Goaded thereto by his sister's entreaties, Ronald had proposed himself as the companion of a morning's fishing expedition, but he returned home bored and irritated, and could not be persuaded to repeat the experiment. As Mr Elgood had left him at one point in the stream, and himself repaired to another some two hundred yards distant, the opportunities for conversation had been limited, while not even a twitch of the line had rewarded his amateur efforts.

Margot coaxed, reasoned, and finally stormed, but to no avail. In a quiet, amiable fashion, Ronald could be as obstinate as a mule, and he was plainly determined to go his own way. The sun shone; the surroundings were magnificent; he was free from the jarring dissensions of home; in easy, light-hearted manner he was content to live for the moment, and shut his eyes to troubles ahead.

"Remember what the Chieftain said to as the first day we were here!" he protested vigorously. "We ought to cultivate the spirit of children; to rejoice in the present, and trust for the future; whereas you want me to begin worrying the very first thing. I do call it stupid of you, Margot!"

"But, my dear boy—remember September! September is coming, and if you don't bestir yourself to take advantage of this last chance, you will be bemoaning your hard fate, and calling out that your life is ruined! Do, for goodness' sake, descend from the clouds and be practical for once! I'd help you if I could, but how can I, when the man refuses even to look at me?"

Margot's voice took a plaintive tone as she uttered those last words. She was so unaccustomed to be ignored, that the editor's avoidance rankled in her mind. She found her thoughts persistently returning to him in every period of leisure; when he was near, she was acutely conscious of his presence; when he was absent, her mind followed after him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and of what he was thinking. Having once seen a glimpse of the real man when, in the character of Elspeth, she had looked into his face, sparkling with youth, kindliness, and humour, she understood that the abstracted figure which sat at the table at meal-times was but the shell of the real George Elgood, and that, if the barriers of shyness and reserve could once be overcome, he would prove an even more fascinating companion than his brother. The desire to know him grew daily in intensity, while, unconsciously to herself, the personal element slowly predominated the thought of Ron and Ron's future.

Now, as the brother and sister argued together, they were hurrying along by the edge of the tarn on their way to service at the kirk, for this was Sunday morning, the fifth day after their arrival at the Glen.

Ron, as usual, had been late in starting, and before the village was reached his watch showed that it was already five minutes past the time when service began. They had been sternly directed by Mrs McNab to go to the kirk at the far end of the village, and inquire for the inn pew, but as it would take several minutes longer to traverse the length of the straggling street, Margot suggested that it would be wise to attend the nearer of the two churches.

"There can be no difference. They are both Presbyterian," quoth she, in her ignorance; so in they went, to be met in the doorway by an elder in his Sabbath "blacks," his solemn face surrounded by a fringe of sandy whisker. The pews were very narrow and very high, shut in a box-like seclusion by wooden doors; the minister, in his pulpit, was just giving out the number of the psalm, and the precentor, after tapping his tuning-fork and holding it to his ear, burst forth into wailing notes of surprising strength and volume. Margot rose automatically to her feet, to subside in confusion, as the seated congregation gazed at her in stolid rebuke. In this kirk it was the custom to sit while singing, and stand during prayers—a seemly and decorous habit which benighted Southerners had difficulty in understanding.

The singing of the metrical psalm sounded strangely in unaccustomed ears. Of melody there seemed little or none. The notes ascended and fell, and quavered into odd, unexpected trills and shakes, but it was sung with an earnestness and an intensity which could not fail to be impressive. The women, clean and tidy in their Sabbath bravery, sat with eyes fixed unwaveringly on their books; the children piped lustily by their sides; at the door of the pews the heads of the different families peered over their spectacles at the printed words, their solemn, whiskered faces drawn out to abnormal length.

In a corner by himself sat a weather-beaten old shepherd, singing with closed eyes, his shaggy head waving to and fro in time with the strain. Up in this lonesome glen those words had been his stay and comfort during a life of hardship. Like David of old, he had sung them on the mountainside, and they had been as a guide unto his feet, a lamp unto his eyes. He needed no book and no spectacles to enable him to join his note to the strain. Margot looked at him with a thrill of understanding and reverence. A saint of God, a lowly dweller on earth, for whom was waiting one of the "higher" places in the kingdom of heaven.

The sermon was long and rambling, and somewhat difficult for Southern ears to follow; there was a solemn collection taken in small boxes secured to long wooden handles, thrust in turns down the various pews with somewhat comical effect; then the service was over, and Margot and Ron came out into the village street, to find themselves face to face with a stream of worshippers who were returning from the farther kirk. Foremost among the number was Mrs McNab, large and imposing to behold in her Sabbath best, with her small husband ambling meekly by her side. Margot smiled at her in friendly fashion, and was dismayed to receive in return a glare of incredulous anger. What had she done to offend? She could not imagine what was wrong, and continued to stare blankly after the unbending figure, until presently her eye encountered another well- known face bent upon her with a smile. The Chieftain and his brother were close behind; so close that even the Editor's shyness could not attempt an escape. In another moment they were walking together, Margot between the two men, Ron on the outside, a few paces apart from the rest.

Margot glanced from one to the other with puzzled eyes. The Chieftain beamed upon her frankly. The Editor looked, and looked away, knitting his brows in embarrassment.

"What have I done?" she cried eagerly. "Why is Mrs McNab so cross? All was peace and joy when we left the inn. I had done my very best to help her, and now—you saw how she scowled! How can I possibly have offended her in this short time?"

The Chieftain chuckled softly.

"A good deal, I'm afraid! I'm sorry for you, after all your efforts at conciliation. It's bad luck that you should have stumbled upon an unforgivable offence. I'm afraid that there is no doubt that you will be turned out of the inn, neck and crop. Not to-day, perhaps, as she won't send out the trap, but certainly to-morrow morning."

"I shan't go!" protested Margot defiantly. If eviction had been probable, she did not believe that the Chieftain would have taken it in so unperturbed a fashion; but it was evident that she had committed some offence, and that he was aware of its nature. "But what have I done?" she continued urgently. "That's what I want to discover. There can't be any harm in going to church!"

"Oh, can't there, just? That's the whole crux of the matter. You went to the wrong church!"

There was a pause of stunned surprise while Margot gasped, and Ron's sleepy eyes brightened with curiosity.

"The wrong church! How can that be? They are both Scotch Presbyterians? There is no difference between them?"

"Only this difference, that the members of one kirk are hardly on speaking terms with the members of the other! That their leaders are at law together in the Courts, and that feeling runs so high, even in this sleepy hollow, that Mrs McNab, being a Free, refuses to sell milk to the 'Wees,' and is shamed to the heart to think that a guest living under her house-roof should have condescended to attend their service. It will be all over the Glen this afternoon that the bonny lady fra the inn chose to give her offering of siller to the 'Wees,' and they will bear themselves haughtily in consequence. Mrs McNab feels that she has been humiliated the day in the eyes of the neighbourhood. No wonder she looks coldly upon you!"

Margot flushed with resentment and indignation, but before she could speak Ron burst into impetuous speech.

"They quarrel? Up here? A handful of men and women among the great mountains? How can they do it? How can they harbour ill-feeling?

"And what can they quarrel about? There must be such tiny, trivial differences. I am thankful I am not a Dissenter!" cried Margot proudly. "There are so many sects that one gets muddled among them all, and even in the same one it appears that there are differences! I am thankful that I belong to the Church."

The Chieftain looked at her quietly.

"To which Church?"

"The Church of England, of course."

"Oh!" He elevated his light eyebrows expressively. "Because its members have no quarrels with one another?"

Margot frowned uneasily.

"Oh, well—I suppose they have. But at the worst there are two parties, as compared to a dozen. You cannot deny that we are more united?"

"I should not boast too much about the unity of a Church in which civil war is permanently in progress; and what about charity and humility of mind? Suppose now, suppose for a moment that a family of strangers come to live in the house next your own in town, and you discover among other things that they are Dissenters. How does it influence your attitude towards them?" He thrust his ruddy face nearer, staring fixedly into hers. "Answer me that! Feel just the same? Exactly the same? No cooling off in the intention to call? Quite sure you never used the expression, 'only Dissenters!' and passed by on the other side?"

Margot's cheeks blazed. Her lids dropped, and the corners of her mouth drooped in self-conscious shame. There was a moment's silence, then a low murmur sounded on her ear, and, looking up quickly, she saw the Editor's dark face turned upon his brother, with reproach written large in frowning brow and flashing eye. He was taking up the cudgels in her defence; reproaching his own brother for forcing her into an awkward position.

