it was all, strictly speaking, home work. There was a good deal of sickness flying about amongst the poor; but no cases requiring unremitting attendance just then. And even had there been, the Mother Superior did not wish to send out Sister Isobel immediately, after her return from so heavy a charge as her last had been.

Indeed the Mother was watching her rather anxiously just now. She was looking very thin and pale and worn; at times a look of absolute pain, not weariness alone, rested on her delicate, refined face: at times also an expression of wistfulness and unrest, such as it had not worn since the old struggling days in the watchmaker's shop.

Yet she never complained or flagged, or would allow that she was ill. Once, when the Mother pressed her rather closely, she admitted that she was "just some pained in her back wi' rheumatism-but it was nothin' ava, and would soon wear off." It must have been a sore pain at times, to judge by the deep little line that sometimes marked her fair forehead, between the eyes; but she never spoke of it again. And if she had heart-aches, she never spoke of them either. Of course, like all the Sisterhood, she had many and constant opportunities of receiving "comfort and counsel" from the excellent incumbent of S. Magnus, who was its chaplain. But he, like Mr. Wood in former days, always felt a special difficulty in dealing with Sister Isobel. She was naturally so very reserved she had scarcely the power at times, even