Margot's heart gave a leap of joy at the discovery; in the flash of an eye her mood, her outlook on life, the very scene itself, seemed transfused with new radiance and joy. The sun seemed to peep out through the grey clouds, the underlying anxiety and worry of the past days took to itself wings, and disappeared. Her brown eyes thanked him with a glance more eloquent than she was aware; she laughed softly, and her laugh was sweet as a chime of bells.

"Yes, I have! I confess it. I've been narrow-minded and uncharitable, and a snob into the bargain. I've no right to throw stones... What Church do you belong to, Mr Elgood?"

The little man stood still in the middle of the road, throwing out his arms on either side, with a gesture wonderfully eloquent. His round, chubby face shone with earnestness and exaltation.

"To the Church of Christ! The Church of loyalty, and obedience, and love towards the brethren! To the Church of Christ, wherever I find it! When will Christians learn to remember the points on which they agree, rather than those on which they differ? The questions of form and ceremony; of Church government and ritual; how small they are, how unutterably trivial, compared to the great facts of the Fatherhood of God, and the sacrifice of Christ! Did the Power who made every one of us with different faces and different forms, expect us all to think mathematically alike? I cannot believe it! It is our duty to trust in God and love our brethren; to live together in peace, seeing the best in each other, acknowledging the best, thinking no evil! To see men who make a profession of religion quarrelling and persecuting each other for trivial differences, is a ghastly spectacle—a ghastly spectacle!" He walked on, swinging his short arms to and fro, then suddenly looked up with a keen glance into Ron's eager face.

There were no traces of dreaminess in the brown eyes at this moment; the dilated pupil gave to them an appearance of extraordinary depth and intensity; it was easy to see that the lad had been swept off his feet by the rugged force of the speaker's words, and was kindled into a like enthusiasm.

Lads of nineteen and twenty make it so much a matter of principle to suppress all exhibition of feeling, that it is almost startling to come across one who is not ashamed to betray a little human emotion. Mr Elgood evidently found it so, for he continued to cast those quick peering glances until the inn was reached, and the little party separated, to prepare for the midday dinner.

Margot walked slowly up the steep staircase leading to her room, and sat herself down on the bed to think out the problem. More and more did she long to pierce through the armour by which the strange, silent man was enveloped; but how was it to be done? Opportunities were few and far between, and now, for the first time in her life, confidence in her own powers deserted her, and she was overcome by a strange new feeling of humility and doubt. Who and what was she, that such a man should stoop to accept her friendship; poor, unlettered girl that she was, while he was acknowledged as one of the leading intellects of the day? Yet deep in her heart the thought lingered that between this man and herself existed a certain affinity, which, given an opportunity, might bridge over greater gaps than that of intellect and learning. How was that opportunity to be gained? She might be willing to sacrifice much to attain it, but there was one thing that could never be thrown on one side—her natural maidenly pride and dignity! Not even for Ron's sake could she bring herself to make advances to a man who, so far from exhibiting any desire for her company, had gone markedly out of his way to avoid it.

Ron himself was useless in such circumstances, a creature of moods, living for the moment only, content to forget the future in the enjoyment of present good. To drive him into the Editor's company against his will could do no good, since he would certainly reveal himself in his worst light, and in aggravating, topsy-turvy fashion he had taken a violent fancy for the wrong brother.

The Chieftain's geniality and candour, his boy-like lightness of heart on the one hand, his passion for right on the other, were fast developing a species of hero-worship in the lad's mind. Margot foresaw that, as time passed by, the two would grow closer together, and that any chance of intimacy with the other brother would retreat helplessly into the background. Unless—! Her face flamed as a possible solution of the difficulty darted suddenly into her mind. Could she? Dared she risk it? Yes, she could. It would be difficult, but she could bring herself to face it, if after a few days' consideration it still seemed the only way out of the difficulty.

Margot rose from the bed, and began quietly to prepare for dinner. Her face looked grave and anxious, but it had lost its troubled, fretted expression. She had made up her mind what to do, and with the decision came rest and ease of mind.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

For the next two days it rained incessantly, and Margot sat in the little parlour of the inn talking to Mrs Macalister, or rather listening while Mrs Macalister talked, and playing draughts with Mr Macalister, who had relapsed into hopeless gloom of mind, and was with difficulty prevented from rushing home by the first train.

"The doctor said we were to keep him from the office for a good month at least, and there's not three weeks of the time gone by. If he goes back now, what will be the use of spending all this money on travelling and keep, and what not? It will be all clean waste," sighed the poor dame sadly. "He's a bit fratchety and irritable, I'm free to admit, but you should not judge a man when his nerves are upset. There's not a better man on earth than Mr Macalister when he has his health. It's dull for a man-body to be shut up in an inn, without the comforts of home, and feeling all the time that there's money going out. It is different when he can be out and about with his fishing and what not.—If you could just manage to amuse him a bit, like a good lassie!..."

The good lassie nodded reassuringly into the troubled, kindly face.

"I'll do my best. I have an old father of my own, who has nerves too, and I am used to amusing him. I'll take Mr Macalister in hand till the weather clears."

It was not a congenial task, for, truth to tell, Mr Macalister was not a beguiling object, with his lugubrious face, lack-lustre eyes, and sandy, outstanding whiskers; nor did he in the first instance betray any gratitude for the attention bestowed upon him. A stolid glance over his spectacles was his first response to Margot's overtures; his next, a series of grunts and sniffs, and when at last he condescended to words it was invariably to deride or throw doubt on her statements.

"Tut, nonsense! Who told you that? I would think so, indeed!" followed by another and more determined retreat behind the Glasgow Herald.

In the corner of the room Mrs Macalister sat meekly knitting, never venturing a look upwards so long as her spouse was in view, but urging Margot onward by nods and winks and noiseless mouthings, the moment that she was safe from observation.

It had its comic side, but it was also somewhat pathetic. These two good commonplace souls had travelled through life together side by side for over thirty years, and, despite age, infirmity, and "nearves", were still lovers at heart. Before the wife's eyes the figure of "Mr Macalister" loomed so large that it blocked out the entire world; to him, even in this hour of depression, "the wife" was the one supreme authority.

Fortunately for herself and her friends, Margot was gifted with sufficient insight to grasp the poetry behind the prose, and it gave her patience to persevere. Solution came at last, in the shape of the wheezy old piano in the corner, opened in a moment of aimless wandering to and fro. Margot was no great performer, but what she could play she played by heart, and Nature had provided her with a sweet, thrush-like voice, with that true musical thrill which no teaching can impart. At the first few bars of a Chopin nocturne Mr Macalister's newspaper wavered, and fell to his knee. Margot heard the rustle of it, slid gradually into a simpler melody, and was conscious of a heavy hand waving steadily to and fro.

"Ha-ha!" murmured Mr Macalister, at the end of the strain. "Hum-hum! The piano wants tuning, I'm thinking!" It was foreign to his nature to express any gratification, but that he had deigned to speak at all was a distinct advance, and equal to a whole volume of compliments from another man.

"Maybe," he added, after a pause, "if ye were to sing us a ballad it would be less obsearved!"

So Margot sang, and, finding a book of Scotch selections, could gratify the old man by selecting his favourite airs, and providing him with an excuse to hum a gentle accompaniment. Music, it appeared, was Mr Macalister's passion in life. As a young man he had been quite a celebrated performer at Penny Readings and Church Soirees, and had been told by a lady who had heard Sims Reeves that she preferred his rendering of "Tom Bowling" to that of the famous tenor. This anecdote was proudly related by his wife, and though Mr Macalister cried, "Hoots!" and rustled his paper in protest, it was easy to see that he was gratified by the remembrance.

Margot essayed one Scotch air after another, and was instructed in the proper pronunciation of the words; feigning, it is to be feared, an extra amount of incapacity to pronounce the soft "ch," for the sake of giving her patient a better opportunity of displaying his superior adroitness.

Comparatively speaking, Mr Macalister became quite genial and agreeable in the course of that musical hour, and when Margot finished her performance by singing "The Oak and the Ash," he waxed, for him, positively enthusiastic.

"It's a small organ," he pronounced judicially, "a ve-ry small organ. Ye would make a poor show on a concert platform, but for all that, I'm not saying that it might not have been worse. Ye can keep in tune, and that's a mearcy!"

"Indeed, Alexander, I call it a bonnie voice! There's no call for squallings and squakings in a bit of a room like this. I love to hear a lassie's voice sound sweet and clear, and happy like herself, and that's just the truth about Miss Vane's singing. Thank ye, my dear. It's been a treat to hear you."

The broad, beaming smile, the sly little nod behind Mr Macalister's back, proclaiming triumph and delighted gratitude—these sent Margot up to her room heartened and revived in spirits, for there is nothing on earth so invigorating as to feel that we have helped a fellow-creature. The sunshine came back to her own heart, even as it was slowly breaking its way through the clouds overhead. She thrust her head out of the window, and opening her mouth, drank in great gulps of the fresh damp air, so sweet and reviving after the mouldy atmosphere of "the parlour." Over the mountain tops in the direction from which the wind was blowing the clouds were slowly drifting aside, leaving broader and broader patches of blue. Blue! After the long grey hours of rain and mist. The rapture of it was almost beyond belief! A few minutes more, and the glen would be alight with sunshine. She would put on boots, cap, and cape, and hurry out to enjoy every moment that remained.

The strong-soled little boots were lifted from their corner behind the door, and down sat Margot on the floor, school-girl fashion, and began to thread the laces in and out, and tie them securely into place. Then the deerstalker cap was pinned on top of the chestnut locks, and the straps of the grey cape crossed over the white flannel blouse. Now she was ready, and the sunshine was already calling to her from without, dancing across the floor, and bringing a delicious warmth into the atmosphere.

Margot threw open the door and was about to descend the narrow staircase, when she stopped short, arrested by an unexpected sound. Some one was singing softly in a room near at hand, repeating the refrain of the ballad which she had taken last on her list. The deep bass tones lingered softly on the words—

"And the lad who marries me, Must carry me hame to my North Coun-tree!"

George Elgood was echoing her song in the seclusion of his own room! He had been indoors all the time, then, listening to her while she sang! Margot's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, yet in the repeated strain there was a suggestion of appreciation, of lingering enjoyment which did away with the idea of adverse criticism.

"Oh, the Oak and the Ash,"—the strain seemed to swell in volume, growing ever nearer and nearer. "And the lad who marries me—"

The door flew open, and they stood facing one another, each framed as in a picture in the lintel of the doorways, divided only by a few yards of boarded passage. The strain came to an abrupt conclusion, frozen upon his lips by the shock of surprise and embarrassment. For the third time in their short acquaintance Margot looked straight into his eyes; for the third time recognised in their depths something that in mysterious fashion seemed to respond to a want in her own nature; for the third time saw the lids drop, heard an unintelligible murmur of apology, and watched a hasty retreat.

For a moment Margot stood motionless, an expression of wounded pride clouding the young rounded face, then very slowly descended the staircase, traversed the length of the "lobby," and stood outside the door, looking anxiously to right and left.

There he was, a strong, well-built figure in knickerbockers and Norfolk coat striding rapidly up the hill path to the right,—trying, no doubt, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the objectionable girl who seemed ever to be appearing when she was not wanted. For a long minute Margot stood gazing miserably ahead, then turning resolutely to the left, came face to face with the Chieftain returning from the village with his pockets bulging with papers.

His sudden appearance at this moment of depression had a peculiar significance to the girl's mind. Doubt crystallised into resolution; with a rapid beating of the heart she determined to grasp her courage in both hands, and boldly make the plunge which she had been meditating for some days past.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

REVELATIONS.

At sight of Margot the Chieftain first beamed delight, and then screwed his chubby face into an expression of concern.

"Halloa! What's up? You look pretty middling doleful!" cried he, casting an eloquent glance towards the inn windows, then lowering his voice to a stage whisper, "Macalisteritis, eh? Too much stuffy parlour and domestic reminiscences? Never mind! Pack clouds away, and welcome day! The sun is shining, and I have a packet of bull's eyes for you in one pocket and a budget of letters in another. No, you don't! Not one single one of them to read in the house—come and sit on a stone by the tarn, and we'll suck peppermints and read 'em together. Wonderful how much better you'll feel when you've had a good blow of fresh air. I was prancing mad when I went out this afternoon, but now—a child might play with me!"

He threw out his short arms with his favourite sweeping gesture, his coat flapped to and fro in the breeze, he stepped out with such a jaunty tread on his short broad feet, that at sight of him Margot's depression vanished like smoke, and she trotted along by his side with willing footsteps.

"That's better! That's better! Never saw you look melancholy before, and never want to again... 'Shocking disappearance of dimples! A young lady robbed of her treasures! Thief still at large! Consternation in the neighbourhood!' Eh! How's that? Young women who have been endowed with dimples should never indulge in low spirits. It's a criminal offence against their neighbours. Where's your brother?"

Margot laughed at the suddenness of the question. It was one of the Chieftain's peculiarities to leap upon one like this, taking one unawares, and surprising thereby involuntary revelations.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "Over the hills and far away, I suppose—studying them in a new aspect. He loved them yesterday in the rain; to-day he felt sure that it would clear, and he wanted to see the mists rise. He does so intensely love studying Nature."

"Humph?"

Margot looked at him sharply, her head involuntarily assuming a defensive tilt.

"What does 'Humph' mean, pray?"

"Just exactly and precisely what it says!"

"It doesn't sound at all flattering or nice."

"Probably not. It wasn't intended to be."

"Mr Elgood, how can you! What can you have to say about Ron that isn't to his credit? I thought you liked him! I thought you admired him! You must see—you must—that he is different from other boys of his age. So much more clever, and thoughtful, and appreciative!"

"That's where the pity comes in! It's pitiful to see a lad like that mooning away his time, when he ought to be busy at football or cricket, or playing tricks on his betters. What business has he to appreciate Nature? Tell me that! At twenty—is it, or only nineteen?—he ought to be too much engrossed in exercising his muscles, and letting off steam generally, to bother his head about effects of sun and mist. Sun and mist, indeed! A good wholesome ordinary English lad doesn't care a toss about sun or mist, except as they help or hinder his enjoyment of sport!"

"Ronald is not an 'ordinary English boy'!"

"Hoity-toity! Now she's offended!" The Chieftain looked at his companion's flushed cheeks with twinkling eyes, not one whit daunted by her airs of dignified displeasure. "Don't want me to say what isn't true, do you? He's a nice lad—a very nice lad, and a clever one into the bargain, though by no means the paragon you think him. That's why I'm sorry to see him frittering away his youth, instead of making hay while the sun shines. He'll be old soon enough. Wake up some fine morning to find himself with a bald head and stiff joints. Then he'll be sorry! Wouldn't bother my head about him if I didn't like the lad. Have a peppermint? It will soothe your feelings."

The parcel of round black bull's eyes was held towards Margot in ingratiating fashion. It was impossible to refuse, impossible to cherish angry feelings, impossible to do anything but laugh and be happy in the presence of this kindest and most cheery of men. Margot took the peppermint, and sucked it with frank enjoyment the while she sat by the tarn reading her letters. Having received nothing from home for several days, the same post had now brought letters from her father, Edith, and Agnes, to say nothing of illustrated missives from the two small nephews. Mr Vane's note was short, and more an echo of her own last letter than a record of his own doings.

"Glad to know that you like your surroundings—pleased to hear that the weather keeps fine—hope you will enjoy your excursion," etcetera, etcetera.

Just at the end came a few sentences which to the reader's quick wits were full of hidden meaning.

"Agnes is taking the opportunity of your absence to organise a second spring cleaning. It seems only the other day since we were upset before. I dined at the club last night. It is difficult to know what to do with oneself on these long light evenings.—I would run away over Sunday, if I could think of any place I cared to go to... Town seems very empty."

"Poor dear darling!" murmured Margot sympathetically, at which the Chieftain lifted his eyes to flash upon her a glance of twinkling amusement. He made no spoken comment, however, but returned to the perusal of his own correspondence, while Margot broke open the envelope of Agnes's letter.

Two sheets of handwriting, with immense spaces between both words and lines—"My dear Margot," as a beginning—"Your affectionate sister, Agnes Mary Vane," as a conclusion. Thrilling information to the effect that the charwoman was coming on Friday. Complaints of the late arrival of the sweep. Information requested concerning a missing mat which was required to complete a set. Mild disapproval of the Nag's Head Inn. "I cannot understand what you find to rave about in such quarters." A sigh of impatience and resignation was the tribute paid to this letter, and then Margot settled herself more comfortably on the stone, and prepared to enjoy a treat—a real heart-to-heart talk with her beloved eldest sister.

Edith had the gift of sympathy. Just as Agnes never understood, Edith always seemed able to put herself in another's place, and enter into that person's joys and griefs. She herself might be sad and downcast, but in her darkest hour she could always rejoice in another's good fortune, and forget her own woes in eager interest and sympathy. Now, sitting alone in the dreary lodging-house sitting-room in Oxford Terrace, she was able mentally to project herself into the far-off Highland glen, and to feel an ungrudging joy in the pleasure of others. Never a hint of "How I envy you! How I wish I were there!" Not a mention of "I" in obtruding, shadow-like fashion from first to last, but instead, tender little anecdotes about the boys; motherly solicitude for their benefit, and humble asking of advice from one younger and less experienced than herself; an outpouring of tenderness for her husband, and of a beautiful and unbroken trust and belief, which failure was powerless to shake.

"Jack is working like a slave trying to build up the ruins of the old business. It is difficult, discouraging work, and so far the results are practically nil, but they will come. Something will come! More and more I feel the conviction in my heart that all this trouble and upheaval have been because God has some better thing in store for us both. We have only to wait and be patient, and the way will open.—I don't want to be rich, only just to have enough money to live simply and quietly. We are so rich in each other's companionship that we can afford to do without luxuries. Last night we had a dinner of herbs— literally herbs—a vegetarian feast costing about sixpence halfpenny, but with such lots of love to sweeten it, and afterwards we went out for a stroll into the Park, and I wore the hat you trimmed, and Jack made love to me. We were happy! I saw people looking at us with envious eyes. They thought we were a pair of lovers building castles in the air, instead of an old married couple with two bouncing boys, having the workhouse in much nearer proximity than any castle—but they were right to envy us all the same. We have the best thing!"

The letter dropped on to Margot's knee, and she sat silent, gazing before her with shining eyes, her face softened into a beautiful tenderness of expression. For some time she was unconscious that her companion had returned his own letters to his coat pocket, and was lying along the ground, his head resting upon his hand, watching her with a very intent scrutiny; but when at last her eyes were unconsciously drawn towards him, she spoke at once, as if answering an unspoken question.

"What a wonderful thing love is!"

The Chieftain's light eyebrows were elevated in interrogation.

"In connection with the 'dear darling' previously mentioned, if one may ask?"

"That was my father. I love him dearly, but just now I was thinking of the other sort of love. This letter is from my eldest sister. She was a beautiful girl, and could have married half a dozen rich men if she had wished, but she chose the poorest of them all, a dear, good, splendid man, who has been persistently unsuccessful all the way through. Everything—financially speaking, I mean,—has been against him. They have had continual anxiety and curtailment, until at last they have had to let their pretty house and go into dingy lodgings. My father is very down on Jack. He is a successful man himself, and don't you think it needs a very fine nature to keep up faith in a person who seems persistently to fail? But my sister never doubts. She loves her husband more, and idealises him more, than on the day they were married."

"And you call that man unsuccessful?"

Margot hardly recognised the low, earnest tones: her quick glance downward surprised a spasm of pain on the chubby face, which she had always associated with unruffled complacency. It appeared that here also lay a hidden trouble, a secret grief carefully concealed from the world.

"Isn't that rather a misuse of the word? A man who has gained and kept such a love can never be called a failure by any one who understands the true proportions of life. With all his monetary losses he is rich... And she is rich also... Richer than she knows."

Margot's hand closed impulsively on Edith's letter and held it towards him.

"Yes, you are right. Read that, and you will see how right you are. There are no secrets in it—its just a word-photograph of Edith herself, and I'd like you to see her, as you understand so well. She's my dearest sister, whom I admire more than anybody in the world."

Mr Elgood took the letter without a word, and read over its contents slowly once, and then, even more slowly, a second time. When at last he had finished he still held the sheet in his hands, smoothing it out with gentle, reverent fingers.

"Yes!" he said slowly. "I can see her. She is a beautiful creature. I should like to know her in the flesh. You must introduce us to one another some day. I haven't come across too many women like that in my life. It would be an honour to know her, to help her, if that were possible." He sighed, and stretching out his hand laid the letter on Margot's knee. "You are right, Miss Bright Eyes, love is a wonderful thing!"

Margot glanced at him with involuntary, girlish curiosity, the inevitable question springing to her lips before Prudence had time to order silence.

"Do you—have you—did you ever—"

The Chieftain laughed softly.

"Have I ever been in love, you would ask! What do you take me for, pray? Am I such a blind, cold-hearted clod that I could go through the world for forty-five years and keep my heart untouched? Of course I have loved. I do love! It was once and for ever with me—"

"But you are not—"

"Married? No! She died long ago; but even if she had lived she was not for me. She would have been the wife of another man; a good fellow; I think she would have been happy. As it is, we remember her together. She was a bright, sunshiny creature who carried happiness with her wherever she went... To have known her is the comfort of our lives—not the grief. We have lived through the deep waters, and can now rejoice in her gain... Do you know there is something about yourself which has reminded me of her several times! That is one reason why I like being with you, and am interested in your life. I should like you to think of me as a friend, and come to me for help if you were ever in need of anything that I could give."

The colour rushed into Margot's cheeks, and her heart beat with suffocating quickness. Here was the opportunity for which she had longed, offered to her without any preliminary effort or contriving on her own part! The place, the time, the person were all in readiness, waiting for her convenience. If through cowardice or wavering she allowed the moment to pass, she could never again hope for another such opening. Already the Chieftain was watching her with surprise and curiosity, the softness of the last few minutes giving place to the usual alert good-humour.

"Hey? Well! What is it? What's the trouble? Out with it! Anything I can do?"

"Mr Elgood," said Margot faintly, "you are very good, very kind; I am most grateful to you. I hope you will help me, but first there is something I must say... I—I have been deceiving you from the beginning!"

"What's that?" The Chieftain sat up suddenly and stared at her beneath frowning brows. "Deceiving me? You? I don't believe a word of it! What is there to deceive me about, pray? You are not masquerading under a false name, I suppose? Not married, for instance, and passing yourself off as single for some silly school-girl freak?"

"Oh no! Oh no! Everything that I have told you about myself is true, absolutely true."

"I knew it. You are not the sort that could act a lie. What's all the fuss about, then?"

"What I have told you is true, but—but—I have not told you all!"

"I should think not, indeed! Who expected that you should? I am not at all sure that I care to hear it."

"Oh, but—I want to tell you!"

The Chieftain chuckled with amusement. He was evidently comfortably convinced of the non-importance of the forthcoming revelations, and Margot's courage suffered another ebb as she returned his unsuspicious glance.

"I—we—we knew that you were staying at the Nag's Head!"

The Chieftain cocked a surprised eyebrow, startled but unresentful.

"You knew that we were here, before you arrived, and met us in the flesh? Is that so? I wonder how you heard! I make it a rule to keep my holiday plans as secret as possible, for the very good reason that a holiday is a holiday, and one wants a change of companionship as well as scene. How in the world did you hear that we were bound for Glenaire? I'm curious!"

Margot's eyelids fell guiltily, but Nature had generously endowed these same lids with long black lashes, the points of which curled up in a manner distractingly apparent when shown in contrast with a flushed pink cheek; so it happened that instead of being hardened by the sight, the Chieftain drew a few inches nearer, and smiled with genial approval.

"Well, out with it! How did you hear?"

"I—asked!"

"Asked?" The brow became a network of astonished wrinkling. "You asked? Whom did you ask? And why? What did you know about us, to give you interest in our comings or goings? This grows curiouser and curiouser! I imagined that we were as absolute strangers to you as you were to us."

"It—it—there was the magazine—it was because of the magazine."

"Oh, indeed! You knew the name through the magazine! I understand!" The Chieftain straightened himself, and the laugh died out of his eyes. For the first time in the history of their short acquaintance Margot saw his face set in firm, hard lines, the business face which had been left at home, together with the black coats and silk hats of City wear, and seeing it, trembled with fear. But it was too late to retreat; for better or worse she was bound to go forward and complete her half- finished revelations.

"I wanted to get to know your brother, because he is the editor of the Loadstar, and I had heard people say that he was the most powerful literary man in London; that if he chose to take up any one who was beginning to write he could do more to help than any one else. We know no literary people at home, and I wanted to. Badly!"

"I see! Just so. Written a novel, and want help to get it into print," returned the Chieftain slowly. He had drawn down his lips into an expression of preternatural gravity, but the hard look had disappeared. The murder was out, and he was not angry; he might pretend to be, but Margot was too sharp-witted to be frightened by a pretence.

She drew a sigh of relief as she replied—

"No, indeed. Couldn't to save my life. It's—Ron! I was thinking of him, not of myself. He is a poet!"

The Chieftain groaned aloud, as if in pain.

"Oh, I know you won't believe it, but he is! He writes wonderful poems. Not rhymes, but poems; beautiful poems that live in your mind. He will be another Tennyson or Browning when he is a little older."

The Chieftain groaned again, a trifle more loudly than before.

"It's true! It really is true. You must have seen yourself that he is different from other boys of his age. You heard him reeling off those impromptu lines the other day, and said how clever they were! I have seen you looking at his face when he has been thinking out some idea. I knew what he was doing, and you didn't; but you guessed that he was different from ordinary people."

"I saw that he was mooning about something, and wondered if he was right in the head! If he'd been my boy, I should have taken care to keep his nose so close to the grindstone that he would have no time to moon! Poet, indeed! Didn't you tell me that your father was a successful business man? What is he about, to countenance such nonsense?"

"He doesn't!" replied Margot sadly. "No one does but me, and that's why I had to act. Father agrees with you. He doesn't care for books, and looks down upon literary men as poor, effeminate sort of creatures, who know nothing of the world. He is ashamed that his only son writes verses. Ron detests the idea of business, but he has had to promise father that he would go into his office if at the end of a year he had had no encouragement to persevere in literature. But how is a young unknown poet to make himself known? The magazines announce that they can accept no unsolicited poetical contributions; the publishers laugh at the idea of bringing out a book by a man of whom no one has heard. A boy might be a second Shakespeare, but no one would believe in him until they had first broken his heart by their ridicule and unbelief. The year is out in September, so matters were getting desperate, when at last I—thought of this plan! I felt sure that if a man who was a real judge of literary power met Ron face to face, and got to know him, he would realise his gifts, and be willing to give him a chance. It was no use trying in London in the midst of the full pressure of work, but in the country everything is different. I knew a man who knew a man in the office of the Loadstar, and asked him to find out your brother's plans—"

As she was speaking Margot was conscious of a succession of stifled chuckles which her companion vainly tried to suppress. The Chieftain's amusement had evidently overmastered his threatened displeasure, and when at length she paused, he burst into an irresistible guffaw of laughter, rubbed his hands together, and cried gleefully—

"Stalked him! Stalked him! Poor old George! Big game, and no mistake. Ran him to earth... Eh, what? Bravo, bravo, Miss Bright Eyes! You are a first-class conspirator."

He laughed again and again, with ever-increasing merriment, laughed till his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of fat, till the tears streamed helplessly down his cheeks. His portly form shook with the violence of his merriment; he kicked the air with his short, fat feet.

Margot stared at this strange exhibition in an amazement, which gradually changed into annoyance and outraged dignity; so that when at last the Chieftain sat up to mop his eyes with a large silk pocket- handkerchief, he beheld a very dignified young lady sitting by his side in a position of poker-like rigidity, with her head tilted to an expressive angle.

"Sorry!" he panted hastily. "Sorry I smiled. A compliment, you know, if you look at it in the right light. It's such an uncommonly good idea, and so original. 'The Stalking of the Editor'—eh? Well, now that you have made such a rattling good beginning, why don't you go on and prosper? Here you are; there he is; the field is your own. Why don't you go in and win?"

Margot's face fell, and her haughty airs vanished, as she turned towards him a pair of widely-opened eyes, eloquent with plaintive surprise.

"But I can't! How can I, when he runs away the moment I appear? I made Ron go fishing with him one day, but he went off and left him alone, and now it's no use persuading any more. Ron says it is only waste of time! As for me, I have hardly spoken a word to him all this time, though I feel that if I did really know him, I—" she hesitated, knitting her brows, and pursing her soft red lips—"I could make him understand! I decided at last to confide in you, because you have been so kind and friendly to us from the first that I felt sure you would be willing to help. You will, won't you? Even if personally you don't approve of a literary career, will you give Ron a chance of living his life in his own way? If your brother approved of his writings, and helped him to a beginning, even the very smallest beginning, father would be satisfied that he was not wasting his time."

The Chieftain clasped his hands around his knees, and sat staring at her with thoughtful gaze. His eyes rested upon the clear childlike eyes, the sweet lips, the broad, honest brow, as though studying them in a new light, and with regard to some problem suddenly presented to the mind. Whatever was the question waiting to be decided, the answer was self- evidently favourable, for his eyes lightened, he stretched out an impetuous hand, and laid it upon her arm.

"Right!" he cried heartily. "Right! I'll help you! The lad's a good lad, and a clever lad; but what I do will be for your sake, not his! You are a dear girl! The dearest girl I have ever met—save one! For the sake of the bit of her that lives again in you, I am at your service. You shall have your chance. From to-day forward I will see to it that George makes a member of our party wherever we go. He has done enough writing; it is time that he began to play. Make him play, Miss Vane! He has been old all his life; teach him to be young! He is the best fellow in the world, but he is fast asleep. Wake him up! There is just one condition, and that is, that you leave your brother and his scribblings alone for the time being! Don't mention them, or any question of the sort, but be content just to show yourself to George, your own bright, natural girl-self, as you have shown it to me. Learn to know one another, and forget all about the boy. His turn will come later on! You promise?"

"Ye-es!" faltered Margot shyly. "Yes, I do; but you must promise too— that you will, that you won't, won't let your brother think—"

The Chieftain touched her arm once more, with a gesture of kindly reassurement.

"Don't you worry, little girl! He shall have no thoughts about you that are not altogether chivalrous and true. It's not you who are going to move in this matter, remember! You've given it over into my hands; it is I who am to pull the strings. No, you needn't thank me. It strikes me that we are going to work out pretty even over this business. If you want help for your brother, I need it just as badly for mine. I have realised for a long time that he needed a medicine which no doctor could supply." He looked into her face with a sudden radiant smile. "It strikes me I might have searched a very long time before finding any one so eminently fitted to undertake his cure!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

RASPBERRY-PICKING.

Margot awoke the next morning with the pleasant feeling that something was going to happen, and as she dressed, curiosity added an additional savour to the anticipation. What would happen? How would the Chieftain set to work? Would the Editor consider himself a victim, or yield readily to the temptation? Certainly he had so far manifested no anxiety to enjoy her society, had, indeed, seemed to avoid her at all points; and yet, and yet— Margot possessed her full share of a woman's divination, and, despite appearances, the inward conviction lingered that if the first natural shyness could be overcome, he would soon become reconciled to her companionship, and might even—she blushed at her own audacity!—enjoy the change from his usual solitude.

Like a true daughter of Eve, Margot did her best to help on this happy denouement by taking special pains with her toilette, putting on one of her prettiest washing frocks, and coiling her chestnut locks in the most becoming fashion, and the consciousness of looking her best sent her down to breakfast in the happiest of spirits.

Other countries may carry off the palm for the cooking of the more elaborate meals of the day, but surely no breakfast can touch that served in a well-ordered Scottish household. The smoothly boiled porridge, with its accompaniment of thick yellow cream; the new-laid eggs; the grilled trout, fresh from the stream; the freshly baked "baps" and "scones," the crisp rolls of oatcake; and last, but not least, the delectable, home-made marmalade, which is as much a part of the meal as the coffee itself. He must be difficult to please who does not appreciate such a meal as Mrs McNab served each morning to her guests in the dining-room of the Nag's Head!

It was when Margot had reached the marmalade stage, and George Elgood, a persistent late-comer, was setting to work on his ham and eggs, that the Chieftain fired the first gun of the assault.

"When are you going to invite us all to come up and have tea with you in your fairy dell, George?" he demanded suddenly. "What do you think of this fellow, Mrs Macalister, finding a veritable little heaven below, and keeping it to himself all this time? There's an easy ascent by the head of the glen for those who object to the steeper climb; there's shade, and water and everything that the most exacting person could want for an ideal picnic. To be in the country on a day like this, and not to go for a picnic seems to me a deliberate waste of opportunity, What about this afternoon, eh? That will suit you as well as any other time, I presume?"

To say that the Editor appeared surprised by this sudden threatening of his solitude, would be to state the case too mildly. He looked absolutely stunned with astonishment, and his predicament was all the more enhanced by the fact that already murmurs of assent and anticipation welcomed the idea from his neighbours to right and to left. He stared incredulously into his brother's face, wrinkled his brow, and stammered out a laboured excuse.

"I'm afraid I— The dell is in no sense my property—No doubt it would make a capital site for a picnic, but I—I have no right to pose as host!"

"Rubbish, my boy! You are not going to get out of it so easily as that. We expect you to act as master of the ceremonies, and show us the beauties you have kept to yourself so long. Yes, and to catch some trout for us, too! What do you say to that, Mrs Macalister? How does freshly grilled trout strike you as an accessory to a picnic? We'll have two fires, with the kettle on one, and the gridiron on the other, and Mrs McNab will send up a hamper of good things to complete the feast. We'll leave George to manage that, as he knows how to get round her; only do the thing well when you are about it; that's all I have to say! We shall bring rattling big appetites, shan't we, Miss Vane?"

Margot's glance passed by his to dwell with remorseful commiseration on the Editor's perturbed face. This was her own doing; a direct consequence of her appeal of the day before! The expression of the brown eyes was wonderfully eloquent, and meeting them the Editor bestirred himself to smile back a grateful recognition. By this time, however, the murmur had grown into definite speech; Mrs Macalister was stating at length her life's experience as to picnics, and laying down the law as to what was necessary for their success; the clergyman and his son were debating how to reach the dell from the farthest point of the day's expedition; Mr Macalister was slowly repeating—

"Trout! Grilled trout! It's a strange-like idea to have fish at a picnic!"

It was plainly too late in the day for the Editor to refuse an invitation which had already been practically accepted! With a better grace than might have been expected he resigned himself to his fate, and the smile which he sent round the table was very charming in its shy cordiality.

"I shall be delighted if you will honour me by coming so far; and no doubt with Mrs McNab's help I shall be able to provide refreshments. Shall we say half-past four?"

"Four o'clock would be better. We want plenty of time to linger over tea, and ramble about afterwards," said the Chieftain firmly; and there being no dissent from this amendment, the Editor nodded assent, and, gathering his papers in his hand, hurried out of the room.

Margot followed on the first opportunity. She felt the eyes of the Chieftain fixed on her face from across the room, and could imagine the twinkle of humorous meaning with which they would be alight but she felt too self-conscious and ill at ease to respond. Like a frightened little rabbit she scuttled upstairs to her own room and remained there, busying herself with odd pieces of work until the inmates of the inn had taken themselves off for their morning's excursions, and quiet reigned throughout the house. Then, and not till then, she opened her door and peered cautiously at that other door across the landing. It was closely shut, and taking for granted that within its portals the bewildered scholar was making the most of his free hours, Margot crept quietly down the staircase, and turned to the right towards the kitchen. It occurred to her that she might be able to help Mrs McNab in her preparations for the afternoon, and by doing so relieve the pangs of her own conscience. All this work, and worry, and bewilderment, on her account—as a response to her appeal! She blushed guiltily, hardly knowing whether to feel more gratified or annoyed with the Chieftain for so speedy a demonstration of his power; dreading the moment when they should meet again, and she must perforce brave the mischievous messages of his eyes.

The kitchen door was closely shut. Mrs McNab was too capable a housewife to allow the noise and odour of culinary preparations to invade the rest of the house; but by this time Margot was sure of her welcome, for scarcely a day had passed by that she had not offered her services, and been condescendingly permitted to shell peas, stone fruit, or whip up snowy masses of cream. Mrs McNab always accorded permission with the air of an empress conferring an order upon some humble suppliant, but none the less Margot felt assured that she appreciated the help, and would have missed it, had it not been forthcoming.

This morning she tapped on the door, opened it, and thrust her head round the corner, to behold a tableau which remained fixed irrevocably in heart and memory. In the middle of the floor stood the mistress of the inn, arms akimbo, engaged in laying down the law in characteristic, downright fashion to some one who sat perched upon the dresser with hands thrust deep into knickerbocker pockets, and feet in rough climbing boots swinging nonchalantly to and fro; some one with a bright, almost boyish face alight with fun, laughter, and defiance.

For the second time Margot beheld the real George Elgood denuded of his mask of shyness and reserve, and thrilled at the recognition. This sunny, stone-flagged kitchen seemed fated to be the scene of unexpected meetings! She would have retreated in haste, but at the sound of her entrance Mr Elgood jumped hastily to the floor, and Mrs McNab authoritatively waved her forward.

"Here she is to speak for herself! Come yer ways, Miss Vane. I was saying to Mr Elgood that maybe he'd listen to your advice, as he willna tak' mine. You're a leddy, and ken how such things should be done, and if there's any call to waste the morning, and run into daft-like expense, when everything a reasonable body need want is lying ready to hand—"

Margot looked from one to the other in bewilderment, her spirits rising with the discovery that for the first time in their short acquaintance the Editor met her glance with an expression of relief rather than of dread. He was smiling still, and the boyish look lingered on his face, making him appear an absolutely different creature from the grave, formidable hermit to whom she was accustomed.

Margot's eyes danced, and she answered as naturally as if she had been speaking to Ron himself.

"I don't know in the least what I am giving an opinion about—but I am not a 'reasonable body,' and as a rule the result of 'daft-like expense' is very nice! I'm afraid that isn't what you wanted me to say, Mrs McNab, but I must be honest. Perhaps I may feel differently when I know what I am talking about."

"Your picnic!" cried Mrs McNab.

"My picnic!" corrected the Editor. "I never gave a picnic before, and I'm weighed down by responsibility. My brother refuses to help me, and Mrs McNab is a Spartan, and nips my suggestions in the bud. She thinks we ought to be satisfied with bread and butter; I want cakes and fruit; I want her to bake, and she says she has no time to bake; I want to send over to Rew on the chance of getting strawberries; she says she has no one to send. If you agree with me, Miss Vane, perhaps she will make time; I know by experience that she is always better than her word!"

Mrs McNab sniffed ironically.

"There's scones for ye, and good fresh butter—what do ye want forbye? Ye'd get nae mair if ye were at hame, and it's not going to kill ye, walking a couple of miles. I've something else to do on a Thursday morning than waste my time messing over things that aren't needed."

Mr Elgood leant against the dresser, and surveyed her more in sorrow than in anger.

"Now what have you to do?" he demanded. "It's absurd to pretend that there is anything to clean, because you never give a thing a chance to become dirty. There is cold meat for lunch, as you yourself informed me, so there's no cooking on hand. This house goes by machinery, with Elspeth to stoke up the motive power. What can be left for you? I can't think of a single thing."

"Maybe not. A man-body never kens what goes on under his nose, though he'd be keen enough to find out if anything went wrong. It's the day I clean my candlesticks and brasses. They don't go on shining by themselves, whatever ye may think."

"Candlesticks and brasses!" George Elgood repeated the words with gloomy emphasis, fixing the speaker with reproachful eyes. "Candlesticks and brasses! And you put such things as those before me, and the first—one of the first, favours I have ever asked! ... A big plum cake, with almonds at the top, and a round of shortbread; it seems to me a most moderate request. There's not a soul in the inn who will notice a shade of extra polish on the candlesticks to-night, but they will all bear me a lifelong grudge if I don't give them enough to eat. Have you ever been to a picnic where you were expected to be satisfied with bread and butter, Miss Vane?"

Margot's shake of the head was tragic in its solemnity.

"Never! and I don't intend to begin. I know where we can get some fruit, at any rate, for I heard the woman at the grocer's shop saying that she had raspberries to sell. That is far easier than sending over to Rew, and I'd be delighted to take a basket and bring back all I can get. While Mrs McNab makes the cakes!"

Mrs McNab sniffed again, but vouchsafed no further answer. Mr Elgood's face brightened, and he cried eagerly—

"That is kind of you! Raspberries are very nearly as good as strawberries, and it would be splendid to get them so near at hand. I— er—" he frowned, with a momentary return to his old embarrassment—"I will come too, and carry the basket, for we must hope to have a fairly heavy load."

Margot could hardly believe in the reality of this sudden change of position, as she set out for the village ten minutes later, with George Elgood by her side. He carried the basket lent by Mrs McNab, and swung along with big easy strides, while she trotted by his side, a pretty girlish figure in her cool white frock. It was left to her to do the greatest share of the talking; but one reassuring fact was quickly discovered, namely, that her companion's shyness seemed to consist mainly in the dread of breaking strange ground, for once the first plunge over he showed none of the expected embarrassment or distress. If he could not be called talkative, he was at least an appreciative listener; not a single point of her conversation missed its due share of interest; while his deep, quiet laugh proved an incentive to fresh flights of fancy. For a whole ten days had Margot been waiting for her opportunity, and now that it had come she was keen to turn it to the best possible advantage. Had the Chieftain been at hand to watch her with his quizzical glance, she might have been tongue-tied and ill at ease; even Ronald's presence would have brought with it a feeling of self-consciousness; but in the kindly solitude of the mountain road she could be herself, without thought of any one but her companion. Remembering the warning which she had received, she kept the conversation on strictly impersonal topics, avoiding even the mention of Ron's name, but never had ordinary topics seemed so interesting, or the way to the village so extraordinarily quickly traversed!

Inside the fusty grocer's shop the good Mrs Forsyth manifested none of a Southerner's delight at the advent of a customer for her superfluous fruit; she appeared, indeed, to receive Margot's first inquiry in a somewhat flisty and off-hand manner, as though advantage were being taken of a careless word, which she had not expected to have taken in serious earnest. George Elgood, distinctly rebuffed, muttered unintelligible words of apology, but already Margot was beginning to understand the dour Northern manner, and pressed the attack with undiminished eagerness. Thus coerced, Mrs Forsyth was forced to acknowledge that she wouldna deny that she had raspberries in the garden; and that it seemed a pity they should waste, as she hadna the time to "presarve." There was no telling—maybe when the children came hame from school in the afternoon they wouldna be above picking a basketful, and taking it down to the inn.

"But we want them now! We want as many as you can possibly spare, but we must have them to take back with us now!"

"And who's to pick them for ye, I would ask?" demanded Mrs Forsyth with scathing directness. "I've the shop to mind, and the dinner to cook; it's not likely I can be out picking fruit at the same time, and there's not anither soul in the house forbye mysel! I'm thinking you'll have to wait, or do without!"

"We could pick them ourselves!" pleaded the Editor eagerly. "You would have no trouble except to measure the fruit after it is gathered, and tell us what we owe! I don't care how much I pay. I want some fruit this morning, and if I can't get it from you I shall have to drive over to Rew. That would cost five or six shillings for the trap alone, so you see I shall get off well, even if you charge me twice the usual price."

But here again the benighted Southerner found himself brought up sharply against an unexpected phase of Scottish character, for Mrs Forsyth was distinctly on her high horse at the thought of being offered more than her due. She had her price; a fair-like price, she informed him loftily, and she stuck to it. She wasna the woman to make differences between one person and anither. Justice was justice, and she would like to meet the man who could say she had ever stooped to accept a bribe.

So on and so on, while once again George Elgood hung his head abashed, and glanced in distress at his companion. In the delight afforded by that appeal Margot felt equal to dealing with ten Mrs Forsyths, each equally unreasonable and "kamstary."

"We will leave the price to you; we will leave everything to you!" she cried gaily. "I know it's asking a great deal to be allowed to come into your garden and pick for ourselves, but we are rather in a difficulty, for this gentleman is giving a picnic this afternoon, and Mrs McNab has no fruit to give us. It would be a favour not only to us, but to the whole party if you would say Yes. Please!"

The way in which Margot said "Please!" with head on one side, and upraised, beseeching eyes, was one of the most fatal of her blandishments. Even the redoubtable Mrs McNab had succumbed at the sight, and in her turn Mrs Forsyth also was overcome. She made no further objections, but led the way through the house into a long stretch of vegetable garden, the end portion of which was thickly planted with raspberry bushes.

"Help yourself!" she said briefly. "You're welcome to all that's fit to eat."

So the two who had been strangers, and had suddenly developed into a kind of partnership of aim, set to work to fill the basket, which for better convenience was slung over a branch of one of the bushes.

The sun shone down on them; the life-giving breeze blew round them; they were alone together among the flowers and the scented herbs. They worked side by side, laughing over their efforts, comparing their takings, gloating over the quickly-filling basket like a couple of children recognising each other as playmates, and disdaining the ordinary preliminaries of acquaintanceship.

"It's so kind of you to help me!" said the man.

"It's so kind of you to let me!" returned the maid.

"I—I have noticed that you seem always to be helping people."

"I didn't think you noticed anything at all!"

He had not intended to say so much. She did not stop to consider what she was implying. Both blushed, relapsed into silence, and picked fruit assiduously for several moments, before beginning again—

"I am afraid this picnic will be a great bore to you."

"Indeed, I think it is going to be a pleasure. I should have thought of it before, but that sort of thing does not come easily to me. I have lived too much alone!"

"You have your work—you have been absorbed in your work."

"Have I? I'm afraid that is not altogether true!"

Margot glanced up surprised, met the dark eyes fixed full upon her, and looked hurriedly away.

"I have been finding it increasingly difficult to be absorbed," he continued dreamily. "I have heard you all laughing and talking together downstairs, and my thoughts have wandered. Once you sang... Do you remember that wet afternoon when you sang? I did not seem able to write at all that afternoon."

The basket was full of fruit by now; Margot lifted it by one handle; George Elgood lifted it by the other. They walked down the sunlit garden into the house.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

TROUT FISHING.

There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers, and chewed his moustache.

"Er—" he began haltingly at last. "How do you think it has gone?"

"You mean the—"

"Picnic! Yes. My first entertainment. I feel responsible. Think they enjoyed it at all?"

"I'm sure of it. Immensely! They thawed wonderfully. Think of the duet! To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation. It has been a delightful change from the ordinary routine. And the trout! The trout was a huge success. How amiable of it to let itself be caught so conveniently!"

The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced fisherman.

"There was not much 'let' about it. He led me a pretty dance before he gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win. Do you know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?"

"I?" Margot laughed happily. "Just as much as I have gleaned from watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent's Park! I don't think I have ever particularly wanted to know more. It seems so dull to stand waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case you may scare it away! What do you think about all the time?"

He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement. Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a step further in the history of their acquaintance.

"He really is young!" decided Margot, with a sigh of relief. "It's only the frown and the stoop and the eyeglasses which make him look as if he were old."

George Elgood looked into the pink and white face, and his thoughts turned instinctively to a bush of briar roses which he had seen and admired earlier in the day. So fresh, and fair, and innocent! Were all young girls so fragrant and flower-like as this? Then he thought of the little prickles which had stung his hand as he had picked a bud from the same bush for his buttonhole, and smiled with latent mischief. After all, the remembrance did not lessen the likeness. Miss Margot looked as if she might—under provocation—display a prickle or two of her own!

"What do I think about?" he repeated slowly. "That is rather a difficult question to answer; but this good little river, I am thankful to say, does not leave one much time for thought. There's a little channel just beyond the bridge that is a favourite place for sea trout. Would you like to see it?"

"Might I? Really? Oh, please!" cried Margot, all in a breath. Her very prettiest "please," accompanied by a quick rise to her feet which emphasised the eagerness of her words.

George Elgood lost no time in following her example, and together they walked briskly away towards the head of the dell; that is to say, in the opposite direction to that taken by the other members of the party. George Elgood had picked up his fishing-tackle as he went—by an almost unconscious impulse, as it seemed—and unconsciously his conversation drifted to the all-absorbing topic.

"If we take a sharp cut across this hill—I'll give you a hand down the steep bits!—we hit the river at the best spot. You have been grumbling at the wet weather, but you will see the good effects of rain, from a fisherman's point of view. The river is full from bank to bank, rushing down to the sea. It is a fine sight, a river in flood! I don't know anything in Nature which gives the same impression of power and joy. That's where Norway has the pull. Her mountains can't compare with the Swiss giants, but everywhere there is a glorious wealth of water. No calm sleeping lakes, but leaping cataracts of rivers filling whole valleys, as my little stream here fills its small banks; roaring and dashing, and sparkling in the sun. Norway is perfection, from a fisherman's point of view; but there is plenty of sport to be found nearer home. I have had no cause to complain for the last fortnight. This way—to the right! It's just a little rough going at first, but it cuts off a good mile. You are sure you don't mind?"

Margot's laugh rang out jubilantly. She scrambled up the steep mountain path with nimble feet, easily out-distancing her guide, until the hilltop was reached, and she stood silhouetted against the sky, while the wind blew out her white skirts, and loosened curling tendrils of hair.

Below could be traced the course of the river, winding in and out in deep curves, and growing ever broader and fuller with every mile it traversed. The sunlight which played on it, making it look like a silver ribbon, played also on the yellow gorse and purple heather; on the long grey stretch of country in the distance; on that softer blue plain joining the skyline, which was the sea itself. A breath of salt seemed to mingle with the aromatic odour of the heather, adding tenfold to its exhilaration.

As Margot stood holding on to her hat, and waiting for her companion's approach, she felt such a glorious sense of youth and well-being, such an assurance of happiness to come, as is seldom given to mortals to enjoy. It was written in her face, her radiant, lovely young face, and the light in the eyes which she turned upon him made the shy scholar catch his breath.

"You did that well! Magnificently well!" he cried approvingly. "But you must take the descent carefully, please. There are one or two sudden dips which might be awkward if you were not prepared. I know them all. Shall I,—would you,—will you take my hand?"

"Thank you!" said Margot, and laid her hand in his with an acceptance as simple as if he had been her own brother. It was a very pretty little hand, in which its owner felt a justifiable pride, and it lay like a white snowflake in the strong brown palm stretched out to meet it.

For just a moment George Elgood kept his fingers straight and unclasped, while he gazed downward at it with kindling eyes, then they closed in a tight, protecting clasp, and together they began the descent.

For the most part it was easy enough, but the awkward places came so often and unexpectedly that it did not seem worth while to unloose that grasp until the bottom was safely reached. Margot had a dream-like sensation of having wandered along for hours, but in reality it was a bare ten minutes before she and her guide were standing on level ground by the side of the rushing river.

"Thank you! That was a great help," she said quietly. George Elgood, with a sudden access of shyness, made no reply, but busied himself with preparation.

"I'll just make another cast, to show you how one sets to work. I take a pretty big fly—the trout like that. These are the flies—all sizes, as you see. I am rather proud of them, for I make them myself in the winter months, when one can enjoy only the pleasures of anticipation. It's a good occupation for a leisure hour."

"You make them yourself!" Margot repeated incredulously, stretching out her hand to receive one of the hairy morsels on her palm, and bending over it in unaffected admiration. "But how clever of you! How can you have the patience? It must be dreadfully finicky work!"

"It is a trifle 'finicky,' no doubt!" He laughed over the repetition of the word. "But it's a refreshing change to work with one's hands sometimes, instead of one's brain. Now shall I give you your first lesson in the art? Don't imagine for a moment that fishing means standing still for the hour together, with nothing more exciting than the pulling-in of your fish the moment he bites. That's the idea of the outsider who does not know what adventure he is losing, what hope and suspense, what glorious triumph! Like most things, it's the struggle that's the glory of the thing, not the prize. Shall I soak this cast for you, and give you your first lesson?"

"Oh, please! I'd love it! It would be too kind of you!" cried Margot eagerly. She had not the faintest idea what "soaking a cast" might mean, and listened in bewilderment to a score of unfamiliar expressions; but it is safe to affirm that she would have assented with equal fervour to almost any proposition which her companion made.

There and then followed the first lesson on the seemingly easy, but in reality difficult, task of "casting," the Editor illustrating his lesson by easy, graceful throws, which Margot tried in vain to imitate. She grew impatient, stamping her feet, and frowning fiercely with her dark eyebrows, while he looked on with the amused indulgence which one accords to a child.

"Are you always in such a hurry to accomplish a thing at once?"

"Yes, always! It's only when you don't care that you can afford to wait."

"It sometimes saves time in the end to make haste slowly!"

"Oh, don't confound me with proverbs!" cried Margot, turning a flushed, petulant face at him over her shoulder. "I know I am impetuous and imprudent, but—the horrid thing will twist up! Don't you think I might have a demonstration this time? Let me watch, and pick up hints. I'm sure I should learn more quickly that way, and it would be less boring for you. Please!"

At that he took the rod, nothing loth, and Margot seated herself on the ground, a trifle short of breath after her exertions, and not at all sorry to have the chance of looking on while some one else did the work. She was intently conscious of her companion's presence, but he seemed to forget all about her, as wading slightly forward into the stream he cast his fly in slow, unerring circuit. How big he looked, how strong and masterful; how graceful were the lines of his tall lean figure! From where she sat Margot could see the dark profile beneath the deerstalker cap, the long straight nose, the firmly-closed lips, the steady eyes. It was the face of a man whom above all things one could trust. "A poor dumb body," Mrs Macalister had dubbed him, scornfully; but Margot had discovered that he was by no means dumb, and that once the first barriers were broken, he could talk with the best, and bring into his conversation the added eloquence of expression. She recalled the lighting of his absorbed eyes as he had looked down at her own white hand, and flushed at the remembrance.

Margot had often pitied the wives and sisters of enthusiastic fishermen who had perforce to sit mum-chance in the background, but to-day she was conscious of no dissatisfaction with her own position. She possessed her full share of the girl's gift of building castles, and it would not be safe to say how high the airy structure had risen before suddenly the rod bent, and the Editor's intent face lit up with elation. The fish was hooked; it now remained to "play" with him, in professional parlance, till he could be landed with credit to himself and his captor.

For the next half-hour Margot was keenly, vividly interested in studying the tactics of the game. The reel screamed out, as the captive made a gallant dash for liberty; the Editor splashed after him, running hastily by the side of the river, now reeling in his line, now allowing it full play; and at the distance of a few yards she ran with him, now holding her breath with suspense, now clasping her hands in triumph, until at last, his struggles over, the captive floated heavily upon the stream.

It was the end for which she had longed throughout thirty of the most exciting moments that she had ever known; but now that victory was secured, woman—like she began to feel remorse.

"Oh, is it dead? Have you killed it? But it's horrid, you know—quite horrible! A big strong man like you, and that poor little fish—"

"Not little at all! It's a good six-pounder," protested the fisherman, quick to defend his sport against depreciation. "No—he's not dead yet, but he soon will be. I will just—"

"Wait! Wait! Let me get out of the way." Margot flew with her fingers in her ears, then pulled them out to cry—"Is it done? Is it over? Can I come back?"

"Yes; it is all right. I've put him in my bag. You will appreciate him better in his table guise. I'll take him back as a peace-offering to Mrs McNab, for her own evening meal. We have already had our share at the pic—"

Suddenly his hands fell to his sides, he straightened himself, and turned his eyes upon her, filled with puzzle and dismay.

"The pic—"

"—Nic!" concluded Margot faintly. Rosy red were her cheeks; a weight as of lead pressed on her eyelids, dragging them down, down, beneath his gaze. "I—I—forgot! We were to have gone to find them! Do you suppose they are—hiding still?"

He laughed at that, though in somewhat discomfited fashion.

"Rather not! Given us up long ago. It must be getting on for an hour. I can't think how I came to forget—"

Margot glanced at him shyly beneath her curling lashes.

"It was the fish! A fisherman can't be expected to remember anything when he is landing a trout!" she suggested soothingly. Nevertheless she remembered with a thrill of joy that his forgetfulness had dated back to a time when there had been no fish in prospect. "Do you suppose they have gone home?"

"We will go and see. From that mound over there we can overlook the path to the inn. Perhaps we had better keep a little in the background! It would be as well that they should not see us, if they happened to look up—"

If it were possible to feel a degree hotter, Margot felt it at that moment, as she followed George Elgood up the little hillock to the right, and, pausing just short of the top, peered stealthily around. A simultaneous exclamation broke from both lips; simultaneously they drew back, and crouched on their knees to peer over the heather.

There they went!—straggling in a row in the direction of the inn, the party of revellers who had been so basely deserted.

First, the clergyman, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in thought; a pensive reveller, this, already beginning to repent a heavy, indigestible meal; next, Mrs Macalister, holding her skirts in characteristic fashion well up in front and sweeping the ground behind; a pace or two in the rear, her spouse, showing depression and weariness in every line of his body. Yet farther along the two young men carrying the empty hampers; last of all, at quite a little distance from the rest, the figure of the Chieftain stepping out with a tread even more conspicuously jaunty than usual, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head turned from side to side, as if curiously scanning the hillsides.

At one and the same moment Margot and the Editor ducked their heads, and scrambled backwards for a distance of two or three yards. There was a moment's silence, then instinctively their eyes met. Margot pressed her lips tightly together, George Elgood frowned, but it was all in vain; no power on earth could prevent the mischievous dimples from dipping in her cheeks; no effort could hide the twinkle in his eyes—they buried their heads in their hands, and shook with laughter!

When at last composure was regained, George Elgood pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at the time, and cried eagerly—

"There is still an hour before we need be back for dinner. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Let us go back to the river, and try our luck once more!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A TELEGRAM.

It was a very shamefaced Margot who made her appearance at the dinner- table that evening; but, to her unspeakable relief, she found that there was no cause for embarrassment. Instead of the meaning glances and joking remarks which she had dreaded, she was greeted with the ordinary kindly prosaic welcome, and not even Mrs Macalister herself ventured an innuendo. The Chieftain was the only one who alluded to the non- appearance of the searchers, and the manner in which he did so was a triumph of the commonplace.

"Muddled up that hide-and-seek finely, didn't we?" he cried cheerily. "Afraid you had all your trouble for nothing. I happened to catch a glimpse of you heading off in the wrong direction, so turned into 'It' myself, and rooted them all out of their lairs. Then we played some sensible, middle-aged, sitting-down games, and strolled home in time for a siesta before dinner. Very good picnic, I call it. Great success! We'll have another, one of these fine days."

"'Deed yes, and we will!" assented Mrs Macalister genially. "It stirs a body up to have an outing now and then. I was thinking, why shouldn't we drive over to B— and see the old castle and all the sights? I've been hankering to go ever since we arrived; but it mounts up when you drive about by yourselves. If we shared two carriages between us, it would make all the difference, and it seems foolish-like to be in a neighbourhood and not see what there is to be seen. You can get carriages from Rew, they tell me, if you order them a day or two before."

To the amazement of the company, it was George Elgood of all others who hastened to second the proposal.

"A capital idea!" he cried. "B— is one of the finest old ruins in Scotland. Of course we must go; it would be worse than foolish to go home without seeing it. I have been before, so I could act as guide, and those who possess cameras had better take them also, as the place is rich in subjects."

The clergyman and his son pricked up their ears at this, photography being with them only a degree less absorbing a pastime than that of walking; Ron awoke suddenly to the remembrance that his half-plate camera had never been unpacked since his arrival; and the three vied with each other in asking questions about the proposed excursion, and in urging that a date should be fixed. Before the meal had come to a conclusion, plans were mapped out, and a division of labour made, by which one person was held responsible for the hiring of carriages, another for the promised food, while George Elgood was left to arrange the plan of campaign.